Advice to MyselfBy: Emma S. ‘16

Be confident.Stand like a Redwood tree, rooted into the ground.

Wear your middle part, super tight side ponytail with your pink and green colored braces

with pride. Be smart.

Remember to not put a wooden pizza tray into the 350° oven.

When shaving, use shaving cream.Constantly remind yourself of what is actually

important.Family always comes first.

And that one C you got on your essay, Forget it.

Be happy.Wear a smile everyday.

And live like life has a crush on you.

My Failure to Succeed

By: Yael H. ‘17

Why does this always happen to me? Sitting on the stage, clenching my pen in my

trembling hand, all I could think about was that look on my parents’ faces. I had made it

to the finals of the competition, but then had gotten the last question wrong. All of the

studying for nothing! I could still hear my mom in the background saying, “Study, Yael,

study!” I had studied, but enough was enough! Sometimes, I just wanted a break from all

the pressure, and to do something fun. Maybe go to the park, or hang out at the pool?

Well, looking back on it, that might not have been the best decision. Had I studied instead

of going to the soccer game, would I have known the final answer? When I broke the

news to my parents, they sat me down, and said, “Yael, did you try your hardest?” And I

said, “No.” Just like that. My parents explained to me that if I did not try my hardest, then

I could not complain that I didn’t know the final answer. When they told me I should have

learned my lesson, I felt like a failure. I had thought that this contest would be a great

way for me to learn the trivia, and be acknowledged for winning first place at the same

time. Instead, my parents were disappointed in me, and more importantly, I was

disappointed in myself.-21-

The Jump of Life

By: Dov M. ‘16I wake, to

die. To sleep, to fly.

How can it be I flew? If I was dead how could I fly?I soared over all; living, dead, and in between. I saw the pain of all

creation, to live. The pain of life? How can that be?

It must be a fluke like death or destruction.Death, destruction, all in

between. They force us to be. Just to be. To live in the

moment.To live in the future, is a priority.The future hold possibilities, hope, and love, endless

love.

Then I awoke to flowers, music, and grief. I had soared from a penthouse

apartment… Into a coffin, a grave, and nothingness.

I was dead.

Will something remarkable occur?

Do we make this day extraordinary,Or does this day make us extraordinary things?

Is this just another day with an unusual date? Will it be a blur to be forgotten like all others? Or will it stick in our minds forever?

Is 11.12.13 really that special? It has 24 hours to it.Day and night pass through, Seamlessly as they always have.Is today special because of the numbers,Or because we are inspired to make it special?

Why is today special? Isn’t every day special?

11.12.13By: Hannah H. ‘16Is time a thief?Today could be the day you die, Torn apart from loved ones, Their lives never the same again.

Is time a gift?Today could be the day you are born, This would be the beginning of your days.

This could be the beginning of the end, Or if you are lucky,The end of the beginning, But only time can tell.

Photography by: J e n n y R . ‘ 14

If people remember this day because of the number pattern, Will they remember the events that happened?

-22-

Where I’m FromBy: Jenna M. ‘14

I am from flickering lights, from Duracell batteries and remote controls. I

am from chipped kitchen tiles that creak beneath my feet.

I am from the mulch, the tulips that blossom in spring.

I am from the Sunday night dinners and trips to the beach, from mom and nana and grandma. I

am from the innocent taunting and the occasional arguments.

From the “he’s dating who?” and the “that kid of hers is trouble.”

I am from the wax of the Hanukkah candles that drips onto the aluminum foil laid on our kitchen counter. I

am from Charm City, Baltimore, Taco Tuesdays, and late night ice cream.

From the switched careers, the phone addiction, and the gossip seeker.

I am from the black and white photographs on the walls in my

Grandmother’s basement, the boxed mementos in my nana’s dresser, the vintage wedding dress in my mother’scloset.

Advice to MyselfBy: Daniel G. ‘16

Double your weight and run around shirtless

Sing your hear out to a song you don’t know the

lyrics to

Let the audience imagine you in your

underwear Accept Yourself

Society judges only because you allow it to

Diet on chocolate and lollipops because you

don’t need to “work out”

Ask her to prom because she’ll say “No.”

Buy a unitard because you are a

superhero! Embrace yourself

Throw your insecurities out the window

Waiting

By: Emma S. ‘16The teachers hands us another

writingassignment

. There are ten minutes left of class. I sit there,

waiting.Waiting for inspiration.

Waiting for the perfect idea, the amazing alliteration, the life changing

epiphany.Waiting for the quick scribbles of my pencil onthe

paper. Waiting for the oooohs and ahhhhs. Waiting for the pat on the

back.Waiting for the

interviews, books signings, andfame

. Waiting for the loud, loving applause.

