Issuu

gateway 2020

Editors-in-Chief: Ruby Benjamin & Lillian Bernstein Prose Editor: Helen Rudoler Poetry Editors: Maya Langer & Serena Levingston Faculty Advisor: Ms. Hallie Anderson Staff Rosie Ackerman, Niva Cohen, Raphael Englander, Alitza Hocchauser, Rebecca Miller, Eliana Pasternak, Alexis Shachter, Maya Shavit

Jack M. Barrack Hebrew Academy, Bryn Mawr, PA

Lauren Mermelstein

table of contents

Front Cover Back Cover Drawing You Need to Run Faster Drawing Drawing Concealed Conviction Room 101 Photograph As If, in a Dream Drawing Ripples Hunting Drawing Big Bold Letters Photograph Suburban Skyline Photograph Spaced Out Untitled Drawings Photograph Beach Day Drawing Daddyâ€™s Girl Painting Wood Songs Simmered in History Photograph I Often Interrupt[-] Good Experiences Drawing The Tree Photograph The Nowhere House Drawings Drawing Your Mother, Nature Photograph A Melody of Molten Sunlight Drawings My Letter Painting Happiness Can Be Found...Even in the Darkest of Times Drawing A Poem in Three Parts Drawing Read: 7 pm

Lillian Bernstein Lillian Bernstein Lauren Mermelstein........................................ 3 Ruby Benjamin................................................ 5 Lauren Mermelstein........................................ 5 Lillian Bernstein.............................................. 6 Devora Solomon.............................................. 6 Benjamin Zelnick............................................ 7 Lillian Bernstein.............................................. 7 Kayla Bleier...................................................... 8 Lauren Mermestein......................................... 8 Maya Langer..................................................... 8 Gabe Miller....................................................... 9 Sophia Shapiro............................................... 10 Alitza Hocchauser......................................... 11 Emily Kaplan.................................................. 11 Kailee Bar-Nadav........................................... 11 Danny Wax..................................................... 12 Serena Levingston......................................... 13 Orli Friedman................................................ 14 Kailee Bar-Nadav........................................... 14 Danny Wax..................................................... 15 Daniel Bernstein............................................ 15 Benjamin Dahan............................................ 16 Ruby Benjamin.............................................. 16 Sophia Shapiro............................................... 17 Maya Langer................................................... 17 David Goldfarb.............................................. 18 Sabrina Chevlin............................................. 18 Kayla Bleier.................................................... 19 Kailee Bar-Nadav........................................... 20 Sophia Decherney......................................... 21 Orli Friedman................................................ 21 Eliana Pasternak............................................ 22 Lillian Bernstein............................................ 22 Daniel Bernstein............................................ 23 Alitza Hocchauser......................................... 26 Mira Greenspan............................................. 26 Raphael Englander........................................ 27 Lillian Bernstein............................................ 27 Anonymous.................................................... 28 Alitza Hocchauser......................................... 28 Rosie Ackerman............................................. 29 Sophia Shapiro............................................... 30 Lillian Bernstein............................................ 30 Lauren Mermelstein...................................... 30 Ruby Benjamin.............................................. 30

You Need to Run Faster

Lauren Mermelstein

It’s a funny thing Passion When you feel something so deeply That you are willing to give everything Your life To make it a reality To fight with whatever you have To prove That you can You can do it You can run faster But it’s even more interesting When that drive consumes you Pushes you to prove Yourself Over And over And over At everything

Because at the end There is something You want Something You need That only your ceaseless running Only your burnt-out lungs And only your frozen sweat Will carry you towards

When your hands whip through the air At what feels Like breakneck speed And the cold air slaps your knuckles When the frigid wind Stabs the insides of your lungs But you keep moving

So that when you get to That checkered flag Your fingertips are a little less Cold Your breath feels a bit Warmer And You’ve made it -Ruby Benjamin

Lillian Bernstein

Concealed Conviction

he was shaking as she fidgeted with the perfectly manicured bouquet of flowers next to the bed. The fluorescent lighting illuminated the gray sheen that the nausea had imprinted on her face. “Stop that, they’re fine,” I snapped, agitated by her constant movement. “Calm down, you’re making me more nervous.” She stopped and then tweaked one last myrtle leaf before dropping her hands. Walking to the door, her shoes dragged on the linoleum floor. The hinges sighed as the door shut with a whoosh behind her and I gasped as the first tear rolled down my cheek. I could not stop the rest that followed so I stood up and repositioned the myrtle leaf as it had been. I collapsed back in the chair and the foam cushion gave way as my head fell into my hands. I could feel the tears streaming down my forearms and pooling at my elbows on the armrests. I heard the door slowly open as she tried to make as little noise as possible. She hung a small wooden cross on the wall next to the bed. “Now Jesus will watch over him,” she whispered, as though trying to convince herself more than me. “As if that will make a difference,” I said at full volume. My words startled her as she crossed herself, forcing her to pause and refocus before moving her hand across her shoulders. “I don’t understand what happened to you. You haven’t gone to church since he got sick.” “I barely feel like spending time with you, much less Jesus right now.” I fingered the rosary hidden in my pocket, my hands recoiling as I felt Jesus’ body sculpted in silver. My harsh words forced her a step back. In that moment I hated her inescapable faith. Almost as much as I hated my own. She was a fool, and so am I, and so is anyone who thinks he can see what God is Doing. -Devora Solomon

