epitome spreads for online pdf - The Heschel School

THE ABRAHAM JOSHUA HESCHEL SCHOOL
20 West End Avenue
New York, New York 10023
212/246-7717 • www.heschel.org

Dedicated to Metamorphosis
We were born under the stars
To an earth accepting of all people
We played beneath the crisp green trees
Next to them we learned to smell, touch, and taste
We trekked onward across the steep mountains
Perpetually stumbling
Instinctively recovering
We grew tired while riding the winding river
Our breath deepened
We closed our eyes and slept in between the clouds
And dreamt of smelling
Touching
Tasting
Stumbling
Recovering
Evolving
This page/opposite page: photographs by Jenna Merrin
Cover/page one/this page/section header pages: art by Talia Niederman
STAFF
Editors in Chief
Abigail Friedman
Esther Malisov
Art Editors
Aliza Rosenfeld
Janet Rubin
Hannah Weintraub
Photography Editors
Aaron Freedman
The Abraham Joshua Heschel
Max Seraita
High School
Grade 10 Editors
20 West End Avenue
Zoe Bohrer and Ben Heller
New York, New York 10023
212/246-7717
Grade 9 Editors
www.heschel.org
Elliot Allen and Emma Goldberg
Faculty Advisor
Head of School
Sandra Silverman
Roanna Shorofsky
Special Thanks to
High School Head
Tri Star Offset Corp. and the Goodman
Ahuva Halberstam
Family: Daralynn, Barry, Sasha and Zachary
Dean Judaic Studies
Goodman AJHHS Alumni Class '08 for
contributions to defray costs of Epitome.
Rabbi Dov Lerea
Gabe Godin and Dena Schutzer
Graphic Design/Production
Memberships & Awards
By Design Communications
Member, CSPA, 2006 – present
(Columbia Scholastic Press Association)
Printing
Tri Star Offset Corp.
Gold Medalist, 2007 & 2008
Paper
Gold Circle Awards, 2007 & 2008
Graphic Paper, New York
Silver Medalist, 2006
COLOPHON
The pieces in this magazine emerged from both class projects and outside writing.
Teachers, students, and grade editors submit material and the editors make selections
and suggest revisions as part of an extra-curricular activity. Epitome represents a
cross-section of the literary and artistic talents of our students and seeks to showcase
as many of their works as possible, reflecting Heschel’s commitment to inclusion.
This magazine was produced on the Macintosh platform. Font families: Times New Roman (body text);
Acropolis, Freestyle Script, Linotext, Nviray, Stencil (section titling); Present (decorative text, subheads,
credits, page numbers). 600 copies, printed on a Heidelberg Speedmaster 102SP 6 Color with Inline Coater.
Paper stock: Nantucket Gloss 100# Text PEFC Certified and 111# Nantucket Gloss Cover PEFC Certified
(promoting sustainable forest management). Covers printed 1 color Black 2 sides (double hit of Black ink on
outside covers) plus satin varnish; inside pages printed 4/4 CMYK (all inks used are vegetable-based inks).

CONTENTS
Opening and Header Pages Growth Through Nature & Spirituality
POETRY/PROSE
Dedication/Section Headers
Abigail Friedman and
Esther Malisov..2, 11, 37, 61, 97, 125
ART
Cover/Page one/Dedication/
Section Headers ..... Talia Niederman..cover, 1,
11, 37, 61, 97, 125
Photograph ................. Jenna Merrin ................ 2
Growth Through Introspection
POETRY/PROSE
Civilization’s Going
to Pieces ................. Cynthia Blank ............ 12
The Song In My Head .. Zoe Grossman ............ 14
Writer’s Block ............ Ariel Doctoroff ........... 15
Questions .................... Gabrielle Newman ..... 16
Music .......................... Amy Lewis ................. 18
Paradox ....................... Cynthia Blank ............ 20
Montana ...................... Dana Bronstein ........... 21
Steps ........................... Esther Malisov............ 22
How Does Purple Taste?. Ariel Doctoroff .......... 25
Bananas ...................... Ariel Doctoroff ........... 26
Justice ......................... Esther Malisov............ 27
Déjà Vu ....................... Manuela Stalman........ 28
Apocalypse ................. Aaron Rubin ............... 30
Poetry Is ...................... Carina Moses, ............. 33
Aaron Rubin, Aaron Finkelstein, Jared
Cohen, Cynthia Blank, Esther Malisov,
Sara Guenoun, Jacob Sion, Molly Cohen,
Molly Cohen, Jesse Wolff, Yaniv Kot
Creative Song ............. Leah Whiteman .......... 34
Photograph ................. Jenna Merrin ................ 3
Table of Contents ....... Eileen Sutton ............. 4-8
Photograph ................. Jenna Merrin ................ 4
Photograph ................. Jenna Merrin ................ 5
Photograph ................. Jenna Merrin ................ 6
Photograph ................. Aaron Freedman ........... 7
Photograph ................. Ciara Sidell ................... 8
Photograph (digitally altered)
Hugo Uvegi .................. 9
ART
Oil/pastel .................... Benjamin Fenster ....... 10
Photograph ................. Aaron Schwartz .......... 12
Charcoal ..................... Rebecca Schwartz ...... 14
Acrylic ........................ Sarah Gottesman ........ 15
Oil/pastel .................... Rebecca Cooper ......... 16
Multimedia ................. Elisheva Epstein ......... 17
Oil/pastel .................... Benjamin Heller ......... 17
Multimedia ................. Rebecca Schwartz ..18-19
Watercolor and craypas..Sarah Roger ................ 20
Photograph ................. Rebecca Schwartz ...... 21
Linoleum cut .............. Talia Niederman ......... 25
Oil ............................... Eric Leiderman ........... 27
Photograph ................. Rebecca Schwartz ...... 30
Oil painting ................ Elaine Ezrapour .......... 31
Silkscreen ................... Leah Whiteman .......... 32
Oil ............................... Eric Leiderman ........... 32
Multimedia ................. Lauren Finzi ............... 33
Photograph ................. Hannah Kober ............ 34
Oil ............................... Leah Whiteman .......... 35
POETRY/PROSE
Ode to Water............... Abigail Friedman ....... 38
Simply Complex ........ Anonymous ................ 40
The Color of Night ..... Dana Bronstein ........... 42
Turtle Man .................. Sara Guenoun ............. 44
About Huck Finn ........ Amber Tuthill ............. 45
The Color Dash .......... Samuel Kupferberg .... 46
Sounds of Life ............ Leah Kahan ................ 47
Music .......................... Cynthia Blank ............ 49
Questions .................... Abigail Friedman ....... 50
Release ....................... Amy Lewis ................. 51
Back ............................ Cynthia Blank ............ 52
Lost ............................. Aaron Rubin ............... 53
When .......................... Manuela Stalman........ 54
For the Storm.............. Gabrielle Newman ..... 55
Glory Be For .............. Leeza Gavronsky ........ 56
Glory Be For .............. Sarah Weinstein .......... 57
A Wintry Dream ......... Aaron Rubin ............... 58
Forest Walk ................. Cynthia Blank ............ 59
ART
Photograph ................. David Kagan ............... 36
Ceramics..................... Karen Vilenko ............. 38
Photograph ................. Jenna Merrin .............. 39
Charcoal ..................... Shipley Mason ............ 41
Watercolor .................. Brenda Escava ............ 43
Photograph ................. Matan Skolnik ............ 44
Photograph ................. Jenna Merrin .............. 46
Photograph ................. Ciara Sidell ................. 47
Digital art ................... Elisheva Epstein ......... 48
Digital art ................... Talia Niederman ......... 49
Pastel .......................... Maya Liran ................. 50
Photograph ................. Jenna Merrin .............. 52
Black glue .................. Rebecca Schwarz ....... 53
Photograph ................. Alexander Weiss ......... 54
Photograph ................. Aaron Freedman ......... 55
Photograph ................. Hugo Uvegi ................ 56
Photograph ................. Hugo Uvegi ................ 57
Photograph ................. Jenna Merrin .............. 58
Photograph ................. Mia Applebaum .......... 58
Photograph ................. Aaron Freedman ......... 59
Jenna Merrin Jenna Merrin

Jenna Merrin Aaron Freedman
Growth Through Hardship
POETRY/PROSE
The Things I Carry ..... Amber Turhill ............. 62
Under the Rug ............ Sara Guenoun ............. 63
Demonsbreath ............ Adam Schefflan .......... 67
To the Last Man
on Earth .................. Samuel Kupferberg .... 68
Pink Glasses ............... Nadav Pearl ................ 69
Wretched School ........ Jared Cohen ................ 71
What Color is Pain? ... Manuela Stalman........ 72
Majdanek, Again ........ Nicole Katri ................ 73
Change or Chains ....... Zachary Levine .......... 77
Waiting Rooms ........... Cynthia Blank ............ 78
Dear Death ................. Cynthia Blank ............ 80
The Winter.................. Molly Cohen ............... 81
Little Things ............... Cynthia Blank ............ 88
Stories ......................... Risa Meyers ................ 90
Blind ........................... Jenna Merrin .............. 94
ART
Watercolor .................. Abigail Lipnick .......... 60
Photograph ................. Charlotte Marx-Arpadi...62
Photograph ................. Sarah Epstein ..... 64 & 66
Oil ............................... Eric Leiderman ........... 67
Photograph ................. Charlotte Marx-Arpadi...68
Acrylic on acetate ...... Aliza Rosenfeld .......... 70
Watercolor .................. Aliza Rosenfeld .......... 71
Watercolor & marker .. Sarah Gottesman ........ 71
Mixed media ............... Janet Rubin ................. 72
Charcoal ..................... Brenda Escava ............ 73
Digital art ................... Jenna Doctoroff .......... 78
Photograph ................. Charlotte Marx-Arpadi...79
Black glue .................. Elisheva Epstein ......... 80
Photograph ................. Esther Lenchner ....81-87
Watercolor .................. Janet Rubin ........ 83 & 87
Oil ............................... Leah Whiteman .......... 88
Linoleum cut .............. Anonymous ................ 89
Linoleum cut .............. Anonymous ................ 89
Photograph ................. Aaron Freedman ......... 91
Growth Through Love
POETRY/PROSE
Airplane Song ............ Abigail Friedman ....... 98
Dream Sonnet ............. Cynthia Blank ............ 98
Change/Colors/
Illusion ................... Esther Malisov.......... 100
Curse the Broken
Heart ....................... Gabrielle Newman ... 103
Why Do People
Leave? .................... Cynthia Blank .......... 104
His Smile .................... Leah Kahan .............. 105
Options ....................... Cynthia Blank .......... 106
Ring Story .................. Abigail Friedman ..... 111
Sara’s Mind ................. Jared Cohen .............. 112
The Way He Sees It .... Emma Goldberg ....... 114
Growth Through The Mundane
POETRY/PROSE
Ode to the SATs ......... Cynthia Blank .......... 126
A Tall Tale: An Homage
to Ken Kesey .......... Zev Hurwich ............. 127
Ode to My Blackberry Amy Lewis ................129
To My Television ........ Ariel Doctoroff ......... 130
The Day I Got a Seat
on the Subway ........ Brenda Escava .......... 131
Ordinary Objects/
Extraordinary Ways .. Abigail Friedman,
Esther Malisov.......... 134
Night Time in Paris .... Zev Hurwich ............. 136
The Mystery ............... Zev Hurwich ............. 136
ART
Photograph ................. Aaron Freedman ......... 96
Linoleum cut .............. Margalit Cirlin ............ 99
Photograph ................. Jenna Merrin ............ 100
Charcoal ..................... Elizabeth Davis ........ 103
Oil ............................... Miriam Dreiblatt ...... 105
Oil ............................... Risa Meyers .............. 105
Charcoal ..................... Rebecca Schwartz .... 106
Acrylic on acetate ...... Rotem Yehuda ........... 110
Watercolor .................. Sarah Gottesman ...... 112
Acrylic ........................ Leah Whiteman ........ 113
Photograph ................. Renee Berger ............ 114
Photograph ................. Matan Skolnik .......... 117
Photograph ................. Aaron Schwartz ........ 120
Questions .................... Esther Malisov.......... 138
Life’s Not Fair ............ Samuel Kupferberg .. 139
My New Sister ........... Amy Lewis ............... 141
Ice Cream ................... Cynthia Blank .......... 144
Horror Story ............... Zachary Levine ........ 150
Mr. Linden’s Library .. Cynthia Blank .......... 152
Apologies ................... Aaron Freedman,
Michael Kalmin, Jenna Doctoroff,
Sophie Mortner, Rachel Zeuner,
Jessica Appelbaum .......................... 156
Uninvited Guests ........ Aaron Rubin ............. 158
What Did You Do
Today? .................... Sarah Gottesman ...... 162

Growth Through The Mundane
(continued)
ART
Oil ............................... Elaine Ezrapour ........ 124
Charcoal ..................... Shipley Mason .......... 126
Digital art ................... Ari Sebert ................. 127
Digital art ................... Beatrice Volkman ..... 129
Photograph (digitally altered)
Alina Serkhovets ........................................ 132
Oil ............................... Elaine Ezrapour ........ 134
Digital art ................... Jonathan Ben Ami .... 134
Photograph ................. Jenna Merrin ............ 134
Digital art ................... Talia Niederman ....... 135
Digital art ................... Sophie Mortner ........ 135
Digital art ................... Brenda Escava .......... 137
Acrylic ........................ Rotem Yehuda ........... 138
Photograph ................. Matan Skolnik .......... 138
Oil ............................... Itamar Pinhassi ......... 138
Photograph ................. Sophie Greenspan .... 139
Ink ............................... Sarah Freedman ........ 140
Ink ............................... Emily Speira ............. 140
Ink ............................... Emma Novick ........... 140
Ink ............................... Emily Spiera ............. 140
Ink ............................... Daelin Hillman ......... 140
Black glue .................. Maxwell Khaghan .... 141
Ciara Sidell
Digital art ................... Eno Freedman-
Brodman .............. 144
Acrylic on acetate ...... 10th grade students .. 147
Acrylic on acetate ...... Zoe Grossman .......... 148
Acrylic on acetate ...... Maya Liran ............... 148
Acrylic on acetate ...... Rebecca Schwartz .... 148
Acrylic on acetate ...... Beatrice Volkmar ...... 148
Acrylic on acetate ...... Hannah Kober .......... 149
Digital art ................... Max Seraita .............. 150
Photograph ................. Aaron Schwartz ........ 152
Oil ............................... Benjamin Seidman ... 155
Oil ............................... Alexander Savits ...... 155
Photograph ................. Zachary Gaylis ......... 155
Multimedia ................. Anna Rothstein ......... 155
Tempera ...................... Talia Neiderman ....... 155
Collagraphs ................ 9th grade ................... 160
Ceramics ..................... Philip Haines ............ 161
Ceramic ...................... Tomer Domb ............ 161
Photograph ................. Charlotte Marx-Arpadi..162
Acrylic ........................ Sarah Gottesman ...... 163
Photograph ................. Aaron Freedman ....... 164
Photograph (digitally altered), opposite page: Hugo Uvegi

When we stop
to think
About what surrounds us,
About what it is that makes
society move
We see clearly what matters.
We are immersed in America
and a myriad of mother-countries
mother-tongues
That swirl in a brightly-colored spiral.
And when we look into the center
of life and its vagaries
sometimes we find
The greatest change of all.
Art, opposite page: Benjamin Fenster
Growth through
Introspection

Pages 12 – 13
Civilization’s Going to Pieces
Civilization’s going to pieces
That’s what he said to me
The old man on the street
“Listen to me, girlie. The country’s falling apart.”
That’s what the crazy old man grumbled.
Civilization’s going to pieces, I repeated
Laughing at the source of the quote
Before telling him he was unoriginal
That the Twenties and Fitzgerald sang it better
With the help of Tom Buchanan
The old man drank me in
Grouchy and suspicious
Before he smiled
A bright brilliant smile
The light still shining from deep beyond his eyes
Making even wrinkles and gray hair beautiful
And then he asked me
Why I even bothered
to listen to an
old man about to die
Why had I stopped
Because really, who cared.
And I told him that
he’d have to do better
Because I wasn’t any
ordinary girl
And the old man
on the street
Broke from his rants and
crazy speech
About the destruction of
society
To talk about old movies
and books
With me
He argued with me as an equal
Not bored with my knowledge
And not assuming I knew nothing
He talked to me as if I mattered
Because the old man on the street and I
Weren’t all that different
And the old man on the street told me
That when I became a famous writer
Because he was sure it would happen someday
I’d have to mention how I knew him and he inspired me
And I smiled at the folly of the elderly
Who always think someone else can
Attain their dreams and break their regrets
And he smiled at the folly of youth
Who always think they know everything
And are too apathetic to try
But then the times and generation gaps returned
Because every beautiful moment dies.
And a car sped by
Crashing into a child crossing the street
With a sickening crunch
Before speeding away in a haze of screams
And then the old man on the street
Staring in horror of what was before him
Shut his mouth and wouldn’t speak
He grew despondent again
Returned to his incoherent rambling
His eyes tired from seeing so many years of pain
Mine adjusting to the first rupture of innocence
We were hopeful, broken, and jaded
Because the old man and I
Aren’t that different
But the old man on the street
Walked away from me
Leaving me to watch the blood paint the street
Civilization’s going to pieces
Cynthia Blank
Aaron Schwartz

Pages 14 – 15
Rebecca Schwartz
The Song In My Head
I could hear the melancholy song of yesterday ringing in my ear
It sang of sorrow and of misery.
I can hear the song of today echoing in my mind
It sings of weakness and fatigue.
The song of tomorrow is fabricating in my heart,
In my soul
It sings of happiness, peace, and joy.
Zoe Grossman
Writer’s Block
What is the opposite of writer’s block?
And how do you get to that place?
Do you need to unlock doors?
Or crawl through an open space?
Will the solution wash up on your shores?
Are you doomed to a life of struggle?
Is it a difficulty you can never transcend?
Or is there some secret you can smuggle?
Or some seminar you can attend?
Is it true that you have to search?
And in the process, cannot see?
Will you sit upon a perch?
Waiting until imagination comes to be?
Is it true that inspiration is an abstract fellow?
And if so, is there no way of tracking him down?
If you can, will that prize make you mellow?
Or will it weary you like an elusive noun?
Will you feel overwhelming anxiety?
How will you live up to the task?
Will you succeed in society?
Or is that the question you will not ask?
How will the mood strike you?
How will you deal with the shock?
How will you actually know it’s true?
How will you overcome writer’s block?
Ariel Doctoroff
Sarah Gottesman

Pages 16 – 17
Questions
Where does the line between right and wrong begin —
where does it end?
When are we supposed to tell the truth —
when are we supposed to lie?
What is the truth —
what is the lie?
What is the right time to defy —
what is the right time to follow?
How do we help someone else solve their problems —
how do we solve our own?
How do we see beyond the black and white?
Who should we hold on to —
who should we let go of?
Where does love begin —
where does it end ?
How do we answer the questions that linger in the soul —
how do we answer the questions that rise in the mind?
Who can we trust —
who can we not?
How do we love with all our heart
how do we hate with that same heart?
Who is meant to be with you forever
who is just a visitor?
How do we see beyond the black and white?
When are we supposed to change —
when are we supposed to stay the same ?
When are you supposed to move on —
when are you supposed to hold on?
Who will change our lives for the better —
who will change them for the worse ?
How do we see beyond the black and white?
What is the point of leaving —
what is the point of remaining?
Where do the lines blur —
where do they become clear?
What will make our day —
what will ruin it?
How do we see beyond the black and white?
Where is it okay to be yourself —
where is it not?
When will we know who we are —
when will know if that is who we want to be?
How can we move through the gray that dims us all
how can we see beyond black?
Gabrielle Newman
Rebecca Cooper Elisheva Epstein
Benjamin Heller

Music
Pages 18 – 19
It creeps in through my ears
Peers open, familiarizing itself with its surroundings
Once comfortable, it begins to flow like a river
Through the canals and tunnels, holes and slopes,
Streaming into all parts of my body
It mixes with my insides, seeping into my flesh,
Becoming unified
Together, I feel complete
My body pulses, my mind wanders,
Allowing me to reach into a place that is shut
I am able to part the curtains
And find myself for what I really am
Who am I?
Do I know who I am?
Am I only real when I have it?
I feel the most alive,
Raw and bare, stripped of worries
As the notes embody my soul
Turning on the light so it shines through me
I begin to feel my forever
And embrace my forever
Can I just feel it longer?
When it ends, why do I end?
I want to be there
When it is not
I want to make the impossible – possible.
I want to make the unloved – loved.
I want to be loved, and still feel loved
It creates an atmosphere
Where I feel those emotions
I am powerful
Unstoppable
And lovable
And then it ends
And it leaves me.
Amy Lewis
Art, this page and opposite page: Rebecca Schwartz

Pages 20 – 21
Paradox
Who am I, you ask?
Can that question be answered simply or directly?
I think not
For what is anyone but a paradox?
A motley mix of kinks and virtues
That we share or hide
And permute in a vain attempt to find ourselves
But I’ll tell you, I’ll try:
I am an intricate shell
Soft swirls and sharp angles
Prance over me
Giving life to an exterior personality
But my inside is hollow
Devoid of any feeling
I am alone and a vagrant wanderer
Yet intimately connected to others
My rancor for the world weakens me
Since my heart still calls out for a utopia
Where negativity will float away
And I can quell all the bad
Sarah Roger
Sometimes my anger burns torrid
And at others my honesty glistens
I am selfish yet I make sacrifices
For those I love and even those I hate
I am not a bad person, no
But I am nowhere close to good
Do I fuddle you with my contradictions?
That’s who I am
And I make no apology for it
Because all humans are paradoxes
Whether you see it or not
Montana
0 -
Cynthia Blank
Rebecca Schwartz
I’ve got an idea
Of how this world works
But I’m too scared to move
I’ve become so accustomed to my elevator
Don't know if I can move my legs, down those hundreds of steps
I’ve seen it torn down, broken, and shattered right before my eyes
And then just as suddenly, put back up again, renewed and reshaped
better than before
Before, I lay
Now I’m sitting,
Preparing to stand,
Then I will walk, just a little,
And soon, very soon,
I’ll begin to run.
Dana Bronstein