Waiting for the hearts to be touched, the tears

to stream down faces. Waiting to make a difference. Waiting to be

remembered.

But then I stop.And think.

I remember the only time success comes before

work is in the dictionary.So I pick up my pencil.

And begin to write.

-23-

Self-ReflectionBy: Meital A. ‘16

Raised by a family of the most opulent standard, I grew progressively bored and

eventually resentful of the dull lifestyle of the lavish and luxurious. The corrosive

monotony of everyday life abraded my sense of self as well as my disposition. The

suffocating pressure to conform to their expectations inspired my intense desire to

escape uniformity, and embody its opposite—abstract art. At eighteen, I dispensed

with my previous life and started afresh. After purchasing a petite cottage on the

outskirts of Boston, I transformed the house’s lower level into my art studio. I supported myself by working full-time at a local family-owned art supply store, devoting the nighttime to my own creativity.

To my surprise, I had no trouble making friends in such a small town. In fact, people seemed naturally drawn to my dimpled smile and sardonic wit. Still, my

strict schedule left little time for socializing; I worked from nine to five and spent nights toiling in my studio, with few hours devoted to sleep in between.

Eventually, the Depression took its toll on the store, forcing the owner to let several employees go and to raise the prices on many of my favorite paints. In a

desperate attempt to compensate for the lost staff, he enlisted his 30 year-old son to

“work” alongside me at the counter. Much to my dismay, he was not your typical “boss’ son.” His head sat on a tilted axis atop his raised shoulders and his upper lip twitched

like a sleeping dog, while his eyes stared constantly at something invisible at the tip of his nose. I could always sense his presence behind me by his stuttered breathing, exaggerated footfall, and the incessant, inappropriate giggling.

Throughout the following months, his oddity gradually devolved from innocent to

foreboding. Whenever I entered the store, his residence in my shadow became

predictable as death and omnipresent as time, space, or…fear. At first, I pitied him; I knew fully well that he could not help the crippling effects of his disease. In fact, I even

admired him for his ability to remain jovial in spite of his misfortune. However, as time

dragged on, and the increasing impact of his abnormality weighed heavier upon my

conscience, angst began to eclipse my empathy for him.

Somehow, the imbecile managed to get further under my skin than most probing

men. Who would have thought that such a dim–witted, incompetent idiot could have

such prowess in driving such a perspicacious woman mad!? Even after leaving the store

every day, I could not escape him. He manifested himself in my every thought and

action; his crossed eyes branded themselves into my head, his nauseating giggle

slithered its way onto my subconscious, and his ubiquitous figure lurked behind me, invading what should have been my solitude.

-24-

Though my description of such hallucinations might lead one to deem me

disturbed, my ability to identify these occurrences as merely mirage rather than reality

proves my lucidity. However, even my knowledge of their falsity did not assuage me. In

fact, my fear only swelled. The worst part was the God-awful dreams. Every night I

endured the same dreadful scene play out—his detached head sat, perched on a table

in a dimly lit room, surrounded by a labyrinth of mirrors at various angles. Slowly, they

began enclosing me as well. They came nearer and nearer, multiplying at an infinite

rate, making his face all I could see.

My daily and nightly torments insidiously fused into perpetual purgatory. I was

nearing my breaking point. My days melted into a single gray mass with no

distinction between them. My paintings became increasingly bland. My existence

mirrored the very monotony from which I had fled. I knew what I had to do.

Fastening on a convincing smile, I sashayed into work ready to fulfill my plan. As I

entered, I saw him, standing in his regular spot, squealing gleefully at my arrival. After

a few hour, I turned to him and asked if he would like to be featured in one of my art

pieces. As expected, he responded by hooting loudly and joyfully flailing his arms,

nearly whacking me. Internally, I cringed in disgust. At five o’clock he and I embarked

on the trudge to my house. As if the cacophonous crunch of snow was not enough to

put somebody over the edge, each of his exaggerated steps was accompanied by a

“tee-hee!” or a merry snort. I struggled to keep from grinding my teeth into a thin dust.

When we finally arrived, he impatiently hobbled up the stairs to the door, chortling

with delight.

Immediately I led him in the direction of my studio, instructing him to sit down at

the far end of the corridor. Earlier that day, I had loosened the floorboards directly in

front of the stairway, knowing he would stomp right through. He skipped excitedly all

the way to his death. I heard his neck crack as his body met the basement’s cold

cement floor. I only heard a whimper or two. Then silence. Finally.

I imagined waking up the next morning basking in relief. Instead, I fought my way

out of my typical mirror-filled nightmare, nearly drowning in the pool of my own sweat.

