dedication editors’ notechallenging them to understand themselves and appreciate their own...

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to the memory of Mrs. Charlotte Rosenwald z”l who inspired her students to think, learn, create, and write. She pushed the limits and encouraged her students to do the same, challenging them to understand themselves and appreciate their own capabilities. The editors of

Charlotte’s Web felt the students who love to read, write, and create should have an outlet to display their ideas and options.

We hope Mrs. Rosenwald would have been proud.

Editors’ Note:

There will come a time when no one is alive who has seen us live. Many of us will be forgotten, our names mentioned only in the course of some obscure family tree project. But some of us will

achieve greatness, immortality. Maybe one of us will become president or the prime minister of Is-rael. I hope some of us will become famous writers whose names will be remembered for centuries beyond our deaths. To realize this hope, each of us strives for excellence, for permanence; we do everything we can to have an impact on the world around us, and we ensure that our actions are

memorable, whether they are remembered or not. This year’s Charlotte’s Web focuses on one spe-cific group of individuals who define permanence: painters. Their work has transcended time, sur-

vived censure, endured endlessly, and has become the famous artwork that hangs in museums to this day. Their God-given talent permeates each brushstroke on their canvases; it brightens a room with

its majesty. The sheer beauty of these people’s works has granted them immortality, and it is the goal of any artist in any medium--painting, sculpting, writing--to achieve this immortality. As art-

ists, we--the Charlotte’s Web contributors--strive to create our own beauty, to set our own lives onto paper through words or a paintbrush or a photograph--to transcend time--and with God’s help, attain

immortality.

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The Staff of Charlotte’s Web

Editors-in-Chief Zach Millunchick

Rebecca Turok

Chief Poetry Editors: Shani Abramowitz, Meytal Chernoff, Sarah Eisenstein,

Poetry Staff: Ben Auerbach, Chanan Bell, Eliana Block, Hannah Dim-bert, Eliana Kahan, Ronit Miller, Maor Rudick, Abigail Turok

Chief Prose Editors: Rachel Harris, Miriam Mosbacher, Benji Richter

Prose Staff: Hannah Dimbert, Aliza Grant, Aliza Jaffe, Jenna Katz, Sara Lis,Sarah Nagar, Chani Staimin

Chief Art Editor: Eliana Borochov

Art Staff: Moshe Brimm, Shayna Jacoby

Layout and Design: Efrat Chez

Managing Editor: Miriam Mosbacher

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Rebecca Turok

Chief Poetry Editors: Shani Abramowitz Meytal Chernoff, Sarah Eisenstein,

Poetry Staff: Ben Auerbach,

Chanan Bell, Eliana Block, Hannah Dim-bert, Eliana Kahan, Ronit Miller, Maor Rudick, Abigail Turok,


Prose Staff: Hannah Dimbert,

Aliza Grant, Aliza Jaffe, Jenna Katz, Sara Lis, Gabe Mi-chael, Sarah Nagar, Chani Staimin



Layout and Design: Efrat Chez Managing Editor: Miriam Mosbacher

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Rebecca Turok

Chief Poetry Editors: Shani Abramowitz Meytal Chernoff, Sarah Eisenstein,

Poetry Staff: Ben Auerbach,

Chanan Bell, Eliana Block, Hannah Dim-bert, Eliana Kahan, Ronit Miller, Maor Rudick, Abigail Turok,


Prose Staff: Hannah Dimbert,

Aliza Grant, Aliza Jaffe, Jenna Katz, Sara Lis, Gabe Mi-chael, Sarah Nagar, Chani Staimin



Layout and Design: Efrat Chez Managing Editor: Miriam Mosbacher Advisor:

Mrs. Marsha Arons

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Acknowledgement

We gratefully acknowledge the generous contribution of The Susan and Joseph Ament Endowment Fund

This foundation has enabled the students of Ida Crown Jewish Academy to showcase their best literary efforts in a public forum. Thank you to the Aments for enabling young writers

to shine.

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Identity Lis Sara Lis ........................................................ 9 One Room’s Story Daniel Jacoby..................... 10 I Am Talia Molotsky ........................................ 11 Why I Write Sarah Eisenstein........................... 12 How to Be the Blackhawk’s Fan Your Dad Wants You to Be Sarah Shandalov ................................... 13 Me Myself and I Adina Schreiber .................... 14 Birthday Wishes Arianne Pinchot .................... 15 Where I’m From Shayna Jacoby...................... 15 Who Am I? Ilana Katzin ................................... 16 This is Who I am Gabe Michael ........................... Family A New Beginning Tali Zuckerman ................... 18 Loneliness Sarah Eisenstein ............................. 19 Lean On Me Tali Zuckerman ........................... 19 Grandmother Abigail Turok ............................ 20 Gramma’s Hotdogs Mimi Elkaim.................... 21 Hard Work Pays Off Devi Braun ..................... 22 How to Be the Older Twin Sarah Nagar........... 22 How to Be a Good Daughter Sabina Hanani ... 24 The Ultimate Gift Ronit Miller......................... 25 Awareness Points of Matter Mimi Elkaim......................... 28 SMILE-It’s the Heart’s Medicine Merav Stein 28 Advice Sarah Eisenstein ................................... 30 The Sea of Being Chanan Bell.......................... 31 I am a Giant A.J. Miller................................... 32 Time Meytal Chernoff...................................... 32 The World of an Artist Sarah Eisenstein .......... 33 Meaningless Ben Auerbach ............................. 33 Pavement Meytal Chernoff .............................. 34

Struggles The Meaning of Stress Karen Layani................36 Regret Mimi Elkaim.........................................36 Here Is a Picture of Me Ezra Kapetansky ........37 Mandatory Sestina Hanah Brasch ....................38 Life in the World of the Sane Zach Millunchick39 The War Yacov Greenspan How to Succeed at Wrestling Sammy Magid ...39 Disappointment Jenna Katz .................................. Here is a Picture of Me Courtney Rosenfield...40 An Honest Thought Abigail Turok ...................40 Creativity and Optimism The Meaning of Optimism Rachel Harris .........50 How to Sing in the Shower Jaclyn Stelzer ........50 Cutting Steak With a Plastic Knife Rachel Harris ..............................................................51 The Meaning of Friendship Merav Stein..........52 Guilty Sestina Hanah Brasch ............................53 Journey Jessica Weil ............................................ Reality Human Sands Chanan Bell ...............................55 Porte des Morte Meytal Chernoff ....................55 David’s Lament Zach Millunchick ...................57 A Short Lived Joy Sara Lis ...............................58 The Sad Truth Matthew Silberman ..................58 The Meaning of Hope Aliza Jaffe.....................64 What is the Meaning of Procrastination? Jason Silberman........................................................64 The Empty Dock Aliza Grant............................65 Accomplishments Finding It: Truth Benji Richter ........................66 Inspiration Rebecca Turok ...............................68 Sunset Hannah Dimbert ....................................68 Ode to the Pencil in My Hand Ben Auerbach ..72

Table of ContentsIdentityLis Sara Lis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .8One Room’s Story Daniel Jacoby . . . . . . . . . . . . . .9I Am Talia Molotsky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10Why I Write Sarah Eisenstein . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11How to Be the Blackhawk’s Fan Your Dad Wants You to Be Sarah Shandalov . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .12Me Myself and I Adina Schreiber . . . . . . . . . . . . .13Birthday Wishes Arianne Pinchot . . . . . . . . . . . . .14Where I’m From Shayna Jacoby . . . . . . . . . . . . . .14Who Am I? Ilana Katzin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .15This is Who I am Gabe Michael . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

FamilyA New Beginning Tali Zuckerman . . . . . . . . . . . .17Lean On Me Tali Zuckerman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .18Grandmother Abigail Turok . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .19 Gramma’s Hotdogs Mimi Elkaim . . . . . . . . . . . . .20A Cup Full Devi Braun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .21Hard Work Pays Off Devi Braun. . . . . . . . . . . . . .22How to Be the Older Twin Sarah Nagar . . . . . . . .22How to Be a Good Daughter Sabina Hanani . . . .24The Ultimate Gift Ronit Miller . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .24 Teach Me, Bro Benjamin Richter . . . . . . . . . . . . .26

AwarenessPoints of Matter Mimi Elkaim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .28SMILE-It’s the Heart’s Medicine Merav Stein . . .28 Advice Sarah Eisenstein . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30Untitled Hannah Dimbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .30The Sea of Being Chanan Bell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .31I am a Giant A.J. Miller . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .32Time Meytal Chernoff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .32The World of an Artist Sarah Eisenstein . . . . . . . .33Meaningless Ben Auerbach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .33 Pavement Meytal Chernoff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34Pilgrimage Hannah Dimbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .34

StrugglesThe Meaning of Stress Karen Layani . . . . . . . . . .36Regret Mimi Elkaim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .36Here Is a Picture of Me Ezra Kapetansky . . . . . . .37Mandatory Sestina Hanah Brasch . . . . . . . . . . . . .38Life in the World of the Sane Zach Millunchick . .39The War Yacov Greenspan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .39How to Succeed at Wrestling Sammy Magid . . . .40Disappointment Jenna Katz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .41Here is a Picture of Me Courtney Rosenfield . . . .42An Honest Thought Abigail Turok . . . . . . . . . . . .42

ArtworkMarni Rosen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .43, 45, 49Rivka Polisky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .43, 47Alex Miller . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .43, 51 Bayla Neren . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .44Orli Friedman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .44, 50Rachel Harris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .44Jessica Weil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .44Jacob Weigner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .45, 46Hannah Emalfarb . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .45 Yardena Pressner . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .46Tal Tovy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .46Aliza Grant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .47Aliza Jaffe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .47 Aliza Katz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .47 Jenna Katz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48 Sammy Shifler . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48 Fallon Levin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48 Ronit Miller . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48 Sara Kaha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .49 Bayla Neren . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .49 Aliza Katzin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .49 Chaia Wiznitzer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .50 Yonina Sakols . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .50 Hana Lupovitch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .50 Arriella Matanky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .51Elana Brocha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .51 Shayna Jacoby . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .51

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Faith The Blue Siddur Joshua Cooper ....................... 75 Moonlight on the Ocean-Seen From a Rooftop in Brooklyn Zach Millunchick ........................... 77 Discover Your Talents Eliana Block.................... Divine Crescendo Zach Millunchick ............... 79 Ever Since I Died Moshe Brimm ..................... 79 The Meaning of Faith Yair Sakols ................... 80 The Light at a End of the Tunnel Maor Rudick 81 In Praise of Clouds Benji Richter .................... 82 An Empty Room Eliana Kahan ......................... 83 The Magical Water Rebecca Turok ................. 83 The Painter Leah Edelman .............................. 82

Table of ContentsPhotographyMerav Stein . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52Ronit Miller . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52Jackie Stelzer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52Nathaniel Borochov . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .53Eliana Borochov . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .53, 54Rachel Harris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .53 Yair Sakols . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .53, 54 Rita Gordon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .54

Creativity and OptimismThe Meaning of Optimism Rachel Harris . . . . . . .56How to Sing in the Shower Jaclyn Stelzer . . . . . .56Cutting Steak With a Plastic Knife Rachel Harris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .57The Meaning of Friendship Merav Stein . . . . . . .58Guilty Sestina Hanah Brasch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .59Poetry Hannah Dimbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .60 Song Hannah Dimbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .60 Breathe Hannah Dimbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .60

RealityHuman Sands Chanan Bell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .62Porte des Morte Meytal Chernoff . . . . . . . . . . . . .62David’s Lament Zach Millunchick . . . . . . . . . . . .64 Journey Jessica Weil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .64A Short Lived Joy Sara Lis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .65The Sad Truth Matthew Silberman . . . . . . . . . . .65The Meaning of Hope Aliza Jaffe . . . . . . . . . . . . .71What is the Meaning of Procrastination? Jason Silberman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .71The Empty Dock Aliza Grant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .72 Finding It: Truth Benji Richter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .73

AccomplishmentsInspiration Rebecca Turok. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76Sunset Hannah Dimbert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76Ode to the Pencil in My Hand Ben Auerbach . . . . . . . 80Confidence Miriam Mosbacher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81The Next Step Sabina Hanani. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 The Meaning of Triumph Jessica Weil . . . . . . . . . . . 82