Steps
Pages 22 – 23
It was a strange house, but he supposed it would be home soon enough. He
didn’t like it though; the paint on the front was peeling and the old owners
had left small scraps of their old life behind. The house felt haunted and the
boy was almost sure that somebody must have died there because it had that
kind of air to it; a certain stillness that indicated unrest and ghosts. Speaking
of the air, the place hadn’t had a fresh coat of paint in ages, but paint
fumes still hung heavily about the room and seemed to cling to his nostrils.
It was a bright day and florescent sunlight streamed in through the tiny
window. The problem with the sunlight, however, was that it made the dark
corners even darker by contrast. Oh well, it was still better in the smelly
cellar than upstairs, where his mother would force him to unpack his things.
He hated unpacking. If his things were still jammed tightly into the suitcase,
he could run away, or at least threaten to do so.
He took a deep breath. The city wasn’t like this; his old apartment
wasn’t like this. It wasn’t full of worthless old junk or the smell of paint or
tiny windows that made dark corners darker. Come to think of it, his old
apartment didn’t have dark corners. His old apartment was home. It was
interesting. It was loud and busy and alive and didn’t have a patch of
browning grass in front of it. The only thing that could be considered
interesting about this house was that about half the floorboards squeaked
and the upstairs bathroom didn’t have any hot water.
Bored, he dragged a pile of old newspapers into the streaming sunlight
and undid the string that held them together, part of the mountain of things
that belonged to the previous owners, strangers whose stuff filled the house.
Who collects old newspapers? he thought as he glanced at a few front page
headlines. What could happen in this town that is interesting enough to put
in a paper, anyway? He sighed and put the papers back into their corner,
thinking back on how his father used to read The Times on Sundays before
sometimes taking him to the park. The boy shook his head and tried to find
something else to distract him.
And that was when he noticed it, a tiny little door that stood directly
across from the steps. How had he missed it before? Looking at the wooden
panels, he was reminded of Alice in Wonderland, and the small door with
the talking handle that led to a whole new world. He wondered if this door
could do the same. Maybe it could take him to a place where he could
attend crazy tea parties and take directions from Cheshire Cats. He considered
opening the door, but decided against it. Who knows, maybe it would
be full of roaches or scary old dolls or, even worse, more junk.
The sun was rising outside and it was getting hotter and hotter by the
minute, and though he couldn’t know for sure, he was almost positive there
would be no air conditioning in a place like this. It didn’t matter though; he
could handle heat. What he couldn’t handle was the smell of paint and the
eerie silence that seemed to be pressing on his head. The room suddenly
grew brighter as the sun reappeared from behind a cloud and the boy
wanted to cry. Not only was it too light, too dark, too smelly, and too quiet,
but also too lonely and too full of newspapers.
And then he heard it: a small thump coming from the other side of the
smaller door. His heart was pounding. He was sure he had seen the tiny
doorknob turn. He half-turned to run away but stayed frozen to the spot,
staring at the door curiously. He had the feeling that if he stopped looking at
it, even for a second, it would disappear, and that would be even worse than
anything he could find inside. The knob turned a little more, as though
testing its limits, tempting him. He could hear the slow, hollow sound as the
metal tumblers in the wall shifted before finally, the door clicked and the
sound stopped. The door was waiting for him. He didn’t know how he came
to that conclusion, but somehow he simply knew. It was waiting for him to
come and help it open; to connect the basement to whatever was on the
other side. Just knowing that something was waiting for him, filled him
with a sense of responsibility that deafened his apprehension. Puffing his
chest out, he walked proudly to the door, stooped a little to reach the
handle, and pried it open.
A thin trail of dust trickled out and he felt as if he were in an adventure
movie. He got on his knees as he opened the door fully and peered inside. It
was dark and not nearly as exciting as anything he was expecting. A little
niche for storage, he assumed. Still, why would a closet have a door barely
big enough for an infant? There must be some sort of secret hiding behind
it; gold, maybe, or evidence of aliens on earth. Yes, that must be it, because
only aliens could squeeze through the door.
He approached and crawled forward enough to get his head through the
door. It was all darkness inside. If he craned his neck up, he could see a short,
straight sliver of light some twenty feet above his head. The boy crawled
forward a little more before his shoulders caught on the door-jamb. Slightly

Pages 24 – 25
exasperated and now inexplicably desperate to get through the door, he
thrashed about a little before common sense kicked in and he struggled to
turn on his side, grasping the frame and wiggling through. After a few more
minutes of struggling, he finally found himself on the other side. To his
disappointment, he still felt the same cement flooring under him. He stood
and tried to make out something in the light coming from the door, but it
didn’t help matters all that much. He got on his haunches and tested the
height of the ceiling. His hands reached up tentatively, expecting to feel
roof above him, but there wasn’t anything there. Carefully, he stood up and
reached for the wall. Slowly, he took several baby steps, his fingers still
grazing the wall so as not to get lost. On the fourth step, he almost stumbled
on something. Stooping down, he felt smooth flat paper. More newspapers.
Why were there newspapers everywhere? He stood up and worked his way
around them before stumbling over something else, and this time his hands
made out a large box full of cold metal objects.
The room, or whatever it was, was starting to scare him as the sense of
adventure wore off. Why was there no light? Why were there so many newspapers?
He worked his way down the wall, carefully avoiding all the other
boxes and piles of garbage, realizing now that this was simply an extension
of the basement, another place to store old things. His hands scanned the
walls, looking for a light switch. Then, finally, he stumbled on something
that he couldn’t walk around without releasing the wall. Feeling it with his
foot, he noticed it was like a long wooden box, almost like a step. He tested
its strength by putting some weight on it before finally stepping up onto it.
He realized that the box was really one of a flight of stairs, and that the beam
of light was cast by the crevice between a closed door and the doorpost.
Another way to get outside, he assumed as he continued climbing the
stairs. He counted twelve steps before colliding with a door. Again, he felt
for a light switch, and this time he found it. But the switch didn’t turn on a
light but opened a window; a window through which bright midday sunlight
filled the room, making the dark corners even darker by contrast. Near the
foot of the staircase was a pile of old newspapers, the top one filled by a
familiar headline. His breath caught in his throat as he recognized some of
the familiar objects from the room he thought he had left behind. His eyes
swept the basement once more, reassuring himself that he really had
stumbled upon the same place he’d just left. The only difference, in fact,
was that the tiny door across from the stairs had vanished. Esther Malisov
How Does Purple Taste?
Talia Niederman
The essence of purple is decadent. Thus, when you place a bit of purple
upon your tongue, you feel in that instant as though you have done something
naughty. But it is so delectable, so rich, so vibrant, that despite your best
interests, you can’t stop yourself from gobbling up that corner of purple.
The taste of purple, contrary to popular belief, has a profundity
unperceivable by an ordinary mouth. A mere mortal would feel the sensation
that is created by the purple but would not realize its importance. There are
so many layers in the flavoring of purple that one may get lost on the top
and may not be able to venture into the depths of purple’s exquisite taste.
The first try of purple deludes the person hasty enough to attempt
shoving it inside with his cherub-like hands. The first taste is meant to stop
a person like this, who does not savor the awesome taste he has put in his
mouth. It has the ability to conquer a person who is too shallow to notice
the meaning of the flavor. It seems too obvious to this individual, so he does
not attempt to see past it.
When he, who is lucky enough to be able to get past the first level of
experience of the taste of purple, unlocks the second door, he unravels a
misunderstood flavor. After the initial tasting, purple is swallowed. Upon
swallowing, it loses its taste and seems to be as bland as rice. This is the
other deceptive part. For the man with no patience will discard purple at

Pages 26 – 27
this point. But his counterpart will endure for many more moments, until
the purple has settled inside his stomach.
Ultimately, purple will release itself inside the person. Although it is no
longer on the tongue and is in the stomach, and the person no longer has the
physical sensation of taste, purple emits a feeling that lodges itself inside
the core of his being. It grips on and doesn’t let go.
Ever.
Ariel Doctoroff
Bananas
Bananas are the fruit of Satan.
They are the bane of my existence, the Scar to my Simba,
the Lex Luther to my Clark Kent, the Angelina to my Jen
What a strange thing to be so opposed to an inanimate object, something
that seemingly poses no threat.
Seemingly is the operative word in that sentence.
The yellow growth, in its essence, is offensive.
The texture
The taste
The smell
Is it God who decided to put this stringy and mushy fruit on this planet?
If so, I have doubts about religion.
When the smell wafts into my nose, it induces feelings of nausea
Food should not have that effect
I am so convinced
And what of the taste?
I can’t get past the other two characteristics but the taste is
probably just as atrocious
I am certain of that fact
So curse you, sun colored undesirable.
May you rot!
Ariel Doctoroff
Justice
In kindergarten, I learned that
justice means fairness, and that
living in our country means
that every single person is
entitled to this fairness.
In first grade, I learned that
justice comes from the courts
and the governments, and
from then on it only got more
complicated.
For years and years, I thought that
finding justice meant going to the
courts, getting a lawyer, and spending
days in front of a judge.
Well, not any more.
I finally figured it out.
Because, what does the court do to administer justice?
It punishes those it finds in the wrong.
And if somebody is in the wrong but no court will accept that?
Is justice to be abandoned when the gavel hits the table?
No, justice should run deeper than that.
And now I know just how deep it should run, because I was
deeply wronged, but with no proof and even less patience.
So I took justice in my own hands, and let me tell you that what I did
to the transgressor is far worse than any court can do.
After all, if I was wronged, I deserve payback.
If that’s not justice, what is?
Esther Malisov
Eric Leiderman

Pages 28 – 29
Déjà Vu
She stepped off the plane and onto the stairs leading down towards the
scalding hot concrete of the tarmac. She looked out in front of her and saw a
plane take off into the sky. The heat of the day made everything look blurry,
and she squinted trying to adjust to the glare. It had been fifty-two years since
she inhaled the thick, humid air of Germany in the summertime. Suddenly she
felt someone bump into her from behind. She looked back and saw a whole
crowd of people, some carrying backpacks, some suitcases, and some small
children, a few wide eyed and the others sleepy from the long flight. The
woman behind her, who looked about thirty, pushed into her again.
She jolted forward as the soldiers shoved the large family into the train
car. There wasn’t any room for them — there hadn’t been room for the
family before them either, but yet there they all were. She felt her shoulder
slam hard into the rotten, molding wood of the wall. The girl tilted her head
upwards, trying to will the air from outside to breeze into the train through
the small window near the ceiling. She longed for fresh air to fill her lungs,
for that feeling like she was suffocating to finally disappear.
Greta started down the stairs. With each step it seemed as though her
blouse stuck to her skin even more, as the moist sweat started to cover her
entire body. She was in Germany as part of a group from her synagogue that
brought its members to places where they could connect past experiences
with the present, and thus bring them a sense of closure and finality, as her
rabbi put it. Greta wasn’t sure what convinced her to come; it’s not as if she
had anything to come back for — or anyone, for that matter. It was the
conversation with her daughter that finally persuaded her to join the group.
Adina had looked at her and told her that the rabbi was right; that seeing
everything again would be a way to realize how strong she was and how much
she had survived. Greta didn’t really look at it that way, though. For the past
week she hadn’t been able to sleep well, knowing that she would be back in
the place that had taken her family: her mother, father, brothers, and sister.
They were all gone now, taken from her by monsters there on the very ground
she was standing on. They had breathed their last breaths with the air that
was now fully encompassing her. It made her uneasy. Only nine days left.
“Nine days left. That’s what Ernst in the third car is saying. I think he
knows what he’s talking about, too. He used to be in the transportation
business.” The man was talking to another, stout, bearded man to his right.
The smaller one looked at him in interest. Most of the people from her car
were gone; some died from the terrible conditions, and some had been
dropped off on the way. She didn’t know where and she knew she never
really would. They were people she would never see again. They were now
statistics; the people who one day would be referred to as victims. Greta
closed her eyes and tried to control the thoughts that were swirling around
in her head.
A few hours later she woke up as the van began to slow. She had slept
nearly the entire ride from the airport and was disoriented. Greta stretched her
arms above her head and she felt the carpeted ceiling with her fingertips. She
looked out the window just as they made a wide, left turn into a large, ornate
driveway. The hotel was massive and looked important; bellboys in black
suit-vests and ties were bustling about, opening doors and loading luggage.
She stepped out of the car and looked around the hotel. To her right, a small
child was sitting on the curb of the driveway. A man and woman, whom she
assumed to be the girl’s parents, stood a few feet behind her, arguing and making
enough noise to attract attention from guests going in and coming out of the
lobby. The girl was crying silently. Tears streamed down her face and fell
into a pool that was gathering on her patterned paisley shorts. Her shoulders
shook to the rhythm of her sobs, and all Greta wanted to do was hug her.
The little girl began to cry even harder now, becoming louder by the
minute. She stood up from the curb and starting walking with no particular
direction in mind. She picked up her pace and started darting between the
multitudes of people that had accumulated on the large patch of gravel. The
girl was now shrieking — desperately, shouting for her mother. Everyone
stared at her; some looked horrified or saddened by the sight, but others
looked passive. They had grown accustomed to the sight of children realizing
they had lost their parents; of children so distraught they looked like
mere infants again. They were all waiting for instructions from the soldiers,
clothed in perfectly tailored uniforms. Suddenly, the soldiers shouted for
silence and everyone fell silent. The next thing she knew, Greta was being
herded into an empty truck that was meant for transporting cattle to the
slaughterhouse. After a short drive, the car came to a sudden stop and she
stumbled forward into the old man standing in front her. He staggered
backwards until he found his balance. She apologized, but he simply nodded
his head and continued staring at the ground. Her thoughts were unexpectedly
interrupted by the harsh shouts that started.

Pages 30 – 31
She stepped out of the van and looked up. The metal sign was daunting,
looking down on her as it had the first time she saw it. “Arbeit Macht Frei.”
Greta felt like spitting on it, kicking it, and throwing it down to the ground.
Auschwitz had been her home for three years, but standing here was making
her sick. She suddenly didn’t understand what she was doing there. Why
was it necessary to seek “closure”? Who said she deserved it? What about
the six million — what about them? Didn’t they get closure?
Greta turned on her heels and walked back into the van without looking
back once. She would never return.
Manuela Stalman
Apocalypse
0 -
The man crouches behind the wall, his sinewy arms caressing his shotgun.
The volcano roars. A reddish haze obscures the sky.
Everywhere they are looting, breaking into the abandoned stores.
There is no law.
A man slips on a crack in the sidewalk, a vestige of the earthquake.
No one helps him.
A cowled monk walks by, ringing a little black bell to mark his passage.
All step aside.
The man scratches his lousy head. He feels no humiliation.
No one can see him.
He grins, delighted. He sees a rabbit in the street. Dinner.
He loads his ammunition, looks downs
the sight of his gun.
He fires. The crack of the bullet resounds in
the chaotic street.
It ricochets off the bumper of an abandoned car,
its perfectly linear path diverted.
It hits a looter. Obediently, he falls to the
ground, his stolen shawl dropping from
his hands.
The man is unrepentant. He fires again.
The rabbit dies.
Aaron Rubin
Rebecca Schwartz
Poetry Is……
Poetry is unique because the reader must create meaning
from the sparest outline, thus challenging the reader to
understand his/her own yearnings and ideals.
The poet does not have to make sure that every line is clear,
every line is comprehensible, because to a poet, what matters
is the whole that is created, not its individual elements. As a
result, a poet’s inhibitions are virtually nonexistent.
Poetry’s function is to connect all of those who are
disconnected and to allow those who are connected to
question their connection. Poetry puts insanity into a
comforting perspective that I can relate to and gives me
the courage to pursue whatever it is that I want.
Poetry, to me, is the essence of emotion, a way to demonstrate
your feelings through miniature phrases of passion.
A poem can be a wake up call to a civilization or society;
it can be a memory of love or places of the past, or it could
simply be words that combine to form a story. But above all
else, it is a chance for the poets to have a voice: to give rise
to their beliefs, to their memories, to their life.
Elaine Ezrapour

Pages 32 – 33
Leah Whiteman
To me, poetry can be about finding
weight in small things, or about defining
an entire country with just a few
carefully chosen words.
Poetry is a means of connecting,
may it be from one person to
another, or from one person
to the world at large. It tells
the audience something about
the poets, and about what they have experienced, connecting
them to each other. A poem becomes a shared emotion.
Poetry brings people together in ways that would not be
possible without it.
Poetry gives me the opportunity to immerse myself in
a world with no rules and no boundaries.
Eric Leiderman
To me, poetry seems to be almost like a meditation.
Such a small number of words – usually a couple of pages
at maximum – will contain a much larger scope of feelings
and ideas. It is then up to the reader to take the poem and
think about what it ultimately means.
Poetry enables one to communicate with any society and
any culture because poetry is something that fits anywhere.
One does not have to be afraid to share feelings
and emotions through poetry. Poetry brings honesty
to the world and gives all an equal playing field.
There is no wrong when it comes to poetry, it just is.
Poetry is our sustenance — our leaves and fruit. Poetry
cannot be tainted or contained. Leaves fall and fly in
whatever way they please. So goes poetry. It moves where
it wants to move and gives us the freedom to go where we
please with our minds. Poetry is the force that takes all of
our thought and knowledge and energy and sets them free.
Lauren Finzi
Carina Moses, Aaron Rubin, Aaron Finkelstein, Jared Cohen,
Cynthia Blank, Esther Malisov, Sara Guenoun, Jacob Sion,
Molly Cohen, Jesse Wolff, Yaniv Kot

Pages 34 – 35
Creative Song
I sit in an empty studio with only my thoughts and emotions.
I look out the window, searching for my next subject.
Hopeful, of finding the next spark that ignites my soul.
But for now I sit still as my creative flow is silent.
The connection between my hand and the canvas is frozen.
Not even a thin stream of color can be drawn from my brush.
As the paint filled palette sits there untouched, my life is vanishing.
My body is dependent on water and food,
And my soul is dependent on expressing what I see, feel, think, do.
But these two needs repel each other like oil on skin.
When will someone discover my contributions to society?
Can I buy my next meal?
Where is my life leading?
Is my artistic lens clear? Clean?
Where is my next paycheck coming from?
How can I live like this?
Suddenly, during mid-thought I see her.
She passes by in her oversized gray wool sweater,
As she struts in her go-go boots past my window.
SHOCK - my mind receives an electric jolt.
My brush hits the palate and starts to smear strokes on the canvas.
BLUE, MAGENTA, EMERALD GREEN, GOLD, WHITE….
While my mind traces itself to my hand and through my paintbrush,
I forget about all my worries.
My addiction overcomes me with my next masterpiece:
The modern Mona Lisa.
Leah Whiteman
Photo: Hannah Kober
Leah Whiteman

Pages 36 – 37
David Kagan
Spirituality and nature
connect us all.
When our surroundings reach us
They touch our collective soul.
And when we hear leaves
We see clearly.
crushed underfoot
or rustling on a branch
Growth through
& Nature
Spirituality

Pages 38 – 39
ODE TO WAT ER
Tonight I praise the water,
My element and my truth
For water extinguishes the scathing fire,
When it is uncontrollable, and seems
impossible to put to sleep.
Its flames dance to the rhythm of the sun,
Each flame rising and falling with the presence of
the fierce wind.
The fire is the demon, and the water is the angel.
She dims the fire’s bright glow,
To save him from himself,
And from the inevitable destruction he brings.
So the smoke can rise in his remembrance.
For water feeds the earth when it is thirsty,
And nurtures the roots of the hallowed plants.
The small flowers cry out to whoever can hear them –
They call to the water for help
For their thirst, and for their salvation.
The earth is the homeless man, and the water is his savoir
She feeds him her cool nectar.
So the earth can create a home for his new children
So that we can breathe in his scent and exhale rebirth.
For water mixes with the air,
To create a mist that envelops the world in fog
The two walk hand in hand –
Calm and ever-present,
Perpetual and tranquil
The air calls to the water for awareness and mindfulness
Art: Karen V ilenko
Air is the invisible child, and water his mother
Without her, he is no one
Unseen by man,
Felt only by a few.
She gives him confidence,
So that he can blow the world into peace.
Tonight I praise the water
For water is a dream,
And I am swimming in it.
Abigail Friedman
Jenna Merrin

Pages 40 – 41
SIMPLY COMPLEX
The Human Being
The ultimate testament to the complexity of life
One has been cursed.
He floats through life
Trying to simplify these magnificent beings
Rather than stand in awe before beautiful intricacies of life,
He ponders, thinks he has understood, and moves on.
To him, these complexities are attractive,
Until he thinks he understands them, and they become dull.
Like a mathematician enticed by a puzzle,
“Ah! How intriguing this puzzle is!” he exclaims
Only until the last piece is solved
Just to move on, to a harder puzzle.
He is haunted by this curse.
Like a meteor gravitates toward a planet,
He is drawn to these complexities
Peeking through the cracks in their barricades of personality
He strips them down to their naked essence
Thinking he understands the nature of their being
He then moves on to a more fully clothed complexity
Not a choice to him, but a way of life.
Like a child armed with an eraser next to a work of art
He prances around… simplifying
Carelessly purging his world of its beauty
This behavior consumes him.
Until one day, he meets his enemy - His savior
The puzzle he wishes not to solve,
The painting he dares not erase,
The barricade that is too secure,
The complexity he chooses to admire, not to understand.
In this meeting, he realizes,
He was simply wrong,
In trying to simplify the complex.
Anonymous
Shipley Mason

Pages 42 – 43
THE COLOR OF NIGHT
He is the color of darkness —
Black seen only in the purest of nights
He is the center, where all the other colors form and divide.
Pink is his enemy;
He loathes her, as the frills on a ballerina’s tutu detest the black mud
They fight endlessly beside me, unaware of mix of color that they leave
on my body.
The other one, he is Blue.
Bright Blue as on a cloudless day
He keeps me here on earth, begging me to bathe in his blueness
While Black struggles to keep me in the night.
I refuse, I am inclined to follow him, but I run from him, afraid,
into the bright blue sky.
Pink’s rival, Brown, circles around me, sprinkling droplets of brownness
all over my multicolored self
While her friend, her lookalike, Green, follows me everywhere.
She is my biggest source of color, as she rubs her light green smear on
my back without my consent.
She withers when she cannot see me.
And shines her bright green smile when I am there
He, the tallest, is Purple.
As he splashes his essence on me, I cringe, and as he walks away,
I cry.
My love, and my hate, my Orange, is able to coat me in her bright strange
color. Stronger than all the rest
I start the day, White in the morning, and an array of colors when the day
has ended.
Before I lie in bed, I stare in the mirror, perplexed.
I attempt shedding off the false colors – I am afraid.
What will be left?
Dana Bronstein
Brenda Escava