Room 101

keypad blares six staccato notes, metal cylinders twist, and two glass doors pivot violently open, thrown aside by a rising swell of students. Into a narrow corridor they stream, the walls constricting and eventually strangling the somber procession. A grim placard inscribed with black letters glowers from a wall in the bowels of the hallway. Pupils spew past the plaque into a cave-like room, its fluorescent lights throbbing with an icy blue glow. Rows of stiff plastic chairs stand at attention, arranged in a flawless grid. Faces paralyzed, pupils dilated, students perch on the seats’ edges, jagged ridges drilling into their thighs. On a mammoth desk confronting the chairs, precisely aligned piles of looseleaf paper lie; each sheet—stained with a red fraction in its upper-right corner—anxiously awaits return to its rightful owner. Condemned to a Sisyphean task, vents overhead labor tirelessly to vanquish the thick humidity and malodor of sweat suspended motionless in the air. Posters smothered in unsolicited words of advice overpopulate the walls, and menacing filing cabinets scowl, a drawer teeming with mustard-yellow folders hanging ajar like a loose tooth. In the corner, pea-green wire baskets shed brittle paint chips onto a rickety wooden table. Jumbles of protractors, their numbers faded, and heaps of calculators, their faces blank, spill from the containers. As the metal door latches shut, silence engulfs the room. Outside, snowflakes soothe the ice-encrusted grass, painting a tranquil scene; abruptly, leaden shades slice the view, shrouding the room in tenebrous despondency. As violent banging on the ceiling obliterates the silence, heads synchronously swivel before hastily returning to the front of the room. A pair of heels clicks on a polished tile floor, and erasers dash back and forth, back and forth, leaving smears of grey graphite. An overworn area on a sheet of looseleaf paper grows as rough as sandpaper, slowly shriveling, woefully peeling until all that remains is a tattered hole. At the corner of each desk, mounds of pink, gummy crumbs accumulate until they are banished onto the ground. The metronome of heels on the floor accelerates unexpectedly; markers squeak and whimper as their protective caps are pried off and they are dragged across the glossy whiteboard. Simultaneously, a panting projector expels the acrid stench of smoldering rubber as it casts equations onto a smartboard. Caustic nasal proclamations oust all unwanted distractions, splintering students’ skulls, crushing individual voices, shattering self-worth. A liberating chime at last flows from a speaker, and the door bursts open, belching a mass of students.

Lillian Bernstein

-Benjamin Zelnick

As If, in a Dream

urprised, I flexed my hand. All around, I watched unnamed colors form shapes that did not exist. My self wafted through the fog like an instinct. The air smelled of stillness. I watched strangers I did not know clutch names of comfortable faces, all for an instantaneous eternity. As if it always was, I was fleeing. Then I was conscious, and then I drifted under the waves again. Repeatedly I surfaced, gasping for air, only to submerge seconds after. It was beautiful and terrifying, revolting, and sublime. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life. Despite my body’s activeness, I wanted to rest emptily, no startling interruptions. -Kayla Bleier

Ripples The river stone rolls down the shore And through the waving reeds The rippling water, still before, Disturbed by the startled minnow’s speeds

Lauren Mermelstein

In a frightened, frantic burst It swims through the new bubbles Sending them twisting up, dispersed To become someone else’s troubles That someone is a kingfisher Looking for a late lunch And now rendered but a wisher To the credit of the bunch The bunch of speckled frogs, that is Who are his true target They bunk down on the basis Of being covered by a shadowy, stony, reedy carpet

-Maya Langer

Hunting

wo quail flew out of a tree. “Bang!” “Bang!” “Bang!” One dropped to the ground. Two dogs barked happily, running over to the bird and bringing it to me. “I missed!” My uncle didn’t catch the other bird. My family and I were hunting quail on a sunny, crisp winter morning in Georgia. We trekked through the hunting grounds with our guide, his vicious hunting dogs, and our shotguns. The woods had been manicured perfectly. Trees were spaced out to give the animals the least chance of survival, and walking paths cut neatly through the shrubbery. The forest was a slave to the hunters; we molded it into the perfect grounds to catch our prey. There was a section of the forest we weren’t allowed to go into. “Them woods ain’t our woods” The guide explained. “The animals own those woods”. The zoned off woods were not manicured. That forest was untamed and free, providing a perfect haven for animals trying to escape death in the hunter’s arena. We skirted the woods, avoiding entering the wild bushes. Occasionally, a bird I was trying to kill would fly into the woods, escaping my shot. I would grimace and move on. After a couple hours of hunting, I had shot seven birds. I had not, however, caught the bird I had wanted yet: the Pheasant. The Pheasant was a larger, harder bird to catch. I was determined to kill at least one before we left. If I wanted to catch one it would have to be soon, though. Clouds and rain were encroaching our sunny morning. I was walking next to my cousin when we heard a rustling in the shrub in front of us. The hunting dogs perked up, the pointer dog’s nose aiming straight at the shrub. I switched my safety off. On cue, a pheasant shot out of the bushes. The sun glowed on his golden brown wings. Morning dew sparkled on his lapis blue neck. He flapped powerfully, desperately away from me. He was beautiful. I was mesmerized by his grace as he rose towards the canopy. I aimed to take my shot. “Bang!” I missed. He landed again in the bushes twenty feet away. I reloaded quickly and rushed ahead, my guide running to keep up with me. A bird flew up in front of me. It was just some quail. I fired my two rounds and kept moving, leaving the wounded quail to be torn apart by the dogs. I finally reached where I saw the Pheasant. Again, he sprung up and started flying. I pointed to shoot at him. “Click”. I forgot to reload. Before I could catch him, the Pheasant flew into the quarantined woods, out of my reach. My guide patted me on the back “I’m sorry kid, the fellers in his woods now. Besides, it’s starting to rain. Best go back before we drown in mud”. I looked at him, then back at the dark, wild forest. I could see the pheasant staring at me. The ruby red feathers surrounding his taunting eyes angered me; he wasn’t getting away. I plunged into the animal’s woods. The pheasant took off, flying deeper into the knot of vines and branches. Diamond raindrops flew off of his body and onto my dirt caked forehead. I pursued him, cutting through the bushes. The rain got heavier and the mud got thicker, but I kept pushing ahead. The forest played with me, grabbing me with roots, hitting me with branches, and throwing up thick vines and bushes to force me down one path. The pheasant flew gracefully, almost carelessly in front of me, as if he knew the forest was stopping me from killing him. Mud and grass washed over my footprints, erasing the path back to my hunting grounds.