Even after his perfect termination he continued to haunt me. I needed to sew up the

blurred gap between imagination and reality. I needed closure, and I needed it now.

Without another thought, I raced down the stairs, greeted his stiff corpse, and dragged

him to the furthest end of the vestibule. I laid his body on a tarp before I swiftly

removed his head and balanced it carefully atop my grandmother’s old desk. I made

sure to take care of the blood. Every drop of it. -25-

I darted from room to room, seizing every looking glass I could find. He really would

become an art piece, just as I had promised. Once I gathered enough mirrors, I struck

them with an axe, making even more, and proceed to arrange them, piece by piece,

into the sparkling collage that now surrounded his quiet head.

Stepping back to admire my creation, a thick blend of dread and satisfaction

enveloped me. I had ripped the kaleidoscope image directly out of my dreams, filling

the gap. I felt…liberated. I savored the relief for days, weeks, maybe even months until

the nightmares crept their way back in. My mirrored masterpiece no longer served as

closure, by as the heart of my anxiety. Attempting to distract myself and quiet my

mind, I immersed myself in my art. For weeks, all day, every day—I painted, hanging

each completed canvas along the corridor. I no longer went to work and I no longer

sought the comfort of my bed, afraid of what horrors would torture my unconscious

mind. Sleep- deprived, I would often doze off during the day in the serenity of my

studio. I continued this routine for months, until that Thursday morning, when a

knocking at the door jolted me awake. “Just a minute,” I hollered from the basement,

tiptoeing past the door and darting upstairs to quickly collect myself. I had no idea who

it could be--my weekly groceries had been delivered just two days ago.

Inching the door open to unfamiliar sunlight blinded me temporarily, but as my

pupils adjusted to the alien light, I could make out two glinting sheriffs’ badges in the

doorway. Ice-cold blood suddenly slicing through my veins, I feigned nonchalance and

invited them inside. Thankfully, my apprehension waned when the young men

informed of the reason for their dispatch.

“Sweetheart, you haven’t been to work in months, so your boss filed a missing

persons report. We’re just here to make sure that you’re alright,” the one on the left

said with a practiced smile as his eyes carefully examined me. I was used to this

penetrative look from men; I could tell that he liked what he saw. Even after confining

myself to a single room for an entire month, I had not lost touch with my characteristic

femininity. I knew where to go from there. Suddenly, I burst into a fit of hysterics,

wringing out every last artificial tear I had, and letting each roll pitifully down my rosy

cheeks. Both deputies stumbled over each other as they rushed to console me, as I

sputtered out fragments about the “poor boy…oh, I hope he’s ok…why would anyone

want to hurt him… I just can’t stand being at work knowing he is still out there…" they

were putty in my oh-so- feminine hands.

-26-

Once I composed myself, I innocently asked if they had any leads. “Unfortunately not, Sugar, but you’ll be the first to know,” Tom, the one who spoke the first time, answered. I turned my head, and watched as Maxwell, Tom’s junior, squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, searching for words to address me. When he finally spoke up, he mumbled out how “a ‘little lady’ like me should really be careful.” Good, they would never have imagined that a “little lady like me” could be a death artist. I prepared to show them out, nodding inattentively as they continued lecturing me. However, they made no attempt to move but, instead seemed set on striking-up further conversation. I watched Tom’s soft brown eyes dart around like a housefly trapped inside a light fixture, as he fumbled for a discussion topic. I never anticipated his question.

“So, are you an artist?” How did he know? Observing my sudden shock, he answered my unspoken question, “Uhh I saw the paint and paintbrush on the counter over there, and I assumed….,” he trailed off, motioning towards the small scarlet jar that sat beside the freezer. “Y-yes I am,” I replied after ages, flashing him a cheeky smile to mask my apprehension. Maxwell spoke up. “Can we see your work?” he blurted out almost too eagerly while Tom nodded in concurrence. My thoughts screeched to a sudden halt. My mirrored masterpiece still sat, behind a white curtain, at the end of the hallway. Before I was able to filter myself, the word “sure” slipped out from my lips. There was no turning back now.

“Wow, you must really like red,” one of them mumbled, regarding the array of various sized crimson-colored jars on my table. “It’s the only color I’ve been able to afford since Mr. Brinkley raised his prices,” I lied, "…so I just mix it into various hues,” I snapped back. “And, well, it is my favorite color,” I slurred devilishly as an idea entered my mind. They started on their way down the corridor.