Pages 44 – 45
TURTLE MAN
Shining bright like a beacon, the turtle man enters
And no notice is taken of his round spectacles
Perched ever so precariously on the edge
Of his wide, flat nose
Or of the obvious attention he paid to his lapel
And the symmetry of his red suspenders,
framing him perfectly
Revealing the perfect circle that is the Turtle Man
Begin.
Louder, louder it all becomes
Screaming to be heard over the drone
Of the worker bees, buzzing round the turtle man.
He swats and swipes, but to no avail,
Aggression has become their amusement
Tormenting the Turtle Man, who doesn’t see
their goal
For what it truly is
He smiles and shouts louder
Sitting in silence, not quite what you planned
Is this how it’s supposed to be?
Not quite.
The Turtle Man continues, not in defiance
But from his lack of understanding of
The situation as it stands.
Frustration mounting, exit
Head pounding, disappointment
Blind anger, walk on
Reentry.
And in one two three…chaos resumes, unavoidable
The Turtle Man now stands silent in the front
Looking around, bewildered.
Shake your head, hoping the Turtle
Would turn into a valiant Tiger.
Sara Guenoun
Matan Skolnik
ABOUT HUCK FINN
A poem for Huckleberry Finn, whose speech and train of thought implants
a nostalgic memory in my head.
In the deep waters where time was neither counted nor followed,
Rests a soul who has neither interest in literature, nor in particular poetry.
Granted I’m writing this anyway, though I neither feel inspired nor driven to
say a few creative words for the novel Huckleberry Finn,
I mean I liked it all right; it was a fascinating read. However it seems
condescending to write essays over it.
Perhaps if we’d been assigned to run from responsibility, then I’d do well
Perhaps if there’d been a prominent moral to place decadent words upon.
But an essay is conducted within a facility that Huck has little regard for
and I’ve got no manners to be writing this for him. And if I were Mark
Twain, I’d forbid my books to be taught in school.
The superstitions and suspicions of a growing boy blend with innovation to
create a character with both pessimism and intellect who, for personal gain,
uses both to deceive all whom he comes in contact with.
Note the ways in which he uses human psychology for deceit:
In order to keep men from finding Jim, he makes out to be that his family
member is very sick in such a way that the men guess it to be smallpox,
therefore avoiding the raft.
He fakes his own death to run from civilization.
With no consideration for the feelings of those who knew him, he watches
them search the river for his body though he hasn’t died in the river.
In fact, his soul lives and is free on the Mississippi River.
Amber Tuthill

Pages 46 – 47
THE COLOR DASH
Green creeps along, always growing,
Never stopping, never running,
It grows slowly on trees and grass,
Too sluggish to outpace the night.
Black always comes, no matter what,
Swiftly it triumphs after dusk,
Nothing sprints faster or farther,
But green can endure much longer.
By day, green lounging on a wall,
Or swinging in the gentle breeze,
Lets the world just hurry on past,
Not challenging the other hues.
Even as paint, black will not stop,
It devours all that comes to it,
Nothing can escape hungry black,
It will expand from here to there.
Green passes each day contently,
Not fearing the descending gloom,
The rapidly approaching black,
Shades every last trace of green.
Jenna Merrin
Samuel Kupferberg
SOUNDS OF LIFE
You just have to move yourself
And lose yourself
Until you no longer know where you are
You need to feel the beat
And the tempo of the world
Nod your head to the rhythm of life
And tap your foot to the sound of a cry
Listen to the world as if it’s your radio
Your own music
The sound of an engine is your bass
And the child yelling is the percussion
Individually – they sound strange
In unison – the clamor sounds perfect
The noises of life are meant to be heard
Not all know how to hear them
Let the strength of a breeze blow you away
Let the warmth of the sun keep you company
The noises of the world are the soundtrack to your life
Leah Kahan
Ciara Sidell

Pages 48 – 49
Elisheva Epstein
MUSIC
Some songs last longer than a lifetime. These are the ones that every
person has heard, can sing perfectly, or at least hum along to, no matter the
year or generation. It’s a song that represents everything within these
people. It tells a story, with a few simple chords, and a few simple melodies
and, most importantly, those deep rivers of lyrics that run through your
veins and are captured deep in your soul. And then there are the one hit
wonders: those bouncy fast songs that last for a summer, a season, before
retreating into the abyss of forgotten sensations and music.
Sometimes I think life is one long song. With a build up, a crescendo,
and then a final crashing end.
But through it all, there is that
one syllable, that one note that
never falters, that remains
constant until the end, when it
slowly and softly fades away into
blank, dense silence. And then
a new song begins, and for the
time being you forget the song,
the sound, the unique note that
came before. Until one day in the
Talia Niederman
near or distant future, it plays
again. And again. Again and again, until it ends one more time and is
finally quiet.
Cynthia Blank

Pages 50 – 51
QUESTIONS
Was I conscious when I breathed in my first breath?
Was I aware of the magnificent existence I was entering
Or did I fear the unknown pathways I would have no choice but wander?
Did I wait anxiously in my mother’s lap to go out into the world
Or did I cling tightly to her body?
Was I frustrated by the protection of my mother’s binding clutch
Or was I grateful to be sheltered by her body from the surrounding
vastness?
Was I in need of guidance
Or did I seek freedom?
Maya Liran
Did I cry out of yearning for more than I was given?
Out of pain?
Out of fear?
Did I cry out of sadness?
Or did I cry because I was an infant, and crying was natural?
At what point did my tears evolve into words?
When did these questions become insignificant ?
Was it because I became a real person?
Because I have forgotten them?
RELEASE
0 -
Rain falls down systematically,
Each drop creating a momentary connection between itself and the pavement
They combine as one, letting the excess, the unnecessary, splash up
And fall again, giving them second chance.
The pace changes
Beginning with a trickle down the lightly stained window, the drops cluster
together at the bottom,
Finding warmth and familiarity within their own kind
And then, they gain speed; their purpose for falling becoming more determined
Eventually, they turn into little bullets,
Shooting down from above,
Striking the skin
Leaving imprints that last longer than anyone can fathom
Abigail Friedman
Amy Lewis

Pages 52 – 53
BACK
How long has it been since you felt the hot pavement
Beneath your bare feet
As you roamed up and down curves in the road
With the lullaby of a breeze pushing you forward
When was the last time you glimpsed at the fresh green branches
Flying above the azure and tawny colored stone walls and rooftops
Swaying in time to the music that blares out
From the booming black speakers
Will you ever return to stare at shining silver stars in the night sky
As the lake water laps against the dirty pier
With the black chill wrapping itself around you
And the wooden limbs and jade leaves singing you to sleep
Why won’t you go and spread out over the wooden tables
Basking in the warm glow of the sun’s rays beating down
With only a miniscule baby tree for shade and cool
As you and your friends lay tangled in the warm silence
I know, I know
You can’t go back
Jenna Merrin
Cynthia Blank
LOST
When did a story last fill you with delight?
When did this world last drift away from you,
And the winds of imagination last take you away?
Why can you no longer leave this Earth behind,
In favor of places in the æther beyond?
Why have the dreams of paradise died,
And left you stranded in the here-and-now?
You have lost the song in your heart
And the impossible yearning for a higher place
So have I.
So have we all.
Aaron Rubin
Rebecca Schwarz

Pages 54 – 55
WHEN
When the thunder never comes and the sun always shines,
And the birds chirp and flutter,
Life would be glee—
But then what would become of thee?
For in a world with only smiles,
She couldn’t be she.
When the women always dance and the children always squeal,
And the laughter rings out,
Life would be bliss—
But then what would there be to miss?
For in a world with only joy,
He couldn’t be he.
When the melody echoes into silence,
And there’s no one there to hear it,
Life would be just as it always is—
He would be hers and she would be his,
For in the real world,
They will always and forever be they.
Manuela Stalman FOR THE STORM
Alex Weiss
You clear away the mess
That fills the city streets
You clatter through the air
Bringing awareness to those around
You make the child tremble
Reminding him of his weakness
You light up the night
Making the satin sky sparkle
You sway the trees
Whistling through the air
You break the still, midnight silence
Changing dreams to nightmares.
Aaron Freedman
Gabrielle Newman

Pages 56 – 57
Glory be for nature
For the gifts it blesses us with
For the sound of being immersed underwater
The thick silence that fills your ears
For the smoky smell of fire burning
The warmth that envelops and binds you
For the swell and climax of the thunderstorm
The lightning that strikes and the thunder that booms
For the hot dry rays of the sun
Shimmery and pleasant on the skin
For the light feeling when laughter is abundant
For the love which fills the room
For the details which no one ever notices
For the ability just to be
Glory be for all things natural
Glory be for the gift of life
Leeza Gavronsky
GLORY BE FOR . . .
Glory be for the ability to smile—
For laughter, for love, and for dreams;
For robust voices, for flamboyancy and noise;
For sympathy, for sharing and silence
Glory be for the beauty of life—
For hearts full of compassion;
For teeth and for lips;
For hair and for eyes
Glory be for the world that we live in—
For our abilities and feelings;
For our features;
For nature;
For our lives
Sarah Weinstein
Photos, this page, top two: Jenna Merrin
Photos, opposite page/this page, bottom four: Hugo Uvegi

Pages 58 – 59
A WINTRY DREAM
I dreamwalk through an icy place
Everfine crystals brush my face
The clouds above are all awhirl
On the ground below I see a dwerl
He glearns at me with beady eyes
Waving his bushtail slowly sighs,
“Where do you go this winterday?
What brings you so far away
From the manhome in which you dwell
And takes you to this wintry hell?”
I look up at the looming stormsky
I lift my hands, I start to cry
For hearth and home are dead and gone
And warmth slipfaded to a song
That in my heart I used to sing
But now only the heat can bring
To ease my weary dying soul
And as I cry, the dreambells toll
And wake me from my frozen sleep
As sunlights through my window creep
Aaron Rubin
Mia Applebaum
FOREST WALK
I take a walk through forestwood trees
And feel the sungold glare peek through
crownbranches of velvety brown
As rainbowed leaves pour down
They swirl in a dance until crashing
against the mudbrown ground
My footsteps form an untraveled path
Pushing down gently leaving imprints
Skybluepink heavens gather above me
Fluffery pillows billow in the stratosphere
Polkadotting the indigo sky
They look down on the green leaveringlets
Press my hands to passing woodbark
As I amble barefoot through the treecurves
Of dirt paths that wind their way through
Syllables of wind gust everything into disarray
They blow airbubbles into the transparent atmosphere
Through which I inhale the sweet fragrance
I run now in this puzzlepiece maze
My skirt fluttering with the breeze
Divine flowers immerse the air in beauty
Falling down from the treeheights
Encircling my head in a flowercrown
They proclaim me queen of the forest
My feet bring me from one corner to the next
Until I collapse in a sea of skirts on meadowgrass
Refreshingly green that I can taste it
The sun sinks down bathing me in purplepink silence
And the grassground wraps me up in its blanket
Enchanting me into forestsleep
Cynthia Blank
Max Seraita

Pages 60 – 61
Abigail Lipnick
The hardships we face
make change necessary.
Human suffering,
on any scale,
propels change
and makes it inevitable.
Growth through
Hardship

Pages 62 – 63
The Things I Carry
The things they carried..
Bottles of accessible clichés and empty bags to fill with approval…
The things I carry…
The fragile thread which attempts to piece together the dimensions of
my life.
The fear of a future in penury (for this is the exchange for those who
do not carry motivation)
The burden of knowledge
The clarity of the vanity of others.
Ripped and crumpled papers in the bottom of my book bag
Scratched glasses for vision
A bulky traditional computer which unlocks a sea of knowledge
Books to aid knowledge
Books which mock knowledge
My past, present, and future and its unspoken development
Secrets
A maturity that transcends style and manners
Amber Tuthill
Under the Rug
William Garret hated messes. He hated clutter; he despised chaos, and
loathed disorder. Everything in his house was meticulous at all times. He
detested people, because he felt that they were only good for disrupting his
order. He spent all his time making sure everything was in its allotted place,
and keeping everything just exactly right. A place for everything; everything
in its place. This was his motto. Perfection was his only goal, and he
thought that he was well on his way to achieving it.
He was not a particularly unusual looking man. He was squat and
middle aged, and was often overlooked by people passing him on the
street. Because they often failed to see him, he watched everyone else to
keep them from rumpling his long taupe-colored trench coat. The fedora he
often wore on his balding head was a dark russet color, with a small red
feather in the brim. His tortoiseshell glasses had jet-black rims, and
throughout the day he frequently felt the need to polish them with his
monogrammed handkerchief.
William worked part time at the library. His time spent there was his
favorite part of every day. He got to do what he loved most – organize. He
stacked books on the shelves, always making sure they were in the right
order. He memorized the Dewey Decimal system to expedite his work.
Efficiency, he thought, was a vital element of perfection.
Every day, when he got home from work, he turned the lights on and
looked around for anything that might have been disrupted in his absence.
Nothing was ever missing. Smiling to himself, William walked to the
kitchen and made himself dinner, loving the order and precision of every
recipe: one-quarter teaspoon, two cups, two and one-half tablespoons, blend
until smooth. Cook for twenty-five minutes. Let stand for two minutes
before eating. William was a good cook.
After dinner, he washed all the dishes and dried them, put them away,
and read for exactly forty-five minutes. The genres varied; often it was
something that the library had recently acquired, other times it was
something that had been recommended to him by one of the library’s
patrons. Once his allotted time was up, he got up, put the book away, and
went to sleep.
Photo, opposite page: Charlotte Marx-Arpadi

Pages 64 – 65
One evening, William was on his way to his bedroom when, while
walking through the living room, he happened to see a large mound moving
underneath the rug. He tensed up immediately. He could not tolerate any
vermin in his home. It looked like it might be the size of a mouse, or
perhaps a baby raccoon that had crept in through the window. Turning
around ever so slowly so as not to startle the animal, he went back into the
kitchen to get a broom. Shaking his head, he wondered how the thing had
gotten in.
Returning to the living room, carrying a broom, William walked
towards the corner where he had seen the bump under the rug. But when
he got there, he saw that there was nothing underneath the rug any more; it
looked just as it had when he arrived home from work. Puzzled, he searched
the area, pulling up the rug completely. He gasped when he saw the dark,
maple floors.
There, on the floor, were long, inch deep scratches carved into the
wood. It looked as though a tiger or a bear had made them. William’s
demeanor changed drastically. Glancing around uncertainly, he was sure of
a presence in the room other than his own. Then he laughed. A tiger, under
the rug? It was certainly an absurd notion. I must have done it by accident
somehow while polishing the floors last Sunday, he thought. Nothing
unusual, really.
Turning back to the kitchen to replace the broom, William chuckled to
himself. I have to stop reading those horror novels so late at night. They
really start to get to you. But he couldn’t get rid of the image of the deep,
cavernous cuts in his floorboards.
The next day William hired an exterminator,
a maid, and a repairman. The exterminator
found no animals; the maid found no messes;
and the repairman charged him twenty dollars
for showing up. William concluded that it
must have been his imagination; still, he
cleaned his house with even more rigor and
thoroughness than before. He even went so
far as to flame everything in his house made
of metal to sanitize it. Some called him
crazy, but he was determined to keep his
Sarah Epstein
home free from anything that might soil it, no matter what it took.
Two weeks passed, and it happened again. This time, however, when he
arrived home he noticed the large form under the rug. And now it was on
the other side of the room, by the lamp on the small table. William was sure
that there was something there. He started over slowly, trying not to make
noise. However, after he barely moved two feet, the thing darted left underneath
the bookcase. William grabbed a chair and started chasing after the
thing under the rug, determined to cleanse his home of the intruder.
Looking around wildly, William cast his eyes around the room. Nothing
moved. The whole room was still as death. Standing perfectly still, William
waited. “I know you’re here…” he snickered. He heard a noise behind
him. He spun in a circle, tripping over his own feet. He fell to the floor,
knocking his knee against a table. Howling in pain, he glanced furtively
over his shoulder.
“Where are you?” he whispered menacingly. He glanced around the
room again, trying to find the source of his irritation. A scuffling in the
corner caught his attention. He saw something scuttling away but did not
turn in time to see what it was. He sprinted towards the corner and started
banging on the wall with a book from a near-by shelf. He took the heaviest
ones, large volumes of Shakespeare, War and Peace, Gone with the Wind.
Every last one of them was thrown at the wall in an attempt to see what was
hiding behind the clean white paint, now severely scratched and scuffed.
“I will not have corruption in my home!” he shouted. He was angry,
and desperate to return his home to its state of perfection. If that meant
knocking down the wall to get at the infection, so be it. William was
violently, recklessly, rashly attempting to find the root of the problem, to
eradicate it by any means necessary.
In a stroke of inspiration, William sprinted to the garage, nearly falling
over the couch in his mad dash to find the mallet he kept there. He no
longer cared what happened; he simply had to eliminate the vileness within
his home. Grabbing the mallet, he rushed back to the living room and
started tearing down the wall. Each blow gave him a rush; he felt validated
by the destruction of the barrier between him and his adversary. The wall
came down easily, as though it were made of cardboard. He kept smashing
it until there was nothing left; nothing could keep him from finding it now.
William was vaguely aware of noises behind him in the room, but he

Pages 66 – 67
paid no attention. He had more critical matters to deal with. He was barely
aware of the people calling his name, or the flashing red lights coming
from outside his window. He started to investigate the wreckage, trying to
find confirmation that verified his own belief that there was something
unnatural living in the walls of his home.
The shouts grew louder and louder, sounding more and more frantic.
William didn’t care. He needed to be validated; nothing else mattered now.
Searching through the rubble, he tried to find a sign that he was close to the
intruders. But before he could see anything, there was a loud clunk and
suddenly everything was black.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
“It’s amazing he survived.”
“I know. The whole house was almost completely demolished by the
time the fire department got there. Apparently he did the whole thing
himself with a pickaxe in the garage or something. They say he was raving
mad, howling something about ”
“Source? Of what? His insanity?
“Probably.”
The two doctors looked back through the window into William’s
isolation room. He was sitting in a corner, rocking back and forth. The
faintest muttering could be heard, but it was not comprehensible. Sighing,
they walked away from his room, shaking their heads.
Behind them, William just smiled to himself, satisfied that he could
now rest peacefully. It was gone, and for him, that was good.
Sara Guenoun
Sarah Epstein
Demonsbreath
Eric Leiderman
Demonsbreath upon my face,
I awake.
The shadowsilence fills my soul.
It is empty.
The deathbellows that escape his mouth are almost inaudible.
Almost,
Almost,
but not quite.
They echo off the shadowdepths of my mind.
I cannot escape them.
The harpysongs forever plague me.
They will not leave.
They are unkillable.
The darkhate burns through my lifesoul,
Destroying all that was once a person.
And now, all that remains is the loathesilence of one who cannot change
his fate.
The cold, dark, seething deathcall is all that can be heard.
Adam Schefflan

To the Last Man
on Earth
I hope you are doing well,
At least as well as can be expected,
I cannot imagine what your life is like,
So different probably from our own,
But I must wonder where we all
went wrong,
How did we fail ourselves?
Why can’t we ever stop?
The heavy burden on you is more
than on any other,
Even being the first is easier than the last,
There is no one else left for you,
There is no one else coming for you,
We are all finished once you are,
We cannot give you any consolation,
Except remember who and what you are,
The final culmination of us all,
You carry all that we ever had.
Hope and Despair, Happiness and Misery,
Satisfaction and Longing, Peace and Chaos.
All these and more are your baggage.
Love and Hate, Resolve and Doubt,
Friendship and Hostility, Life and Death,
You must lug these around.
All of the successes and failures of those
before you,
Are now yours alone to bear,
We should apologize to you,
But we never have learned how,
We are too proud and too blind,
Never able to see the inevitability of it all,
And now we have abandoned you,
But we cannot take responsibility for it all,
We just hope that you will forgive us.
Samuel Kupferberg
Pages 68 – 69
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
Pink Glasses
He never carried much, though he wanted to. Wanted to carry more than
the limited burdens he had. No, it’s not that they weren’t heavy enough, but
rather nonexistent, a fable, trick of imagination.
He was an ordinary, simple boy of sixteen. Brown hair, blue eyes, fit
and athletic, and, as it seemed, burden-free. Weightless. Floating through
atmosphere, through life, carrying nothing but desire, the desire to carry more.
So he pretended.
Pretended to carry the weight of others, the weight of loss and of shame
and of hurt and of worry. Pretended to carry the soil and the sky and grass
and the wind.
Simply pretended, an actor on stage.
Desire, the rest assumed, was the lightest to carry. No trouble, no worry,
no guilt, no remorse; simple, feather-light, beautiful desire. It was strain-free,
they assumed, for it meant nothing. No fixing or helping or trying or failing.
Nothing, other than the weightless desire to carry more.
And yet it weighed him down.
The lightest, he believed, never allowed him to strengthen his legs, to
strengthen his back, to learn how to carry. To know burden, to know fatigue,
exhaustion, weariness, tiredness. To know to collapse. To know to give up.
To know to fail.
His desire, above all, weighed him down.
Of course, he carried what every ordinary high school student would
carry. He carried schoolwork. Pens and pencils and markers and
highlighters. Binders and books and notebooks and papers. Math and
science and literature and history. He carried success, he carried failure.
Failure he carried by the loads.
A bag full of failures, which he would sort through every night.
Whether it was to remind him of the past, to highlight the present or foreshadow
the future he didn’t know, nor did anyone else. But no one cared.
No one cares about failure.
He carried his friendships and quarrels, his love and his hate, the wise
and the foolish, the incompetent and the able. He carried those who could
and those who couldn’t.
He carried others not because he wanted to, but because he needed to.
Because, in his eyes, some needed carrying, and he could help.