FaithThe Blue Siddur Joshua Cooper. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84Moonlight on the Ocean-Seen From a Rooftop in Brooklyn Zach Millunchick . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86Discover Your Talents Eliana Block . . . . . . . . . . 87Divine Crescendo Zach Millunchick . . . . . . . . . . 88Ever Since I Died Moshe Brimm. . . . . . . . . . . . . 88The Meaning of Faith Yair Sakols . . . . . . . . . . . . 89The Light at a End of the Tunnel Maor Rudick . . 90In Praise of Clouds Benji Richter . . . . . . . . . . . . 91An Empty Room Eliana Kahan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92The Magical Water Rebecca Turok . . . . . . . . . . . 92The Painter Leah Edelman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93

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Identity

Leonardo DaVinci Mona Lisa

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Lis Sara Lis Pack a lunch for school and put it in the fridge; start studying for your test on Tuesday even though the test isn’t until Friday; think of an activity to play for this Sunday’s family night; get to bed before midnight and that doesn’t mean twelve thirty; never walk outside without sunscreen even if its forty degrees and there is no sun; if you get pomegranate on your shirt, immediately rinse it under cold water, or else you’ll never get the stain out; you’ll ruin your bureau if you put stickers on it; wait for the water to boil before you put the noodles in the pot; sing Shema to your sister before you put her to bed; on Shabbos wear fancier clothes than the rest of the week so that you can greet the Shabbos queen; tuck your older brother into bed every night or else he won’t be able to fall asleep; only become friends with people who are sweet and thoughtful; ignore bullies or people who are rude; But what if I still want to be tucked in myself instead of tucking somebody else in; have confidence and always keep a smile on your face- a genuine smile; this is how you pack a suitcase; this is how you pack a cooler so that you will have food on your road trip; this is how you pack up the car and get all fifteen suitcases to fit; this is how you make sure that the cooler is accessible dur-ing the road trip, or else everybody will be hungry for the twenty-hour drive; this is how you sing Friday night Shabbos songs; this is how you dance to Friday night Shabbos songs; this is how you swim; this is how you play Marco-polo in the pool; this is how you plant flowers every spring; when you are planting a fruit tree, make sure you plant it far away from other trees so that the fruit tree will have enough nutrients; if you don’t, the fruit tree will die; this is how you read Hebrew; this is how you understand what the words mean; this is how you talk to G-d; this is how you raise your head high; this is how you say no; this is how you stand up for yourself; this is how you pick the prettiest, most sweet-smelling lily-of-the-valley flower from your backyard and give it to your father for his birthday; this is how you get ready for school every morning- throw on the first outfit you see in your closet and don’t care about what others think of you; this is how you get ready for school when it’s Rosh Chodesh- instead of wearing the first outfit you see, you may choose the second, prettier outfit; this is how you get ready for school when you wake up and you only have ten min-utes until school starts; this is how you shop for everyday clothes; this is how you shop for school uniforms; this is how you shop for camp clothes; this is how you shop in your sister’s closet; be sure to always be kind, even if you are just smiling at a stranger on the street; don’t tape pictures onto your bedroom wall or else you’ll ruin the paint, but if your walls are still the same pale pink that was painted when you were three, the tape probably won’t cause any additional harm; don’t keep every single light in the house on- we are not trying to keep the electric company in business; don’t leave your school bag in the foyer for everybody to trip over; this is how you make a snow angel; this is

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how you build a snow-chair; this is how you find eyes to put on your snowman; this is how you build a snow fort and crawl through it; this is how you make bigfoot footprints in the snow; this is how you lie on your back in foot-deep snow and silently watch millions of specks of white dust fall from the sky into your face; this is how to clean up the table after Shabbos lunch; this is how to sing Na’ar Hayisi while you clean up; this is how to climb into your parents’ bed once you finish clean-ing up; this is how to ride a horse; this is how to ride a horse in the mountains; this is how to ride a horse in the mountains and keep the horse from going off the trail and from bucking the horse in front of you; this is how you ace a test; this is how you fail a test; this is how you buy yourself a slurpee when you fail a test; this is how you practice tae kwon do at home; this is how you watch your brother practice tae kwon do; this is how you kick your brother to let him know you are still the boss- even if he may be stronger than you; always daven before you start your day; but what if I don’t have time to daven?; you mean to say that after everything, you don’t have time to remember who you are?

One Room’s Story Daniel Jacoby An open door lights a path; a room tells a story. The walls of green and orange reflect Ben’s hap-piness, optimism, and positive outlook on the world. An upside down mezuzah hangs from one of the walls. It offers Ben protection and solace as G-d and his words are drawn into the room. And yet it is upside down. Surely, a G-d fearing man would show no disrespect for his Creator. Rather, blame the mezuzah’s faulty position on Ben’s sloppiness. A dresser that is falling apart blocks the front of Ben’s bed. Maybe, it’s there to protect his head, a guardian for his thoughts and dreams. Whatever the reason may be, a dresser should not be in front of a bed. On top of the dresser are hats, little plastic cups with stays and pins, cufflinks, and deodor-ant. Ben uses all these things to beautify himself. The world is a beautiful place. Man is part of the world and he too should look beautiful. These items sit on top of his dresser because he never puts them away; he must always look beautiful. A broken iPod sits on his dresser. He has never got ten around to throwing it out. School books and papers are strewn across Ben’s slanted shelves. Ben works hard in school. He is a student of the world and seeks knowledge. However, books on his shelves lie unopened, their stories never told. There are also Super Bowl programs on the shelves, past memories still worth holding on to. The homemade omer counter, Jewish timelines, and Judaic books on Ben’s shelves are there for Ben to reference his past and tell him how to act and who he should become.

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A box of blank stationery sits in Ben’s room. Maybe no letters came today. Maybe no letters ever come. But Ben waits. He waits for the letters to come. He waits for his calling. His hope never fades for the world is beautiful, and the beauty of language is there. He knows it’s there, and he waits. Patiently. Optimistically. Quietly. There are music books in Ben’s filing cabinet. Ben loves to play music. It’s an expression of his heart and soul. It displays his moods and feelings. Music beautifies the world, and as a citizen of the world, it is Ben’s duty to make the world a better, more beautiful place. Ben’s bed is not made. His clothes are on the floor, and his laundry basket is empty. In his closet, a bag of old clothes sit untouched. Perhaps, he likes things the way they are because he is easygoing and goes with the flow of everyday life. Tzizit also sit in Ben’s closet. They are there be-cause Ben loves G-d. He follows G-d’s commandments happily, and he therefore wears his Tzizit. There is a secret trap door on Ben’s floor. But that is another story.

I Am Talia Molotsky I am talented and admirable I wonder what happened to me I hear The Spark of Creation I see serenity and tranquility I want to return to my Garden of Eden I am talented and admirable I pretend that nothing upsets me I feel that the stage is my home and everything else is my stage I touch the lives of others I worry about being abandoned I cry when I’m alone I am talented and admirable

I understand that I am worth it I say “Don’t tell me not to live, just sit and put-ter” I dream that I am not always tired I try to not lose myself in this mess of a world I hope that I will have enough time I am talented and admirable

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A box of blank stationery sits in Ben’s room. Maybe no letters came today. Maybe no letters ever come. But Ben waits. He waits for the letters to come. He waits for his calling. His hope never fades for the world is beautiful, and the beauty of language is there. He knows it’s there, and he waits. Patiently. Optimistically. Quietly. There are music books in Ben’s filing cabinet. Ben loves to play music. It’s an expression of his heart and soul. It displays his moods and feelings. Music beautifies the world, and as a citizen of the world, it is Ben’s duty to make the world a better, more beautiful place. Ben’s bed is not made. His clothes are on the floor, and his laundry basket is empty. In his closet, a bag of old clothes sit untouched. Perhaps, he likes things the way they are because he is easygoing and goes with the flow of everyday life. Tzizit also sit in Ben’s closet. They are there be-cause Ben loves G-d. He follows G-d’s commandments happily, and he therefore wears his Tzizit. There is a secret trap door on Ben’s floor. But that is another story.

I Am Talia Molotsky I am talented and admirable I wonder what happened to me I hear The Spark of Creation I see serenity and tranquility I want to return to my Garden of Eden I am talented and admirable I pretend that nothing upsets me I feel that the stage is my home and everything else is my stage I touch the lives of others I worry about being abandoned I cry when I’m alone I am talented and admirable

I understand that I am worth it I say “Don’t tell me not to live, just sit and put-ter” I dream that I am not always tired I try to not lose myself in this mess of a world I hope that I will have enough time I am talented and admirable

to just sit and putter instead”

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Why I Write Sarah Eisenstein When I do what I love most, I connect with something that is larger than only me. I open myself up to words, feelings, colors, movements that are beyond me and yet that come from within me, and then I give them away, so that everyone else can connect to them, too. I put the most secret parts of myself out where anyone can see them, yet they feel more protected, more mine, because now I always can come back to them, always can return to them,

never can lose them. I strive to understand and to be understood. Feelings become words become feelings. I pour myself onto paper, but I am more myself after than before. I examine my feelings, describe them, and then let others see the descriptions. I gain a chance to be part of everyone else, and I give everyone else a chance to be part of me. This makes me more me in a way I don't truly understand.

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How to be the Blackhawks Fan Your Dad Wants You to be Sarah Shandalov

When you hear the final buzzer that tells you that your very first Blackhawks game at the United Center has come to an end, quickly wake up, and pretend you have not day-dreamed through the entire game due to lack of interest. Tell your dad they played a great game, even though they lost. Listen to your dad talk for the rest of the night, reliving his favorite plays, shots, and goals made by his favorite players. Realize that although they have lost, the final score is not what is important to him. Wear the white jersey that your dad gave you for your birthday. Pretend that the name and the number on the back is one of importance to you. Read the articles written about the Blackhawks in the newspaper in order to sound smart and interested when he “talks hockey” with his friends. Con-vince yourself you care if they win or lose. Understand the passion he feels about you being raised with the same love of the sport as he was. Understand that God gave him three daughters and no sons. Be the son he never had. Stay up late watching the games with him, even though your mom told you to be in bed hours before. Stare at the television screen in confusion. Scream when he screams. Jump when he jumps. High five each other when he puts his hand high in the air. Hope they win, because if they do not, you know he will be disappointed. Memorize the teammate’s names and numbers. Impress him with your knowledge of the sport and team that you have simply memorized off of the internet. Ask him questions about hockey while you are watching the games with him. Watch his face light up with the that you are taking interest in his obsession. Remember your very first game at the United Center while you are driving to your tenth. Com-pare the knowledge and love of the game you have now to what you had at that first game. Find your seats. Scream together. Jump together. Put your hand up high in the air and wait for him to high five you. Hope they win because you know if they do not, you will be disappointed. Hear the final buzzer. Tell yourself they have played a great game even though they have lost. Talk to your dad all night. Relive your own favorite shots, plays, and goals. Wear your white jersey with pride. Wake up the next morning, race to read the sports section, and realize you have become what you have been pretending to be all along…the son he never had...a Blackhawks fan…his Black-hawks fan.

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Me, Myself, and I Adina Schreiber I am a quiet, studious individual I wonder why good things happen to bad people I hear the scratch of pencils as I quietly become intrigued and work I see calming waves on the beach as I allow my-self to relax I want to be happy about who I am and not who people want me to be I am a quiet, studious individual I pretend I can dance skillfully and gracefully I feel the pain of others when they are hurting I touch the hearts of the less fortunate when I volunteer I worry about being alone in the world I cry when loved ones are in danger and I am frightened I am a quiet, studious individual I understand the need of a challenge for the mind

I say that some people must learn higher morals than the ones they have I dream of world peace and happiness I try to be a hardworking student and reap re-wards I hope to move to Israel where my heart lies I am a quiet, studious individual

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Birthday Wishes Arianne Pinchot Preparing myself, eyes focused on my candles, cheeks filled with air on a cracked patio in a small backyard, in the background the dirty bricks of my old house I’ve lived in for so many years. I am a chubby five years old without a care in the world, unaware of my small size compared to my friends. I am catching my breath in my loose purple frog outfit, and silver tiara fastened right below my purple scrunchy that is holding back my frizzy hair. What was I wishing for while blowing out my five colorful candles? My mother is in the frame, happy because I am, and my Dad is outside the frame capturing this mo-ment, so we can look back and remember it later. My mother will soon cheer for me as the flames go out and my smile begins to spread over my entire face. My father will wonder when I grew up, and when the time passed by.