“I don’t understand—these paintings are all the same,” Maxwell muttered, pointing his stubby forefinger at my brilliant vermillion canvas. “Yeah,” Tom agreed, “each one is just a mirror image of the next.” I ignored them. How dare they criticize the dozens of crimson masterpieces I’d slaved over for months? They knew nothing of true art! I closed my eyes and waited for my fury to dissipate. In retrospect, it really was a shame, what I had to do. They seemed like nice guys —they just saw too much. I sat quietly on the stairs, waiting for the gasps that would let me know they’d discovered my showpiece. “Each one is just a mirror image.” Ha! If only he knew! “Just a mirror image.” The dim lighting cloaked the sinister grin that snaked onto my face. “A mirror image,” the words bounced around in my skull, unearthing a lifetime of monotony.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” echoed from the end of the corridor.

I locked the door.

-27-

Photography by: Reuven B. ‘ 15

Betting ManBy: Matt R. ‘14

I’m no betting man, but What are the

odds?What is the likelihood That in this vast and

Endless narrative of the universe, One that transcends

our limited, Human comprehension,

What are the chances thatWe would meet, that our twin, tiny, twinkling

lights wouldWink into existence beside on another,

Not light years away and eons apart but instead in constellation,

Two stars indistinguishable in the vast carpet of the galaxy

And yet somehow unique and perfectly in their place;

How likely is it that in the always-expanding, never- ending quiltThat is existence

We would be stitched right her, together, next to each other?I don’t know, and I won’t

know, Not now and not ever.Some matters simply exceed

us,Their monumental infinity refusing

neat colonizationWithin the confines of our understanding.

Existence baffles the basest of human imperialisms- The need to rational, the compulsion

to comprehend.But when you’re on a

boat, you Know the ocean has a bottom

Even though you’ll never feel it yourself, Never plunge your hands into the spongy wet sand,

Never let its smooth silt trickle between yourfingers.

I just as surely knowthat we both, you and I, even spread out

across the sky,were put her together by no great accident,

not by some clashing of worlds or some cosmic

alignmentbut instead for a reason,

even though how or why will prove as elusive as the ocean floor

for my yearning, struggling fingertips.-

28-

MonologueBy: Anna B. ‘15

Part I

Nothing was the same after I realized that the human race simply had no hope. After

that relaxing epiphany, I could merely marvel at the fact that people have accustomed

their minds to such grotesque rituals without even realizing it. Even the littlest parts of

our everyday lives are amoral and disturbing. Temporally ignoring the issues of nursery

rhythms, (though I’ll get to those later,) let us talk about Hangman.

Hangman. We don’t even employ a euphemism! We’re straight up teaching

children a game called “Hangman.”

Picture this scenario. There’s a wholesome classroom, and a pencil-skirt wearing

teacher with graying hair and a tired smile decides to play a game of Hangman to

teach her students new vocabulary. One girl, Mary-Sue, volunteers, and writes the

blank letters for the word “rascal.” A tricky word for eight-year-olds, the gallows holds

many limbs. To help them and elongate the game, Mary-Sue chirps, “Oh, I’ll just make

him an old man, so I have to draw a cane and hair and wrinkles before you lose!”

This is a game where you hang old men.

Now, the guesser’s goal is to end with as few body parts hanging as possible. You

would think that this displays the players’ kindness, as though we’re trying to save

this man’s life.

Wrong.

Getting one wrong word ends with just the head. Is it really any less disturbing to

leave just a head hanging?? If we win at that, that’s practically saying, “We hanged

and mutilated this man!” If the game finishes with a man incompletely drawn, we’ve

either hanged him and then cut off a bunch of his limbs, or maimed him before

hanging him. This.is.not.cute.

There’s something wrong with a scenario where you have a teacher saying to eight-year-olds, “Let’s play a game!” before drawing gallows on the board.

-29-

Part II

Honestly, this all comes as no surprise, given the nursery rhymes being fed to these

kids a few years back.

“Hush little baby, on the treetop,

When the wind blows, the cradle will fall,

And down will come baby, cradle and all.” –Rock-a-bye-Baby

*beat*

The ominous tune accompanying this song helps matters very little.

I find it unsurprising that toddlers hearing their parents soothingly sing to them to

“hush or die” would end up hanging old men for satire a few years later.

If the baby in that rhyme did survive, she probably found her untimely end in “Jack

and Jill,” because remember, “Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Jill came

tumbling after.”

*beat*

Bye-bye, Jack. Bye-bye, Jill.

And, assuming Jill survived that, she probably, I don’t know, ended up as Peter

Peter Pumpkin Eater’s Wife. After all-

“Peter, Peter, pumkin eater,

Had a wife and couldn’t keep

her. He put her in a pumpkin

shell And there he kept her very

well.”