Pages 70 – 71
So he did.
And through this, the desire to carry all shame and trouble and worry
and agony. To carry belief and memory and knowledge and uncertainty.
To carry friends and enemies and love and hate. Through this, he never
faltered, never failed.
Though he carried failure by the loads, he never failed once. Never gave
in. Never accepted that after a single failure there will be no more failures
to come.
But he understood, from the very beginning, that he was carrying not
only for himself. He was carrying for his father.
Determination. He was carrying determination for his father.
For what he carried, he believed, did not define him. What he carried
helped him define himself. So he desired to carry more. More to know,
more to hate, more to love, more to worry, more to hurt, more to care, more
to succeed, more to fail.
He carried pink glasses. Pink glasses that he never left behind. Pink
glasses through which he looked at the world. Pink glasses through which
he felt and learned and changed. Pink glasses through which he failed. He
carried them. Carried them in cold and in hot, in dark and in light, carried
them always. Because through pink glasses, he knew, every failure would
be brighter.
Nadav Pearl
Xxxxx Xxxxxxxx
Wretched School
O wretched school,
You imprison me with your
paper and your books,
Your dictators and your servants.
You swamp me with
requirements,
And impede my growth;
Irony envelopes you.
How I wish I could escape your grasp
And frolic blissfully down the bright, warm, blooming street.
But I can’t.
You’ve detained me,
Kidnapped me.
With Your cold corridors.
Your gloomy dungeons.
O wretched school,
I yearn to be free
Sarah Roger
Aliza Rosenfeld
Jared Cohen

Janet Rubin
Pages 72 – 73
What Color is Pain?
What color is pain?
Is it the red of a bleeding man
As he lies on the ground beneath the infinite
night sky,
Weighed down by shame and regret?
Is it the haunting, all encompassing black of evil?
Of malevolence?
Of hatred?
Of acting in malice for the sheer sake of malice?
Is it the blissful, natural white of purity and innocence?
The white, glowing light eradicating the monsters from under our beds?
Is it the shocking neon?
Blinding and stopping us in our tracks
Causing us to raise our arms for protection,
And try everything to shield ourselves from its intensity.
Or is it a soothing, numbing magenta?
Taking control of our bodies
And assuring us that feeling passion—
Even in the form of pain—
Is better than feeling nothing at all.
Or is it a natural, calming green?
Comforting in its perpetuity and omnipresence
In the way that when it’s near
It’s all there is.
So, what color is pain?
Is it just one?
Just red?
Black?
White?
Magenta?
Green?
Or is it a combination of all colors?
A grayish-purple, perhaps?
A brownish-blue?
Manuela Stalman
Majdanek, Again
Bus 815 rattled along the unpaved Polish road. Paul sat in the front, alone.
Every rock that they drove over made his seat shake more as they drew
closer. He had heard the stories numerous times, and after eighteen years,
he would experience the horrors firsthand. No one could touch him; no one
could talk to him. The skies were clear, only two or three clouds in sight.
It was about forty degrees outside, but he kept his heavy winter jacket
zippered. With each bump, he felt a greater chill down his spine, and he was
freezing. The background murmur of his classmates seemed non-existent as
he replayed the stories in his mind. He knew what he would do when they
arrived: he would trace her steps exactly to the place where she drew her
last breath. “Just breathe, in and out, and be calm,” he told himself. “You
can do it, you’ve gone over this with Mom so many times.” As he pressed
his forehead against the icy window, he wondered if he was passing his
great-grandmother’s ashes on the ground.
The bus turned on a bend in the road, and now Paul could see the fence
in the distance. The monster rose what seemed forty feet high, with a lining
of barbed wire. He put his head in his palms and closed his eyes, trying to
calm himself. His classmates sat in back of him, smiling and talking. How
can they be so calm? Don’t they realize where we are heading? The bus
slowed, and the front lifted slightly, then the back. Train tracks. He didn’t
lift his head, but he knew they arrived. Even the air became crisp, with a
hint of sweetness and the stench of old wood. The tour guide stood up and
picked up the microphone. “First stop, Majdanek.”
Paul walked into the mud that everyone else avoided. He didn’t care; he
wanted to make his experience as close to hers as possible. Ahead of him
lay the train track, on which stood the cattle car. From a
distance, it looked just like the mud he had stepped in. This
is it, he told himself, this is the car. The door was ajar, and
the inside drew him in as if it were a magnet. But this
magnet was made of auburn wood, stained with years of
rust, excrement, and dried blood. As he climbed in and
looked around, he saw scratch marks on the walls. He moved
his palm along the indented surface and an image of clawing
at the walls, screaming to be let out of this moving hell
flashed through his mind. With a loud crash, the door
Brenda Escava

Pages 74 – 75
slammed shut, and his classmates were trapped inside. Some screamed, but
he just sat there, slowly suffocating. His asthma was kicking in, but he
didn’t let it affect him. Suddenly, she was next to him. He was stuck in
between the bony bodies with blank expressions. Some were standing still,
but they were already dead. He tried to take her hand, touch her brown curly
hair, to tell her he was there, but she disappeared as the doors opened. Paul
jumped out and gasped for breath as he looked back at the empty car.
Inside the gate, the ground was flat, and raised huts stood in a line.
These were the remains of the barracks, and all that he had left connecting
to her. There were only a few left. The group walked in a straight line down
the muddy path. Paul looked down to see flattened dirt and grass, not even a
paved road, which she had been forced to walk on. Ignoring the stares of
everyone around him, he took off his shoes and socks. The ground was
damp and moist, but with every step he reminded himself that she had
walked here, and this gave him warmth. His group continued into the inside
of a remaining barrack on the right, but he fell back to the rear of the group
and sneaked into a smaller one on the left. This one wasn't used for display
because there wasn't even enough space to accommodate a group of seventy,
but his grandmother and great-grandmother were two of at least three
hundred stuffed inside. The wooden planks creaked as he stepped on each
one. The middle was narrow, and on each side there were two rows of beds,
maybe ten in each row. But these weren’t the type of beds that Paul slept on,
nor were they like anything he had ever seen. These beds could were not
even sufficient for animals; they were weakly held together by wooden
planks, capable of caving in at any moment. And then he saw the light: the
light that saved his grandmother’s life, the light of hope. He knew that every
night she would inch closer to the window, to breathe air that did not smell
of dying women. She escaped; she did not want to be around the darkness
any more. But the air outside was not sufficient either; it reeked of burning
flesh. This one window gave his grandmother an escape, but it was also the
light that marked the end of his great-grandmother’s life.
Paul stood facing the dirty window. This was it; he knew it. He felt it in
his blood. In the middle of the window lay the planks that separated the
bottom bed from the top. He put his hand to a plank and suddenly she was
there, along with the seventeen-year old form of his grandmother. They were
huddled together on the planks with their heads by the window, gasping for
breath. Their skin stuck to their bones, and they looked so frail.
“They’re calling again, come on, let’s go,” his grandmother begged her
mother. “I hear it, we must go.” Paul couldn’t hear it, but he knew the assembly
bell rang loud in her ears. Get up, he begged her, but he knew the ending.
“I can’t move, I can’t take this any more. I’m already dead. Just go
without me,” she told her daughter. Her voice came out in a cracked whisper.
He saw her face; the eyes were bloodshot red, and she hadn’t slept in weeks.
She wasn’t going to move.
“Please, Mother! I can hold you, just like last time. We’ll make it through
together, and soon we will be out.” She tried to convince her mother, but
Paul knew that her pleading wouldn’t work. Tears streamed from his
grandmother’s eyes as she tried to shake her mother to her senses. A flow of
women streamed like zombies to the exit and began pushing his grandmother
along with them. She pushed against them and clawed at the planks with
one hand, holding on to her mother with the other. But her mother lay
completely still, half dead. The crowd of bones overpowered her, and his
grandmother disappeared into them. Paul tried to find her, but the bodies all
looked the same in the tiny barrack. He plunged down the steps into the
crisp air, but the women were gone, only to be replaced by his group.
Their next stop, he knew, would be the most difficult. He entered a cement
building and walked down cement steps. It was low to the ground, and had
a musky smell, mixed with something he could not describe. He had never
smelt this stench before, but it made him want to throw up. They entered a
room with wooden boards, benches, and metal hooks. A sign to Paul’s left
read: This is the room where people were told to undress and leave their
belongings. Here is where they were told they were going to take a shower.
This wasn’t a story anymore, and it wasn’t a nightmare in his grandmother’s
sleep. This was a reality, and the sign was proof of what had occurred. He
began to feel his breakfast climbing back up his throat. The entrance to the
next room was small, but it opened into a large square, completely cement
area. The cement would have been white except for light and dark green
stains. Remnants of Zyklon B — the gas that murdered his great-grandmother.
She was not only murdered, she was tortured. Paul knew that she was taken
to this very place, as was everyone who did not comply. He saw her, standing
there, ready to be cleansed. But unlike those around her who just arrived,
she knew that she would draw her last breath in this very room. The

Pages 76 – 77
misshapen cracks rising up the walls and into the ceiling began to release the
green residue as the stains that surrounded Paul came to life. A murky green
fog filled the room as screams and cries filled his ears. It stung his skin and
climbed up his nostrils. It crawled under his clothes and left its putrid taste
under his tongue. It entered his bloodstream and flowed to every last inch of
his body. He became one with her, and felt her pain as her last breathe left
her lungs, only to be replaced by the demonic green gas. She was dead. He
was alive. He walked out the other side—his great-grandmother did not.
Like a zombie, he scrambled up the steps. His feet moved but his body
remained motionless, leaving his soul in the green-stained chamber.
The air dropped to twenty degrees, and Paul felt his hands remove his
jacket and sweatshirt, leaving only a thin cotton t-shirt to cover his soft skin.
He let the cold air envelop his bare skin as he took in the iciness of his
surroundings, wanting to be with her. But she was gone. He imagined himself,
lying on the plank with his mother as she refused to keep living, and he felt
a pang in his chest as if his heart had been torn apart and jutted up into his
throat. His grandmother had been exactly his age when she watched her
mother disintegrate, and he did not even want to continue imagining her
pain. His mind wandered to his warm home, hundreds of miles away, where
his mother ate dinner with his grandparents. He tried to put himself in his
mother’s place, imagining the feeling of growing up without grandparents.
His life would feel empty without them, like a giant hole that could never
be filled. Both of his grandparents are alive, and he never realized that
without them, he would not have these two seats at his dinner table every
single Shabbat dinner. He would not have the duo that made him soup when
he was sick and latkes on Chanukah. He would not have two more people to
love him unconditionally, no matter what he did. More importantly, he
understood that not everyone could have survived the horrors that his
grandparents did, and therefore they deserved the utmost respect and care.
For every moment that his grandmother wished she could hold onto her
mother for a second longer, for every breath that she inhaled of the remnants
of her family, and for every day that she grieved over her mother’s death,
Paul wanted to give his grandmother everything he could offer.
Paul sat in the frigid weather for what seemed like hours until he felt a
pair of hands pull his jacket over him and gently lift him to his feet. The
hands fit his sneakers back on his muddy feet. They carried him over their
shoulders as his feet dragged on the floor, refusing to move. Paul did not
look back for fear of the images returning, but he would never forget them.
No, he never could forget them.
Nicole Katri
Change or Chains?
C hange?
Will it ever happen?
Are you blinded by the light?
Confused by the lying, deception and obfuscation?
Disgusted by the lack of attention to the real problems?
Sickened by the false promises of leaders who line their own pockets?
Outraged by an unjust war?
Are you ready?
Can we act together to take back the country?
Chains?
Are you locked in them yearning to break free?
Still crushed by the manipulation of your hopes and fears?
Could this be the year?
White power and black power?
Latinos, Asians, women, and gay people?
Will we ever all come together?
With the chains unlocked to help everyone?
Or will we allow the same old arrangements for just a few?
Will you help lead the way?
“If not you, who? If not now, when?”
Change or chains?
Real freedom or false promises?
0 -
Zachary Levine

Jenna Doctoroff
Pages 78 – 79
Waiting Rooms
I sit on a Saturday afternoon
Waiting
For the medicine that never came, and the MRI
Machine that is too long in use
For the unorganized zoo to take notice of
patient in bed #4
And you’re sleeping or resting
Your eyes or praying to death that God
Or the opposite
Because it’s coming
In my bones or else in semi-conscious states
It’s coming, when I sit on a Monday morning
Thinking
The depressed ramblings of a suicidal
Teenager in high school’s almost over
Now waiting, pretending to pay
Attention to – no one else is
And I put my head on my desk
And it’s been a month or it will be
And someone mutters “this is hell”
No, it couldn’t
Because hospitals are hell
Hospitals on snowy evenings in the middle
of winter
Before returning to an empty and dark
apartment alone
That’s hell, not all this, but
Cancer is also hell
Feeding on the inside burrowing of your lungs
And Alzheimer’s is hell
Running its greedy fingers through your mind
That is hell,
But what hell is?
Hell is what Sartre wrote: hell is
Other people – with brothers and sisters
Mothers and fathers, daughters and sons
In the beds next to mine and yours
Who we are all waiting
For. Who? In those lonely rooms
In those unending hours
And those that never seem to die, but will
We are all waiting
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
Cynthia Blank

Pages 80 – 81
Dear Death
Dear Death,
Are you ever frightened?
Are you scared?
That you might be
Taken away too
Dear Death,
Quick and silent
in the night
Do you ever get tired?
Of breathing our life out
With silent inhales
Do you ever mourn
for us?
With the black cloud
Clinging to you
When your fingers press
As you wish us away
From the world
Dear Death,
Do you ever run far away?
For a night
Two three at a time
To avoid everything
And everyone
Do you ever return?
Sadder than before
Dear Death,
What if you
Lived a different way
What if you
Died a different day
Would you come
back tomorrow?
Dear Death,
Are you frightened?
Are you ever scared?
That one day
He may come for you too
Dear Death,
When you come to take me
Be prepared to fight
Because I’m afraid too
Cynthia Blank
Art: Elisheva Epstein
The Winter
“
Ariella, would you like some chocolate chip cookies with your milk?” My
granddaughter nodded her head and I placed three fluffy cookies on the
china plate. It was always nice to have Ariella around. She stopped by my
house every Thursday afternoon after school let out.
“I love how I’m thirteen and I still get sweet treats from my gram!”
Ariella laughed. She reminded me a lot of myself when I was younger, with
her straight brown hair and dark brown eyes. She was polite in manner and
very nurturing. She took care of her younger sister, Atalya, as if she were
her mother.
“Of course, honey. I’ll make you cookies even when you’ve got a family
of your own.” Ariella beamed and winked. We both laughed.
“Gram, I’m curious, and I don’t have school tomorrow. Will you tell me
about the day you were taken and what happened?
I knew exactly what she was talking about. We had talked about this
once before and she was very interested. I was glad Ariella was curious
about my life. This was the time for her to hear the truth……
It was like any other day. I was fourteen, my little sister was eight, and
my parents were both 39. My whole family had been born and raised in a
quiet Slovakian neighborhood. But quiet suddenly turned to chaos that day
as my sister and I were walking home from school.
“Cover your eyes, Zora! Look down at your feet as I walk us home.” It
was too late. She had already seen it. She gasped. Our neighbors’ house was
in flames. Mr. and Mrs. Kasmarek were such nice people and I prayed that
they were okay. Then I remembered. My best friend from school, Brana,
had told me about Nazi soldiers who would burn down homes and send
Jewish people away to work camps. That was all I knew. I grabbed my
sister’s hand and we ran across the snow-coated street and into my house.

Pages 82 – 83
“Mama! Papa!” Zora and I screamed in unison. Papa came to us
quickly, and as he hurried, the wooden floors creaked beneath him. He
pulled us close to him, a worried look on his face. I had never seen Papa
look so afraid. He was never afraid. Always looking strong, he reminded me
of a superhero. But not today. “Where’s Mama?” Zora asked.
My father looked upset. “Branislava!” he called. There was no answer.
“Branislava, please come down. Dalena and Zora are calling for you.”
After a few long seconds, I heard the sound of movement upstairs, and
then my mother appeared at the top of the steps. She was crying, and
suddenly I wished for her to go away. I didn’t want to see her like this. I
glanced at Zora, who was crying too. Usually, my mother’s face was beautiful
and made up, but it seemed to have disappeared in the six hours we had
been in school “My girls,” she said. She took us each by the hand and led us
into the living room. “Ludomir, follow us.” Papa followed.
Zora and I sat on the beige couch as Mama and Papa sat in opposite
plush chairs. Those were my favorite chairs. I would sit in them for hours
doing my homework and reading, until Papa would tell me to get up; he
wanted to listen to the radio. But today, I felt that something was terribly
wrong. Zora was scowling next to me and seemed more angry than upset.
Papa looked sad, and Mama looked as if she hadn’t slept in weeks. “What’s
going on?” I demanded. Was I the only one brave enough to speak?
Mama began to cry again, and Papa held her hand as he spoke. “We are
living in a time of hardship. The Nazis, men under Hitler’s power, don’t like
Jewish people very much. They like to humiliate Jews and to hurt them.
They hurt Mr. and Mrs. Kasmarek today and destroyed their house.”
“Will they get well enough to bake me a nice cake on my birthday like
they always do?” Zora asked. I glared at her. She was so immature, even for
an eight year old. She seemed to be ignorant of everything around her. She
didn’t think, and she was a baby.
“No, stupid,” I said.
“Papa! Did you hear what Dalena said… ”
“They’re dead,” I said, suddenly feeling very grown up.
“Dalena’s being so foolish, Papa! Don’t let her say those kinds of
things.”
“No, Dalena’s right,” said Mama. She glanced up and looked Zora
straight in the eye. This frightened Zora. She had never seen Mama look
Janet Rubin

Pages 84 – 85
like this. Zora began to cry. I immediately felt bad and hugged her close to
me. I was too nice, and too forgiving. I was tired of taking care of her so
much. I wanted to be on my own for a while. Little did I know I would be
all too soon.
After this fuss, I retreated to my room. My sister went shopping for
some fresh bread and vegetables with my mother, while Papa stayed at
home. Things calmed down, but he still seemed to be so distant from
everything around us. I sat on my pink lace quilt that I had gotten for my
birthday. I was thankful that my family was better off than many others in
our neighborhood. I lay back and began to think about what had happened
earlier that day. It’s a tragedy, I thought. I tried to drown out the sound of
roaring fire engines approaching my street, the men outside shouting, my
neighbors crying. I knew I was okay.
A week later, it was silent in my house. My family was all sleeping. It
was the end of February. I woke up in the middle of the night as I often did,
but to a different sound. Instead of the peacefulness of night, I awoke to
harsh banging on the front door. Startled, I leapt out of bed and bolted down
the stairs, not wanting to wake the rest of my family. But then I realized
Mama and Papa were standing in the corridor. I knew something was
wrong, so I silently walked back up the stairs and into Zora’s room. She
was sitting up in bed, crying. “Dalena, I’m scared. What’s happening
downstairs?”
“I…I don’t know Zora. Don’t worry, I’m with you.”
“Mama and Papa!” All of a sudden Zora started to scream. “Where are
they? Are they okay?”
“Zora, they’re downstairs taking care of whatever they have to. Everything
will be all right.” Just then, two men in dark uniforms appeared in
Zora’s open doorway. They were Nazis. I couldn’t breathe.
“You have five minutes to get dressed and gather any belongings you
want and wait outside,” the tall blonde man said firmly. “Move!”
“Where’s Mama?” Zora was uncontrollable. I couldn’t do anything to
calm her down.
“Quiet!” shouted the other man. “Your parents are outside. Don’t ask
any more questions!”
“Yes, of course,” I said. I helped Zora pack a little bag she could carry
with her. We didn’t know where we were going or for how long we would
be away. I grabbed her cloak from the closet and wrapped it around her tiny
body. I picked her up and brought her into my room where I proceeded to
pack my things. I held her as I walked down the stairs and out the front
door. Mama and Papa weren’t there. I looked out onto the snowy road. I
saw footprints leading out to the curb. It seemed as if people had already
walked out and gotten into a vehicle. Then I saw the car. The car that would
take me away forever.
“Into the car. Move!”
“Excuse me, Sir, where are my Mama and Papa?”
“They have left. Control your small sister immediately.” I looked over at
Zora who was bawling and shivering like a cold puppy.
As the car carried Zora and me away, I began to think how foolish I had
been for thinking that I would be safe. Why did I think we wouldn’t be
taken away also? We are Jews too. But more important, where were my
mother and father? They never left without saying goodbye. But I didn’t
want to ask any questions for fear of being hurt. Time passed as did the
towns; I realized that I had no idea where we were going or if I’d ever be
able to come back to my home. I left so much behind. As I felt Zora’s head
sink into my shoulder, I started to cry. Where were Mama and Papa? I could
barely keep myself functioning on my own, I realized, let alone my little
sister. Soon, my vision went dark as I cried myself to sleep.
I don’t know how long I slept, but I suddenly was awakened by an
abrupt jolt of the car. “Out!” I immediately jumped in my seat. Where was
I? I grabbed Zora by the hand and pulled her out of the car. We were at an
open train station. I saw women and children, no men.
“Excuse me Sir---“ I looked around but the young blond Nazi who had
taken us had disappeared from sight. I didn’t know to whom to turn. All I
had was my small bag of clothes, and my sister.
“Grandma, can you get to the good part?” Ariella immediately realized
what she had said and corrected herself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like
that. All I meant was for you to tell me about what happened to you in the
concentration camp. It’s eerie, but so interesting to hear.” I knew exactly
what she was referring to. It was the easiest memory for me to recall, yet the
most painful.

Pages 86 – 87
It had been three weeks. My sister and I were abandoned in the dead of
winter at Bergen-Belsen. I could tell that this was going to be the last home
I lived in, if it even could be considered a home at all. All around me,
women and children were vanishing day by day. Their cheeks were drained
of color. Their eyes were sunken, and each day their clothes seemed to get a
little bigger. I didn’t want to think that the very same things were happening
to Zora and me, although I knew that they were. They didn’t always feed us,
but when they did there was only enough to sustain a small child for a
couple of hours.
Each night, as I lay shivering in the small bunk next to my sister, my
stomach would turn, forcing me to lie awake for hours. I looked around the
dark room. Everybody looked the same, like mannequins. My long brown
hair had been cut from my head, as had the curly hair of the girl I befriended.
Her head was as naked as the tree branches outside.
I knew that disease was all around me; I knew several women in my
barrack had died from typhus. I tried not to touch anybody, but it was hard
not to, as we were always crammed together. Zora had a fever, I knew, but I
kept telling myself she didn’t have typhus. She had been feeling ill for the
past four days, and I tried to keep her snuggled against me each night,
though I knew that my body was quickly losing its warmth. I looked down
at her sleeping face and closed my eyes.
When dawn broke the next morning, a Nazi guard, Alseia, barged into
the barrack. “Everybody up! Get outside quickly! It’s time for a roll call!” I
rubbed my eyes and quickly stood up, bumping my head on the top of the
wooden bunk. I winced. That’s when I realized that Zora wasn’t with me.
“Zora!” I called. I frantically looked around the room.
“Dalena, it’s okay.” An old woman placed her frail hand on my shoulder.
“Zora got sick, so Sarah took her to the back of the barrack so she throw up
her bad feelings. They will be out momentarily. Go outside, you need to
protect yourself.”
I didn’t want to leave Zora alone. I needed to take care of her. My
parents would have wanted me to keep a close eye on her, and she was the
only one I had left. I nodded at the woman and proceeded to rush out of the
barrack, without shoes, just like everybody else.
Outside, snow was falling, but Alseia didn’t seem to care. She was
directing everyone to stand still against the outside of the building. When
two women hugged each other to try to keep warm, Alseia gave them the
death stare. “What do you think you two are doing? Go stand over there.”
She pointed to the middle of the snowy field. Where was Zora?
“Hannah, Pasha, Yulen,” We were lined up in order of our numbers.
“Nastia, Anne, Dalena, Zora. Where’s Zora?”
I didn’t breathe. I looked down at my feet. Just then, I heard her small
footsteps, as Zora appeared before me. I was relieved, but my heart sank at
the same time. “Zora, why are you late?” Alseia snapped at my baby sister,
and I wanted to kill her. “Stand over there with the rest of the naughty ones.”
I saw tears build up in Zora’s eyes as she struggled to walk in the snow.
When Alseia finished roll call, I prayed that she would let Zora and the
others come back and join the larger group. A few moments later, a man
walked over and stood next to Alseia. They were
facing the group, my sister huddled in the middle.
It became absolutely silent, and I couldn’t look.
I couldn’t dare look. I shut my eyes tightly,
and the gunshots were all I heard.
I took a deep breath and slowly glanced
up at Ariella. She was staring out the picture
window without much expression. “Wow,” she
said. There was silence for a few moments
before she spoke again. “Look at you. Look
how much you did. You survived, and you’re
here with me now.”
Janet Rubin
She finally turned to me and I smiled at her.
She was proud of me, I knew, and I was proud of her
for being brave enough to ask me about my past, to ask me about anything.
Ariella needed to know.
Molly Cohen
Photographs, pages 81–87: Esther Lenchner