The pheasant led me to a clearing in the forest, perching confidently on an exposed branch high up on a tree. I was waist deep in mud at this point, wading towards my target. I pointed to shoot. The pheasant stood on his tree, staring at me as the mud rose to my chest. I clicked, but the gun wouldnâ€™t fire; the rain and mud must have jammed it. The mud was at my neck now. I went to grab at a low-hanging branch, but the forest grabbed my foot, its roots pulling me into the mud. The pheasant stared down at me haughtily, watching the mud climb over my mouth and nose and rise up to my eyes. I clawed frantically at the mud, trying to raise my head for air but it was no use; the forest had caught me.

Sophia Shapiro

-Gabe Miller

Big Bold Letters

Emily Kaplan

hen I say big, bold letters, I mean big, bold letters. But not even big, bold, nice-looking letters with a pleasant font that compelled kids, like me, to doodle them a thousand times into the margins of their math homework. No ma’am. They were the clunkiest, weirdest looking letters I’d ever seen. Not only that, but they were also printed across the screen in an obnoxiously bright yellow. It was almost as if they were screaming “Hi! Look at me! I’m all outer-spacey and cool!” As if the blaring trumpets weren’t enough to startle me out of my puppy pajamas in the first place. My tiny first grade self, greasy popcorn fingers and all, swiveled around to face my mom. I must’ve given her the most disappointed look because the only thing she said was “Oh, don’t give me that. You’re going to love it!” And I guess she was right because from then on, the big, bold letters which spelled out “Star Wars” changed my galaxy forever. -Alitza Hocchauser

Suburban Skyline the sky is falling in. what once was a black sheet is now speckled in white holes who is stealing pieces of my sky? letting light cheat its way through pockets in my black blanket of comfort. are we under attack? why must they take my city lights? -Kailee Bar-Nadav

Danny Wax

Spaced Out

n anticipation of spending an entire day with her alone, outside of the space station, Ed’s heart had been racing since the very early morning, and his palms felt sweaty, though his protective gloves would soon hide that. His freeze-dried Frosted Flakes (they’re grrrreeeat!) kept drifting out of his bowl as if summoned by a Higher Power; although his usual reaction would be to smile and eat faster, today he tamped them down with his small spoon, sighing a quick, sharp sigh. In the bathroom, Ed examined his reflection in the small, distorted mirror. A shock of brown hair darted forwards; he smoothed it back to no avail. Dark brown eyes with a light ring of gold hid under a creased brow. His mouth, small and pink, was bunched and tense today. Already, his cheeks were turning red. Ed turned to the sink to brush his teeth, shaky hands squeezing the toothpaste tube too hard. Uh oh, too much toothpaste on his brush. Ed shrugged - at least now he didn’t have to worry about his breath smelling through his glass bubble helmet. He brushed his teeth roughly, checking for bits of Frosted Flakes afterward. On his way out, he took one last glance in the mirror, baring his teeth and turning his face from side to side with furrowed eyebrows. At his lab table, Ed gathered the chemicals in sealed tubes for his day of researching with a churning stomach. Maybe those two bowls of Frosted Flakes were a bad idea, he thought. With trembling hands, he pulled on his spacesuit, first the stiff bodysuit, then the airtight boots, then the fishbowl helmet, and lastly, the protective gloves. If even a picometer of his skin was exposed to the void of space, he would freeze to death faster than a meteor blazing across the sky. Today, a part of him wished he would, but nevertheless, he dressed for space. He slowly put his air tank on his back, thinking, Maybe this will help me feel less short of breath. It did, for about a minute, until he exited the space station through the astronaut mudroom, as he liked to call it, into the outdoors. Immediately, Ed was struck by the sensation he had grown accustomed to during his three months on the space station: feeling his stocky, full-grown body floating. The scientists told Ed he had a strong heart when he qualified to be an astronaut, but since arriving in space, it had been tested again and again, not just by the lack of gravity, but by Angela. Making his way to the external area of the space station that housed the research equipment where Ed tested the chemicals, Ed’s eyes were immediately drawn to Angela, and although his brain kept chanting, Don’t be weird, stop staring weirdo, don’t be weird, you’re making it weird, his eyes just wouldn’t obey. To Ed, Angela lit up space like a star. If she were a star, he’d be Exoplanet K2-43c, the most recently discovered exoplanet, orbiting her with wide eyes. Ed’s clammy, gloved hands kept brushing up against Angela’s, and each time they did, he took a sharp intake of breath. No more awkward eye contact for him - from now on, Ed vowed to look only at his research experiment involving chemistry and not at Angela, where he could only dream of chemistry. What a piece of work is Angela! Here we are, working side by side, and she hasn’t looked at me once. Is she even aware of my existence? -Serena Levingston