Where I’m From Shayna Jacoby I am from markers, from Crayola and Roseart. I am from the kitchen. A large open space; filled with light. I am from the grapevine, and the peonies whose petals are filled with ants. I’m from height and readers, from Shayndle and William. I’m from the intense Scrabble players, and friendly (or sometimes not) competition, from “Always stay close to your siblings” and “Be a lady,” I’m from believers in G-d and homemade challah for Shabbat. I’m from Holocaust survivors and survivors of loss, From black Starbuck’s coffee and too much cream. From the street peddler who sold an umbrella to the President, the great-grandmother whose vanity increases with age. Oil paintings by my great-grandfather, hanging on the walls of all his grandchildren’s homes. Old wedding pictures in black and white, Of those I hear about but never got to meet, I am their legacy.

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Who Am I? Ilana Katzin A small dot In a large painting, Fighting to be seen. Wondering if I make a difference, Who Am I? When the viewer steps back Do they see me? Am I insignificant, Or do I complete the picture. Who Am I? How do I know, When do I find my place. Who Am I? Then I step back, And see the bigger picture. I Know Who I Am, I am part of the bigger picture.

This is Who I Am Gabe Michael I Am I am talented and responsible I wonder what my purpose is in life I hear the ocean at my window I see the white clouds passing by above me I want to achieve my many goals in order to feel accomplished I am talented and responsible I pretend to be a father when left with my siblings I feel a part of myself missing since I left Israel I touch one piece of sand out of the billions I worry how I will act as a father I cry when summer comes to an end I am talented and responsible. I understand that no one can be perfect. I say they should at least try I dream of the state of Israel filled with only Jews I try to infuse happiness wherever I can. I hope that my time won’t be wasted. I am talented and responsible.

I AmI am talented and responsibleI wonder what my purpose is in lifeI hear the ocean at my windowI see the white clouds passing by above meI want to achieve my many goals in order to feel accomplishedI am talented and responsible

I pretend to be a father when left with my siblingsI feel a part of myself missing since I left IsraelI touch one piece of sand out of the billionsI worry how I will act as a fatherI cry when summer comes to an endI am talented and responsible.

I understand that no one can be perfect.I say they should at least tryI dream of the state of Israel filled with only JewsI try to infuse happiness wherever I can.I hope that my time won’t be wasted.I am talented and responsible.

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FAMILY

Mary Cassatt

The Bath

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A New Beginning Tali Zuckerman One beautiful summer night in early July, a group of 13 girls from one cabin, four counselors, and one boy sat in a circle around a camp fire. These eighteen people were eighteen of the most im-portant people in my life. This particular night in the summer of 2008 was the one night that my cabin could come together without any interruptions. This was our camp out. Each year every cabin goes camping for one night and in one night, each cabin really becomes a family. This particular camp out was special though. My oldest brother Lev was on camping staff that year and it just so happened that he was staffing this event for my cabin.

I was really excited because, although Lev was at camp, I rarely ever saw him because he was always on camping trips with other cabins. But this night, he was with me. We could have some sibling bonding time before he would leave for Israel a week later.

It was getting dark outside and our cabin sat down to have our classic bonding experience by the fire. Our counselors had come up with a question and each person in the circle had to answer it truthfully. “What is your greatest fear?” asked the counselors. I was thinking as everyone said their answers. The majority of the answers were either about time or death or not being able to live life to its fullest.

I was sitting on my brother’s lap when, finally, it was my turn to answer. “I’m scared of both of my brothers being away in Israel this year and having to start high school all by myself with no one to look to for help,” I said. At this point in time I felt my brother’s grasp on me tighten and I could not keep myself from crying. Never before had I actually cried in front of my brother for any reason other than pain, but this time I could not help myself. Nobody noticed as I hid my head in my lap and let the tears fall. Everyone else finished stating their fears. But then I heard a familiar male voice, “I am scared to leave my sister home to have a new be-ginning on everything and not be there when she needs help.” In my brother’s arms, I saw that we both feared the same thing—just from different perspectives. At that moment, I really felt the con-nection with my oldest brother that any little sister wants to feel. I finally realized how much Lev cared for me and no matter how far away he is, he will always be there for me. I cried there in his lap but felt no shame. Nothing but love for the big brother who will always be there for me and have a shoulder for me to cry on when I need it.

I cried there in his lap but felt no shame. Nothing but love for the big brother who will always be there for me and have a shoulder for me to cry on when I need it.

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Loneliness Sarah Eisenstein An empty room when I'm all alone is not so bad to me. A room that is full of people can be so much more lonely. Laughter that I cannot share is worse than no sound at all, And people, more than all the stars in the sky, can make me feel truly small. All alone, I can live in my mind. I can play with my thoughts all day. But the shouts and movements of others can drive those thoughts away. And so I go off on my own to the place no one else can see, Where no one ever can touch or disturb, where I can truly be me. I must embrace the aloneness when no one else is there, For it saves me from the loneliness when the world just doesn't care

Lean On Me Tali Zuckerman

Sitting on my comfortable brown couch in the living room, my grandma laid her head on my shoulder. The day before, I had decided that I was going to be truant, a decision that turned out to be one of the smartest ones I had ever made.

The day started out just like any normal Friday. My mom and dad left for work and I was left home alone to sleep and do whatever I wanted. When I finally decided that it was time for me to wake up, I called my mom to ask what food there was in the house. We had our normal conversation consisting of my mom telling me what we had and what I needed to do in order to get ready for Shabbat. Only this time it was a little different. Usually, my mom would tell me what to do, I would resist, and she would finally give up and allow me to get away with not doing anything. This time though, she overcame my considerable resisting skills when she said, “Grandma’s care giver just called. She is taking her to the hospital. I need you to make the chicken and salad tonight and I’ll be home as soon as possible.” My heart dropped. To me, Grandma was like my second mom. When she was able to drive, she had always been there to pick me up or drive me places and whenever I needed anything, she was there. When I heard that she was in the hospital, I knew I had to listen to my mom. As soon as I hung up the phone, I began to make Shabbat dinner. I had never cooked a meal before but somehow this meal came out delicious.

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Grandmother Abigail Turok The aroma of freshly baked cookies The smell of it on her hands The smile on her face That reaches the sea of her eyes The late night talks The never judgmental responses The problems that were faced Her unyielding strength The places that were crumbling Her unfailing generosity The heart she wears on her sleeve

But even though the meal came out great, something was wrong about that Shabbat dinner. I always sit next to Grandma, but this Shabbat, she was sitting alone in the hospital leaving me to sit alone too. Grandma was only supposed to be in the hospital for one day which meant she would be out that afternoon. I was waiting anxiously for her to walk through our front door and finally she did. My aunt accompanied her, but I only had eyes for Grandma. I hugged her and then I walked her to the comfortable brown couch where I previously been perched. I seated her close to me. and I lis-tened to my aunt and mom discuss why Grandma had been in the hospital. I felt her head bob up and down until finally I felt the weight of it against my shoulder as she fell asleep. All was well at our house. Grandma was home after her care giver had mistakenly thought she was having a stroke. My mom and aunt were talking about what to do for my grandma; and I was the content grandchild who could not be happier to have her grandmother asleep on her shoulder. In that moment when I felt Grandma’s head hit my shoulder and for the three hours it stayed there, I understood what was really important. I hope I can repay her for all of the things she did for me when I was a child, but no mat-ter what, that moment on my couch was my time to take care of her.

That is larger than life Time may pass But I know your love is eternal I carried it with me in kindergarten Was reminded of it with presents every winter Felt it again when I put on that necklace I saw it when you visited last year I will always carry your love with me And I send you all the love I have

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Grandmother Abigail Turok The aroma of freshly baked cookies The smell of it on her hands The smile on her face That reaches the sea of her eyes The late night talks The never judgmental responses The problems that were faced Her unyielding strength The places that were crumbling Her unfailing generosity The heart she wears on her sleeve

But even though the meal came out great, something was wrong about that Shabbat dinner. I always sit next to Grandma, but this Shabbat, she was sitting alone in the hospital leaving me to sit alone too. Grandma was only supposed to be in the hospital for one day which meant she would be out that afternoon. I was waiting anxiously for her to walk through our front door and finally she did. My aunt accompanied her, but I only had eyes for Grandma. I hugged her and then I walked her to the comfortable brown couch where I previously been perched. I seated her close to me. and I lis-tened to my aunt and mom discuss why Grandma had been in the hospital. I felt her head bob up and down until finally I felt the weight of it against my shoulder as she fell asleep. All was well at our house. Grandma was home after her care giver had mistakenly thought she was having a stroke. My mom and aunt were talking about what to do for my grandma; and I was the content grandchild who could not be happier to have her grandmother asleep on her shoulder. In that moment when I felt Grandma’s head hit my shoulder and for the three hours it stayed there, I understood what was really important. I hope I can repay her for all of the things she did for me when I was a child, but no mat-ter what, that moment on my couch was my time to take care of her.

That is larger than life Time may pass But I know your love is eternal I carried it with me in kindergarten Was reminded of it with presents every winter Felt it again when I put on that necklace I saw it when you visited last year I will always carry your love with me And I send you all the love I have

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Gramma’s Hotdogs Mimi Elkaim

“Ow!” my five-year-old self whined while holding up her hot fingertips. My “Gramma” just smiled, with a twinkle in her eye and say “It’s hot,” while handing me a fork. She would then cut up my two-inch mini hotdog for me. My grandmother microwaving mini hotdogs for me is one of my first memories of her. When I was younger, my family didn’t keep Kosher either, and I ate anything in my grandparents house. The only food that I came to associate with my only Gramma, was two-inch mini hotdogs. I would sit at the table, eagerly awaiting my hotdogs on their McDonalds plate, which were cooking in the microwave. Gramma would explain time after time “You have to cook them a little bit, so they get soft. Then,” she stopped the microwave, and took the plate out, to demonstrate, “you cut it top to bottom so the inside can cook.” I was always amazed. My wise Gramma knew how to properly and fully cook hotdogs! Each time I asked for the hotdogs, I would see a little twinkle in Gramma’s eyes, who antici-pated my question. I used to carefully take my hotdog, puffed dough surrounding the morsel, and then gobble up the meat. My Gramma, always careful about her kitchen, would sternly warn “If I see any crumbs on the floor, you’re picking them up!” I would reply, in my childhood innocence, “I won’t make crumbs! Promise.” I was indignant she would believe I would make a mess, and I was tired of hearing this every time I entered the house. I knew this. As I grew older, and my family became more religious, I asked my mother if the hotdogs were Kosher. Sadly however, they were not. After some time, Gramma ceased to buy them, making me realize that she bought them for me. My grandmother died when I was eight years old, but even now, when I enter her kitchen, I see the ghostly figures of a girl eating mini hotdogs, and my Gramma holding a plate out to me.

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A Cup FullDevi Braun We gave my mom a coffee mug. It is white with a picture if six children and a happy birthday poem. The background is pink. My mother’s birthday was only a few weeks away. My five siblings and I wanted to get her the perfect present. We chose a coffee mug because my mom drinks at least three cups of coffee daily. We put a picture of us, my mom’s six children, on it so when she looks back at it years from now she will remember us at this age. The background is pink because that is my mom’s favorite color. We created a small poem, a happy birthday wish from us all, to show our love and make this mug special. My mother gave me life and love,So that I could succeed in this worldAnd one day be an amazing mother too.And I gave her a coffee mug. She gave me a blanket,So that every night I would feel her warmth,And know that she would always be there for me.And I gave her a coffee mug. She gave me birthday cakesAnd taught me how to celebrateWhen milestones are reached.And I gave her a coffee mug. She gave me The Exodus and a love for readingSo that I can visit places and history,Without moving from the couch.And I gave her a coffee mug. She gave me my height and small feetWhich taught me the importance of familyAnd how they will never go away.And I gave her a coffee mug.

She gave me my Keystone, Colorado sweatshirtAnd brought me adventuresAnd stories I’ll always remember.And I gave her a coffee mug. She told me “Don’t yuck someone’s yum,”So that I know to respect other’sAnd their opinions.And I gave her a coffee mug. She gave me confidenceSo that I always take pride in what I am doingAnd strive to do my best.And I gave her a coffee mug. The most important thing my mom gave me is independence,She taught me do what I wantAnd follow my dreams.And I give her laughter.