Honestly, either way, I’d be scared enough of Wee Willie Winkie, as he ran through

the town in his nightgown, rapping at the windows and asking if children were in bed.

But I digress.

And really, who am I to judge? When these child victims of sadistic games and

lullabies end up being the future psychopaths of America, it’s not as though we can

sue Mother Goose.Maybe just hang her in a frivolous game of

Hangman.

-30-

The Little Things

By: Jocie B. ‘15

Tiny flames illuminate the dining room. Soft Hebrew whispers fill the air. Hands

cover faces as mouths recite prayers. Like on any typical Friday evening, my

mother and I stand quietly and welcome Shabbat with the traditional candle lighting

ceremony.

For many Jews, the act of candle lighting before Shabbat simply serves as habit;

however, for me, this ritual brings back a prominent story of my great-grandmother’s

relatives during the Holocaust. At the start of World War II, Grandma Sara’s family

clung passionately to their Jewish customs, acknowledging the brief amount of time

that remained to practice their religion freely. Candle lighting held particular

importance to my relatives in Czechoslovakia. Each week Grandma Sara’s mother

would ignite the wicks on her silver candlesticks and greet the peaceful illusion. For

one day, while the rest of the world was dark with battle, sanctity and hope filled my

family’s home. Soon, word reached Grandma Sara’s parents that the Nazis were

approaching their town.

Realizing that the soldiers would search their home for valuables, they

immediately took action by hiding several family heirlooms. Among these few items

were my great-great- grandmother’s precious silver candlesticks. Buried deeply under

loose floorboards in a tiny, dark room of the house, the candlesticks resided in

underground soil for years, while the Nazis forced Grandma Sara and her family to the

ghetto and then Auschwitz.

Over the years, neighbors invaded the house, and, by the time my great-

grandma and a few of her siblings returned after the war, their home was utterly

chaotic. With her last grain of hope, Grandma Sara lifted the floorboards in the

windowless room and began digging. When her hand reached something cold and

smooth, Grandma’s eyes widened in shock. Pulling the two priceless candlesticks out

of the ground, she stood in silence, amazed by G-d and His miracles.

-31-

Although my Grammy currently lights these candles, I look forward to receiving

them and passing them down to my children. Because of this incredible miracle after

the

Holocaust, the custom of candle lighting continues to fill me with a sense of hope

and pride. One day, Grandma Sara will not be here to tell me stories of her life in

Europe, but

I will make sure that I light those silver candles each week and deliver her

legacy for generations to come.

A r t w o r k by: J o c i e B. ‘ 15

-32-

I Was Thinking About Us Today

By: Dori C. ‘14

I was thinking about us today. I know, crazy right? You literally have not

even appeared in my mind for the past three months. I miss you.

When I told you that I never wanted to see you again, I really meant it. But

now, I feel so alone and I wonder if you feel the same way.

You know what today is don’t you? It is her birthday. March 23. Do you remember

what was happening at this exact minute one year ago today? I had woken up just like

it was any other Tuesday morning. Brushed my teeth, got dressed. Then I went

downstairs for some oatmeal. I really craved that. Do you remember how much

oatmeal I ate? I mean, we are talking a ridiculous amount, like two bowls in the morning

and one when I got home from school. My favorite was by far maple and brown sugar;

of course I didn’t mind some apples and cinnamon every now and then. But if I was in a

bad mood, I absolutely had to have maple and brown sugar, no question. Anyway, after

my oatmeal, I went back upstairs to do my makeup. I would helplessly put on concealer

in an attempt to cover up my acne. My skin was so bad those days! The concealer

would always end up looking cake-y. I would just remove it all. Then, resigned, I just

brushed on some waterproof black mascara and went back down the stairs. I slopped

on my Uggs, my most comfortable pair of shoes, and walked to school.

Social outcast. That was me. The moment I walked onto school property, people

would instantly avoid me. March 23 was no different. I don’t think they realized how

much their silence hurt me. Nobody was there for me, ever. Once my friends found out

about it, they just stopped talking to me and blocked me out. It was like I was never

even

their friend. But what I never understood is why that didn’t happen to you. It

would make me so mad, so depressed. Like it was all my fault and you had nothing to

do with it. Your friends still hung out with you, teachers treated you like they always

did. Maybe it’s because before it happened, everybody was in love with you. You were

perfect, this one little blip in your book should just be erased and forgotten. And I would

go home and cry.

March 23 was no different. It hit me in the lunch room.-33-

Me: Alone, struggling through the throngs of hungry

students. You: Smiling, laughing, sitting at a table with your

friends.