“

untitled

Kailee Bar-Nadav

Orli, how much does the pain weigh?” My mind drove like a racecar around my brain searching for an answer. It quickly turned the corner to the memories of my younger self which contrasted the emotions I felt in that moment, emotions that ran thick through my veins, threatening the flow of my blood. I was transported to a time that felt external from my present existence. It was a beautiful, sunny day and I ran around weightlessly with the sense of freedom that only a child has the innocence to experience. I immersed myself in the fantastical game the four of us played on the radiant Sunday afternoon. I wasn’t Orli, but a character in our traditional game of survival. Jessie, Seffi, Rebs, and I were 10 years old, and I was in a state of being I’ll never again recapture. My thoughts were the flavor of candy, and my life was a comforting shade of blue. I enjoyed the calm thoughts that gently whistled through my brain. As I narrated the game we played, my mind sang background music to the tune of my mood. The song “Here Comes the Sun” by the Beatles quietly pulsated throughout my body. I felt a surge of power and confidence rush over me as my pony tail waved from side to side. My largest worry was the unexciting arrival of my Mom’s car in the driveway. Where did that bliss disappear to? Seven years later, I sit in the same yard next to those three friends who had been so central to my life. Now we stare back at the porch where we had died and come back to life so many times before in our fictional game. I saw my younger self running around carelessly, and looked down at my body to remind myself that I’m the same girl. While I sat overlooking the yard, I gathered the broken pieces of myself that laid shattered in my bursting mind. Songs played in my head as bandaids to cover the thoughts that haunted me. My friends each smiled, radiating a deep sense of contagious nostalgia. The brightness of their eyes made them appear lost in space, but I knew that they were imagining their younger selves and were engrossed by the power of reminiscing. I felt that nostalgia too, but with an unsettling aftertaste. I proposed that we head back to the car because I knew that I’d soon ruin the seemingly pleasant moment with dark tears that carried my emotions with them - tears that roll out of my eyes without my permission. When did I lose control of my feelings? My therapist repeats herself, “Orli, how much does the pain weigh?” I explain to her that it can’t be confined to a measurement; rather, it’s a movement within my body that ceaselessly turns within me without my guidance or approval. It begins in my stomach as a whirl and swiftly travels through my lungs and up to my throat. It stops at my throat and forces me to swallow it back down and wait until it unexpectedly creeps back up again. My therapist looks at me like she knew what I was going to say before the words fell out of my lips. She quickly follows up her question with another “Why are you feeling that pain?” This question is harder to answer because the words that should slip out of my mouth stay on my tongue and leave a bad taste. I don’t want to tell her, but I do anyway. I tell her that I’ve lost myself

and that I’m trying my very hardest to prepare for the ACTs, but I’m struggling. I’m embarrassed as I hear the words out loud. Why can’t I handle the workload if so many of my other friends can? I thought I was strong. The little girl in the backyard knew she was strong and was always ready to prove that. Now I’m weak and drained. I breathe, as instructed. As the breath flows through my body, a sense of determination hatches within me. I’m now determined to rediscover that girl who felt weightless.

Danny Wax

-Orli Friedman

Beach Day

s I reached the top of the steps, the mighty ocean welcomed me. Its waves reached out towards the sand to greet me and invited me to come with them as they receded. They crashed louder and more excitingly as my legs brought me closer. The breeze guiding me along smelled strongly of salt and gave a cool relief to the beating sun on my skin. I first dipped my toe into the warm sand, then my foot, and then it hugged my ankles as it attempted to engulf my leg. I simply stood there, the wind running through my hair, the vast ocean roaring before me, seagulls swooping from the sky, and the sun illuminating the scene. When I turned to see if the rest of my family was also experiencing this, they were already stationing themselves on the beach. Each was hunching in a plastic chair, eyes fixating down, busying themselves with a book, phone, or newspaper. Tension hung in the air, most likely the remnants of some pointless bickering from before. Their setup obstructed my view of the water. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.

-Daniel Bernstein

Benjamin Dahan

Daddy’s Girl

i, hi. My name is Emma. Nice to meet you. My daddy says that just because people don’t understand me now doesn’t mean I’m not amazing. He says I’m amazing, and he says Mommy thought so too and that she didn’t leave because of me. It wasn’t my fault, she just didn’t know what to do with her life so she thought the best idea was to run off to Seattle with Hank. I don’t like Hank, neither does Daddy, and neither should you, but that doesn’t matter. Anyway, I was born in the big city but Mommy decided that the air was hurting her head so we had to move to the Rockies, and the Rockies hurt Daddy’s head. So me and Daddy and our German shepherd Rex moved back to the city and now we live in New York. I go to school there and I have friends like Miss Taylor and Mrs. Schmidt. They say I’m really really smart. See, I’m only six years old but I already know all my times tables and I even read chapter books with Daddy and Rex every night. I wish I had time to read you one now, but it’s getting late. Soon, I’m gonna read Harry Potter. Daddy told me that if I finish Harry Potter and write my very own book report about it by Christmas that we can go to Disney world and I love Disney World, even though I’ve never been there before, but I know it’s the happiest place on earth. Maybe at Disney World I’ll be friends with the Seven Dwarves and other people that are small like me, not big giants like Mrs. Schmidt, Daddy says she’s five feet tall! You’re probably a giant too--Daddy says that adults get tall and I think you’re an adult. But I want friends like me, and I’m pretty big, I’m almost four feet tall. Dr. Smith told me that’s perfect and then Daddy gave me a big hug. There are some people in my class, like Ava, Isabella, and Daniel and they look at me funny, and that makes me laugh. But I get a little scared when their mommies look at me funny and then talk to each other really quiet, it makes me think that maybe something’s wrong. But Daddy tells me there’s nothing wrong and I’m his little miracle. And I love my daddy so much. -Ruby Benjamin

Wood Songs Walking in the woods, hearing the birds The rustling of branches, the crunching of leaves Jumping over ferns, bushes, wild herbs Humming a tune without any words Hearing it wind away among trees A song sparrow joins me from a low perch His auburn head bobs, he flies to the ground And looks around in a ceaseless search For a mate, a bug, a twig of birch And my head turns to see what he found There, on a trunk, a black-and-white warbler Sheâ€™s standing in moss, singing a note Thin and high, declaring her border But Iâ€™m too bold as I move toward her She flutters away to somewhere remote Strolling onward into the park On a tree branch, her own thoroughfare I pass on my path a lovely skylark Leading foxes away from her nest in the bark So I watch where I walk, stepping with care

Sophia Shaprio

The path now turns, heading to the stream Where the wood thrushes sing trilling songs Though each unique, they all share a theme Their notes entwine as if in a dream Each one knowing that he belongs -Maya Langer