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Gramma’s Hotdogs Mimi Elkaim

“Ow!” my five-year-old self whined while holding up her hot fingertips. My “Gramma” just smiled, with a twinkle in her eye and say “It’s hot,” while handing me a fork. She would then cut up my two-inch mini hotdog for me. My grandmother microwaving mini hotdogs for me is one of my first memories of her. When I was younger, my family didn’t keep Kosher either, and I ate anything in my grandparents house. The only food that I came to associate with my only Gramma, was two-inch mini hotdogs. I would sit at the table, eagerly awaiting my hotdogs on their McDonalds plate, which were cooking in the microwave. Gramma would explain time after time “You have to cook them a little bit, so they get soft. Then,” she stopped the microwave, and took the plate out, to demonstrate, “you cut it top to bottom so the inside can cook.” I was always amazed. My wise Gramma knew how to properly and fully cook hotdogs! Each time I asked for the hotdogs, I would see a little twinkle in Gramma’s eyes, who antici-pated my question. I used to carefully take my hotdog, puffed dough surrounding the morsel, and then gobble up the meat. My Gramma, always careful about her kitchen, would sternly warn “If I see any crumbs on the floor, you’re picking them up!” I would reply, in my childhood innocence, “I won’t make crumbs! Promise.” I was indignant she would believe I would make a mess, and I was tired of hearing this every time I entered the house. I knew this. As I grew older, and my family became more religious, I asked my mother if the hotdogs were Kosher. Sadly however, they were not. After some time, Gramma ceased to buy them, making me realize that she bought them for me. My grandmother died when I was eight years old, but even now, when I enter her kitchen, I see the ghostly figures of a girl eating mini hotdogs, and my Gramma holding a plate out to me.

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Hard Work Pays Off Devi Braun The crowd is going wild at the YU Basketball Tournament. The bleachers are packed with people. More than half the crowd is wearing red clothes, supporting Ida Crown Jewish Academy. Everyone is jumping and screaming until their voices become hoarse. The court has five boys in red, the Ida Crown players, and five boys in white, the other players. The players are all sweating, look-ing nervous. Their teammates on the benches are cheering them on. All the coaches are yelling plays to their players. My dad, the Ida Crown coach, looks panicked. There is barely any time left on the clock. As time runs out, and we are in the lead, my dad is lifted onto someone’s shoulders. My dad looks around and smiles. He had been coaching the Ida Crown basketball team for over twenty years. Every March since I could remember, he went to New York for the YU Basketball Tournament. That year, he had an exceptionally good team. My siblings and I begged my mom to take us to the tournament. She kept saying that it was very expensive for all of us to go, but we continued to ask her. My mom fi-nally agreed that we could go, but we would be driving. It took us eighteen hours, and we drove through a snowstorm. But we were there to support my dad. Knowing that after twenty years my dad finally won this tournament made this moment really special. I remember my dad’s face. His expression showed that he felt like he was on the top of the world and nothing could be better. His dream had finally come true. And we were there.

How to Be the Older Twin Sarah Nagar When your mother asks you to tell him to empty out the dishwasher before she gets home, tell him. Know that he wants to do it. Feel the panic he feels when she comes home and discovers that he hasn’t accom-plished his task. Realize that he truly wants to do what was asked of him, but has forgotten. Breathe in and out, hoping he won’t get in trouble. Hear your mother start to lecture him. Lie to her. Tell her it wasn’t his fault, but that you simply forgot to tell him. Hope she won’t get angry at you. Let her tell you she’s up-set. Go to your room. Hesitate. Sit on your bed. Remember. Remember when he once told you he learns from everything you do. Remember how you took a step back and asked him to repeat what he had just said even though you heard him. Remember how you thanked him for letting you know; you tried not to make it known to him that secretly you already knew he learns from you. Accept it. Remember that even though he’s a minute younger, he watches everything you do, learns from it, and uses it in other experiences. Wonder what other things he might learn from you. Store that mem-ory forever. Hear the faint noise on your door. Realize that he is knocking. He wants to come in. Know he wants

How to Be the Older TwinSarah Nagar

When your mother asks you to tell him to empty out the dishwasher before she gets home, tell him. Know that he wants to do it. Feel the panic he feels when she comes home and discovers that he hasn’t accomplished his task. Realize that he truly wants to do what was asked of him, but has forgotten. Breathe in and out, hoping he won’t get in trouble. Hear your mother start to lecture him. Lie to her. Tell her it wasn’t his fault, but that you simply forgot to tell him. Hope she won’t get angry at you. Let her tell you she’s upset. Go to your room. Hesitate. Sit on your bed. Remember. Remember when he once told you he learns from everything you do. Remember how you took a step back and asked him to repeat what he had just said even though you heard him. Remember how you thanked him for letting you know; you tried not to make it known to him that secretly you already knew he learns from you. Accept it. Remember that even though he’s a minute younger, he watches everything you do, learns from it, and uses it in other experiences. Wonder what other things he might learn from you. Store that memory forever.

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Hear the faint noise on your door. Realize that he is knocking. He wants to come in. Know he wants something because he never comes into your room unless he wants to ask for something. Hear him ask why you took the blame earlier. Now know your answer will be something he will always remember.Explain that you didn’t want him to get in trouble. Hope he understands that you did it out of love, and people who love each other help each other out. Glance at him. Share that moment of happiness with him. Grasp that small amount of time and don’t let go. Feel the love and appreciation between you and him. Say that this will be the last time you do that and he has to be more independent and take responsibility for his own actions. Watch him nod and secretly know that you will always help him. Even though he’s the same age, but only a minute younger, understand that you still have to teach him those lessons that older siblings teach the younger siblings. Be the older twin that guides your younger brother because he learns from everything you do and needs you in his life. Know you need him too.

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How To Be A Good Daughter Sabina Hanani When you hear the phone ring followed by a cry from upstairs, do not ignore it. Follow your father upstairs and watch him cradle your mother as she breaks down in his arms. As you hear your father’s voice, through your mother’s pain, feel your heart break but don’t dare show emotion. Take the next flight out to Israel. Observe your family as it begins to slowly crumble. Hold your mother’s ice-cold hand as you stare at your grandfather’s gravestone. Inhale your deepest breath as you place the rocks upon his grave. When the service is over, hug her tightly. Later, reminisce with her about when you were little and how you enjoyed every minute you spent with that smiling face, that salt and pepper hair, that brave, protective figure now watching over from above. Glance at all the photos in your living room filled with smiling faces, birthday par-ties, and family events, and share those moments with your mother. Clean every dish, fold all the laundry, run every errand, write all the thank you notes, letting your mother heal and sleep. Spend every waking moment with her. Bring her breakfast in bed, and say “I love you” every day before school. Sob with her when his birthday comes around, and sob alone even more when you realize that he will not be there for yours. Feel your heart wrench as you glance at the photo of him and your mother teaching you piano when you were four. Touch it, cry on it, and replace it on your dresser where you can see it each day. Cry yourself to sleep for weeks, months. Scream into your pillow one night, but this time let your mother hold you. Let her be a good mother by being a good daughter first.

The Ultimate GiftRonit Miller

The “Juiceman Jr.” A handy appliance that every kitchen needs.Complete with a pulp basket and juice spout, this fruit juicer was the perfect gift for my mother.It appeared practical. It appeared easy to use. What more could a mother want?However, inside the box there turned out to be a booklet. The Instruction Manual.Thirteen pages indicating that this nifty machine was going to be neither simple nor practical.And the Instruction Manual never lies. I remember being in middle school when my sister and I purchased that gift for my mother. During those years, I found out a few things about myself: I was a dreamer, I was a procrastinator, and therefore, all of my crazy ideas never worked out.Nevertheless, I came up with many idealistic plans. One of these plans happened to include: a juicer, which would replace our recently broken blender, my mom, who would use this appliance often, andme, who would get to drink a flavorful, tropical smoothie every day.

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Ever since, the juicer has stayed in its spot in the depths of a kitchen cabinet.Mom,For the past sixteen years you made me a lunch every day.You sat with me on the bathroom floor, in the middle of the night, when I was sick. You drove hundreds of car pools to hundreds of destinations. You held my hand when I was afraid.You sang the Shema with me every night.In return, I gave you a juicer.You have taught me not to waste, both food and other materials, which you creatively reuse.You have shown me how to be patient when you bring bags of magazines to read at Six Flags.You have taught me to be appreciative by constantly reminding me to say thank you.You have shown me how to use time when you stretch your calves on the curb while you wait.You have taught me to think of others before myself, something that you constantly do.In return, I gave you a juicer.But most important, you have given me a joy for life.Whether it’s viewing a missionary pamphlet left by the Cleaners as a compliment because they obviously like you enough to want to save you, if it’s admiring the bee cleaning its antennas from beneath the cup, with which you have trapped it to take outside, or if it’s sharing your jacket with me in the freezing rain on a two-mile walk, and laughing the whole way home arm-in-arm, you always manage to find the positive in every situation.You have given me so much, Mom, and yet, the only way I could think to repay you was with a useless juicer. What was I thinking?I definitely should have gone with a blender.

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Teach Me, Bro Benjamin Richter

Describe a situation in which you used your unique talents to connect with someone who needed you. How has this moment helped define who you are today?Aryeh stutters and says, “Can you teach me to play da guita Benzi?” His eyes wander all over the room and back into his head; a keyboard-stick smile illuminates his face. His feet flutter in air—just off beat—to a self-made interpretive dance, expressing an emotion that he still cannot deliver in words. His arms flail around in his sky-blue footie pajamas and his raspy laugh mixes with the tune of my guitar to produce an apparently botched harmony. He attempts to pluck the steel strings tightly wound around the neck of the guitar, but fails miserably to make audible music. He sings his heart out; but, his words are unclear. Yet in our new world, we are making beautiful music together. It was another aggravating evening after a stressful 8th grade day at school. My triplet half-siblings were pounding on the locked door to my bedroom. As usual, I refused to let them in. I had just finished clearing my desk of the hairs I had pulled from my scalp when my dad called out: “Benji! I need you to babysit Aryeh. Please?” I grudgingly agreed. When I stepped out of my room, I saw my half-brother Aryeh, running around, and making unusual sounds—his normal reaction to SpongeBob’s entrance onto the television screen. Aryeh, then five years old, has Pervasive Developmental Disorder. He isolates himself from others, and appears to be locked in his own world. “How’s it going Aryeh?” I said apathetically. He did not respond, but continued to frolic around aimlessly. I expected this response, and so I went back into my room, headed toward my locked leather-bound guitar case and pulled out my glossy, red acoustic guitar. The introduction to “Dust In the Wind,” flowed from my calloused finger tips, reflecting my oddly tranquil mood. Aryeh then came in and began awkwardly stroking the strings on the guitar. “No! Aryeh,” I said, “You’re ruin-ing my strings! Stop!” But he persisted. He began dancing around, gleefully, looking so innocent and harm-less. I stopped and looked at him, hard—I saw his spirit and potential. I removed the capo strapped tightly to my guitar and began playing a twelve-bar blues. Aryeh tapped on the side of my guitar, with my tacit approv-al. Our jam session had begun. Language cannot yet bring us together, but music can. Aryeh may always have a tough time making con-nections, but he and I have found our enduring bond. Tuesday nights have become our jam session nights—and something more for both of us. Aryeh stutters and says, “Can you teach me to play da guitar, Benzi?” I see all the possibilities, so I tell him, “Ya bro, when we’re ready.”