The tears stung my eyes. I attempted to hold them back, like I always did. But

this time, they didn’t stop. I accidentally made eye contact with your deep

brown eyes, turned around and rushed to the exit. My silent crying continued,

making my face a damp, blotchy patch of red. My tired legs and feet sped down the

hall, taking me to the deserted crosswalk. But then, I froze. Pain seized me. I

gripped my stomach, doubling over, screaming. It stopped. I breathed. Then it all

started again: the contraction of pain from inside my stomach, my face contorting

from discomfort. I remember thinking I should sit down. I also remember you

rushing to my aid from behind and holding my hands, reminding me to breathe,

whipping out your phone to dial 911. You must have followed me from the cafeteria.

March 23, you were right beside me. Every following minute starting at the

crosswalk, I looked to you for support. And during that time, it was just you and

me. Nobody else. You and I were together, suffering through the pain. The doctor

and nurses coached me through, but it was you who gave me the strength to

continue.

After five hours and three minutes, it was all done. The physical pain was

gone, yet we kept crying. March 23, six pounds, four ounces, our daughter was born.

I did not want to hold her, I knew if I did, giving her away would be much more

difficult. They rushed her out of the room, and we looked at each other. With both of

us sobbing, helplessly looking to one another for support, I never felt more

connected to anyone I had no real relationship with. I averted my eyes, looked

down, and mumbled, “I never want to see you again.”

You left.

I wonder what her name is. Maybe she has your mesmerizing chocolate eyes,

or your charming grin. I wonder what lullaby never fails to lull her to sleep at night.

I

wonder how small her hands are, and if she calls her mother mommy,

mom, or momma. It has been one whole year.

One entire year that I have felt more alone than ever. I miss you.

-34-

Like Fire

By: Justin W. ‘16

Like Fire, it destroys everything

Just a spark can set a whole forest ablaze

When it is almost gone, it doesn’t take much

to build it back to full flame

It knows no limits and has no ending place

The more there is, the harder it is to

displace

For some it lingers in small amounts,

with nothing to fuel its powerOthers endure the pain they feel, when they let

it burn forever

In its wake it feels nothing, sucking out the life

But sometimes to see what true happiness

is, You need to see by its light

Photography by: A v i v a L . ‘ 16

Photography by: J e n n y R . ‘ 14

-35-

IntroductionBy: Hilla S. ‘14

Change is an interesting thing. It can be subdued and sluggish or spontaneous

and sporadic. It can happen in a breath or in a blink of an eye; with a deafening boom,

a piercing blast, or a screaming bullet. Yet it can also be delivered through strong

words, a firmly held hand, a song, a dream, a kiss and a hug. Change is both beautiful

and brutal. And oh, how change likes to play a fickle game. Evolution, we say is a

necessity to mankind. It is ingrained in our DNA, as vital as the breath we take or the

food we eat.

Darwin stated it so factually: evolution is directly correlated to our survival. It is always

there, always flirting and fighting with us. We strain against it protest it with fists

and guns and anger and fear, but when the frustration cools; we find the terrain a

fascinating one. The world is different. We adapt, we thrive, and then we become

comfortable until within a few seconds, a few minutes, a handful years, or even

decades the wave hits again. We are pulled under the handful years, or even decades

the wave hits again. We are pulled under the bellowing crashes of new ideas and

innovation, until once more we break for air and paddle to the shore, only to find that

we never quite get there. Again and again the wave hits, we go under, and we emerge

stronger, more knowledgeable.

Perhaps we have learned to hold our breath longer; perhaps we have even

learned how not to use our breath at all.

Over the course of this year, I have studied change. I have examined the past

100 or so years of American history. At times I have perused through, not really

noticing the subtle details, and at other moments I pulled out my brother’s college

textbook and stared at the pages trying to truly understand a world I never lived in.

And now as I look back at the many different realities that have waxed and waned,

and eclipsed over and under each other in the last century, I have concluded that as

much as things change, it all really just stays the same. A gun in the hands of a young

boy in 1917 is still a gun in 2004 in the deserts of Iraq. Both weapons kill, both draw

blood and both steal away breath. A campaign against Communist terror in one

decade is a campaign against Islamic terror in another. During WWII America

imprisoned its own citizens; Germany imprisoned its own citizens. Same, same.