Simmered in History

Sabrina Chevlin

can’t recall the first time I tasted Beef Bourguignon, as this recipe has been in my family for several generations. My mother piles Beef Bourguignon onto a plate for me, I take the first bite. An explosion of fried onions, carrots, garlic, and soft beef hits my tastebuds. The beef is perfectly tender, having been simmered in wine for hours; it is just like the recipe itself, simmering through generations. I try to slow down to savor the meal, but it is too good, and I eat like a maniac before asking for a second helping. After finishing two plates full, I sit back in the chair, unable to move, stuck in a food coma. Even though I’m completely immobile, I manage to ask my mother if I can take some to school the next day for lunch. A couple of years ago, during winter break, I came downstairs after hearing the clanking of pots and pans. My mother told me she was planning to make Beef Bourguignon for our family get-together. I volunteered to help, enjoying the serenity of cooking. I’ve heard the story about this family recipe before, but I let my mom tell it again. I cut the onions and threw them into the pot with hot oil, and they began to sizzle, giving off a delightful smell. “My grandmother only prepared this for her family on special occasions, as beef was costly and rare after the war,” my mom said, remembering her parents’ stories from the Soviet Union in the 1940s as she cut carrots and celery and tossed them into the pot. I peeled the garlic cloves, enjoying the smell, then crushed them into the pot and mixed. The aroma of the vegetables, along with my mother’s stories, put me in a happy mood. I started cutting parsley as my mother cut the meat. “There were many more vegetables than meat when my grandmother made it,” she said. I thought to myself, I like this version better. As we threw the final ingredients in, the house filled with the smell of a home-cooked meal, and my heart filled with joy. Later that night, as we sat down and ate together, I saw how my grandmother dipped bread into the stew, making sure to collect all the juices. She told me the story of her family’s survival, how she was evacuated from warm Ukraine to freezing Siberia with her mother and sister in the fall of 1941. She told me that is where her mother learned to make the dish with simple root vegetables, a little bit of meat, and a lot of warmth and love. I saw her savor every bite, her eyes filling with tears as she kissed my forehead. The clanking of spoons, exciting voices, and family conversations brought me peace.

-David Goldfarb

I Often Interrupt [-] Good Experiences How does it sound when you think and when you think what can you hear when you are happy can you see that you are happy can you know what it is that makes you so. Because I love To enjoy the immediate comfort of its curve under my chest, and familiar weight on my thigh [To] rest my hand against its body, fingers poised and ready fingers to be torn and bloody grasp its neck but is that sexual? shut up. enjoy the gâ€˜tar potential energy gently rising to feel my heart slow as I remember the music I will make To salivate deep inside as I turn the bookâ€™s pages taste in my eyes the information on the page delicious. more. greedily gain greedily read enjoy satisfaction in what I take dissatisfaction in what I have more. To thirstily drink the books off the shelves, devour them late into the night never enough. To stand among trees, any trees as long as they stand close my eyes and just listen to the bugs and the windbut why are you lonely, girl? also hear people and cars too feel a weighted peace cover it all like a blanket of moss that trails like a cape no for the next minute or so I am content. To lie back and simply look up see layers of history in the pinpricks of light enthralled, be it a million or seven a good number hush! realize my size in a universe so vast alone? no .

how do you know feel my dreams bubble to the surface - of sailing among the stars lose myself for infinite stretches of infinite time amid the infinite (don’t get lost) depth of the sky all around little girl To experience a radiating peace from closing a book I loved to open to love in the past is it now? hear the intangible quiet (settle) around me To sense a peak of content-ness when the pages end taste the story I now own forever embrace the dusting of sadness expelled we’ll meet again -do not worry from the closing book Do your thoughts interrupt your thoughts when you think Is it loud it’s loud

not bad can you enjoy what you used to enjoy because I can

And I love to -Kayla Bleier

Kailee Bar-Nadav

The Tree

o there’s this tree at Arbora - my old elementary school - a big one. With sprawling, tumultuous roots and majestic, gnarled branches. A hulking oak tree, rich dark green leaves, you know the type. A bunch of birds lived there and squirrels too and ants made rival little hills in between the roots on the playground sides. But from 12:30 to 1:00 the ants weren’t the only ones living in between the roots. When children come out to play and rush to the playground or the soccer game or competitive daisy chain competitions there is always that kid that falls between the cracks. Those are the children of the tree. You see, there is an unspoken pact between the students of the Arbora Jewish Day School that The Tree is a tree of solitude. Anyone who doesn’t have a friend spends their recess roaming round the roots. As I’m sure you can imagine I was such a child. New to the school, shy beyond words, imaginative, in all, a perfect candidate. Eventually, I was joined by two other tree inhabitants. We roamed the roots, all together, each alone, all headed counterclockwise, each in an opposite direction. We tripped through root tunnels, sat in the curves of the trunk, and balanced on the beams of low branches. Eventually our paths converged. Fleur and Sorrel - inhabitants two and three - became my best friends and united we left the roots and The Tree. But even so, in my mind, those roots are my refuge for those many days when I still fall in between the cracks. Six years later I returned to Arbora for my brother’s fifth grade graduation, I returned to The Tree. I guess I had cut the route so deep within my mind that my feet retraced it automatically. The Tree stood tall and everlasting, but its roots were gone: covered up by new and foreign soil. Someone decided the roots were a tripping hazard. Someone decided that the way to catch the falling was to take from them any refuge in which to fall. From 12:30 to 1:00 children still play. There is still a playground, an “improved” safer one with no dangerous seesaw or tire swing, not the one I knew. There is still soccer, organized by teachers so that everyone wins. There are no daisy chains, a garden committee decided they were weeds. There are no drama programs, it’s been replaced with extra gym class. There is a tree, but not The Tree. The Tree had roots, The Tree had comfort, The Tree had children falling through the cracks. -Sophia Decherney