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Awareness

Monet Haystacks

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Merav Stein SMILE—It’s the Heart’s Medicine

Sniffling, Margie Stein bent down to pick up the shards of her beloved blue and white Delft house. She had been working on her collection of blue and white objects her entire life, and it was a project still in formation. She inherited many of these objects from her mother, Lillian Sachs, and now one was littering the floor. It was times like these that she felt the loneliest and missed her mother the most. With her three children all grown up and out of the house and her husband working at the office most of the day, Margie spent her time with her two precious golden retrievers Annie, the puppy, and Sandy, the older dog. It was Annie who had caused the mischief, being her rambunc-tious self, and knocked the blue and white Delft house over, sending it to the floor with a crash. Margie had heard the crash and sprinted to the living room to find Annie standing in the farthest corner, a look of shame covering her puppy-dog face. “Oh no, oh no, no, no,” Margie moaned, “Oh dear.” Her eyes rested on the graveyard of broken pieces. With a sigh, Margie began to pick up each piece carefully, so as to not cut herself on the sharp edges. Feeling the tug of tears closely approach-ing, she started to pick up the pieces quicker and less carefully. Suddenly, she felt the sharp pain as one of the pieces stabbed her hand. “Ouch!” Margie yelped as she put her finger in her mouth in an attempt to reduce the pain. Then she felt someone licking her arm. Surprised, Margie pulled her arm back, and saw Annie sitting next to her, gazing sorrowfully into her owner’s eyes. Sighing, Margie patted the puppy’s head and said, “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know it would fall. We both learned something from this—you

Points of Matter Mimi Elkaim Lines, they make a tower Strings, they make a cloth Veins, they make a human Each, significant as a moth. Colors, they are a rainbow Drops, they are the sea Pieces, they are a puzzle Each significant, you and me.

Though to a leaf on wind Insignificant to wind it seems It changes the course a sliver Not knowing what this means. Everything makes a difference Be it a step, call or thought, Means something to who effected. Nothing, none at all, is for naught.

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should try to be more careful, and I should have known you would knock one over sooner or later.” With a yawn, Margie finished cleaning up. Soon her husband would be home from work. When Robert came home, he immediately noticed something was wrong. Neither Sandy nor Annie had greeted him at the door. “Honey?” he called, “I’m home. Is everything all right?” “I’m in the kitchen, Bob!” Margie answered. Bob leaped up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He was very tall, standing six feet five inches—six feet six inches on a good day. In a matter of seconds he found Margie in the kitchen, with a bowl of chocolate ice cream before her, stuffing her face. “Oh, sweetheart,” Bob said, plant-ing a kiss on her cheek, “What happened today?” “Annie knocked over one of Nana’s blue and white houses earlier this evening.” “I’m so sorry, Margie. Is there anything I can do?” “No. What happened, happened. There’s nothing we can do now.” Margie glanced at the clock, which read 8:23. “I think I’m going to bed early tonight. I’ve had a rough day.” “All right. Good night. I’m going to work on some stuff first, and then I think I’m going to go to sleep early also. We both need the extra hours.” “Okay Big B,” said Margie. “I love you 75-45-20.” Bob watched his wife walk slowly to their bedroom. He had to think of some way to cheer her up. It was unlike her to be this downcast. He looked at the pile of work he had brought home with him. Suddenly, Robert had a brilliant idea. The next morning, Margie woke up to the sun shining through the stained glass picture of two golden retrievers her friend had gotten her for her past birthday. She turned to say good morning to Bob, but met Sandy’s eyes instead. Sandy promptly licked Margie’s face when she saw that Margie was awake. “Huh. He must have gone to work early,” Margie mused aloud. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, Margie stretched and stood up. She remembered that she would have to puppy proof her living room after yesterday’s incident. Margie’s shoulders sagged as she remembered what had happened. She slowly walked into her bathroom to brush her teeth. Reaching for her toothbrush, she saw a note card taped to her purple toothbrush. “This is weird,” Margie said to herself. Intrigued, Margie pulled the note card off the toothbrush. “If a Cheshire Cat Can SMILE, so can you!” Margie read. “How sweet of him!” she thought. Once Margie was finished washing up, she moved to her closet to pick out an outfit. Pulling open her pants drawer, she found a second note card on top of her many pairs of jeans. “SMILE—Show your dimples!” A subconscious smile began to appear on Margie’s face. Her hand reached up to her face, and she touched her dimples. Bob had never stopped reminding her that her dimples were one of the first things that drew his attention to her when she had first walked into the Oakton Manor, the resort where he had worked as the director of entertainment. The memory made Margie

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smile even wider. After getting dressed, Margie went into the kitchen to make herself a bowl of granola and sliced strawberries. When she opened the box of granola, she saw another note card. This card read, “SMILE—IT LIGHTS UP THE PLACE!” “Now, how did he know that I would have granola?” laughed Margie. Then she began to won-der, “How many note cards did Bob write?” A look of determination grew in her eyes. She whistled for her goldens and they ran to her side, as if they knew she would call them at any second. “Did you two know anything about this?” she asked. Annie’s tail wagged wildly and she put both of her paws on Margie’s thighs. Margie laughed. “Bob knows me too well. Forty-four years together with someone can do that to you. Well, who’s up for an adventure?” Sandy barked her excitement. “OK, General Sandy, here’s our mission for today. We’re going to find all of the note cards that Big B left. Got it? All right, spread out!” Laughing, Margie left the kitchen to embark on the scavenger hunt her loving husband had left for her to cheer her up. Sandy trotted faithfully next to her and Annie bounded after them, tripping over her little paws. This short story is dedicated to my Grandma and Grandpa. I love you 75-45-20!

Advice Sarah Eisenstein Dream big. Hope for everything. Reach for that which you can never earn. But don't expect it. Take what you can get, and from your losses, learn.

undefined-untitledHannah Dimbert

Today I feel nothing(that’s a lie) and that’s the truth:everything I touch is smooth,so heartbreakingly beautiful;there’s nothing to grab hold of.my tears make no splash, no ripple;my shadow passes, nary a sound.

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The Sea of Being Chanan Bell The waves overlap pulls the sand to the sea seagull's wings flap looking down on the scene The fish swim up to the beaches brush the sandy shore soon followed by the leaches who are hungry and want some more who are we to stop the motion we fill ourselves with pride as I walk I get the notion all I’ll ever do is a lie strolling along the waves horizon in the backdrop I see secret caves but we remain on top on the beaches there are castles surrounded by the seas

small lords and their little vassals carved in sand, lower your knees who are we to stop the motion we fill ourselves with pride as I walk I get the notion all I’ll ever do is a lie there is a whale underneath she knows all and tells none just watches the reef looks at the ones she shuns there are more fish in this sea of us they are unaware i don't know them as they don't know me but why should they care who are we to stop the motion we fill ourselves with pride as I walk I get the notion all I’ll ever do is a lie

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I am a Giant A.J. Miller I am a Giant Reading a Book Inside a Forest Awaiting Death Lost in my Search Away from the Fire Eyes filled with Fire Large, round, and Giant Incensed in their Search, The pages of my Book

Filled with Death The Girth of a Forest I live in a Forest And rest in my Fire Waiting, greeting Death A lonely Giant In hand, my Book I continue my Search I began my Search Looking for a Forest

To read my Book I had no Fire No Giant I welcomed Death Death Did not come. My Search In a Giant Forest I was on Fire But I had my Book

Now my Book Has fallen in Death Farewell to my Fire In end to my Search Gone is my Forest But still I’m a Giant Books are for Search-ing Death in a Forest Fire does not make the Giant

Time Meytal Chernoff At any moments it moves Thick as a syrup flowing Ever so slowly And we wish for these moments That the clock would speed up That today was the past And tomorrow was now Or it can flow At breakneck speed Crashing like a waterfall Careening without reprieve Speeding toward the unknown And however hard we try To hold in it our grasps To preserve just one minute

To make a moment last Time laughs in our faces And passes us by Impossible to catch and still harder to keep A mysterious figure Cloaked in shadow and caged But the truth is quite different For the cage is our own Time holds us in its grasp And we struggle to be let go The change is in our moods Our feelings and pain Time remains laughing Always beside us Always the same

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The World of an Artist Sarah Eisenstein The hum of a motor is music, a skyscraper is a work of art, And no one can ever finish that which no one is willing to start. The white snow glistens and sparkles, the green leaves live and secretly glow; Very little is truly ugly, once you learn how to look and where to go. Words can show pictures and feelings, words can help us to see How the tiny ant is, in some ways, so much stronger than we'll ever be. Beauty is always out there, if it's something you're willing to find, But you must look at the world properly. You must filter it through an artist's mind.

Meaningless Ben Auerbach Sitting in the café at the bookstore makes me wonder. All the people who sit to eat, drink, and discuss; What is their purpose? Not the purpose of their lives No! Their purpose of sitting here, in the café By me. What is their destination, or for that matter Where did they come from? A simpler thought could be, What are thinking about? About their next goal they must reach, About the person across the table, About me. Sitting in the café at the bookstore makes me realize That this poem is in fact meaningless For I should really not focus on other people's lives Until I have explored my own.

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Pavement Meytal Chernoff Feeling trapped in a world of cement Surrounded always by walls no green around you Wishing for a break in the monotonous sound Something, anything to change the ever still ground Wishing for trees moved only by wind Watching the bird and wanting to Trade places with it for just a moment or two They can soar far above the buildings and people They can escape Avoid what whatever they choose But still you sit, lying awake Staring at a ceiling that will never shake In dreamland you can fly high above clouds But in the morning once again The pavement abounds

PilgrimageHannah Dimbert

enlightenment i.It is not a finding, but a looking.The only discovery is yearning-endless reaching, wanting, growing.i enlightenment.It is not a finding, but a looking.A quest - an endless, thankless, ugly task.awareness ii.It is not a connection, but an embrace.A universe spirals,continuous, constant, flowing.ii awareness.It is not a connection, but an embrace.Irony! Constricting,a viper hissing - dread.wisdom iii.It is not a knowing, but a feeling.Melodies of a people proudcarried on the stiff back of prayer,ascending.iii wisdom.It is not a knowing, but a feeling.A pounded road,and the beat of a thousand weary feet.Repetition, and tradition.joy iv.The teachers never taught (whispered)such a feeling as this!A link, a life, real.iv joy.The teachers never taught (whispered)such a feeling as this!A question without an answer,disgrace.

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STRUGGLES

John Phillip Simpson

The Captive Slave

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The Meaning of Stress Karen Layani

Surely all teenagers know what stress is. Stress is coming home at 6:00 p.m. to be welcomed by mountains of homework. It is returning to school after missing three days for a basketball tourna-ment. Stress is the contact lens that refuses to go into one’s left eye. Stress is an orphan sock in the dryer. It is the drumming of fingers on the steering wheel waiting for the traffic light to turn green as the clock flashes 8:03 a.m. Stress is the sound of the second bell ringing right when you reach the top of the stairs. Stress is a frozen computer. Stress is the knowledge that there are three tests to be taken tomorrow at school. Stress is being down by three points with four seconds left in the fourth quarter of the championship game. Stress is a milk carton that won’t open. It is the knowledge that playing with a concussion could lead to permanent brain injury, as could worrying about it. It is the ticking of the clock as the ball is inbounded. Stress is the plane ride back to Chicago where school awaits. Stress is the golden red math book. It is the supply bag with the broken zipper. It is the thirty pound backpack overflowing with work. Stress is pens with no ink. It is the phone battery that dies when you start dialing. Stress is teachers and gradebooks. Stress is the house alarm that refuses to turn off. Stress is waking up to a nightmare about school only to realize that you’re actually in school. It is ACTs and SATs on Sunday mornings. It is the source behind all-nighters and bags un-der eyes. Stress is familiar to all teenagers.

Regret Mimi Elkaim As a spark of flame lit within me I felt my temper rise My very soul repelled that being From life with me inside. The spark at first grew slowly, Other branches and twigs caught, But soon I lost control and now, A raging fire licks my mind.

As I sit upon this cold damp earth, With m back ‘gainst frozen stone As I wrestle with this torment Part wanted, but to put to disgrace That thin tendril of lava That’s wrapped ‘bout my heart Impervious to water and tears, Will cold earth put it out?

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Here is a Picture of Me Ezra Kapetansky Leaning on the balls of my feet, shuffling side to side, elbows in, back straight, and focus on the enemy, in a large gymnasium full of whistles and cheers, on a blue square mat full of sweat and leg hairs, in the background my team on one side and the rivals on the other- both supporting their own school. I am average-weight and lanky, a puny freshman, nervous beyond belief, trying to be aware of the adversary’s next move, just waiting for it all to be over- waiting for my inevitable defeat. I am challenging my fear, anxiety- and embarrassment, in my tight blue spandex singlet that is suffocating my body, and questioning my integrity, the headgear squeezing my head, the kneepads partly falling down, and the matching blue Asics shoes- that complete my “attractive” uniform. There was no way I was in need of a picture- to remind myself how badly I had done. I would say that my parents are outside the frame rooting me on but- my mother is alone, apprehensive and concerned, screaming “Don’t hurt my boy!” and “Get your hands off of him!” as I am busy attempting the move my coach instructed me to do. Father will not even make a presence- as he is away in his second home- as usual.