History is the story of parallels; it is a mirror which extends in a doubled over image in

each direction, into the finite past and the infinite future. The characters are folded

over and over again, until the lines blur and no one can tell who is who and what is

what because blood is still red no matter when you spill it or where you spill it. But

why? Why the constant déjà vu? Do we not learn from our mistakes? Were we not

warned that if we do not heed the lessons of history, we are condemned to repeat it?-36-

The answer, I believe, is as old as time. It’s an answer sewn into the oldest and

historic of texts. It is there in the bite marks of Adam and Eve’s apple and floating in the

waters of Noah’s Ark. And here I now deliver it to you. Simply put, we are human. We

all share the common denominator of fear, hate, love and jealousy. The list goes on and

on. No one is free from the Seven Deadly Sins. To eradicate evil and purge the world of

all that is bad is to recreate the human. But we cannot do that; we are not God. And

while this realization is a realistic one and somewhat sad, it is not as pessimistic as it

seems. If we accept the fact that evil is omnipresent. If we realize that evil is the

marrow that makes up our bones, but also acknowledge that nestled along this evil

brother is the twin sister, love, than perhaps there is hope. Perhaps we can stop trying

to change what cannot be changed and instead affect what we can. Perhaps what the

world needs is not a reinvention of the human, but rather an amelioration of the one

that already exists.

Perhaps brawls and brushes with violence will persist indefinitely, but instead of

carving out the damage with sharp knives, we can hug and kiss to heal our bruises.

Perhaps we cannot obliterate evil, but we can bend it, soothe it, calm it, so it is no

longer as sharp and brittle, but rather as soft as a baby’s cheek and as smooth as the

greenest leaf. Perhaps.

Perhaps. But let change reign, let it come. And when it does, let us try to

move a little slower, kill a little kinder, and hug a little harder. It comes, it comes. So

come and heal the black and blue and withhold all those punches.

Photography by: A v i v a L . ‘ 16 -37-

Sweatpants

By: Noa R. ‘16

I never thought that something as little as a pair of plain, black, baggy

sweatpants with a white tying string would mean so much to me. I discovered these

sweatpants in a time of pain. Feeling that nothing and no one could give me any

comfort after my father passed away, it was as if my life was paused and would stay

there, frozen in time at that traumatic moment.

I knew I needed something, anything to relieve some of the agony and anguish

that I was feeling. Realizing that I needed his scent, the way my father smelled, his

specific deodorant, shaving cream and hospital soap, I started going through his closet

and his dresser, seeing if I could find anything that smelled like him. I was unsuccessful.

Nothing had that special smell. I felt so small, so tired and so alone. I felt as though I was

a small child wandering around in the woods at night, the trees so dense that the glow of

the moon and stars couldn’t come through to light the way. I had pictured myself having

some piece of clothing that could be a reminder of him for me forever, a reminder of the

way that I had fallen a sleep as a baby snuggled against his worn undershirt, inhaling the

unique fragrance of my father that helped me to fall asleep.

Desperately, I started pulling open his drawers randomly. I found a pair of his

large, soft sweatpants. Putting them on, pulling the drawstring tight around my waist, I

crawled into his bed and pulled up the covers. I just kept hugging my legs and crying. I

thought I would stay in that position forever. In some small way I felt comforted.

Wearing a piece of his clothing comforted me, as thought it was a piece of him.

To the naked eye they are just plain black sweatpants, nothing special, much too

big on me. But whenever I have a bad day, or I’m just feeling like I need him, I take out

my father’s sweatpants and wear them. Its like my constricted lungs can open and I can

say to myself “Just breathe…just breathe…”

-38-

Baby Blanket

By: Jasmine K. ‘16

Occasionally I go to my closet and take out my baby blanket. The smell,

texture, and feeling of it all bring me back to the day of the fire, the day it gave me

comfort when I needed it most.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” my mother screamed form the kitchen. I picked

up toys from the floor, trying to get everything tidy for Sukkot the next day. I

looked around and saw my brother, sister, and father cleaning too. My mother

walked downstairs to help us clean. Everything seemed fine, but in a second

everything changed.

I heard loud beeping and started smelling smoke. I wasn’t sure what was

going on. I heard my mother scream, “Get out of the house!”

I was confused. What was going on? Why were we running outside? Then I

put the pieces together.

Fire.

A fire in our house.

I wanted to be brave. I wanted everything to be okay. I grabbed onto my

mother and my sister on the other side of her. I thought it was okay. It was probably

just a little fire. Then I looked up and saw tears falling from my mother’s eyes. I

realized it wasn’t.

I grabbed onto my mother tighter and began crying. What about our house?

What about your stuff? My toys. Everything. I was petrified.

My father ran inside and began putting out the fire. Police cars and fire

trucks began coming up our street. They’re here, I thought. They’re here to save

us.

Everything happened so quickly, the fire being put out. Running inside to grab

a few things.