Photograph by Orli Friedman

The Nowhere House

Lillian Bernstein

he ground was too cold, but Rhea wanted to be away from the walking trail. It was always full of power-walkers and angry mothers anyways, neither of which Rhea wanted to spend her Sundays with. It was a little bit hard to make out the words of her book, what with the round oversized sunglasses that kept slipping down her nose. She didn’t want to take them off though. It was sunny, despite the biting cold. She turned the page. Odelia had just bested the evil prince, and on the next page she would enter the palace. Or maybe it was in two pages… Rereading didn’t inspire the same sense of adventure in Rhea ever since she lost her original copy of Odelia June. If she concentrated, Rhea could practically feel her old paperback. She’d gotten it for her eighth birthday. Its pages were dog-eared and the cover sported a brown ring where a coffee cup had been left for too long. The new book had a different cover, one with a screencap from the movie, and its paper was too white. Rhea tucked the book into her backpack. She wasn’t really in the mood to read anyways. Tipping her head towards the sky, Rhea moved her bag so she could rest her head on it. Aside from the glarey sun behind her, the sky was just about perfect. Intense blue, dotted with wispy white clouds. Not even the shadow of a cumulonimbus was in the air. Rhea stared up at the clouds to see if she could make them into any shapes. She’d never tried it before, the cloud-watching, and had only seen it in movies. Nevertheless, it seemed like a way to pass time, and cloud-watchers usually looked just whimsical enough to capture attention. At least they did in the movies. While she struggled to find the correlation between the soft puffs of white and well, anything, Rhea wondered if she looked odd in her sunglasses and puffer coat. It wasn’t exactly a combination she saw in magazines. Rhea wasn’t all that surprised to discover that cloud-watching was boring with a capital B. After all, the pastime centered around staring at the sky until seeing something, and Rhea just saw abundances of nothing. She didn’t really want to go home yet, not without a little adventure. Usually, her reading served sufficient, but well, that had already proved unsatisfactory. And she couldn’t just stroll around the park aimlessly. Something needed to happen. Rhea stood and walked out to the street. She hadn’t really come up with a plan of action, but Rhea’s mother always told her to walk with purpose. Rhea was trying to swish her hips like famous people did when she saw him. He was sitting on a bench, utterly engrossed in an unfolded paper map. Rhea never saw real maps too often unless she was in a museum or something. The boy’s map was comically enormous, with creases where it’d been folded. Rhea recognized him from school. He sat two rows in front of her in Algebra. He was rather odd, the kind of boy who never used bicycle locks and didn’t know where he was going in a city he’d lived in his whole life. Then again, Rhea liked odd. It was just about equivalent to adventure. She sat herself next to him. The boy jumped visibly before he looked up. The recognition took a moment to register, but when it did, his whole face changed. “Raina!” he shouted, his voice higher than Rhea expected, “Oh that’s not right, you’re erm…

Daniel Bernstein

Rina? No, stupid Miles, stupid Miles.” He hit his head with his hand. “Oh I got it! You’re Rhea! Hi there Rhea!” He stuck his hand out for her to shake it. Rhea took it tentatively and shook his hand strongly. Miles pulled back, as if not expecting her. “So uh, Rhea. You know your way around better than I do, right? All those street signs and intersections must be second nature for you. Plus, I need a bit of help getting from point a to point b, you know?” He moved his two fingers so they were ‘walking’ and shoved the map towards Rhea. “67 Moorey Street. It can uh, be an adventure.” He almost said it like he was asking a question. Adventure. It seemed lame at best, but helping Miles find wherever he was going had to be more interesting than wandering the outskirts of the park. Rhea took a glance at the map before folding it up and putting it into her jean pocket. “Yeah, whatever.” Rhea looked just past Miles, hoping it would add to her decided nonchalance. “Just follow me.” Miles wasn’t a very fast walker. And he didn’t talk much either. He mostly hummed to himself and occasionally kicked at a stone on the sidewalk. Sure, it saved Rhea the awkward conversation, but it was also driving her mad. She could only turn around to find that Miles had gotten distracted and wandered off so many times. Rhea probably could’ve walked away right then and there, but her curiosity nagged at her to keep going. After weighing her options, Rhea opened her mouth. “So Miles, where’re you headed?” Rhea wondered if taking off her sunglasses would break the ice a bit. “Home,” Miles said, kicking another stone. Good grief, this kid doesn’t even know how to get to his own house? Rhea thought, but then considered revising her statement. Miles was most certainly older than Rhea, who had skipped the third grade. Could she even refer to him as a kid? Whatever. “Do you usually have trouble finding it?” Rhea asked, hoping not to sound too sarcastic. She stopped walking and put a hand on her hip. “Oh, never.” Miles strolled past her. “I just wanted to walk with someone who might.” Rhea knew that Miles was a little odd, but no matter how many times she played his last sentence in her mind, she couldn’t make any sense of it. In the last fifteen minutes, Rhea’s view of Miles had changed from pleasantly strange to plain batty. She didn’t even have to jog to catch up with him. Each of Miles’s steps were slow, and it seemed as though he waited for each step to fully resonate before he took his next one. Rhea looked up at Miles while she surpassed him once again. He was grinning real wide. That loon. Moorey Street was short, and it ended in what should have been a cul de sac, but instead was just a ceasing of road. Each house had its number, shiny bronze, nailed to its mailbox. Rhea counted on the odd side of the street. 63, 65… It hit Rhea lightning fast while she stared at the dead grass between 65 and 69 Moorey Street. It was an empty lot. There was no 67 Moorey Street, and if Rhea had to take a guess, there never had been. Miles led her on some kind of goose chase. Rhea thought back to her short-lived conversation with him. He was heading home. She waited for Miles to catch up. Maybe he’d be able to explain himself. Or maybe he was just nuttier than Rhea thought.