“ 53

Here is a Picture of Me Ezra Kapetansky Leaning on the balls of my feet, shuffling side to side, elbows in, back straight, and focus on the enemy, in a large gymnasium full of whistles and cheers, on a blue square mat full of sweat and leg hairs, in the background my team on one side and the rivals on the other- both supporting their own school. I am average-weight and lanky, a puny freshman, nervous beyond belief, trying to be aware of the adversary’s next move, just waiting for it all to be over- waiting for my inevitable defeat. I am challenging my fear, anxiety- and embarrassment, in my tight blue spandex singlet that is suffocating my body, and questioning my integrity, the headgear squeezing my head, the kneepads partly falling down, and the matching blue Asics shoes- that complete my “attractive” uniform. There was no way I was in need of a picture- to remind myself how badly I had done. I would say that my parents are outside the frame rooting me on but- my mother is alone, apprehensive and concerned, screaming “Don’t hurt my boy!” and “Get your hands off of him!” as I am busy attempting the move my coach instructed me to do. Father will not even make a presence- as he is away in his second home- as usual.

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Mandatory Sestina Hanah Brasch I’m sitting here trying To write this mandatory Sestina. Struggling To put my thoughts Into words that are memorable. But writing something memorable Is not done just by trying. Sestina’s are More than just mandatory Writing assignments filled with jumbled thoughts, Screaming of frustration and struggling. Poets have been struggling To remain memorable For ages. It is their thoughts That are credited for trying. Not some girl who must write a mandatory Poem. While all she does is stare At blank pages that in return are Staring—mocking her struggling As if their duty to remain white is mandatory

As if that is how they remain memorable. They don’t deal with “trying” They don’t even have thoughts. Then comes the flood of thoughts, More than I can. Trying To, struggling To write them while they are all still memora-ble Conquering the mandatory. Mandatory Thoughts Are Never memorable. Leaving me struggling, Trying. Laughing in the face of memorable. Remove stuggling. Remain trying.

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The War Yacov Greenspan To go to war is a wonderful thing. Men brave and strong as though they have wings. They march on for miles. They are Harveys, Johns, Davids, and Kyles. They are the simple men of this country, Many of them will no longer be. But still they march with their heads up high in blazing heat, without a sigh. It does give hope to this land. It gives the people a guiding hand. To the trenches they march with pride. To the trenches they make their stride. As they wait so valiantly, I sit and watch alone, just me. When the leader says “over the top,” they start to run, and do not stop. Lo and behold the general is shot, and people around are all distraught. They stop to help and do him well, but all were hit, and all then fell. The central powers go over the top, and in the Allies’ land, there is a mustard drop. A man is scared, all he does is stop. He freezes there, And simply stares. The mustard rots him from inside to out, destroying him as he starts to shout. More shots erupt against the allies, all shall look, and most shall die. As I sit watching these people dying, I say that war is a horrible thing.

Life in the World of the Sane Zach Millunchick Life in the world of the sane Dulls the light streaking across the window pane, Snuffs out the no-oxygen flame, Makes everything feel the same. Life in the world of decision, Requires actions with impossible precision-- Margins of error smaller than the neurologist’s incision; What a burden it is to live in. Life in the world of pain, Necessitates a constant search for gain. Simply looking seems to be the main Purpose of this lifelong game. Life in the sphere of reality Never passes listlessly. Actions, rarely judged judiciously; Options, ripped out of hands viciously. All seems to be done maliciously. But as you take careful aim, Here in the world of the sane, Occasionally someone refuses to feign Ignorance of the drowning dame, And he jumps headfirst without expectation of favor, Focused, determined to save her.

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How to Succeed in Wrestling Sammy Magid When your friend tells you that you would be a good wrestler, and that you should go to the wrestling seminar, surrender to him won’t stop harassing you until you come. Watch as wrestlers are thrown in the air and are returned the mat. Feel ground trembling aamazement. Become obsessed with the sport. Memorize its rules, college teams, and your school’s statistics. Work out in your free time, andhave exceeded your goal. Tell yourself you can do five more over and over again. Educate classmates, so that you can have a drill pon your brother at home in order to improve. At practice, burn your lungs out until you sweat like a cold can of soda. Rehearse every move diligently; do not waste a second ohard with your partner until you memorize ever detail. Review them in your free time. During a practice match, fight until the buzzematches. Warm up and put on all your gear before your first match; do not forget your headgear. Know the technique for every position. Wblows his whistle, explode while performing your favorite move. Slam your opponent to the mat, while maintaining control of him tCradle him with his back on the mat as the referee begins counting. Run to shake your opponents hand immediately after the refereewith his hand. See victory, as the referee raises your arm in front of the enthusiastic crowd. Smile because you know you deserved it Watch the tape of your match, so that you can learn from your mistakes. Wake up early the next day, and return to practice to imFinish the 50 pushups that that your coach tells your team to complete, even though you despise of the exercise. Understand that he loudly, to make you the next leader of the ICJA wrestling team.

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How to Succeed in Wrestling Sammy Magid

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How to Succeed in Wrestling Sammy Magid When your friend tells you that you would be a good wrestler, and that you should go to the wrestling seminar, surrender to him won’t stop harassing you until you come. Watch as wrestlers are thrown in the air and are returned the mat. Feel ground trembling aamazement. Become obsessed with the sport. Memorize its rules, college teams, and your school’s statistics. Work out in your free time, andhave exceeded your goal. Tell yourself you can do five more over and over again. Educate classmates, so that you can have a drill pon your brother at home in order to improve. At practice, burn your lungs out until you sweat like a cold can of soda. Rehearse every move diligently; do not waste a second ohard with your partner until you memorize ever detail. Review them in your free time. During a practice match, fight until the buzzematches. Warm up and put on all your gear before your first match; do not forget your headgear. Know the technique for every position. Wblows his whistle, explode while performing your favorite move. Slam your opponent to the mat, while maintaining control of him tCradle him with his back on the mat as the referee begins counting. Run to shake your opponents hand immediately after the refereewith his hand. See victory, as the referee raises your arm in front of the enthusiastic crowd. Smile because you know you deserved it Watch the tape of your match, so that you can learn from your mistakes. Wake up early the next day, and return to practice to imFinish the 50 pushups that that your coach tells your team to complete, even though you despise of the exercise. Understand that he loudly, to make you the next leader of the ICJA wrestling team.

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Disappointment Jenna Katz

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An Honest Thought Abigail Turok I walk out into the street to stand in the middle of the rain I just need to see how it feels to feel all of this pain I wander around see all these people in chains With their mask secure I wonder what they will gain With hands held out to the world I stand exposed To the sticks and stones of the supposedly com-posed I ask the sky why these people are so opposed To the human feelings that are proposed I sit down somewhere on a beach And I try to remember to practice what I preach So I open myself up to the world and try to reach Out to anyone willing to teach

Here is a Picture of Me Courtney Rosenfield Balancing myself with my left foot inches from the baseline my right food a few spaces behind the racket gripped in my hand I am in the serve position, ready to gently throw the ball in the air and explode, smashing the ball on the opposite court I eye my opponent, searching for a weakness. On adjacent courts, other girls all sixteen and older are mentally preparing and beginning their matches, nerves taking over the body and mind. While I am only fourteen at my first tournament, I notice my mommy on the upper level, watching me anxiously, hoping and wishing for me to destroy my opponent. My father nearby, watching the professional tennis match on the television. I am aware of my opponent’s strengths and weaknesses, and what I must do to achieve the victory. Challenging myself in the tournament by play-ing up an age group, I still prevail. I come out with the win. Wearing my tennis outfit, a pink tennis shirt and a white and pink skirt along with blue and white Nike tennis shoes. After hitting the first winner, a clear shot to the right side line I think to myself, I will decimate this enemy.

“ 04

An Honest Thought Abigail Turok I walk out into the street to stand in the middle of the rain I just need to see how it feels to feel all of this pain I wander around see all these people in chains With their mask secure I wonder what they will gain With hands held out to the world I stand exposed To the sticks and stones of the supposedly com-posed I ask the sky why these people are so opposed To the human feelings that are proposed I sit down somewhere on a beach And I try to remember to practice what I preach So I open myself up to the world and try to reach Out to anyone willing to teach

Here is a Picture of Me Courtney Rosenfield Balancing myself with my left foot inches from the baseline my right food a few spaces behind the racket gripped in my hand I am in the serve position, ready to gently throw the ball in the air and explode, smashing the ball on the opposite court I eye my opponent, searching for a weakness. On adjacent courts, other girls all sixteen and older are mentally preparing and beginning their matches, nerves taking over the body and mind. While I am only fourteen at my first tournament, I notice my mommy on the upper level, watching me anxiously, hoping and wishing for me to destroy my opponent. My father nearby, watching the professional tennis match on the television. I am aware of my opponent’s strengths and weaknesses, and what I must do to achieve the victory. Challenging myself in the tournament by play-ing up an age group, I still prevail. I come out with the win. Wearing my tennis outfit, a pink tennis shirt and a white and pink skirt along with blue and white Nike tennis shoes. After hitting the first winner, a clear shot to the right side line I think to myself, I will decimate this enemy.

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ARTWORK

Top Left: Marni RosenTop Right: Rivka PoliskyBottom Right: Alex Miller

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ARTWORK

Top Left: Desktop, Bayla Neren Top Right: Music, Orli Friedman Bottom Left: Chuck Close, Rachel Harris Bottom Right: Sunny Days, Jessica Weil

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ARTWORK

Top Left: Untitled, Jacob Weigner Top Right: Savta’s Sweetie, Marni Rosen Bottom Right: Shark, Hannah Emal-farb

Top Left: Untitled, Jacob WeignerTop Right: Savta’s Sweetie, Marni RosenBottom Right: Shark, Hannah Emalfarb

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ARTWORK

Top Left: Remember Me, Yardena Press-ner Top Right: Olym-pics, (?)

Top Left: Remember Me, Yardena Pressner

Bottom Left: Tal Tovy

Bottom Right: Jacob Weigner

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ARTWORK

Top Left: Aliza Grant

Top Right: Aliza Katz

Bottom Left: Rivka Polisky

Bottom Right: Aliza Jaffe

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ARTWORK

Top Left: Jenna Katz Top Right: Sammy SheflerBottom Left: Fallon Levin Bottom Right: Ronit Miller

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ARTWORK

Top Left: Sara Kaha Top Right: Marni RosenBottom Left: Bayla Neren Bottom Right: Aliza Katzin

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ARTWORK

Top Left: Chaia Wiznitzer Top Right: Yonina SakolsBottom Left: Ilana Lupovitch Bottom Right: Orli Friedman

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ARTWORK

Top Left: Ariella Matanky

Top Right: Ronit Miller

Bottom Left: Elana Brocha

Bottom Right: Shayna Jacoby

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PHOTOGRAPHY

Merav Stein

Ronit Miller

Merav Stein

Jackie Stelzer

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PHOTOGRAPHY

Nathaniel Borochov

Eliana Borochov

Yair Sakols

Rachel Harris

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End of artwork (make sure art ends on a left page)

PHOTOGRAPHY

Eliana Borochov

Rita Gordon

Yair Sakols

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Creativity and Optimism

Rene Magritte Time Transfixed

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How to Sing in the Shower Jaclyn Stelzer

When you turn on the shower try not to get too ecstatic, even though it's your favorite and most relaxing part of the day. Tell yourself to make sure you have all of the soaps you need. Try not to scald yourself. Think of the song that will not stop playing in your head. Find the right key. Remember how that song begins and how it ends, so that you won't feel like an idiot when you forget the next line. Grab a shampoo or conditioner bottle and grip it tightly. Use it as a microphone when you begin to sing. Start your song with the opening verse and remember the way the artist sings it. Realize that your door is locked and no one can stop you from singing. Hope you can hit that major high note in the third verse. Forgive yourself if you don't because no one is judging you. Smell those fruity and herbal soaps. Wash them out and continue singing simultaneously. Feel the extremely hot water roll down the small of your back, while you scream the chorus at the top of your lungs for all of the neighbors to hear. Continue on to the next song, as if you are a human CD player. Wonder why you are obsessed with that song Watch your feet move on the foamy tub as you start to break out in dance. Watch the water pres-sure increase. Hold the final note to sound like a rock star. Wonder what you can do to become one. Open the next song. Listen to your scats, note changes, and guitar solos. Play the air-guitar and jump up and down like McGagger.