Pages 88 – 89
Little Things
he was whispering
to me
to change the world
to recycle
the old words
into newfangled
stories
but it’s hard
to alter the future
with a murky past
and it’s difficult
to care
when he doesn’t
especially about you
and the whole time
he swore
my generation was lost
the apathy destruction
my head wandered
wrapping around
the little things
Leah Whiteman
because it’s hard
to save the world from decay
when you can’t even
save him from himself
and it’s not easy
to shelter the world
or even him
he made us promise
to keep the dying discussion
alive
for a few more weeks
I held
all those major questions
close to my heart
but it’s hard to worry
when
you’re so sick over
the little things
and your fears are not
where the debris is going
but where it’s been
so he murmured against
my ear for an hour
to recreate the planet
and I believed him
for a moment
before I lost my train of thought
for good
back to the little things
Cynthia Blank
Anonymous
Anonymous

Pages 90 – 91
Stories
“Grandmother?”
There was no reply. I didn’t expect one. She has been dead for a month
now, and I can tell that the last of her spirit is drifting from the beneath the
wooden floors and out past the floral wallpaper.
“Grandmother.” I say it again, quietly, to whatever is leaving. I try to
feel her leaving, the way one can feel a small whisper of breeze at night.
I am all alone. I feel it. The silence, the darkness, the uncertainty, and a
great sadness. This was my grandmother, the warm and vital woman who
painted my world with her colorful words. The apartment is now black and
white. The last ounce of chrome seeps through the crack beneath the door
and the light in the hall goes out. I can tell she has left.
My grandmother was a storyteller. She would tell me how she sailed
across every ocean a hundred times and traveled through every country of
the world. She was a princess and a pirate. She lived with kings, and ate
from plates of solid gold.
Grandmother would also tell stories of the girl. She rarely told them.
I once tried to ask her why she didn’t tell them more often. I liked hearing
them.
“They wouldn’t be so special if I told them all the time” she said. I
understood. Grandmother would tell me about the girl who lived near a
forest in a faraway land. The girl loved to sing.
She heard the sound of her voice over the gentle wind and watched the
soft snow land on the frozen water. As the notes left her tongue they were
swept up by the wind and captured by the evergreens. The tones reverberated
in the gray waters beneath the snow-covered ice and whistled through
the cracks in the ancient stones.
The words would escape Grandmother’s mouth and echo throughout the
room. She would finish and look at me softly.
“That was a beautiful story,” I would say, staring deep into cloudy space.
“It should be,” was the reply, “it was a beautiful time.” Grandmother
smiled, but a taste of sorrow left the corners of her mouth and drained out
the sides of her silvery eyes.
“But what about the ugly times?” I bit my bottom lip and smiled
nervously, waiting for her reply.
Grandmother would tell me that
all color in the world would vanish
if no one told stories.
�
Aaron Freedman
“Those stories have to be told too,” she replied.
Grandmother would tell me that all color in the world would vanish if
no one told stories. I would try to picture life without color. The world
would look like an enormous coloring book that had never been used.
Everything would appear in simple black outlines. The world would be dull
without color. She would tell another story and I would close my eyes.
The tones of Grandmother’s voice sang together in a serenade of spring
green and her words blared out the blue sea. Her smile tinted the sky in
warm yellow sunshine and her frown muted the tones of a foggy day.
When I was twelve I went to visit Grandmother. She was very old. As
autumn arrived and the leaves began to fade, I watched as she climbed into
bed and sat looking out over the beach toward the faint horizon. I sat on a
wooden footstool next to her bed. She sank deep into the pillows as if part
of her had drifted away to another place. The room felt completely silent,

Pages 92 – 93
like a bubble floating far above the moon. Soon the color drained from the
walls and flushed through the wooden floor.
I was seventeen when she passed away. She was twelve when her
mother was killed in Auschwitz. I didn’t know much about the Holocaust.
As she grew sick, she struggled to speak. I didn’t hear many stories from
her the last few years. On one visit, I sat in her room on the footstool and
studied the lines on her face. They carved softly through her skin revealing
magical portals to the past. I thought I knew everything there was to know
about my Grandmother. That visit I realized I didn’t know anything about
her. I wished to jump into her fragile skin and soak up all her memories.
As I wander through her empty house, I wish she had told me more
about the story of her survival.
Her parents never returned from their trip to town. They warned the girl
that if they did not come back, she must pack up the belongings and take
her little sister into the forest. No one ever dared enter into the forest. The
townspeople claimed it was haunted, but the girl knew it was only superstition.
The girl ventured into the forest often. She would stride through the
light leaves sprinkled with white powder and sing to the barren branches
that swayed with the rhythm of her step. The forest was magical. The tall
trees whispered to the clouds, the crystal waters of the stream illuminated
the valleys, and the pale weeds danced across the dark soil. No one else
saw magic in the forest. Even the girl’s parents didn’t believe her. They sent
her there only because they knew the Evil wouldn’t pursue her.
I leave Grandmother’s room and step into the hall. I stare up at the
fixture. The bulb must have burned out. I walk into the kitchen and switch
on the light. It isn’t any brighter. The black and white tiles are frozen
beneath my bare feet and a cold draft hits my ankles like a slate of ice. I sit
by the big cupboard and watch the gray sky linger heavily on the window
sill. Grandmother told me that I could find anything I ever wanted: treasures,
refuge, love — as long as I learn how to look for it. I can’t find
anything now that she’s gone. The house is too dark anyway. How does
anyone expect to find anything in the dark? The house needs more windows
and it doesn’t help that these bulbs haven’t been changed in a lifetime.
It starts to rain.
The girl grabbed the large sack, threw it over her shoulder and looked
over at her younger sister. She had dark wavy hair that framed her pale
cheeks and blended in with her chocolate eyes. Both girls looked different
from the rest of the townspeople. Their parents told them they were both
beautiful and they smiled from ear to ear and twirled around the small,
round cabin with delight. The girl grabbed her sister’s tiny palm and closed
her fingers around the fragile hand. They wore winter coats even though the
girl knew the forest would protect them from the harsh cold and the Evil.
The girl knew the Evil was coming for them, but she was not afraid. The
two brunette sisters slipped out of the cabin and into the forest as the sun
spilled across the mountainside.
I finally venture into Grandmother’s room again. My mom sent me to
the house to pick up some boxes she wants to put into storage. I didn’t mind
going and I wondered if Grandmother had left anything for me. I wander
the house, searching for clues, but I can’t find anything. I had hoped that
she left some diary, some trace of her life in Poland, or an account of her
escape into the woods with her sister. Nothing. I draw soft and slow loops
on the dust covered stool and smile as a rich pattern emerges from the path
of my finger. I suddenly remember that Grandmother had always told me to
look at things with my imagination. I sit on the patchwork quilt neatly
folded on the edge of the bed. I look around the room, then close my eyes.
Everything is muddled like a dream.
Darkness flooded across the mountainside as the Evil entered the forest.
The girl’s parents said the it wouldn’t come, but they were wrong. The Evil
stormed through the forest and killed all the magic. The trees whimpered
and the waters turned to mud. The girl knew that Evil was upon them. The
two sisters were wrapped in the darkest cloud of sorrow and suffering and
suffocated by the shadow of misery. The darkness grew darker. Eyes open,
eyes closed – it was all the same.
I jump off the bed as lightning dashes across the sky and a clap of
thunder rattles the room. The rest of the lights in the house flicker off and I
can hear the waves violently crashing against the shore. There are tears on
my cheeks and I stand in the darkness suddenly feeling the awful loss of
someone I loved. The darkness grows darker. Eyes open, eyes closed – it is
all the same.
And then, as the three girls stand there in darkness, the sun comes out
and color threads its way back into their lives.
Risa Meyers

Pages 94 – 95
Blind:
Everything’s dark – where am I?
Everything’s gone – where’d you go?
Everything’s quiet – Crash, Gasp
Everything’s still – what happened?
Fear
Arbitrary sounds, side-effects of city life
So busy – head throbbing
Go away! Leave it alone!
Bump. Who’s there?
Silence.
Alone again. Always alone.
Abandoned
The comfort of a cushion behind my back
Support under my feet, an armrest on my left
Footsteps…whose? I’m confused
Clack, clack on the wooden floor – heels.
Clack, clack the sounds start to fade
Walking straight — No pause for turns — Must be going to the office
Hi Mom!
Relief
I’m thirsty
Follow the wall through the curves and the doors
First door from the couch – bedroom
Second door – pantry, then texture, handle – fridge
In the side of the door there are boxes.
Small boxes must be juice. My goal: Chocolate milk
Milk boxes are slightly longer. Chocolate? Plain? Strawberry?
Sigh. Forget it. I’ll grab water. The bottle is easy to feel.
Frustration
Inch back to the couch and collapse
BOOM, SLASH! Typing sounds on a close-by keyboard
Videogames. World of Warcraft.
Little brothers, ha!
Hi Yoni.
The door slams
Heavy footsteps come to a sudden halt
Something drops on the floor with a thud
Work bag – Dad’s home. Sounds of tapping feet grow louder
“Bad day?” I guess.
“How’d you know?”
Slams and stomps do not bode well
Schadenfreude?
What time is it? Is it dark yet?
Who cares? What difference does it make?
Apathy
Dinner! Steak and potatoes
Elbows off the table
Glass, plate, napkin on lap
Fork, spoon… steak knife
Cautious
Homework? Ha!
Forget it.
Music! Rock?
Nah. Jazz – smooth, relaxing
Fresh air? Not happening.
Lying back, eyes closed, Gershwin and Aretha
… And Yoni needs help with his homework
Sigh
8th grade math
8th grade science
8th grade English
Time for a break.
Sigh
So… tired…
Can’t… work
Need… sleep
What time is…yawn
Forget it.
Jenna Merrin

Pages 96 – 97
When we open
ourselves up
To those around us
No matter the outcome,
We are changed.
We grow bitter,
or filled with delight,
or animated,
or perpetually heartbroken
But we grow all the same
Through the swinging door
That guards every heart.
Photo, opposite page: Aaron Freedman
Growth through
Love

Pages 98 – 99
Airplane Song
I am writing you this airplane song,
Because when I fly I remember
Walking beside you through the large building
A home for many lost wanderers
Waiting on the long, spiraling lines
And deciphering people’s faces
Are you scared, man in the dark suit?
Are you sad?
This is your airplane song
Because when the stuffy air inside the vessel flows through me
You
feel it too.
Hold my hand again,
Take off with me —
To the stars
I loved you in the sky
0 -
Dream Sonnet
I had another dream of you,
This one like all the others
You are an uncatchable waif,
An enchanted spirit in the night
Running in an invisible maze
Tangled ivy sticky cobwebs in my head
I think I see you hovering above me
In the shadows of the ceiling cracks
More than all the other places I’ve traveled
Each time calling out to me by name
With wide open arms and violet eyes
Beckoning my disenchanted body
Into a realm beyond comprehension
I have to go there to come back
Cynthia Blank
Abigail Friedman
Margalit Cirlin

Pages 100 – 101
Change/Colors/Illusion
She had raindrop-blue eyes and sunburn-colored cheeks. Her hair
spread out around her, moving in waves down to her waist. It was the
silvery, pale color of sand in the moonlight. She wore clothes made of
Max Seraita
gauzy blue and white fabric. Her little dress looked like a wispy cloud
hovering around her tiny body.
Her heart was the sun, and it pumped out time in regular measures.
I saw her at a funeral on a sunny day. She stood in the midst of about a
dozen blurry, teary mourners, performing a little tap dance on the dewcovered
grass with her bare feet. I really didn’t mind her inappropriate attire
or distracted attitude because I never knew John Williams: Beloved
Father and Brother personally. I just happened to have befriended his
daughter a few years back.
I looked at her, wondering why nobody else noticed. I didn’t realize I
was staring until her champagne eyelashes turned upward and her eyes
caught mine. Her mouth spread into a smile as though she recognized me. I
instantly felt awkward, standing by myself with my hands in my pockets,
barely affected by the burial, caught staring at a stranger. I tried to smile
back, and she danced over to me, her toes barely skimming the spring grass
as she walked.
“You’re not sad,” she stated in her breezy voice as she looked up at me.
A bit of wind picked up and her running-water hair shifted around her face.
She was curiously observing everything around her.
“Not really,” I agreed.
She nodded. “Did you dislike him, or just not know him?”
“I didn’t know him.” I glanced around at the collection of men and
women in black; the ex-wife with red-rimmed eyes and the brother with the
jellybean stomach, the son and the daughter, all crying. I felt a bit guilty for
not participating in their grief; I felt like an intruder.
The girl followed my lead, turning her focus out, but then her gaze
swerved back to stare at me again. I felt a little uncomfortable, as if her eyes
were sucking in every detail. She sighed.
“How did you know him?” I asked conversationally.
She raised her caterpillar eyebrows at me. “I didn’t,” she admitted.
“At all?”
“At all.”
“So why…” There was no way to finish the sentence without being rude.
“It’s nice out,” she mused, as though that were all the explanation
necessary. “Do you want to go on a walk?” Her voice was soft and sweet,
even childlike.

Pages 102 – 103
“I…uh…” There really is no polite way to walk away from a funeral early.
“They won’t miss you.” There was no doubt in her tone.
So we walked together through the soft grass, maneuvering around the
tombstones with their elaborate crosses and poetic epitaphs. As we walked,
I began to question her existence. Could a girl in a blue dress really show up
at a burial, tap dancing in the sunlight, and go unnoticed? Did I make her
up as a way of dealing with the situation? I didn’t want to have invented
her; she was sweet, though she seemed absentminded and childish as well.
We passed a million names and a million inscriptions that I will never
remember—common names that skim over your mind and then flit away.
What did it matter to the girl that we were in a graveyard? She skipped
around the gravestones, her toes always buried in the softest patches of
grass. It’s awkward, walking around a graveyard with a stranger, without
even common loss to rally around. You have nothing to talk about.
The graveyard was on the edge of the city, on the border between a
mostly ignored river and gargantuan walls, splattered with colorful graffiti—kids
claiming territory. She took me to see a grapefruit and goldfish
sunset, the bleeding-watercolor kind with little purple clouds darting
through in some places. We sat by a river, toes dipped in the sweet, fresh
water, tinted with fire from the sun. When the current would pick up a little,
it lapped around the edges of my nice pants. The air that settled around us
smelled like honeysuckle and felt buttery and warm between my fingers.
The girl started putting little braids into her hair along the part.
Her skin was translucent and pale, and acted like a canvas that absorbed
the surrounding lights and colors. From the front, she was warm—golden
and a little pink, and from the back she was navy velvet and tropical green.
Just as the sun dipped down below the horizon, engulfing us in cool, violet
twilight, she placed both hands over her heart in a maternal gesture. She
held her breath for a moment, as though trying to hold the sunny air in
longer, and then exhaled slowly.
I can’t remember how I ended up at home, alone, or how she left—I
don’t remember a goodbye—though it seems fitting for her to have evaporated
into a cloud of fragrant pollen, or something of the sort. I never saw
her again, and I never really looked, because I think I may have imagined
her. Well, whatever. So what if I did?
Esther Malisov
Curse the Broken Heart
Curse you, tears
Falling to the ground
Curse you, pain
Pulling at what’s left
Curse you, reminders
Tightening the throat
Curse you, pictures
Painting lies of what was
Curse you, soul
Holding on to what is no longer
Curse you, past
Haunting the now
Curse the hearts that cannot mend
Never moving on.
Gabrielle Newman
Elizabeth Davis

Pages 104 – 105
Why Do People Leave?
Why do people leave?
Is it to avoid an impending scandal of epic proportions?
To hide a devastating secret that no one knows?
Or is it to flee from the scarlet of disgrace,
and conceal the truth?
Do they bow out quietly?
Or do they kick and scream, booming loud and full of rage?
Is there soundless acquiescence?
Or is there strong resistance to the inevitable?
Is it to heal a broken heart?
To bandage an open festering wound?
Or, is it to run away from a chance or risk
that is too scary to contemplate?
Is it because they found a better place?
Or, is it that they could not handle the present?
Or have they lost all hope
of what good the future may bring?
Are they silent, never saying one word of goodbye?
Or do they rant and wail about parting?
Do they leave in the hushed darkness of the night?
Or do they let the sun shine their way out?
Do they smile at the prospect of leaving their hell?
Or do they cry as they kiss away the memories?
Do they clutch you close and promise forever?
Or do they walk off without a second thought?
Which way is better? Which way is worse?
Why do people leave?
And where do they go?
Cynthia Blank
His Smile
He took long strides
He walked with confidence
He brightened a room with the smallest grin
Others’ moods depended on his
Miriam Dreiblatt
Some things made people happy
He was the something
It seemed as though if his smile ever diminished, so would every one else
I was told as a kid that nothing lasts forever
Neither did his smile
When he walked into a room – all would notice
He was the life of the party
His smile was contagious
No one could resist him
All moods would change when he was around
If he stopped smiling all would be lost
If he were unhappy, what would we do?
I was told as a kid that nothing lasts forever
Neither did his smile
Some say that love is blind
But if it were blind, how could you see his smile?
I think that even if you can no longer see his smile
You can still feel it…
Things change
So did his smile
He was brave; could fight off any warrior with his smile
No one could touch him; he was too proud
Proud to be alive
Proud to be free
Smiling for a long period of time hurts your jaw
I guess it hurt his
His smile was gone
So was he
Risa Meyers
Leah Kahan

Options
Pages 106 – 107
Rebecca Schwartz
She ran her sweaty hand against the railing. It slid gracefully to the right,
further and further, until her arm couldn’t stretch any longer—like a ball on
frictionless ice. She looked down at her hand, wondering how it could have
traveled so far without any conscious thought. She closed her eyes, trying to
regain her balance. She felt as if she were swerving, falling, crashing. She
looked up and stared into the night. It was black; she couldn’t see anything
at all. It was as if she were blind, and every other sense was heightened. She
could still feel her hand soaking the railing with sweat. She could smell the
cool dark air. She could hear the branches rustling, the stray cars passing by.
But she couldn’t see anything. She couldn’t see a damn thing, except an allencompassing
blackness. Her fist closed in on the flimsy bar she was
holding, squeezing it, and willing it to break, so she could fall with it still
clasped in her grasp. Her fingers reddened as they exerted all their pressure
on the bar, but nothing happened. It was weak, and the paint crumbled, but
it stood still.
She could still hear her father’s words ringing in her ears. “You don’t
care about anyone else! You messed up everything. You never clean. You
never help. Get out of here! Just get out!” How his voice had changed from
a single moment of tenderness to harsh ugliness. As if he were incapable of
showing his emotions. As if it was all too much. If he displayed how he truly
felt, he would break. He couldn’t handle that. All she ever wanted was to
feel some of his love, to actually be listened to. Not to be resented for
having been born a girl. He would laugh at her, not understanding how
much pain he caused her, how much anger boiled inside of her slowly. How
much, above all else, she just wanted to please him.
But on top of that, she could still see her friend’s name against the blue
of her computer screen. She loved him, but he didn’t say anything. It was as
if he forgot her. As if she no longer mattered. Day after day, she wished she
could click on his name and tell him everything she felt. But it wouldn’t be
any use, because it seemed all he was good for was ignoring her exactly
when she wanted him. When she needed him. Revealing the truth to him
would bring comfort and solace for a day, until the next crisis struck and
where would he be? All she ever needed was to have someone to listen to
her, to care about her for more than what her brain and body could give.
Care simply for her heart. And he never took notice.
Her breath caught in her throat as she released the bar. She ran her hand
against it again, this time smoothing the edges, soothing it. It felt cracked
and hard against her moist hand, and she hastily removed it. Her feet faltered
as she momentarily lost her balance. But she remained upright. She
backed up slowly, her back coming in contact with the brick wall behind
her. She looked to her left to see the room she had abandoned several
minutes ago. It seemed so small, so nauseating, and so stuck in the past.
The person who lived there wasn’t her anymore. She closed her eyes again
and swallowed, opening them as her hand begin to explore the cool glass
pane of her window. She had banged it shut after climbing out onto the
She lifted her hand and dangled it over
the edge, loving the dangerous game
she was playing with gravity.
�
terrace, planning not to come back inside. It didn’t matter now. She moved
back to the railing of the terrace, and stared once more at the raven black
sky. She lifted her hand and dangled it over the edge, loving the dangerous
game she was playing with gravity. She could feel her body leaning forward,
bending over, coming closer to the edge, but her hand clutched one of

Pages 108 – 109
the bars holding the railing. Shivering, she slowly raised herself up, and
stared back at the night, her head beginning to pound, the dizziness beginning
to swarm around her.
She could still feel the salty taste of his lips on her skin, on her lips. The
boy she had loved before, the one who never seemed to elude her. He had
used her— taken advantage, all in the claim that he cared about her. But
how was it then so easy for him to hurt her. To steal all the feelings she felt,
and trample them as if they meant nothing. As if she meant nothing. The
dreams and thoughts of him seemed endless. As if there were no chance for
them to escape from her restless, uneasy head. All she wanted from him was
friendship, someone to depend on. But he couldn’t even do that. He couldn’t
even tell her the truth when things got rough. And no matter how much he
proclaimed his love, his heart never could.
And no matter how much he proclaimed
his love, his heart never could.
�
Even more than that, she could still smell the food cooking in her
grandmother’s kitchen, while she and her grandfather would talk about
anything. Everything. He was gone now, like dust blown away, like the dirt
that now littered his grave. It had been months, but the pain never went
away, the acceptance never came. She would never again hear his voice.
And she? She was gone too; reduced to a shell of a person. One who could
no longer cook those delicious foods, or supply the stories he had once
loved to share. It hurt to be in her presence, and remember the past. And
even that was no longer possible, since as time passed, it seemed to slip
away.
Shaking the thoughts from her head, she held the railing now with both
hands, staring down at the ground below her. It was still dark, and she
couldn’t be sure of anything, but she could outline the spot that she would
fall into, if she were to let go. Her eyes zeroed in on the spot, boring holes
into its hard gray center. She wished her eyes could be like lasers, tearing
the ground apart, creating a massive hole that she could fall through forever.
But fantasies never came true. Not for her. Nothing ever seemed to change,
except to get worse. She pushed hard against the railing, until her body fell
backwards, and she crashed against the floor of the terrace. She grimaced
as she managed to sit up, despite her bruised back and sore neck. She
rubbed her neck gently, and looked down at the ground beneath her. She
moved her hands from her neck to rub against the mats covering the ground.
They felt like straw, and their bright yellow color shone even in the dark,
reminding her of spaghetti. She laughed softly, as her fingertips continued
to zigzag over the yellow swirls. She hadn’t played like this since she was a
kid. That seemed so long ago. Like a ghost of the girl’s room she had
climbed out of. But that girl was still her. Somewhere.
She could still feel the touch of her mother’s hand in hers, the cool kiss
on her cheek. She could still feel the hugs from friends she hadn’t seen in
months. She could feel the warmth the words of the past gave her, even if
the present was chilling and scary. She could feel a lover’s hand in hers
sending shivers and tingles up her spine, even if it were only fleeting. And
above all else, she could feel the wind brush against her, as she sat alone on
an empty terrace, reminding her that she was never really alone. Not if the
world and nature were still there. She could feel. Something, anything: her
hand gliding along the terrace railing, her hands swimming in the yellow
sea of the ground. She could still feel.
And so she stood, and once more pressed her hands to that railing
already covered in imprints. Slowly, she dragged one away, and it met the
window pane glass. One hand on each, pulling her in both directions. Back
inside for another try, another chance. Or downward in a spiral until she
collapsed against the hard solid ground. Sometimes the decision seemed
easy, a given. But it wasn’t. There were too many deciding factors. So once
more she sank to the ground and fell into the yellow mats that drank her in
and contoured to her body. Her eyes closed, saying goodbye to the night and
its darkness, welcoming the memories and pictures swimming in her head.
Both the good and bad. She hadn’t made a decision; both choices were still
waiting for her, once she woke up. Once everything had been thought
through. Sometimes it was just nice to be outside and feel the air. To have
choices. To have options.
Cynthia Blank