Lillian Bernstein

“Nice place right?” Miles tapped Rhea’s shoulder. “I just moved in a few months ago.” He put his thumbs into his pockets and rocked on his heels. Yep, definitely nutty. “Uh.. yeah, it’s real swell.” Rhea pushed her sunglasses on top of her head, squinting at the empty lot. “Do you want to come inside? You’re probably cold.” Miles drew a key out of his coat pocket. He walked towards the empty lot, so slow that he had to be trying. Rhea waited to answer. She readjusted her backpack. “I think I should start heading back soon.” She nodded her head, letting the sunglasses fall back to the bridge of her nose, and turned to leave. “Wait!” Miles yelped, “I uh… want to show you something. Could you just wait there for a minute? I’ll be right out.” Miles didn’t even wait for an answer. He just bolted off towards the lot. Well then. He’s not always so slow. Rhea wondered if she was seeing things. Or maybe Miles was just more invested in the reality of this ‘house’ than she’d thought. He kept miming opening and closing doors and touching countertops that weren’t there. He was so invested in searching invisible drawers that maybe Rhea could escape. Sure, Miles’s antics had seemed mildly endearing at first, but by now, it was a bit tiresome. And Rhea couldn’t stay out too long. Besides, she had to feed her cat. She was two strides away from the end of the street when Miles whistled. Just keep on walking. He probably doesn’t notice you anyways. “Rhea! Come back! I have what I wanted to show you! It’s real cool, I swear!” Rhea didn’t really want to go back, but her curiosity was an invisible hook, dragging her back to 67 Moorey. She put her sunglasses back down and looked back at the lot. Well that can’t be right. She pushed her sunglasses onto her hair again and stared harder. No way… Miles’s brand of crazy must be contagious because Rhea was definitely hallucinating, no doubt about it. She took a step towards the house, training her eyes on Miles’s feet. There were no strings. “Miles?” Rhea’s voice quivered a little bit, “Are you alright up there?” She had to look up to see him. Miles leaned out of what must have been a second-floor-window. Second. Floor. Window. There couldn’t be a second floor in a house that didn’t exist. “I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be?” he replied. Miles had started to look at Rhea as though she were the nutty one. “Come on up here, I’ve got to show you this!” Rhea could’ve fainted on the spot twice over. If she weren’t in such a sputtering state, she’d probably be proud of her staying conscious. Either way, she couldn’t go up to see Miles, he was flying. She forced herself to breathe and not choke on the air. The air he was standing on. “I… uh…” The words wouldn’t come out; they kept getting stuck somewhere in Rhea’s throat. She tried again. “Um… Miles, I can’t come up; maybe you can show me down here?” His face went through maybe fifteen emotions in one minute. “You don’t see it, do you?” Rhea opened her mouth to respond, but Miles kept talking. “I’ve always pegged you as someone who might have been able to see, but I guess I was wrong.” He wasn’t making complete sense, but that was to be expected.

“I have to sit down,” Rhea mumbled, clumsily falling onto the pavement. The ground was colder than the frigid air. Miles glided down what could have been a spiral staircase and walked out to Rhea. “I think you should go home. Just, forget what you saw, or I guess, didn’t see.” Rhea could have left, she probably should have too. Logically, it would have made more sense to forget what had happened. Of course, as soon as Miles told her to go home, Rhea had to stay. It was that stupid nagging feeling, anchoring her to the street. She tried to regain her composure. “What about that thing you wanted to show me?” “It’s nothing.” Miles made sure to keep his hands behind his back. “Well you were certainly intent on me seeing it, and here I am.” She leaned over to see what Miles was hiding, but he moved it. “I was wrong, okay?” Miles ran a hand through his hair, keeping the other firmly behind him. “This was a bad idea in its entirety and I need you to leave. Now.” Rhea had to see what Miles was holding. At first, she only stayed because she couldn’t go, but now… She hadn’t gone this far just to go home. Rhea was bordering on adventure; she could almost taste it, all tangy and melting away too fast. For maybe the only time, Rhea felt like her life could be fantastically thrilling, even more so than Odelia June’s. “I don’t think I will. As a matter of fact, I do see it. It’s rather insulting that you don’t trust me.” Rhea said in her best protagonist voice. She stood up and puffed her chest, hoping she wasn’t over-doing it. Miles was unconvinced. “Oh yeah? What does it look like then?” For once, he stood perfectly still while Rhea searched for the right words. She wouldn’t likely get away with lying, and for all she knew, there wasn’t even a house. “Well…” Rhea didn’t really know what she was doing when she sidestepped and kicked Miles behind his knees. It seemed like something that’d happen in an action movie, but of course, Miles didn’t follow through in the role. Instead of gracefully springing up, he fell right away, and whatever he was holding clattered against the street. Rhea could only half see it, like a sphere of glass with the opacity turned way down. She grabbed for it, almost expecting her hand to fall through. The sphere was cold, and it felt exactly like solid air would, delicate and smooth. Rhea looked up at Miles; he was still sitting on the ground, looking at her, dumbstruck. “You kicked me! Why did you have to do that?” he whined. The Miles Rhea had just started getting to know was back. Rhea raised the sphere up to the sun. “I wanted to see this thing. What even is it anyway?” The sphere was sort of sparkling and the world looked a little different when Rhea peeked through it. “Oh, so you can see that but not the house?” Miles scratched his head. Wait… Rhea looked at the sphere again; was it made of the same stuff that kept Miles afloat? 67 Moorey Street looked a little bit more hopeful when Rhea turned back to the dead grass. Her fingers shook a little while she raised the sphere to eye-level. She looked through it, right where the house could have been. “Oh,” she whispered; the sphere fell to the pavement, not sustaining as much as a crack. It rolled down the road until it stopped under an evergreen. Still seated, Miles smiled. -Eliana Pasternak

Your Mother, Nature

I am from the roots Linking pinkies beneath your feet I am from the waves Swallowing the plastics you excrete I am from the clouds Choking on your Wall Street I am your mother, Nature Burning from your heat -Alitza Hocchauser