The Meaning of Optimism Rachel Harris

We received an e-mail from a college graduate out of work the other day asking for a statement in "The Meaning of Optimism." It is presumably our duty to comply with such a request, and it is certainly our pleasure. Surely the board knows what optimism is. It is the sunny side of the street. It is the "believe" in unbelievable. It is the cancer patient's step out of bed each morning, the daffodil in March, dawn. Optimism is holding your head high, regardless of the negativity pushing it down. It is the persis-tence of Jean-Dominique Bauby's blinking eye, the freedom songs of the slaves in Egypt and in the South, Oliver's plea for "some more." Optimism is the diving catch in a losing game. It is the idea of the eternal optimist that can never be suppressed, the rainbow after a forty-day flood. It's the table-spoon of sugar after a teaspoon of medicine. Optimism is a request from a college graduate, with no experience, looking for work in the middle of an economic crisis wanting to know what optimism is.

“ 05

How to Sing in the Shower Jaclyn Stelzer

When you turn on the shower try not to get too ecstatic, even though it's your favorite and most relaxing part of the day. Tell yourself to make sure you have all of the soaps you need. Try not to scald yourself. Think of the song that will not stop playing in your head. Find the right key. Remember how that song begins and how it ends, so that you won't feel like an idiot when you forget the next line. Grab a shampoo or conditioner bottle and grip it tightly. Use it as a microphone when you begin to sing. Start your song with the opening verse and remember the way the artist sings it. Realize that your door is locked and no one can stop you from singing. Hope you can hit that major high note in the third verse. Forgive yourself if you don't because no one is judging you. Smell those fruity and herbal soaps. Wash them out and continue singing simultaneously. Feel the extremely hot water roll down the small of your back, while you scream the chorus at the top of your lungs for all of the neighbors to hear. Continue on to the next song, as if you are a human CD player. Wonder why you are obsessed with that song Watch your feet move on the foamy tub as you start to break out in dance. Watch the water pres-sure increase. Hold the final note to sound like a rock star. Wonder what you can do to become one. Open the next song. Listen to your scats, note changes, and guitar solos. Play the air-guitar and jump up and down like McGagger.

The Meaning of Optimism Rachel Harris

We received an e-mail from a college graduate out of work the other day asking for a statement in "The Meaning of Optimism." It is presumably our duty to comply with such a request, and it is certainly our pleasure. Surely the board knows what optimism is. It is the sunny side of the street. It is the "believe" in unbelievable. It is the cancer patient's step out of bed each morning, the daffodil in March, dawn. Optimism is holding your head high, regardless of the negativity pushing it down. It is the persis-tence of Jean-Dominique Bauby's blinking eye, the freedom songs of the slaves in Egypt and in the South, Oliver's plea for "some more." Optimism is the diving catch in a losing game. It is the idea of the eternal optimist that can never be suppressed, the rainbow after a forty-day flood. It's the table-spoon of sugar after a teaspoon of medicine. Optimism is a request from a college graduate, with no experience, looking for work in the middle of an economic crisis wanting to know what optimism is.

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Cutting Steak with a Plastic Knife Rachel Harris

The backyard gate was locked to keep Jake The Dog inside even though he lies around most of the time. Smoke from the grill rose above the house blocking my view of the summer sun. The BBQ essentials were scattered across the picnic table because no one was concerned with the appearance. Only the plastic cutlery was out because the fancier forks and knives would unintentionally get thrown out. I could hear my cousins and brothers excited shouts as the water sprayed them from a broken sprinkler. Walking into the yard, I tried to maneuver past my chained bike, but could barely make it past the twisted spokes poking. As a result of a car accident the day before, my bike was wrecked. My dad and cousin sat lazily on the dirty lawn chairs next to my uncle in his dignified chair, roasting in the heat. The sounds of the game and the sweet scent of cigar filled me with the much needed joy of a summer afternoon as I stepped out of a hectic day and into a family tradition. Like most summer days, I rode my bike to chemistry where I sat in a frosty classroom with no windows. When the hour hand finally hit 1 o’clock, I ran down the six flights of stairs to my bike, which sat chained to the rack waiting to carry me four miles in the heat. The tire was bent from hit-ting into the side of a Camry on my way to the beach the day before. Besides my inability to ride straight, I was frustrated about homework, the temperature outside and the fact that I had to baby-sit instead of joining my friends at the lake. To make my day worse, I got a call from a teammate telling me there was basketball practice at school that night. Basketball was the last thing on my mind al-though I went to practice because I had an obligation to my team. After a long day of mixing bases and acids, riding miles on a lopsided bike and picking my cous-ins up from camp, a piece of barbequed steak was all I needed to improve my day. “Hey little Rach,” my dad said as I walked past the humming air- conditioner, “Havin’ a good day?” His greeting filled me with the concerns I had been feeling all day. To answer his question I shook my head slowly and made my way over to my plate of potatoes. Picking up on my gloom, my cousin passed me my fa-

Make sure that you are taking a very long shower because that is what you usually do. Open the conditioner. Squeeze a palm-full and run your fingers through your silky hair. Don't forget body wash. Run out of body wash and make an angry face. Get over it and begin the next song. Listen for the applause in your head and occasionally in the hallway. Turn off the water. Step out of the shower and realize that your fame is over. Grab a towel, look in the mirror, and brush your hair. Leave the bathroom

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The Meaning of Friendship Merav Stein I received an assignment from my seminar teacher last week asking for two paragraphs based on E.B. White’s “The Meaning of Democracy.” I chose to write a statement on friendship, as I must fulfill my assignment and I would like to acknowledge all of my friends who have made my life, thus far, spectacular. Surely, my seminar teacher knows what friendship is, seeing as she is the same teacher who taught me Ralph Waldo Emerson’s short essay “Friendship.” To me, friendship is the ten-page tele-phone bill tracking the hour-long, late-night phone calls. It is the fudgy chocolate birthday brownies, and the Dunkin’ Donuts orange colada just because. Friendship is sweet coconut milk, surrounded by a protective outer shell. It is the once-in-a-lifetime offer to spend you summer testing race cars for Ferrari in Italy. Friendship is an addicting online computer game. Friendship is the first flakes of snow that land on your gloved palm. It is the old, worn book that has been read at least a thousand times, yet each read is beloved. Friendship is riding your bike again for the first time in many years, and you still remember how to balance yourself. Friendship is Bananagrams and Taboo played all of Shabbat. Friendship is the smile of the knowing eyes. Friendship is my umbilical cord to life.

vorite pasta salad, and my uncle gave me a piece of spicy steak. I could not help but smile at their kindness and at the relief of completing another demanding day. Just the taste of meat and the feel-ing of the late day sun on my back made up for all the troubles I went through just minutes before. A juicy hamburger and a margarine covered potato is a staple at our summer barbeques, but to me it is more than just the food in the tin pans. All winter I look forward to the July afternoon din-ners in my uncle’s backyard. The laid back atmosphere at our barbeques and the knowledge of being together as a family is enough to get me through any tough situation. My memories of the dog sleep-ing under the table and the drenched little kids eating only tiny bites of their hotdog fill me with the constant happiness I feel on those evenings sitting next to my family.

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Guilty Sestina Hanah Brasch Fingers move quickly on the black And the white. Playing his life For entertainment. His anger, the notes My music. Their Songs, become mine. Effortlessly playing the piece that is mine Written by him to be his black When he felt trapped there. When gone was his life. A chord of anger, a scale of frustration—his music. His cries heard through my notes. Too painful to write physical notes His deafness—mine. Telling his story with music. My keys are black and play black The keyboard wailing: “Will life Go on? They’re Too crippling, yet they’re Still inspring. The notes Stilllinger taunting his life Sustaining mine

His black My music. The pages are seen, but the sound of music Gone. Their Composed black Are notes Becoming mine Simoulatneously destroying and creating a life. Life Is music Is mine Was their Notes That were black. His deafness; there was pain there My played notes Are eternally his black.

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SongHannah Dimbert

A hand that reaches up and down,Inside to me and plucks at strings,A note, maybe, double to echo my heartbeat.The shattering majesty of a thousand pieces,Resounding, out and rippling back-Moments like these, theyMake the songs of our lives.

BreatheHannah Dimbert

I’d forgotten how to breathe poetry,Those days where the words keep comingA force, not a flow- a geyser.

(A soul)Today I’m in drought and famineAnd as much as I seek,There will be no words to be foundOnly letters- bones-I must form them,Give shape,And breathe.

PoetryHannah Dimbert

I wonder:What is a poem, besidesWhat we can glue together,Bits and pieces, all throbbing to the tune of life,Yet something feeble; we must breathe life inSo the readers have something that they can take-No, this is a soul. But what is a person without his soul-(only a human, merely)And what is a soul,Save poetry?

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Guilty Sestina Hanah Brasch Fingers move quickly on the black And the white. Playing his life For entertainment. His anger, the notes My music. Their Songs, become mine. Effortlessly playing the piece that is mine Written by him to be his black When he felt trapped there. When gone was his life. A chord of anger, a scale of frustration—his music. His cries heard through my notes. Too painful to write physical notes His deafness—mine. Telling his story with music. My keys are black and play black The keyboard wailing: “Will life Go on? They’re Too crippling, yet they’re Still inspring. The notes Stilllinger taunting his life Sustaining mine

His black My music. The pages are seen, but the sound of music Gone. Their Composed black Are notes Becoming mine Simoulatneously destroying and creating a life. Life Is music Is mine Was their Notes That were black. His deafness; there was pain there My played notes Are eternally his black.

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REALITY The Gleaners

Jean-Francois Millet

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Human Sands Chanan Bell In the sands of time, time stands still In the competitive world we lose our will Who’s going to come save us from a resigned fate Who cares, it’s already too late The heavy weights are already lifted The sands of time are already sifted And all that’s been left from the tiny holes Are the bits and pieces of a fragmented soul To come early, who would be so bold To buy the slave’s freedom before he’s sold To give a poor man the shirt off his back Because he realizes there are people who lack The ability to care what happens anymore Because inside their head, their conscience is sore And unwilling to get through it and cope

Porte des Morte Meytal Chernoff All buildings have stories; walls simply cannot make themselves heard so their stories go untold. My story began in France many years ago. A man gathered wood from a local forest and built a home for himself and his family. For years I watched the family grow, two little girls, a curly haired blonde boy, and the woodcutter and his wife, the Laroches. Their lives were simple, but they were happy and so was I. Then came the fire. It began as a small blaze in the forest, probably caused by careless village boys, but soon it grew and surrounded the family and all were burnt in their beds. The very next day the villagers came to see what could be salvaged from the wreckage. My frame still stood so they took it apart and rebuilt it as a barn closer to the town. However, nothing was the same after the fire, at night I could hear the family’s screams as the wind found cracks in my frame-work; it was as if they continued to burn. I did not realize the significance of those voices for several more years. A few of the village boys

Because we took a file and cut through their hope That a man is a man merely because he’s a man And not because he’s educated and can afford a tan In the winter while others may freeze and starve While wishing to sail the next barge Out of this wretched human condition Playing social Darwinism in a new rendition Starring all the our human features we threw down a fissure And anyone else is no more than a hopeless wisher