Pages 110 – 111
Ring Story
I am in New York City. It is late and I am ready to go to sleep. I change into
pajamas, brush my teeth, and lie in bed. Before I turn out the lights, I look
down at my hands. Three rings decorate my slender fingers. The rings make
up a family, a collection of memories from my childhood. I take each one off
carefully and hang them all on the thin part of my lamp. They wait there all
night, for in the morning I will put them on the same fingers, and begin again.
I am in Kalimpong, India. I walk with her through the streets of the
bazaar. She holds my hand tightly in fear of losing me to the busy crowds.
She eagerly shows me the vegetables she is buying for tonight’s dinner. She
makes me sniff each bag of tea to make sure it smells fresh. She leads me to
a blacksmith shop, and guides me to a clear glass table. She speaks to the
shop keeper in Nepali, and he lifts a silver ring with a turquoise stone to the
dark woman with the golden bangles. She smiles and puts it on my left ring
finger. “For you, bahini,” she says, “so you will remember me.”
I am in Jerusalem, Israel. I breathe in the holy air. I look up at the white
stone buildings, each so old, yet so alive. I know that this place will always
wait for me. I take in the significance of each structure – the way the light
reflects off each leaf, each stained glass window. My Judaism pulses
through my blood as I dance through the streets of my country. I walk into a
jewelry store with her. We are looking for a ring for my mother’s birthday. A
bronze ring calls out to me from the table. I put it on my middle finger.
Three Hebrew words are written on the surface: love, trust, blessing.
I am in Darjeeling, India. I sit on a bench in Chow Rasta with him, watching
the Tibetan monks in red robes meditate with their prayer beads, silently
protesting oppression. Their silence calls out to me. I want to help them; I
want to set them free, but I know I cannot. All I can do is be aware of their
suffering, and understand that reality is suffering. We walk into a clothing
shop to change money. I see a silver thumb ring. Its peaceful message captivates
me. Ohm, the universal breath. I am connected to those around me, and
I bask in each person’s experience. I put the ring on, and look at the monks
surrounded by their incense. I watch them and I understand their journey.
I am in New York City. I am almost eighteen years old. I have just
woken up, and I brush the sleep from my eyes, which focus on the corner of
my lamp. As I put on my rings, slipping them onto my fingers, my breath
deepens. I am part of something magnificent, and I am awake.
Abigail Friedman
Art, opposite page: Rotem Yehuda

Pages 112 – 113
Sara’s Mind
Will you come and play with me?
You can’t come over for a little?
Why not?
Does this relationship mean anything to you?
Why can’t you just say it?
Don’t you love me?
Yes, but why not?
Were you lying?
Fine, but when will I see you next?
Don’t you miss me?
Well, do you love me?
What does that even mean?
Why would you say something like that?
Don’t you know that that hurts my feelings?
If you didn’t mean it than why would you say it?
I don’t know, do you?
But how do you feel?
Are you in love with me?
Why won’t you answer my question?
Is it really that difficult to answer me?
If you don’t love me why not tell me?
How will I know if you don’t tell me?
Really?
Really?
You really love me?
You’re not lying?
So what time is 5th period?
Sarah Gottesman
Jared Cohen
Leah Whiteman

Pages 114 – 115
The Way He Sees It
Renee Berger
When I was ten my parents got me a bike. God, it was beautiful. Shiny
silver metal, plush leather seats, wheels that squeaked shiny-new when I
rode it, orange flames licking up the sides of the handlebars. Man, that was
some bike. I didn’t know how to ride it but Dad promised me he’d teach me
at the end of the week. We’d go to the park, just the two of us. All week I
could barely sleep, I was so excited. I polished the metal, dusted the seat;
with my allowance I even bought a helmet with a Teenage Mutant Ninja
Turtle design on it.
On Friday, after school, I wheeled my bike out in front of the house,
waited for Dad to come home with my sister, Eliza. Dad pulled into the
driveway, hit the brake hard, jumped out of the car with Eliza in his arms.
“Dad?” I asked softly, gripping the handlebar of my bike. He didn’t
even look at me.
“She fainted in school,” he barked into his cell phone. “Yeah, I brought
her home and called the hospital. She’s burning up—could be a relapse.”
Eliza had cancer.
“Dad?”
“Please, Jesse. Not now!” The front door swung shut and Dad disappeared
into the house, his policeman’s uniform getting blurrier and blurrier
as he walked away from me.
I grabbed my precious bike and dragged it down the street, towards my
favorite playground. I dropped my bike on the sidewalk, heard the shiny
metal bang when it hit the pavement, and climbed into the sandbox. I woke
up a few hours later in my dad’s arms; he was dragging the bike and we
were walking down Rose Street towards home.
I pressed my head against his chest, my breathing matching his, wrapping
my thin pale arms around his worn, flannel torso. Inhale. Exhale.
Something to remind me I actually existed.
That was a while ago.
“Jesse! Dinner!” I stumbled through the mini war-zone of torn papers,
cigarette butts, and beer bottles on my bedroom floor. I could barely breathe
through the spray paint and smoke. As I hurried down the carpeted steps I
noted the stark contrast between our immaculate household and my room.
I could tell Mom had tried to prepare a nice dinner because Eliza was
home from the hospital for the first time in weeks. We rarely sat down to a
dinner, just the family. Tonight, the anxiety of the rare occasion weighed
down on us: Mom in her nice gray pants-suit, nervously tapping her manicured
nails against the wood of the table, Eliza reaching up every few
seconds to readjust her navy and gold printed headscarf wrapped turbanstyle
around her oily forehead.
“Hey, Mom, where’s Dad?” Eliza reached across the table, knocking
over a saltshaker.
“He’s out on call, honey. He should be home soon. He got called in, to
an emergency down on Parker Street.” Mom’s eyes were surrounded by
heavy bags, making her look at least fifty-five rather than her forty-nine.
“Did someone tape Thirty Rock for me while I was in surgery?” Eliza
let her chin drop into her thin, veiny palm.
“Oh, sweetie, I didn’t know you wanted me to.” Mom nervously ripped
her marinara stained paper napkin into tiny shreds.
“Mom! I’ve told you a gazillion times that’s my favorite show. Now how
will I ever know what happens in the end of Season One? What am I supposed
to do during the Season Two premier? This is disastrous.” Eliza,
distraught, unraveled her headscarf and then rewrapped it. In the brief

Pages 116 – 117
instant that her headscarf was in her hands, her bald head glimmered in the
fluorescent, dining room light.
“I’m full.” I let my fork clatter to the table, pushed back my chair with a
grunt.
“Jesse.” Mom reached out as if to touch me but couldn’t reach. “Please.
This is a family dinner for Eliza.”
“So I probably shouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t want to disrupt the nice
familial atmosphere thing you have going on here.” I smirked and dug my toe
farther and farther into the carpet under my feet, trying to make it disappear.
“Shut up, Jesse.” Eliza rolled her eyes.
“Gee, wouldn’t it be nice if I weren’t in this family, Eliza? Wouldn’t that
be nice for all of you? For this whole family? I’m sorry. I really am.” With
every shaky word hovering on the edge of my lips I edged a little bit closer
to her. She shrank back in her seat, playing with her spaghetti with the tine
of her fork. Her chin quivered.
“Hello? Guys, I’m home!” Dad stepped into the dining room. He tossed
his wool overcoat onto a nearby chair, his wide smile fading as the tension in
the room washed over him. He was still dressed in his stiff, starched, police
uniform. I remember once when I was little he let me try it on. I had curled
up in it, fell asleep under the hugeness of the navy polyester, running my
finger over the raised stitching, Jonathan Rosenberg. Dad. “What’s going on?”
“Jonathan—“ Mom began.
“I...” I looked over at Mom. “…Was just about to go to my room.”
“Fine, Jesse, just go, all right? I don’t have the energy for this.” Mom
shook her head.
I sprinted up the steps to my room and grabbed a spray paint can and
pack of cigarettes. Outside, the night air was crisp and biting and I could
see my breath in front of my face for a few moments, dangling motionless
before drifting off, invisible.
“Fine, Jesse, just go, all right?
I don’t have the energy for this.”
�
When I was little, Dad and I used to play this game.
“Favorite superpower?” I would ask as he pulled me onto his lap.
“Flight—you?”
“Invisibility,” I would answer.
Now all I want is for someone to
know I exist.
Matan Skolnik
With a smash the baseball bat
came into contact with the car window. A million, tiny pieces of glass flew
through the air. I pulled out the spray paint can and after a few seconds of
careful thought I did a quick design of a tiger. Something to leave my mark.
I stepped back to admire my handiwork.
Dented back fenders and bumper, shattered windows, classy graffiti. I knew
I should leave; people could be coming by any minute and they would call
the police. I looked down the block. A young woman dragging an antsy, snotnosed
son was a block away. I reached up to touch the stubble that sprouted
on my lower chin. I could be blocks away by the time they saw the car.
I started to run, shoving my pack of cigarettes in the pocket of my
hoodie and tossing the spray paint can in the trash.
“Police! Oh my God, someone call the police! Someone vandalized my
car!” A small crowd of passersby had gathered around the damaged car,
sidestepping the fragments of broken glass.
I paused for a minute, stuffing my chapped hands in my pockets, watching
the chaos unfurl. As I stepped into the shadows of the awning of a shop,
I paused for a minute, stuffing my
chapped hands in my pockets...
�
a police car pulled to a stop by the curb. Two uniformed officers stepped out
of the cruiser. I could just make out the stitching on the back of one of the
uniforms: Jonathan Rosenberg.
I turned and continued my sprint down the block and around the corner
until the cries of the woman — the car’s owner — faded into the distance.
Someone was knocking on my bedroom door.
“Jesse? Jesse, please open up!”
“Door’s open…”

Pages 118 – 119
Dad stepped gingerly into the room, cautiously avoiding a crushed can
of beer.
“Room could stand some cleaning.”
I grunted in response.
“Look, Jess… I have to talk to you about something. About Eliza.”
I picked up a Superman comic book and pretended to be absorbed in
one of the pages. Dad picked up a stack of stray papers and straightened
them, then dropped them back on the floor.
“Jesse?”
“So talk.”
“Okay. Um… Eliza’s very sick, Jesse.”
“Shocking. How unusual.” I noisily flipped through the pages of the
comic book. Sarcasm, I’ve found is one of the best medicines available for
grief. By pretending I don’t care about Eliza and her platelets-shortage or
blood transfusion, I’ve almost managed to convince myself it really doesn’t
matter. Nothing matters, really, if you can only convince everyone else
that’s what you think.
“Jesse… this is serious. The doctors don’t know what to do. They’re
trying to find an organ donor but even if they find a match, chances are
Eliza might not… might not survive a major operation. Eliza could die.”
“And Big Sheriff Dad can’t do anything to save the day? C’mon Dad,
where’d your superpowers go?” I snickered and took a swig from the beer
can in my hands.
“Jesse, please. This is hard for the whole family. I know it’s hard for you
too; trust me, I understand.” Dad reached out to touch my shoulder but I dodged.
“No, Dad, actually, you don’t understand. I know it’s hard for you to get
that actually you don’t know it all. You don’t get me, Dad.”
Dad stood up. “I’ve had enough of this Jesse. Really, your sister’s going
into the hospital tonight—“
“I don’t care what you do with Eliza, okay? Don’t you get it? This
whole thing, this whole drive Eliza to the hospital and cry by her bed when
“And Big Sheriff Dad can’t do anything
to save the day? C’mon Dad, where’d
your superpowers go?”
�
she has surgery, and laugh and pretend nothing’s wrong when she comes
home—that has nothing to do with me. I actually want to have a life.”
Dad stood up, his hands trembling. He ran them through his bristly,
dark hair.
“Jesse—you are a member of this family. You’re going to have to learn
to deal with that.”
“Is that all you had to say?” I raised an eyebrow with a small smirk.
“Uh… yes, that was it.” Dad turned towards the door. “Straighten up
this mess soon,” he added, lightly kicking a stack of magazines. Dad abhors
anything messy or out of order. I guess that’s why it hurts him to see me.
Everything in his life has been perfect—from his law degree from Yale, ten
years as a lawyer and a career as a civil servant for fifteen years, perfect
wife, two children. It must be hard for him to associate himself with a
screw-up like me.
I gripped the pages of my Superman even tighter. “It only hurts if you
see things like Dad does. Always has to be the hero of the story,” I sighed,
watching a stack of magazines come tumbling to the floor.
Dad had called earlier in the evening to say he was out on call and Mom
would be at the hospital visiting Eliza. I was just going to have one beer, maybe
go out and vandalize someone else’s car. It felt so good, the glass smashing,
the tiny fragments of someone else’s pain, feeling in control over everything.
Maybe I had had more drinks than I planned. Maybe it had been three
beers, and maybe I had finished off the bottle of gin in the cupboard downstairs.
Maybe. Maybe I took Dad’s car. I couldn’t remember exactly.
My vision was blurring. The steering wheel slipped out of my hand. All
I could see and hear were splashes of red and green streetlights, screaming,
the car spiraling, the world spinning around me. I heard a scream and then
the car was slipping out of control down the icy street. My foot managed to
make contact with the brake and then I heard the screams and the wail of a
far off siren.
I heard fragments of shouts,
“Call an ambulance! Call the police!”
“Oh God, he’s drunk!”
“—Car started skidding, hit a teenage girl.”
The police were breaking into my car, just as I had broken into so many

others. The glass was shattering into a million pieces, but this time I had no
control over the broken prisms. I stumbled out of the car. The paramedics
were lifting a young, dark-skinned girl, blood rushing down the side of her
face, onto a stretcher.
I felt the side of my face, looked down and, shocked, saw the wet blood
on my fingertips. Policemen were swarming around my dented car. I was
quivering, hair bristling, goose bumps raging like wildfire up my bare arms.
“Jesse?” I turned around. A policeman was climbing out of the cruiser.
He felt the air, trying to find something to support him. His clammy
hands pulled at the uniform.
“D-d-“ I couldn’t say the word so I started to run. Dad was yelling but I
kept running, and out of the corner of my eye I saw him crying,
“Oh God, it’s Jesse. God, what did I do?”
I broke into a sprint, not really sure where I was headed. Running away,
not looking back. That’s always the easiest thing to do.
I headed down Parker Street, careening onto Rose Street. Brushing my
stringy hair out of my eyes, I remembered eight years ago, my dad carrying
me down Rose Street, pressing my head to his chest, dragging the bicycle
that was now rusting in our garage, his hands
encircling me, my steady breathing that matched
his the only reason I existed. Feeling visible.
I stumbled into the little playground on Rose
Street: a rusting swing set, a lone toddler swinging
on monkey bars. I sat down on a bench near a
little garden and picked a dandelion, tearing it into
shreds. Watching the little flecks of yellow flower
drifting off in the night breeze, I wished I could
drift off too.
I picked an empty beer bottle out of the park
Aaron Schwartz
trashcan and smashed it against the railing of the
playground fence. The pieces of glass went flying
through the still air of dusk. I lifted a shard of glass and dangled it above
my wrist.
I could cut myself, I mused. That’d be nice. Blood pooling around my
wrist and dying my jeans red. Maybe the ambulance would come and take
me to the hospital. Maybe Dad would sit Eliza down. Maybe he’d say,
Pages 120 – 121
“Eliza I have to talk to you. It’s about Jesse. He’s very sick.”
I brought the shard of glass closer so it just grazed my skin. All I had to
do was bring it a little closer. After the first few seconds I wouldn’t even
feel it. I could close my eyes.
I brought the glass closer.
I couldn’t do it, though. I didn’t have the courage. I bet Dad could do it,
I chortled. He’s brave. He’s got superpowers.
“I could have killed her…”
I whispered to my calloused hands,
stained with dandelion juice.
�
I remembered the look on his face when he saw me getting out of the
car, saw the girl I had crashed into—saw the girl I had almost killed—lifted
onto a stretcher. It felt good to hurt her. It felt so good. Feeling like I existed,
a million random strangers interrupting their lives to think about me.
“I could have killed her…” I whispered to my calloused hands, stained with
dandelion juice. “Can’t kill myself, can’t even cut myself with a beer bottle
but I could have killed her. And her dad, her mom, her brother… what
would they have done…”
“Call an ambulance! Call the police!”
“Oh God, he’s drunk!”
“-—Car started skidding, hit a teenage girl.”
I dropped the shard of glass and wiped my sweaty palms off on my
jeans. St. Luke’s hospital was only two blocks away. Two blocks. I could
make it without collapsing. I could. I broke into a sprint, through the
playground exit, accidentally jostling a middle-aged mother on my way out.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” she cried, instinctively pulling her
three-year-old daughter closer as I rushed by. I paused and, out of common
courtesy, reached down to pick up the grocery bag she had dropped.
Snatching the bag out of my bruised palm, she marched away, tossing her
graying hair over her shoulder. Figures. I try and do something nice for
once and, of course, she didn’t notice.
I kept running.

Pages 122 – 123
When I was about eleven, Eliza went away to a special two-month
summer program for kids with cancer, in Massachusetts. Dad and I took the
three hour drive to visit her one day. As we neared the hospital, aching with
boredom and hunger (Mom’s supply of Oreos and peanut butter sandwiches
had quickly been exhausted), I turned to Dad.
“Dad?”
“Hmm?” he mumbled, squinting his eyes to read the small street signs
that peppered the avenues of the town.
“What’s your favorite superpower?”
“Hmm…” Dad fished through the driver’s console for the Map-quest
directions from his pocket. “It’s been a long time since we’ve played this
game, huh Jess? I don’t know… I guess flying would be pretty cool. How
’bout you?”
“I guess… Ultra Visibility,” I responded, digging through the pack of
Oreos for stray crumbs.
“Ultra Visibility? I don’t think that’s a superpower, Jess.”
“No, listen. It’d be awesome. Everywhere I went everyone would see
me, everyone would turn to look at me. Everywhere I went it’d be like…
like the Joker or Lex Luthor walked into the room.”
Everywhere I went it’d be like…
like the Joker or Lex Luthor walked
into the room.
�
“That sounds pretty impossible, Jess,” Dad said with a chuckle as he
slammed on the brake, pulling into the parking lot of the campsite.
I continued my sprint, towards the hospital on Washington Avenue. I
rushed through the entrance to the emergency room, down the hall I had
journeyed through millions of surgeries and relapses and chemo.
“Jesse! Jesse, what are you doing here?” Dr. Gore was hunched over at
the receptionist desk signing papers. He’s known me since I was little, since
hospitals and the smell of antiseptic became almost as familiar to me as the
smell of beer and cigarette butts, since Eliza was diagnosed eight years ago.
I hadn’t been to visit in a while, though.
“Dr. Gore. Please, I need Eliza, please!” Panting, my breath like gin and
smoke, my face dripping blood.
“Jesse, what is going on?” He made a grab for my shirttail but I kept
running away, away down the hospital hall. I noticed my favorite nurse, the
blond with the manicured nails and hospital white teeth.
“I—need—Eliza—Rosenberg,” I panted.
“Room 322. Why—?” I kept running before she could finish. I found
Eliza, her tiny body being swallowed by the hugeness of blanket. She was
hooked up to an I.V.
“Eliza? Eliza, wake up!” I touched her with my bloody fingertip, looked
at the red mark I left on her pale arm. I felt my eyes and realized I was
crying, really crying and suddenly Dad was rushing into the room.
“Jesse! What were you thinking? You could have been killed! You
almost killed that girl, too!” my dad shouted.
I charged for the vase of pink roses on Eliza’s bedside table and in one
fell swoop I brought my hand down and it toppled onto the floor, shards of
glass flying and water seeping into the vomit green hospital carpet.
“Jesse! My roses!” Eliza shrieked. I grabbed her wrist, dug my grimy
fingernails into her pale skin, inhaling her scent of antiseptic and sweat and
hospital tomato soup.
She winced in pain and drew back from me, face contorted in fear, eyes
blinking fast as if any moment she would wake and it would all be a nightmare.
Dad leaped forward and pulled me off Eliza, pushing me into the hard,
plastic chair by her bed. A nurse in a starched white uniform rushed in.
“What is going on?” She demanded, surveying the tense scene.
“Don’t worry about us, my son and I were just dealing with some…
issues.” Dad grimaced and yanked me up, towards the door of the small
hospital room.
My son and I.
“Sorry, Eliza. Jesse’s obviously having some problems so we’re going to
go for a little walk.” Dad stepped onto the threshold of the door. “We’ll be
back soon,” he promised the nurse.
I followed Dad down the hallway, foot chasing foot. My son and I.
Emma Goldberg

Pages 124 – 125
Elaine Ezrapour
A bad day
A paper cut
A spool of string.
Sometimes we are inspired
by the mundane
“ordinary” life.
We begin to see significance in doorknobs
scissors
milk cartons
And a whole new dimension is opened to us.
Growth through
The
Mundane

Pages 126 – 127
ODE TO THE SATS
Dear SATs,
I waste my weekend morning on you
When I could be sleeping
To accomplish the three sections
You are comprised of: Reading, Writing and Math
For writing, you must grip your pencil hard
So all the words can flow out from your brain
For a coherent and clear essay
In twenty five minutes or less
And then you must read
Grammatically incorrect sentences or phrases
Trying to guess what will make them better
All the while thinking
My English teacher never taught me this
For math, you must pinch your hand
Writing and solving endless formulas
Only to find they match none of the selected answers
Or you hurt your finger
Plugging numbers into a calculator
If you so choose
For all the problems can be solved
WITHOUT a calculator!
For reading, you must glue your eyeballs
To pages of futile stories
That have no impact on your life
While your lids droop from boredom
You must train your brain cells
To analyze things you don’t understand
So you can choose the BEST answer
Even if it makes no sense
I know you can’t really fail the SATs
But as for Reading, Writing, and Math
I’m sure I bombed all three
Cynthia Blank
Shipley Mason
A TALL TALE:
AN HOMAGE TO KEN KESEY
Down by the wharfs you’ll hear fishermen
tell all kinds of stories. Mostly just to pass
the time, they’ll tell stories about things
that happened, things they wished happened,
Ari Sebert
and some things that no one knows if they
were real or the day dreams of old sea dogs. There was one story in particular
that I recall hearing quite clearly, and I’d never believe it in a million years,
but I’ll be damned if I didn’t hear several other trustworthy people swear to
Jesus Himself that it actually happened. It is a story that stuck with me all
my long years, and to this day I can recall every word as it was related to me
by old Steve Jones. We’d been sitting around in the shade on a particularly
hot summer day and were passing the time by sharing our experiences of
the craziest things we’d ever seen down by the docks. We all had something
to contribute, after all strangeness and the ocean are like bees and flowers,
you can’t keep the two apart. So we all share our stories, none of which I
can remember now, and then old Jonesy he just gives his old tired grunt and
he says, “Ain’t nothin’ you boys got that compares with mine.”
“Well, would you care to enlighten us?” I ask.
“Jus’ might, I jus’ might. You see boys, this here story takes place some
odd thirty years ago. Me an Perce, we’s hangin’ round the bait shop, jus’
like we doin’ today. When in walks in Block with this big Irish boy and
they’re fussin’ up a storm. Now I seen Block arguin’ with many a customer,
but this here boy was from the asylum they used to have, couple miles from
this here spot.”
“How’d you know they were from the asylum?”
“Well shoot, you could tell by their attire plain as day. But even without
that if you looked into the eyes of all them boys you could tell there was a
fire behind ‘em.”
“There was more than one?”
“Hell yes, there was; if I recall there was ten men in total, each one
stranger than the next. There was this twitchin’ wide eye’d boy, a queer old
man, a Swede with a beard all tangly and gruff, and the one I always remember
the clearest was this injun’ musta been close to seven foot tall.
Then there was the hooker that was with ‘em.”