Mira Greenspan

A Melody of Molten Sunlight

Lillian Bernstein

had been playing the guitar for ten years and needed a new one. My teacher, Marisol Rampolla, told me that her friend Virginia Luque, an incredible Spanish guitarist, was selling a line of hand-crafted classical guitars. Marisol suggested that in order to take my playing to the next level I should get a guitar to match. My dad and I took the train to New York to go look at the instruments. When we rode the subway in New York, it was strange to be surrounded by the red paint of the 7th Avenue Subway instead of the blue paint of the Market-Frankford Line that I’m familiar with. We arrived at the Guitar Salon where the guitars were being exhibited, and were confronted by two massive, wooden doors. Beautiful designs of roaring lions with golden manes and screeching eagles with outstretched talons were etched into the wood and sprawled over the entirety of both doors. My dad and I knocked on them and the right door opened, allowing us to step into the building. We heard a voice shout, “Come in!” and so we turned left into the room the voice had come from. The room stunned me because it was overgrown with every variety of plucked string instrument imaginable. Guitars of all colors and shapes carpeted the ground, mandolins grew out of the ceiling, banjos wrapped around the furniture, and lutes blossomed out of the worn floorboards. Virginia Luque walked in carrying two guitars. “I don’t want to overwhelm you with too many choices, so as Marisol and I have been talking, we’ve decided on these two guitars for you to choose between,” she said. “One is spruce and the other cedar. Would you like me to play them for you?” “Yes, please” I answered. I had to cover my eyes so that I didn’t make my choice based on the design of the guitar, but purely on the sound. She started to play; this ethereal music swelled from the instrument. It seemed as though the guitar was an extension of her body as a force of nature played through her. Notes swirled together in a wonderful tapestry of harmony. Virginia gently drew out this magnificent melody, while simultaneously maintaining a constant, deeply emotional bassline, careful not to disrupt the delicate balance between the two. She perfectly chose when to get louder and quieter, which part of the strings to play in order to cultivate different textures, colors, and feelings, all resulting in a heavenly sound. I could vividly picture her hands, gracefully flowing over the stringing, decades of practice channeled toward that bright, warm music. I could also envision the love the luthier poured into the instrument, as s/he thoughtfully formed the guitar and painted the rosettes onto the wood. Virginia played the second guitar, and this dark, stormy music began to leak out of the instrument. She played the same piece yet the sound was so different. I was astounded at the depth of understanding she seemed to have for her craft. Now, I had to make the hard choice of whether or not I wanted the first guitar or the second? It was a choice between bright and dark, light and heavy, day and night, yang and yin. Finally, I knew. The first guitar was what I wanted. I cherished its sunny, heartfelt music. I chose the spruce guitar. “Interesting choice,” Virginia said. “The cedar guitar would already be able to make a good sound. You’ll need to work in order to open up the sound of the spruce guitar.” I knew it would be a challenge but I was determined. I knew that I had to one day reproduce the music that I heard Virginia make, that touching sound of bubbly, liquid sunshine. -Raphael Englander

My Letter Alitza Hocchauser

My letter is my pride My letter is my shame I wish to shout it from the roof And then shrink away again It flames upon my breast It sits upon my soul Supported by my strength Its weight takes a toll I wear it with pride Yet hide it from light For its colors bleed Into my purity, white I am the letter The letter is me But am I losing or gaining Individuality My letter is my penitence For an uncommitted crime A punishment for curving An imaginary line My shame, my pride, my love, my role, My forever martyrdom My soul -Anonymous

Happiness Can Be Found...Even in the Darkest of Times

t’s in its usual place, on top of the stack of books on my nightstand. It’s thin and small, bound by a teal cover, covered in golden designs. Illuminated by yellow lamplight, it gleams. I decorated the front with purple-and-white striped tape a few weeks back, so it now reads “Happiness Journal, #2.” A cheap blue pen lies on top of it. I look at it, sigh, and pick it up. I’m tired - I’m always tired - but writing in this thing has become a sort of nightly ritual. I flip through to my page, nearly at the end - Jesus, the first one lasted a full eight months, and this one might not even last two - click the pen open, and look blankly at the yellow-ish paper. Maybe it’s the excessive tiredness or my complete and total lack of short-term memory, but I can’t remember a single thing that happened to me today. Eventually, the memories come - in bits and pieces, entirely out of order. I mark them down as I remember them, jumping from first period, to break, to rehearsal, then back to first period. It’s confusing for me to understand even now - scribbles and scrawls, covering the unlined pages in slanted rows. Forgotten memories jotted down in the margins a day or two later, cramped lettering squeezed into a far too small space, big writing and small writing, neat writing and illegible writing, that random week where I wrote in cursive, all chronicled in a list of bullet points. My whole life the good parts - right there on the page. On some nights, I’ll flip through, looking back at all of the previous entries. I’ll laugh at myself from six months ago, three weeks ago, even yesterday. Wow, I was dumb then. I’m still dumb. But my ninth-grade thoughts will be pretty entertaining to my future self, so really - what does it matter? Sometimes a bullet point will just be a person’s name. Sometimes there’ll be an exclamation point - or several - tacked on the end. Maybe, if I really love them, I’ll underline it once or twice or three times. Sometimes all the memories from one day will be about one person. I remember writing them down, all those little, funny things someone did in English or Jewish Studies or the hallway, all the times they smiled at me. I did it innocently, thinking, oh, they just made me happy today. Weeks later, I’ll look back and realize: it was every day. They made me happy every day. It seems so obvious in retrospect. I can literally trace my developing feelings for someone through some scribbled bullet points on a page. It’s bittersweet sometimes, cringy a lot of the time, but occasionally a small smile will creep up on my face. I thought I was wildly in love with him...turns out I just liked his hair. I’ll chuckle softly, a little embarrassed of my eighth-grade self, then write the exact same thing about someone else. I guess history repeats itself. There are so many vivid memories stained in my brain, pages I keep coming back to again and again - like that hour and a half before SpeakUp, or New Year’s Eve, or singing under the stars, or muffled laughter from backstage. A lot has changed since then. I’m a little taller (I think), a little wiser (I hope), and a lot more confused (that one I know for sure). My handwriting’s changed too - I write my a’s a little differently now. But I’m still here, and so is the journal. It’ll be here for a while - if I remember to write. -Rosie Ackerman

A Poem in Three Parts The morning pushes (dreams) aside all the aches and pains (arise) It picks me up, takes me (from) home to a place in which all (darkness) lies are (you) dead my love you’re (just) in my mind

Sophia Shapiro

You (have) found me But I have (to) run away this time. It’s morning now, just (look) outside. But I’ll see you in my dreams tonight.

Lauren Mermelstein

-Lillian Bernstein

Read: 7pm Hey mom Can we sit cross-legged on the edge of your bed And talk about our days I miss you -Ruby Benjamin