The first thing I grabbed was my baby blanket. It was a gift from my great

grandmother Mary. I’ve had it since the day I was born. It was quite small, with

teddy bears and fruits and my name embroidered on.

It smelt like safety.-30-

Analogy Poem

By: Rachel R. ‘16

She lies underneath the covers,

Reminiscing about who used to share

them.

He’s gone, but she’s here.

All day she has not a care in the

world, Nothing else reminds her of

him.

But at night the memories flood her thoughts.

The sight of their bed brings back all the

time they’d spent.

She tosses and turns but wakes no one in

the process.

She calls out his name half expecting an answer.

Now burdened with too many sleepless

nights, And no one to share them with.

The loneliness consumes her.

Photography by: Rebecca G. ‘ 16-40-

The Pond

By: Kara E. ‘16

I stand here, a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon in my hand, gazing into the pond in

which I drowned my husband. You might say I’m crazy, but I can promise that I

am most certainly not. I have sought revenge against my husband for over 30 years.

At the ages of 18 and 27, we committed our lives to each other. Yet, I regret ever

uttering the words “I

do.” Although the first few years of our marriage seemed like a fairy tale, alcohol

took hold of my husband, and life became a daily hell, consisting of physical and mental

abuse.

At first, I believed he could change. I would look into his eyes and see my loving

prince trapped in the body of a monster. Yet, once his eyes grew icy and dark, I knew I

had lost him, I began to hate the fiend my husband had become. I abhorred his odor,

his presence,

and his labored, heavy breathing so much that I knew one of us must die in

order for the other to survive.

I schemed his murder strategically and cautiously. I observed him for over a

month, waiting for the perfect time—drunker than his normal state—to follow through

with my plan. Saturday night, he stumbled home from the bar at two-o’clock in the

morning, screaming, cursing, and throwing furniture throughout the house —a perfect

time for me to advance. Jolted out of bed, I ran into the bathroom and looked under the

sink for the secret supply of vodka my husband kept in case of emergencies. I’ve seen

him this drunk before. One more glass of alcohol would leave him unconscious until

morning. However, I knew that interfering with him like this would also jeopardize my

own life. Yet, I wanted him dead so badly that it seemed worth the risk. Trying to grab

his attention, I stomped down the stairs, hoping he would notice the object of his

obsession in my hands before he would see me. Fortunately, he immediately snatched

the bottle out of my hands, thrust me down on the floor, and staggered into the kitchen;

alone with his true love.

-41-

Ten minutes later, I cautiously crept into the room to find him face down, passed out

on the floor.

Calmly, I pried the bottle from his hands and began dragging his limp body to the

pond in our woods. My house was surrounded by trees, so no car or neighbor could see

me as I hauled an unconscious man across my lawn. It took over an hour to lug him

through the back door, past the backyard, into the woods, and finally to the dirt bank

next to the pond. Here, I shoved his body in the water, and watched his as he sank. My

husband, an alcoholic, had no friends, family, or job that would miss him. He preferred

drinking alone at home, so he only left the house on rare occasions — to patronize bar—

and therefore demanded I buy his alcohol regularly. No one would know of his death.

With his comfort, I slunk away, never looking back.

In the weeks following his murder, I became myself again. I gained weight, I slept

through the night, and I ate three-course meals. Living became effortless. However,

one night I woke up choking. I could feel my husband’s cold hand pressing down on me,

constricting my neck. When I opened my eyes, no one was there. My husband was

dead. I ran from the room clutching my neck, and stopped at the stairs finally able to

breath.

This pattern continued to occur every night. Eventually, it would only relent when

I reached the now bloody pond that contained a dematerializing body rotting at its

bottom.

I’m speaking to you now, at the edge of the pond, with my fifth glass of Cabernet

Sauvignon in my hand. I peer into the spinning, bleeding pond one more time, and I

know what I must do in order to escape my miserable life. I don’t look back. I jump, and

feel the icy pond suck me into its depths.-42-

Dedicated to Mr. Elden Schneider:

For his constant support and guidance throughout

the entire process of creating the Literary Magazine.

From the weekly Monday meetings to the final layout

design, Mr. Schneider both kept the group focused and

also created a warm

and lively environment which inspired students to keep

coming back to Literary Magazine meetings. Thanks to his

invaluable leadership

and insight throughout the past few years, members of

the literary magazine staff gained a unique appreciation

for literature and

creativity. Mr. Schneider taught us to value attention to

detail, the complexity of literature, and the unifying

power of a common goal.

Thank you!

The 2014 Editing Staff

Anna, Jacob, Jenny, Helyn, and Yitz

-43-

A r t w o r k By : J o c e l y n B. ‘ 15

-44-