Pages 128 – 129
“A prostitute?”
“Yup, pretty little thing too, all done up, all curvy and smooth and blonde
hair that fell down her shoulder and curled up over the most amazing pair of
breasts I ever saw. Hell of a woman she was. I recall Perce was giving her a
spot of trouble. Back in the day Perce liked to heckle girls, don’t know why,
s’pose some men are just like that if you ‘ken understand that sort of thing.
He busted their chops, and though I’m ashamed to admit it, I joined right in.
Jus’ lookin’ at ‘em was a sight. Found out they was goin’ out fishing. And
they was a pathetic bunch standin’ there, heads cast down not sayin’ a peep.
I’ll tell you it was funny, but only cause deep down it was so disturbing,
seeing a bunch of grown men as shy and awkward as a gaggle of school boys.
So me and Perce, we had ourselves a good laugh. I mean who wouldn’t,
seein’ ten loons and a whore going out fishing. They left that shop and we
went back to our business as usual and we kept ‘em out of mind for a while.
Some time later, hours it was, we’re on the docks still and we see their
boat comin’ into the harbor. There was a bunch of people then I recall and
when those boys pulled in holding up the biggest damn fish you ever saw. I
swear to God it was a sight to see. Something happened to them, they
wasn’t boys anymore, they were men standing tall. Each one of ‘em had a
spine straight as a cedar tree smile beaming with pride. They wasn’t no
scared little boys anymore, not the kind you treat as you please. They
commanded respect now, and that’s just how we treated ‘em. So when they
stepped off that boat we asked, just as polite as can be to see those fish.
They displayed them and talked ‘bout how they struggled, ‘bout their
captain, and we knew what the change was.
They weren’t afraid no more. See when a man goes out into the ocean,
he takes a hold of his own life, he faces his demons. Now most when
confronted with such a thing as that, they just turn rudder and sail on home.
These boys took their demons by the throat and they showed ‘em who’s
boss. They lost their fear, and any sailor will tell you, you can set sail and
feel the freedom of the open ocean all around you. It’s the feeling comes
from knowing there ain’t no one around to tell you what to do, giving you
guff, but that’s all an illusion. Cause a man is never free ‘til he conquers his
fear. And let me tell you something, these boys was free. And that happened
in one afternoon.”
Zev Hurwich
ODE TO MY BLACKBERRY
Many do not understand the relationship we have. They believe that it
is ridiculous for us to be together. Yet I would disagree. I think that our
constant touch has connected us for eternity. When you deliver my many
emails and text messages I receive in a day, I feel as if you are keeping me
on track, not letting me get lazy.
And when I am sitting in the subway, riding the one train with no cell
reception, you continue to impress me with your BrickBreaker. It seems as
much as I play, it never gets old. There is an excitement I continue to feel as
I try to break my own high score. You may only offer one game, but I
understand it as ‘quality, not quantity’.
You never fail me when I am in need of a movie time, a quick check on
IMDB or even the New York Times headlines. Your two Internet browsers
allow me to express my internet needs without sitting down at a computer
and wasting my time.
Beatrice Volkmar
When I hear the buzz, buzz, buzz, I know you will me to be social and
so you deliver a phone call. You don’t want me to end up alone, which is
why you look out for me as well as you do.
Oh how you excite me, surprise me, fill me with happiness when there
is one single buzz. You are alerting me that someone has chosen to speak to
me via BBM. Blackberry Messenger is the greatest gift you could have
given me, Blackberry. You wish me to connect with other Blackberry users.
You are most dear to me and I want you to know that. And let me just say, I
am not embarrassed to stand up and say that my name is Amy Lewis, and I
am a Blackberry addict.
Thank you my friend, thank you very much.
Amy Lewis

Pages 130 – 131
TO MY TELEVISION
To my television:
It’s really pathetic how my life revolves around you, it really is.
But I can’t deny you.
Even when your screen displays those God-awful “unscripted dramas,”
I can’t help myself.
You are simply irresistible.
It’s rare you disappoint me.
Programming is almost enveloping.
And those few times when Tila Tequila fails to enchant me, I overlook the
incident because I know that it was just a fluke, a mistake, an oversight.
In any relationship, it’s difficult to constantly please the other person.
Somehow you do it.
I don’t know how it happens, or how you know exactly what it is that
I want. Maybe it’s the 300+ channels that I have to choose from,
or maybe it’s the DVR that allows me to watch something momentous
that I’ve missed.
We’ve had our share of ups and downs, as all couples do. Remember that
time back in October ’05 when you stopped working? It was as if you
had shut me out alone, refusing to explain how you were feeling and
why you were avoiding me.
I look back on those days and shudder. How I pray for that to never happen
again. Those were some of the worst days in my life.
So it is you, the shiny Samsung of my dreams, that I toast.
May you live forever without technical difficulties.
Ariel Doctoroff
THE DAY I GOT A SEAT ON THE SUBWAY
I heard the alarm clock ringing, I reached for the snooze button desperate
for a few more minutes of sleep, but the clock was further than my arms
could stretch. I covered my head with the pillow and tried to continue my
dream. Losing track of time, the extra five minutes of rest led to being
twenty minutes late for school. I got dressed as fast as I could, one braid in
and one braid out, front teeth brushed and bottom forgotten.
When I got downstairs, depending on my mother for a lift to the train, I
discovered that she already left for the day. Still hoping to make it on time
for first period, I grabbed my skateboard and jetted out the front door.
Going as fast as I could and paying little attention to my surroundings, I
continued to tell myself: Don’t stop, keep going. What was that in front of
me? Was it a puddle? I think it’s thick dirt; maybe my skateboard can roll
over it…maybe not, should I stop? No don’t stop! Could I stop?...too late!
Yup, it was a puddle, a puddle of mysterious origin. What could it be?
Skateboarding through it, I felt as if I were covered in toxic waste, waiting
for the life changing results. Super Hero—or—Death?
I continued to go faster and faster. I was motivated to continue so I
could escape the unbearable smell contaminating the street leading to the
subway. A subway is not usually a place where one takes a deep breath and
says, Aaah, fresh air, but this subway line is different. I ran up the stairs and
was lucky to make it onto a train right away. I sat down and looked at the
brown mystery substance covering my jeans, sweatshirt and skateboard…
it took a moment to realize that the sensation of fresh air did not come;
why didn’t the smell go away? Was it stuck in my nose? Oh no! The train
went further and further but the stench stayed with me. It must be...yes, it is,
I reek. The power of this smell is unexplainable, is it possible that this
particular puddle is the source of the odor creating the infamous blocks
of suffocation.
Have you ever been on a crowded subway? People will put up with
almost anything before giving up a seat. I’ve seen people sit next to snoring,
drooling men leaning on them, rather than hold on to the pole crowded with
hands that have not had any recent contact with soap. However, finding a
seat was not a problem for me; as soon as I got on the train five feet on
each side of me was vacated by people gasping for air. One person even
woke from his sleep and chose to stand for the rest of his now unpleasant

Pages 132 – 133
commute to work. I never have seen anything like this in my life; I felt like
a deadly, hideous creature. Every time I moved, people scurried further
away, with desperate looks in their eyes as if they were begging me to
spare them.
I sat down in a now almost deserted area of the subway car. It seemed as
if I had enough room to perform a musical drama while the people in the
same car were all crowded into the other end of the car. That’s when it hit
me: Once I get to school how will I face people without weakening their
stomachs? How will I stay in class? How will my classmates survive?
I looked at the woman and put on the
saddest, most desperate face I could.
�
I looked around the car desperate for help. I spotted a sympatheticlooking
woman across the train; she looked at me as if she were debating
whether to help. I needed to help her make a decision. I looked at the
woman and put on the saddest, most desperate face I could. The woman
took a deep breath and walked over to me with one hand over her mouth,
and the other holding out a napkin as far as her arm could reach, trying to
be a good Samaritan while staying as far away as possible. She looked like
a scared child at a petting zoo; the kid who really wants to feed the animals
but doesn’t want to get close enough to have her hand bitten off.
During my hour train ride I felt like a caged animal. Occasionally
someone would walk across the train and donate a napkin or tissue. One
woman even handed me a plastic bag. After what felt like forever, my stop
finally arrived: 59th Street and Columbus Circle.
I stepped out of the subway car, an empty space around me and realized
that I now know the secret of how to beat the system, and always get a
seat—or six—on a crowded train. I carefully held the top of my skateboard
through the donated plastic bag and looked back to see the crowd rushing to
fill all the empty seats.
Brenda Escava
Photograph (digitally altered), opposite page: Alina Serkhovets

Pages 134 – 135
ORDINARY OBJECTS / EXTRAORDINARY WAYS
Elaine Ezrapour
I made the hot tea into iced tea.
OR…
I was responsible for pouring the scalding hot water into the plastic pitcher.
I watched as it cascaded through the air to the plastic,
gracefully from the porcelain mug
The honey dripping out last, slowly dancing around the edge of the cup
I picked up the ice cubes, and felt them cold on my palms,
trying hard not to drop them
I sprinkled them onto the honey brown surface like fairy dust
And I felt the tea’s new vessel begin to quickly cool.
Jonathan Ben Ami
Jenna Merrin
I threw my clothes all over the messy floor.
OR…
I ripped off my binding clothes
And breathlessly flung them rapidly
Onto the dumpster of my room.
The dog peed on the street on that hot summer day.
OR…
As the sun beats down on the gray concrete sidewalk,
A soft chocolate puppy looks around skeptically.
She moves excitedly to the edge of the street,
And sheltered by the silver shadow of a taxi cab,
Relieves herself onto the sizzling pavement
Abigail Friedman
The cigarette smoke curls upward lazily
It smiles at me as it swivels and swings
A smile of mystery and poison
Seductive yet grey, mundane
Somewhere near the clouds
That soak it up effortlessly,
And it will
Vanish.
OR…
I see a man smoking a cigarette.
A single page
Transformed
Into scribbles
And lines
And Shadows
Mistakes
And cross-hatching
Whimsical pencil-nonsense enflames the paper
A stick figure and a balloon head
Turn into a ballerina and a reading woman
A tweak here and an eraser smudge there
Imperfect but
Finished.
OR…
Drawing nonsense.
Esther Malisov
Talia Niederman
Sophie Mortner

Pages 136 – 137
SHORTS
NIGHT TIME IN PARIS
In Paris when the clocks strike midnight, when the moon is yellow and
grinning, and when all the children are fast asleep, sometimes the ghosts
come out. They rise from their resting places from within the catacombs
and walk the mortal plane. When the time is right, and the lighting is
perfect, the ghosts dance. They dance to celebrate their lives, and to toast
the joys of the living. They dance to feel alive again. They tango on the
Eiffel Tower, they foxtrot on the Arc de Triumph, they waltz on the glittering
waters. They dance to the songs of their lives, played by a host of
seraphim. They shimmy and they slide, they dip and they twirl and they feel
alive. When the people see the ghosts dancing by the light of the grinning
yellow moon, for a brief wink of time, they see what their lives are worth
and sigh a sigh of deep knowing. When the moon sets and the ghosts grow
weary they return to their sleep. They file back to their graves and whatever
awaits them in the twilight of death. Before they leave, though, they stop
and smile, and wave to the people.
Zev Hurwich
THE MYSTERY
0 -
“
So you’re saying it was—”
“Yes.”
“With the—”
“Precisely.”
“Well I’m glad I wasn’t in the—”
“Good heavens no.”
The man in the brown over coat took a pinch of tobacco from his pouch
and lit up. Curls of smoke filled the air. The woman in the white dress was
trying her best to keep a cool head during the ordeal, and the slightly
overweight butler buttled. Raindrops tapped on the windows and tree
branches cast ominous shadows in the windows.
“So you’re saying when the vampire came in, he took the—”
“Of course, weren’t you there?!”
“I think so, but it’s all happened quite fast.”
“Well, is there anything else still confusing you?”
“There was that whole ordeal with the frog.”
“Ah, the frog.”
“Yes, well you see I never have seen an amphibian—”
“I suppose.”
“Elementary, you see, science dictates that the bone structure could
withstand those particular acrobatic feats.”
“I suppose I never learned that much but where did they get all that—”
“Opium?”
“Yes I—”
“Why, the corner store of course.”
“The what?”
“Zounds, are you daft!”
“Well—”
“Look I know you’re all shocked but there’s a perfectly reasonable
explanation for all of this and it’s getting late, the case is closed if you really
don’t get it now you never will!”
The detective grabbed her coat, nodded to the butler and hurried off to
the awaiting automobile.
Zev Hurwich
Brenda Escava

Matan
Skolnik
Pages 138 – 139
QUESTIONS
Rotem Yehuda
Summer
Why can’t I think straight?
Why does the sun have to rise in the east?
Doesn’t it ever get bored?
Why does the bird outside the window annoy me?
Was it always so irritating?
Why does watermelon seem more messy than delicious?
Wasn’t it always the best thing for a sunny day?
Why am I so antsy that I can’t sit still
For just a moment?
Why wasn’t fishing as boring as it looked?
Was it the company?
Why don’t I care that the days are slipping away?
How long is it until school starts and why does it matter?
Why does it smell like mold in here?
Didn’t I put those towels in the wash?
Why are fireworks so loud? And scary?
Why is swimming at night so much fun?
Why do I keep jumping off the pier when I was told not to?
Why is the view worth the long walk?
Why don’t I get up and join the game?
What’s so special about this place,that I never want to leave?
Why do I cry when we leave?
Why am I just a mish-mash of fragmented memories?
When does summer start again?
Esther Malisov
Itamar Pinhassi
LIFE’S NOT FAIR!
Not again! Every time that we have “company” I am stuck doing all these
stupid chores. Take out the trash, make your bed, walk the dog, blah, blah,
blah. It’s just not fair! Jack never has to do any of
this stuff; when I was five I needed to do so much
more than he does. I bet Mommy and Daddy love
him more than me. That is why they always give him
special treats and pay him all the attention. I am not
a sissy or anything, but I just would like them to see
that I have things to do also. I just got a new Superman
toy. It has a removable cape and makes a
“POW” noise when someone hits the button on the
Sophie
back. It’s just like the real Superman in the TV Show. But I never get to
Greenspan
watch big boy TV shows anymore. No, we have to watch what Jack wants
because “He needs stimul-something.”
Why don’t I need that thingy too? Aren’t I just as important as him? I
mean, I like Jack and all, but I want to be watched too. Do they think I’m not
smart enough to notice they love him more? Well, I can show them that I am a
big boy. Tonight in front of company I’m going to show I'm better than Jack
and older too. I don’t care that it’s his birthday because my birthday is not for
another two months and I can’t wait that long. He can get the presents, but I
don’t care because I am going to show everyone that they should love me more.
Daddy is at the train station right now picking up Aunt Anne, Uncle
Cal, and Jenna. I like Uncle Cal a lot and he knows to pick me over Jack.
He gave me a pack of baseball cards last time he came over. He always
wears bright colored button down shirts with palm trees and birds on them.
Jenna is two years older than me, and they always talk about how special
she is. She plays the violin. She is really good I guess, but I don’t care
because she is a girl. I haven’t seen Aunt Anne for a long time; she wasn’t
here when they came over last time. I don’t think I have seen her since
Mommy’s birthday last year. She was a very quiet woman, she wasn’t very
much fun — she never played in the yard with us like Mommy does.
Grandma and Grandpa are here already; they live only a few blocks
away. I don’t think Mommy’s mommy is coming. She lives in a big brown
building with lots of other old people. I hate going there, it smells really
bad, and everyone walks really slowly and can’t hear what you say. It’s so

Pages 140 – 141
boring sitting there while Nanna stares at Jack and says
how cute he is. She use to say that about me, but doesn’t
anymore. Dad’s parents are in the living room. Grandpa is
already sleeping on the couch like always. He always does
and makes weird sounds while he sleeps. It’s really funny
and I like to wake him up and run away. Grandma is
helping Mommy with the big birthday cake they made for
Jack. I don't understand why they made him such a big
cake. He isn’t even allowed to eat a lot of sugar.
The only other people that are coming are the next-door
neighbors. They have a son named Phil who is the same age
as Jack. Phil is very quiet, but I am sure that he convinces
Jack to help him annoy me. Phil always keeps his eyes
barely open so that it looks like he is sleeping. I am sure
that he does that so no one can see him thinking up his evil
plans. One time Jack and he locked me in a closet for half
an hour and then pretended that it was a mistake and Mommy
of course believed Jack like always. Phil's parents are both
teachers, so I didn’t like to talk to them because I always
feel as if I am in school when they open their mouths.
Now here I am stuck in bed and I can hear all the grownups
are still talking about grown-up things like politics and
R-rated movies. Why can’t I stay with them? Instead I have
to go to bed at the same time as Jack, and he is only turning
five today. Life just isn’t fair. He also got a bigger piece of
cake. Mommy said that it was because it’s his birthday, but
I know that she loves him more. Uncle Cal was nice to me
and gave me a cool watch with lots of buttons. I asked him
where Aunt Anne was, but he did a magic trick to me and
I forgot to ask again. Everyone else acted as if I was not
there. Grandpa told Jack a story and all the adults watched
him try and climb up the sofa. They didn’t pay any attention
to me; they didn’t even notice when I came up here to watch
Batman. Then they all came up and put Jack and me to
sleep, and it’s only nine o’clock. NOT FAIR! I am going
to get back at them though; once they are sleeping I am
going to do something really bad because it’s just not fair.
Samuel Kupferberg
Art, top to bottom: Sarah Freedman, Emily Speira,
Emma Novick, Emily Spiera, Daelin Hillman
MY NEW SISTER
I go to bed at nine o’clock every night. My mommy gets very mad when I
ask to stay up later. Sometimes though, when she goes away for her work,
my daddy lets me stay up until ten o’clock. There was one day when I got
home from my school that my mommy was home already. She only comes
home when the moon is out, but the sun was still shining. When I saw her I
was so surprised and excited. I didn’t understand why she was home, but I
was happy that she was. I ran up to her and gave her the hugest hug I had
ever given. My daddy was behind her and I ended up giving him a hug as
well. It just wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t share my hugs. Ms. Martha at school
always tells us to share. I asked my mommy what she was doing home and
she told me she had news for me. I didn’t know what she was going to tell
me, but I was really hoping it was the power wheels Barbie jeep I saw in
Toys R Us a few days ago. It was so cool and pretty and all the kids at
school would think it was so cool if I got it. I wanted to drive it around our
street so badly and have Sarah, my bestest friend sit with me in it. But, my
mommy’s face looked sort of not happy. She looked serious and it scared
me a little. Maybe she knew I didn’t flush the potty yesterday. I hoped I
wasn’t in trouble.
Maxwell Khaghan

Pages 142 – 143
When my parents took me into the living room, they picked me up and
sat me down on the couch. My daddy began speaking about how there was
exciting news that my mommy was going to tell me. She finally said that I
would be having a baby brother or sister in a little bit. A baby sister? Hmm
that sounded coool! I got all excited and gave a huge smile to my mommy
and daddy. Where did my baby sister come from though? Or baby brother?
Why didn’t they know which one I was going to have? And when would I
get it? Today? That would be so exciting. I asked my mommy is she coming
when the sky is dark, but she said it’s coming in a long time. How does she
know already? I wanted to ask them all these things but then they said they
wanted to take me out for ice cream! Ice cream! I love ice cream. Oh the
flavors I can pick from! When we went to the ice cream shop I had already
forgotten all about my new baby.
After a long while my mommy started to get bigger. She wasn’t taller
but her belly got so big! I didn’t know why. I asked her if she knew that her
belly was bigger than normal and she said that there was a baby inside. A
baby inside of her? What? That doesn’t make sense. I asked how that could
be? A person in a person? It sounded cool but also scary at the same time.
She told me that over a long time, my new sister grows into a baby inside
her belly. I didn’t really understand. I kept asking, How? Why does it go
there? What made it start growing? My mommy wasn’t answering all my
questions but I kind of got it. She asked me if I wanted to feel her tummy
because MY sister wanted me to feel her. I put my hand on my mommy’s
smooth belly and I felt a little kick at my hand. Wow! I took my hand away
as fast as I could and ran behind the couch. What was that? Mommy told
me my sister was shaking hands with me. She wanted to say hello to me and
that I should say hello back. Well, after standing there for a few minutes,
still afraid to go back, I slowly walked back to where mommy was sitting. I
climbed up on the couch and put my hand back on her belly but slowly
because, well, I was still afraid. I felt another handshake inside, but this
time, I decided not to be afraid any more and I kept my hand there. I knew
my sister could feel my hand back, because she kept on kicking. She was so
excited to meet me! I was very happy. My mommy and me went to the store
to buy things for the baby that was coming soon. I said I wanted to buy her
a present for when she comes. I love my stuffed animals so much and I
knew she would like them too. So, in the store I went to the big stuffed dogs
and tried to get two of them. They were way too big for me, but my mommy
helped me. My new sister is going to love this!
One time, I was sitting at the table coloring in my color book. I had
bunches of stickers on the table to add to my picture. I decided that this was
going to be for my sister. My mommy’s tummy was the biggest I have ever
seen anyone’s tummy in the whole wide world. Except for Dipsy’s belly in
the Tellytubbies. He has a HUGE one. My mommy was making dinner and
I went to get some water when I saw there was already water on the floor.
My mommy was standing in it. Why? How come she isn’t cleaning it up?
She always tells me to clean up my messes, shouldn’t she? Her face looked
scared also. She stepped out of the mess and ran to the phone. What was
going on? I thought I would help her a little and get paper towel to clean up
the water she spilled. I heard my mommy talking to my daddy on the phone.
She was speaking really fast and I couldn’t understand anything she was
saying. She walked really fast to the stairs and wobbled like a penguin up
them. That was funny to watch. I followed her because I was just so confused.
I kept asking her, “What is going on? Why are you being loud,
Mommy? Why did you speak fast?”
She didn’t even answer anything. She went back down the stairs with a
big bag and grabbed my hand. She was pulling me really hard and then she
made me go outside while she put the key in the door. I was getting very
upset that she wasn’t answering me, so I began to cry. She took me to the
Jensen family next door. She bent down when she saw me crying. Mommy
said that I shouldn’t cry and that everything was fine and that she was going
out but would see me later. She wouldn’t answer me where she was going or
why she was going. I saw my daddy’s car pull up in the driveway and my
mommy got in very fast. They pulled away from the driveway and then they
were gone. Where did they go? Why did they leave me here? My tears
didn’t stop and it got harder to breathe. What was going on? The Jenson
mommy picked me up and took me inside, pulling me farther away from
my mommy and daddy.
Amy Lewis

Pages 144 – 145
ICE CREAM
I could taste the fruity mixture dissolving into ice-cold liquid on my
tongue. It swirled around my mouth, the rainbow of colors soaked up into
only a thin layer of sweet aftertaste. The chilly cream was a shock to my
system, arousing in me both a wake-up call to the empty lonely night as
well as a memory filled to the brim with bittersweet chocolate morsels, now
overtaking the flavor in my mouth. I roamed the crowded streets, with this
treat slowly disintegrating as it fed the hollow feeling in my stomach. The
last remnants were torn about with the crunch of yellow in my teeth, and the
melted liquid rainbow colors, as I sat straight on a bench on a dark street.
The passersby were few, but still noisy. With the last bit of food slowly
sinking to my stomach, the craving came back. I had eaten far too fast. I
hadn’t savored it. I hadn’t enjoyed it.
And thus the emptiness of before and always slowly started to fill me
like gray dust, and the memory came back, along with your cold face. The
dark eyes staring like shiny black coals into me. I wanted to reach out and
touch it, touch you, but I knew it was impossible. When
was the last time I had seen you? Two years, three
years….who remembers? When was the last time I had
talked to you? Days, weeks, months… was it even
years? Who can remember? The seconds I sat there
with the cold wind ruffling my hair lightly, seemed to
multiply exponentially, to all the numbers of and
related to you. It was as if time were being stretched
infinitely, but at the same time squashed together, making the seconds feel
like hours, the days like months, the years like centuries.
I took out my cell phone and stared at the piece of cool, shiny metal and
plastic. The date and time glared back at me with their harsh-bland color and
angry-straightness. They were just more numbers. Continuous numbers,
which would change with each passing day, but always, would return when
a full cycle was over. Flipping it open to escape those empty, meaningless
numbers, I stared at the list of contacts. More glaring letters against a plain
gray surface. I stretched my eyes and thumbs down the list, at last finally
finding your name peering out at me, almost a dare to call you. It was your
birthday. I remembered the one years earlier, where we had eaten that cool
liquid, giggling over it dripping on my fingers and smudging my nose while
Art: Eno Freedman-Brodman
I bent down to lick it. It seemed so long ago. I pressed the ‘send’ button down
gently, almost not expecting it to go through. And not really wanting it to.
But it felt like a sick obligation or maybe a weak crutch on a bad night.
I waited anxiously as the annoying ring sounded over and over. Steady
in my ear, never missing a beat or a syllable. It was so monotonous it was
almost soothing. You could predict exactly what you would hear next. There
were no guesses. No maybes. The ring continued eight, nine, ten times.
Who can tell? It was soon silenced as your voice came over the line, instructing
me to leave my name, number, and message. It was so refined and
so respectful, that I shuddered a little at the social nicety and political
correctness of it all. I remembered when we had come up with messages as
rude as possible, displaying our personalities. Your morose but cynical
voice dripping with disdain, and my playful, sarcastic tone mocking anyone
who wanted to leave a message. God, we used to get so many comments
and compliments on them. People simply saying they were funny. Who
were you now? I had no clue. I was glad you hadn’t picked up. I didn’t
know you any more. And I shouldn’t have been pretending that I did, even
when I was lonely and just looking for a friend.
I walked away from the bench, throwing my trash out gently, on the way
back to my building less than a block away. I stared into the mirror adjoining
the grocery store beneath the building. All I saw were imaginary tears
floating down my cheeks at the desperation and complete isolation of the
situation. None of my current friends was around, and I had resorted to
calling you. I would have laughed if I felt it possible to open my mouth, but
I couldn’t. It trembled a little as I stared at myself. Disgusted, I walked
hurriedly away and sat down on the concrete border surrounding the flower
beds outside my building. I closed my eyes enjoying the feel of the dark
chilly night air, as it intensified my sadness. I almost could have fallen
asleep right there, with the sound of pattering footsteps on the sidewalk,
with the wind blowing through my hair, but then a familiar sound opened
my ears. Almost in a trance, I grabbed my phone, and stared at the name
gleaming from the window. It didn’t seem real but I opened it and pressed it
to my ear, my breath caught in my throat.
“You called?” your annoyed voice came over the line. But it was more
than annoyed. It was just angry. Sad and angry.
“Happy Birthday,” I said quietly, my voice faltering a little.

Pages 146 – 147
“Oh,” your tone was distant now, sounding far away. There was no thank
you, but I could feel it buried deep there under the tension. It scared me that
I could still read you. Still feel it. “Look,” you started to say, your voice
becoming decidedly softer, in a tone I knew meant you were about to be
nice but only in an effort to explain and get rid of me.
“Don’t,” I whispered, and you were mute with understanding. “I’m
sorry for calling.”
“Yeah,” you whispered back. “Me too.” And at that I knew your feelings
exactly. I swear I could see them swimming before me.
“Have a good birthday,” I said my voice breaking, even thought I tried
to make it sound strong.”
“Thanks,” you said, now sounding comfortable again, as if you were
simply speaking to stranger who had held open a door for you.
“I’m going to go now,” I said tentatively, knowing you wouldn’t call me
to come back, but hoping in the inner depths of me that something had
changed, yet knowing it hadn’t.
“Okay,” you said in that same distant tone, that made me just want to
strangle you for pretending that there was nothing between us. As if the
past had never happened. That it was all a man-made dream. As I was about
to push the phone away from me, I heard your voice become softer, filled
with emotion, filled with the raw love that was too deep to understand. That
was too potent to ever work. “C,” you said caressing the one letter, “I…I….
I’m sorry.”
I knew what you meant. What you were trying to say, even if it would
never come out. “Me too,” I said, my voice filled with the same passion, the
same need. I could feel you nodding at the other end, agreeing, but you
would never say more, so I took the phone away from my ear, pressing it
down softly. I stared at it for a moment before crumpling it into my pocket.
I got up slowly and walked inside the building, heading straight to the
elevator. I stared straight ahead, avoiding the tears in my eyes, and the hole
in my stomach.
The ice cream had dried up. The sweet aftertaste now turned sour. A
remnant, a vestige was still there, but it was dissipating. Along with your
voice. Along with you. I don’t know why I had called you. Maybe, as I
said—it was just a weak crutch on a bad night. Just a weak crutch, a guilty
conscience, on a bad night.
Cynthia Blank
CiTiSCAPES...

CiTiSCAPES... ...CiTiSCAPES
Maya Liran
Pages 148 – 149
Rebecca Schwartz
Zoe Grossman
Beatrice Volkmar
Hannah Kober

Pages 150 – 151
HORROR STORY
It was a brisk afternoon and David returned to his
new house after a long, unremarkable day at school.
His family had moved into the neighborhood three weeks
ago. Home alone for the first time, the boy was quite
anxious. He entered the door; he didn’t recognize a single
thing. The house was completely different from his
more familiar setting. He loved his old room
and especially those special mirrors his dad,
a circus director, had installed which
distorted his thin, wan face.
The old house was warm and held
all of his childhood memories. Clown
costumes, animal photos and images of
trapeze artists covered the walls. The new
Max Seraita
house was dark, and the living room was unlit except for one small window
where the sun would trickle in occasionally. His parents had yet to lay the
rugs, and the hard wood floor felt ice cold beneath his feet. The new house
felt strange and uncomfortable. In his old house, every room was carpeted
from wall to wall. He was not used to hearing the spooky creaks and
whistles that his dad called “new house noises.”
David never realized how comfortable the old house made him feel. At
this moment, the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach illustrated how
much more he should have appreciated the old place. To settle down, he
decided to get some cookies and milk and to check out the latest X Box
Live games he had downloaded the day before. After a snack and game
break, he went up to his room to begin the gobs of boring homework his
new schoolteachers had assigned. That was when it happened…
Bored by Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, he drifted off to sleep at
his desk. A thunderous bang at the front door startled him. Casting off his
sleepiness, he crept tremulously down the stairs, terrified of what might
happen next. Peering at the door from a distance, his heart began to pound;
he was sure he had seen the doorknob turn. David’s mind began to race.
Who might be trying to break in?
He prepared himself for the moment of terror when the door would
open. If he acted swiftly, could he bar the door? He looked for chairs to
wedge against the door as the banging grew louder. After a long while,
David became more anxious and began to speculate: Why had they not
opened the door? What was stopping them?
It felt like hours that David sat staring at the door in fright. The intensity
of his gaze caused his vision to blur. Perhaps he was hallucinating? He
imagined a room where the door seemed to be getting smaller while the
other objects were becoming larger. The door soon became only half the
size of the rugs leaning against the wall. He heard a whispering voice that
eerily called out his name. Da---v----id. Da---v----id. David walked warily
toward the door. Taking a deep breath, he finally built up the courage to
open it. Emptiness greeted his eyes; there was no one on the front porch.
The daylight struck his face, and he awoke from this trance. David
looked around and saw a boy running away down the street. Was this his
tormentor? Without a moment’s hesitation, he began to run after him,
resolved to find out.
As David’s pace quickened, he drew closer to the boy who was still out
of his grasp. David barked at the boy, but he didn’t answer. Finally, he
caught the boy’s sleeve. He held the shirt firmly in his right hand and began
to pull the boy back. The boy was still squirming to get free; suddenly he
collapsed, bringing David down with him. David felt victorious. He had
caught the mysterious boy.
The boy appeared dead, lying motionless. David turned him over. It was
the moment of truth. The horror of the boy’s face startled David. It was
The horror of the boy’s face startled
David. It was deformed, distorted,
and yet strikingly familiar.
�
deformed, distorted, and yet strikingly familiar. David searched his mind’s
eye to recall where he had seen this face before. Suddenly he understood.
The face was his own.
Zachary Levine

Pages 152 – 153
MR. LINDEN’S LIBRARY
She wandered in one day. Lost and desperately
looking for something, anything. It was a library full
of words. Maybe one could change her.
The owner of this library was a kind old man.
He looked up from his desk and took notice of her.
She appeared so desolate. He appraised her. She
would have been pretty if it weren’t for her pale skin
and gauntness. And she had an air about her; she
didn’t fit in; she was so out of place. He walked
Aaron Schwartz
over, hoping that he could make the poor, young,
lost soul smile with one of his many books. He touched her shoulder lightly.
She whirled around and glared at him, her bright blue eyes burning a deep
ugly red. He backed away in shock.
“My name is Mr. Linden. I own this library. Is there anything you want?”
She blushed at the man and let out a sheepish smile, her face lighting
up. “Yes, I’m sorry. I thought you were a strange man.”
Mr. Linden nodded and chuckled as the girl peered around the cavernous
room. “Let me show you.” He smiled, holding out his hand.
The girl nodded excitedly, and he began to lead her around what seemed
like endless ledges filled to the brim with books. Glorious books, of different
colors and shapes. She was so eager that to her they seemed to float around
the library and bounce atop the wooden shelves. She stared in wonder and
slowly pulled away from Mr. Linden to search on her own. He smiled at her
as she traced her fingers against books, reading their titles and memorizing
their silhouettes.
Suddenly the room stood still. She stood entranced before one book that
seemed to glow as she reached her hand out to it. Its binding and cover were
a dull brown, but as her fingers drew closer and closer, gold seemed to seep
through, until they finally touched and the book emitted let forth a gleaming
rainbow of gold. She stepped back quickly, shivering from elation. She
reached out and took the book once more, this time cupping it in her hands.
She pressed it softly against herself and held on to it tightly as she slowly
made her way back to the old man.
“I would like this book.”
He nodded and smiled. That is, until he saw the book and the glimmer
radiating from it. He shook violently against his desk and pressed down
hard against the oak to steady himself.
“What’s your name? Who are you?”
“It’s not important,” she answered quietly, “and I am no one; just a girl.”
“You cannot have this book,” he said firmly.
Her eyes dimmed and she looked up at him, scared of his tone. “Why not?”
“This book causes trouble,” was all he gave in response.
She looked into his eyes. She needed to know if he was telling the truth.
Did the book really have powers? She clutched it deeper against her. She had
to have this book. It would take her away from all of her suffering, all of the
pain. She had to have it. So she probed deeper. “What kind of trouble?”
“It has been passed down for many years, but the legends and the
stories…” he began until he realized he was revealing too much. “I’m sorry,
but you can’t have it. Go find another. ”
“Does it have magic?”
Mr. Linden sighed. This girl wasn’t going away. He had to tell her the
whole story so she would trust him and stay far away from the book. No
one could ever have it after what had happened.
“It goes back many centuries. It is a book with nothing and everything
inside. Anything you want it to be, it is. It can take you anywhere, the future,
or the past. But it also takes your life. Once you open it, you’re in its control
and it can do what it wants with you. It will kill you. It has killed others.”
She nodded. She didn’t want to hurt the man, but she couldn’t stop
herself. “I need this more than anything. I’m sorry.” She gave one last short
glance in his direction before running as fast as she could out the door, the
book firmly held in her hands. Mr. Linden stared after her, shocked, unable
to move. The book glowed every few seconds and Mr. Linden’s blood turned
cold. The magical book was in the hand of this girl, who had access and
power to things that no one could comprehend. He was deathly afraid for her.
She ran and ran until she collapsed on pavement with a tree looming
overhead, miles from the library. She panted heavily, trying to catch her
breath, the book still firmly pressed to her chest. She clutched her heart,
trying to still it. She almost started crying from the pain in her feet and legs
but quickly brightened as she realized that she had the key to everything
she could ever want. She laid the book down gently against the dirt and
prepared to open the first page.

Pages 154 – 155
She let out a deep breath and then in an instant turned the cover over.
The first page was blank except for one small word in fancy script.
Anything
Scared but thrilled, she turned the next page. With each new touch,
words appeared, but they made no sense to her eyes. She puzzled over them
before closing her eyes tightly and picturing everything she wanted, hoping
the book would prove its value right then and there. She continued to turn
the pages, and with each little finger movement, something new and magical
occurred. One moment a bed appeared and the fatigue in her body
vanished as she lay down. Next a lamp, so the sky quickly turning to night,
could not stop her from continuing to read. And soon a beautiful white
dress, that she twirled in several times before resuming to turning the pages
of the book.
Page after page. Desire after desire. Until she came to the last one. It
had been many hours and she was tired from running and reading and
cavorting with all her pretty new things. She yawned slightly as she turned
to the final page. It was filled with jumbled words, but it made even less
sense than the pages before. She stared at the symbols and swirls, transfixed.
So much so that she didn’t see the thorns start to sprout from the
inner binding. She closed her eyes and swayed before opening them again.
Now the thorns and vines were coming and slinking out like a snake crawling
closer and closer over the edge of the book, coming to her. And then the
thorn pinched her. Just a little prick, but that was enough.
Everything passed through her, and she didn’t know who or where she
was. Everything seemed to be going so fast, yet in slow motion. She fell
backward against the pillow and her eyes closed as everything went dark;
the open book still displayed before her. The thorns continued to swim out
of the pages, but the girl was too far gone. There was no help for her now.
The book had taken her away as a prisoner. It had captured her, and she was
lost forever in its power. It had killed her, just like Mr. Linden said.
Days later, he came looking for the girl. He found her against that very
tree, cold and white. She was gone, and the mystical book had mysteriously
vanished.
He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late.
Cynthia Blank
shoes... shoes... shoes...
Alex Savits
Zachary
Gaylis
Talia Neiderman
Benjamin Seidman
Anna Rothstein

This is just to say
I left a really bad apology
after I ate the plums
that were in your fridge.
I probably
shouldn't have sounded like such
a jerk
But they were so good
And you should have bought more food,
probably.
Aaron Freedman
Pages 156 – 157
I have punched
My sister
Where it hurts
The most
And which
You would probably
Frown upon
Forgive me
It was so rewarding
And little sisters
Always come out on top
Jenna Doctoroff
APOLOGIES…
This is just to say
I have chewed gum
In your class
It was in
my mouth
and you probably
wanted me to put it
in the garbage
Forgive me
It was so mouthwatering
So chewy
And so sweet
Michael Kalmin
TO WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
I’m sorry
I changed
The background
On your computer
This embarrassing picture
Of you
Is funnier
Than what it used to be
You probably shouldn’t
Have left it
Open and
On the floor
Jessica Appelbaum
This is just to say
I cheated at monopoly
When you told me to let her win
I probably should not have tried to beat
an 8 year old
It was sad to hear her cry
Forgive me
I won the most property
And never went to jail.
Sophie Mortner
I have deleted
The show
That was saved
On TIVO
And which
You were probably
Saving
To watch tomorrow
Forgive me
The show was so bad
So boring
I was saving you from wasting your time
Rachel Zeuner

Pages 158 – 159
UNINVITED GUESTS
The stairs creaked. He hesitated.
He had never liked the basement. The old, moldering carpet leaning
against the wall was a nest of cockroaches. The razor-tipped ice skate
hanging from the ceiling reminded him of a guillotine. The only bulb in the
room had long since burned out, and he hadn’t yet mustered the courage to
stand on a rickety ladder and replace it. He would never dare to venture
below except in the light of day.
There was a door in the basement, too small for an adult to enter without
crawling, leading nowhere. When he bought the house, he had not asked
the former owner why the door was there; he hoped that it was nothing
more than a practical joke perpetrated by the builders one hundred years
before. But he didn’t believe that. The door, the eeriest mystery in a room
full of eerie mysteries, terrified him. A week ago he had tried to open it,
overcoming his instinctive dread. The knob did not turn, and as he
struggled, he felt something watching him from the shadows. He was being
irrational, he knew. The room was empty. But he could not help himself. He
gave the knob a last, despairing tug and fled up the stairs.
Now he was going down again. It was 4:00, and the rays of the afternoon
sun slanted into the room, giving the door a sunny, almost cheerful
aspect. It reminded him of an anglerfish, dangling a light in front of its
head to snare unsuspecting prey. He was not fooled.
It reminded him of an anglerfish,
dangling a light in front of its head
to snare unsuspecting prey.
He was not fooled.
�
He reached the last step. It creaked. Averting his eyes from the door, he
headed for the paint shelf. And as he walked past the door, he heard something.
Just a tap, just the sort of noise that a heater might make when
starting up, that a squirrel might make when stepping on a branch. It could
have been anything, he assured himself. But to him, it sounded like a
footstep, and although he could not pinpoint its source, he thought that it
came from behind the door.
He quickened his pace. He reached up to the paint shelf. Blue, for the
kids’ room. It was a pretty shade; his wife had suggested it. As he grabbed
the handle of the paint bucket, something caught the corner of his eye. His
breathing began to quicken. His heart was pounding. He was sure that he
had seen the doorknob turn.
With a horrified wail, he yanked the bucket from the shelf, knocking its
neighbors off in the process. One of them hit his foot. He howled. He spun
in place and made a beeline for the stairs, his mouth dry, his skin peppered
with sweat. The door was opening. It was opening.
He took the stairs two at a time, the paint bucket slapping against his
side. Suddenly he was on his face. He had stumbled. The bucket dropped
from his nerveless fingers and rolled down the stairs, clanging. Shaking
with terror, he staggered to his feet and grabbed the banister, pulling himself
up the staircase. The portal to freedom at the top beckoned.
He reached the last stair. He rattled the doorknob at the top, pushing and
shoving. Nothing happened. He heard a noise from below and redoubled his
efforts, ramming the door with his body, heedless of the splinters in the
wood pressing against his flesh. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He
heard something on the bottom of the stairs. They creaked under its weight,
and he felt the step beneath him tremble. He wouldn’t look. He wouldn’t
dare look. The sweat felt icy cold on his skin. The stairs shuddered again.
Oh God, he thought. OhGodohGodohGodohGodsomebodyanybodyhelpme.
He gasped, the realization hitting him like a lightning bolt. So simple. So
obvious. The door opened inwards. Of course. He stepped back a stair, the
blood pounding in his ears, as the whole staircase shook. He jerked on the
knob with all of his strength, and this time the door opened so easily that
the force of his own pull drove him off-balance. He teetered on the stairs as
they shook with the weight of the thing from behind the door, slowly but
surely climbing, each tread an earthquake. With a last burst of energy, he
charged through the door at the top of the stairs. He slammed the door
behind him and turned the lock.
Silence.
He sank to the floor, sobbing with relief.
He would go out and buy the paint.
Aaron Rubin

Pages 160 – 161
Collagraphs
9th grade
Tomer Domb
Philip Haines

Pages 162 – 163
WHAT DID YOU DO TODAY?
“ What did you do today?” my father asked, looking up from his newspaper.
What did I do? I think for a moment
But what should I say?
I feel like I’m being pushed – running, even
Days and days of simply replying, “stuff ” fuel me
His eyes are curious, but he knows the answer
I think. I wonder. What did I do?
I sinned, today, Dad, I sinned real bad
I gossiped, I lied, I was cruel
If you saw me, you would surely cry
I was that bad, Dad
But the sad part is: I won’t be any better tomorrow.
I won, today, Dad, aced every test
I felt love and care and hope
And it is because of you, Dad, that my day was great
Charlotte Marx-Arpadi
Because of you, I felt God, today, deep my heart
I felt a spark of joy inside of me, and that spark
was pure.
My day was ordinary, no better than the rest
My day was pointless, worthless, learned nothing
It didn’t matter
And it just reminded me how I don’t matter
My day was okay, Dad, just okay.
Today was torture.
Today I felt alone
My dear friends, love and care and honesty and hope
They abandoned me
And left me with one unbearable cry
It was something that surely did not come from my brain or reasoning
My true inner-self was upset; maybe it was angry with me
The worst is that I have this sure feeling that the crying has just begun.
But I find myself, without even thinking
Saying this word I do not mean to say
I find myself telling the truth
I find myself lying
But how can my day really be defined?
How can my life be squashed into words?
“Stuff,” I said– my life is “Stuff ”
He continued to read his newspaper – other people’s lives stuffed into words.
Sarah Gottesman
Photo, next page: Aaron Freedman
Sarah Gottesman