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snuck inside at night, seeking ghosts and trouble. They climbed to the loft, but the ladder fell trap-ping them. The oldest boy, Ryan, decided to find a way down, but slipped and fell to the floor never to rise again. The other boys screamed for help, and at dawn the farmer found them and the body. The next night was a full moon and in its light I watched a tiny ghostly figure pace the hayloft. Ryan had returned. His figure was accompanied by the cries of the Laroches making for a strange and ee-rie symphony. Years passed and more people died inside my walls. An old man fell from a rickety ladder, a cocky youth slapped his horse after a ride causing the horse to kick back, and still more fires. After each fire, my visitors became less and less frequent. They blamed me for the deaths and pain; super-stitious people, they believed I had been cursed by a witch or something much worse. The Laroches became a town legend, their good name sullied with tales of secret occult practices and devil wor-ship. I was a trap, set to drag them all to their dooms, and yet none would dare tear me down. Their fear ran stronger than their hatred. The area around me became overgrown and even the animals avoided taking shelter inside. Over time I was abandoned to the woods. Throughout the years the voices continued. Each night the fig-ures and voices of the past rose up and converged inside my walls. All the dead who I had known dwelled within my walls. I heard their ghostly wails and saw them walking, eyes staring emptily ahead searching but never finding. Nothing changed for fifty years until the storm. Lightning and thunder crashed down from the sky, noise increased to a crescendo as the thunder roared; flood wa-ters raced through the village while roofs caught fire from the lightening. Each strike illuminated the people’s faces making them seem like grotesque masks contorted with pure terror. They all ran in search of a safe place, but instead they found me. All the village’s survivors crammed themselves into my walls. That would be their fatal mistake and as a final clap of thunder was heard, lightening struck the floor through my unthatched roof, and every one of the people were burnt. Time past and the boards that covered my frame began to fall away and I was an empty frame once more. The village remained abandoned, but the towns that surrounded it whispered of divine retribu-tion for unforgivable sins. They gave me a new name, Porte des Morts, the Door of the Dead. In a way it was fitting, for now the screams were louder than ever before, and the specters passed through each other in order to complete their movements back and forth within the house. Never did they interact with each other, but to me they screamed and cried and begged, as if I could reverse time or ease their sufferings. However, in another way the name did not suit me at all. None of the shadow figures ever used the door. They were trapped eternally inside. Many more years past and the people forgot my village had ever existed; and Porte des Morts became the stuff of scary stories used to frighten naughty children. One day, a man was walking through the woods and stumbled upon me. He flashed several bright lights from what I later heard

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David’s Lament Zach Millunchick Oh. Realizations aren’t easy, and How they come is even harder: The tears we shed reflect our fears, the Mighty hearts that wandered here Have given up, Have closed up shop, Have been brought to a screeching stop. Have Fallen. But The Mighty do not succumb Even to pain that does not come undone. Oh, How many countless, faceless young hearts Have Fallen, and just shattered down to parts, But they are not of those they call Mighty. So while the mighty may fall, fallen--no; Down that road is for the feeble to go. And absent is truth in David’s lament When crying for our mighty hearts.

him call a camera; then he was gone. I received several more weeks of peace with my specters be-fore the trucks came. When they did, I was carefully taken apart and packaged. I don’t know how long I remained shut away but during that time the voices were silent. I had mixed feelings about their departures; the tortured cries of the dead and dying do not make for good company but they were better than complete solitude. When I was finally removed from the crates, I had no idea where I was, I only knew that I was no longer in rural France. The noise was worse than any of my ghosts, as cars swept by me. The men rebuilt me enforcing my frame to ensure nothing would knock me down, they did not know my history; if they did they would know that nothing could knock me down. I still live by that road, and the voices continue to haunt me. However, during the day I see the living; small children play in my frame and smile at me walking with loving parents. The first day a child visited was the first time I saw a ghost in the day. The little Laroche girl smiled at the family’s retreating backs and I swear that that night her cries were a little softer.

Journey Jessica Weil She notices the blooming, pink peony amidst a field of colorful flowers, She stops and smiles to watch the sunset as the clock strikes six, She sits at her work desk daydreaming and awaiting an exciting adventure,She has never left her town, but she has already traveled the world. With a wet paintbrush in one hand, she moves toward the blank canvas, Her journey has just begun.

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She notices the blooming, pink peony amidst a field of colorful flowers,She stops and smiles to watch the sunset as the clock strikes six,She sits at her work desk daydreaming and awaiting an exciting adventure,She has never left her town, but she has already traveled the world.With a wet paintbrush in one hand, she moves toward the blank canvas,Her journey has just begun.

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A Short-lived Joy Sara Lis Like rainbows in the distance it has passed. Beautiful and perfect at first But impossible to grasp, It can’t last. After it’s gone, for its beauty you thirst. This is my childhood fleeting from my eyes, That radiates innocence upon the world. Nothing to hide, there’s no need for disguise. Thus, in sheer happiness and joy I have twirled. With no cares in the world, through life I have danced,

The Sad Truth Matthew Silberman The simple but panicked thought which immediately popped into Jeremy Forts’s head was “Rain.” He grabbed the book which sat next to him and stuffed it inside his gossamer, tattered jacket, trying to keep it as safe as possible. The thought of losing the last remnant of his once vast collection of books reminded him of the hurricane which tore his happiness away from him, along with all of his property and dignity. That had been a while ago, and it seemed to Jeremy that back then, he was a different man. At the time, he lived alone, except, of course, for Greta, his old, weak dog. He had a decent job; he paid the bills, supported himself, treated himself to something a little more fancy every once in a while. He lived a good life. But once the hurricane came through… Jer-emy grunted in pain as the traumatic memories rushed back, and tried to suppress them. He looked around, taking in his surroundings as if for the first time; although he saw the same sights each day, he never really looked at them closely. The first thing Jeremy saw was an infinite assortment of colors: the deep, grimy brown of dirt mixed with water, the dirty, uncared for yellows and whites of taxis rushing past, the occasional pol-ished black of a limousine, the tan and grey of the old buildings towering over him. He heard ven-dors yelling at street corners, feet stomping on the pavement, car horns honking obnoxiously yet

Read under the shielding shade of the tree. Siblings together, through flowers we’ve pranced, Squished our toes in the sand next to the sea. Oh! how I will long for these days of bliss, But I must move on and childhood dismiss.

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somewhat rhythmically. The people passing by turned their heads away in disgust; the sight of the broken, helpless man in tattered clothes only sped them faster toward their destination, their haven from the relentless downpour. Jeremy took out the book again, looking at the cover. It was called The Sad Truth, and was written by a man named Robert Elis. He read the description on the back, or at least as much as remained after years of wear and tear. “…Elis teaches us that it is very difficult, almost impossible to escape from the prejudices given to us by our situation; no matter where we go or what we do, we will always be viewed the same way in the end.” “How ironic,” Jeremy always repeated to himself, “that this is the one book I still own?” It seemed to have been written specifi-cally for him, because he was and is always viewed as the dirty, good-for-nothing homeless person. But anyway, something about Elis’ writing had always appealed to Jeremy; in fact, at one point, he owned many other books by Robert Elis. But that was before the hurricane struck. Once again, the memories of the disaster flooded back. After the hurricane, everything was lost: his home, his books, and Greta, who could barely attempt running away, let alone escaping safely. Jeremy was evacuated from the area struck by the torrents, and when he finally returned, he saw nothing but wreckage. He eventually returned to work, but nothing was the same anymore. Although he had had a cozy little house built with the small amount of insurance money he received, he never felt comfortable anymore. Jeremy could never think straight, and was fired from his job, leaving him out of work and out of hope. He resorted to gambling to fill the cavity in his heart once occupied by happiness, and that, of course, also was in vain. And so, he ended up homeless, hopeless, and lone-lier than ever.

People hurried past, and the rain kept plummeting from the sky. It was the first rain in a while, and as the crusty, dried mud on Jeremy’s coat was exposed to the moisture, it liquefied again, gently sliding off of the jacket’s thin material. “Today is going to be a good day. I just know it,” Jer-emy murmured in a weak, dry voice. Of course, he repeated this same thing every day, but today he said it with a certain air of determination which, since he lost his home and money, became a stranger to him – that is, until today. Jeremy slowly stood up, shaking off the crumbs from yester-day’s pitiful dinner: old, stale bread from a nearby restaurant’s dumpster. Passersby glanced nerv-ously at Jeremy as he got up, as if he was some lifeless being which rose from the dust. His body sore, Jeremy hobbled over to a fast food restaurant nearby. His dark, old boots left behind a trail of dirt as he walked directly to the bathroom. Waiting until no one was left in the room, Jeremy splashed water from the sink onto his face and hair. He watched as a stream of muck fell from his unwashed, crusty skin. Then Jeremy rubbed soap on his face and hands, trying to make himself somewhat presentable; although not very effective, it was the best he could do. Then he walked into the coffee shop next door, ordering a simple black coffee with what little money he had collected the day before. He sat down at a small table next to one with a group of people who seemed to be argu-

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ing over something. He noticed that they all had a book next to them, and guessed that this was a meeting for a book club. When he looked more closely, Jeremy realized that the book that they were discussing was __1__, the very book which he himself owned. He was, of course, interested at once, and listened in on the argument. “…I disagree. A person is who he is; there’s no escaping that! You can’t change your identity!” One person maintained, his voice increasing in volume with each word. A dark-haired woman answered back just as strongly. “That’s not true! We can’t take away some-one’s ability to change!” The argument went on, and one by one, the other people put down the woman and her opinion. “Um…” Jeremy said shyly, trying to get the attention of the people at the next table. No one heard him, so he said more loudly, “Excuse me!” At once, everyone turned to him. A man from the group smiled, and responded, “Oh, I’m so sorry. We’ll keep it down.” “No, that’s not it…” Jeremy said. “Can I…” his voice trailed off. “Contribute?” Another person in the book club laughed, and replied, “Sure. You read this book too?” “Yeah. It’s great. I just love how Elis analyzes the topic. But…I also think that his view is…well, wrong. What she –” he pointed to the woman with dark hair “– said is right. Saying someone can never escape a stereotype is like saying the way someone is viewed when he’s a child is the way he’ll always be viewed!” The dark-haired woman smiled. “See? At least someone here has some sense!” Another woman who appeared to be the head of the group announced, “Okay, guys, I think that’s enough for today. We had an interesting discussion. Remember! One month from today, we’re discussing Anarchy, also by Robert Elis. So make sure you read it in time!” Everybody got up from the table, but the woman with dark hair stayed behind, sitting down next to Jeremy. Jeremy, shocked, jumped up from his chair, and when he did, his coffee spilled over. “Ugh. That’s not good.” He croaked, frustrated, pulling napkin after napkin out of the dispenser on the table. He frantically tried to wipe up the mess. The woman laughed, helping in the effort. “Oh. Uh, thanks.” Jeremy said awkwardly, sitting back down. “Oh, just returning the favor,” the woman answered. “Thanks for the support before.” Jeremy smiled. “By the way, I’m Jane.” “Nice to meet you. I’m Jeremy.” “Well, nice to meet you too, Jeremy. Maybe I’ll see you sometime.” She got up to leave, then turned back to face Jeremy. “Hey – do you want to join the book club? It’s great. We meet here every month. You should come to the next meeting! The next one is April 6th, 9 A.M. sharp. We’re discussing Robert Elis’s Anarchy. It’s supposed to be a great book. Have you heard of it?” “Heard of it? I’ve read it dozens of times! I’m a huge fan of Elis’s!” “That’s perfect, then! I’ll see you in a month!” And so, for the next four weeks, Jeremy saved up

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money to buy a copy of Anarchy, which he luckily found near the place he slept at a little booth which was selling old, cheap books. When he opened the cover of his new book, reading the first page for the first time in years, he felt like he was being reunited with an old friend. He couldn’t read the book fast enough; his eyes were transfixed on every word, he sucked in all the information he could from Elis’ analytical text. And when Jeremy finally finished the book, he put it down care-fully on the ground next to him, satisfied. Being able to read again made him remember that his life wasn’t always so bad. When April 6th finally arrived, Jeremy woke up in a good mood, excited to finally do something productive; something exciting. In a way, he was excited to finally just do something. He got up, picked up his new book, washed up in a little shop’s bathroom, and practically ran all the way to the coffee shop. He arrived, and to his dismay, saw Jane and the rest of the group on their way out. “Hey, what happened?” He asked, pleading on the inside that he wasn’t late, that he didn’t wait a whole month just be miss the opportunity to do something normal once again. “Oh, you must’ve slept in. Meeting’s over!” Jane teased. “No way. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this!” Jeremy said, disappointed, but in a way, comforted simply by the sight of Jane. There was something about her that he liked; he could-n’t place his finger on it though. “Ugh. What am I thinking? I’ve only talked to her once!” He scolded himself, dismissing any feelings for Jane. But still… Jane interrupted Jeremy’s thoughts. “What, a month? Anyway, it’s not like this is the end of the world. Big deal! You missed one meeting. You can still come to the next one.” “Yeah, but…whatever. I’m going to get some coffee.” Jeremy stated. “You know what? I think I will too,” Jane declared. “Well, I guess great minds do think alike.” With a laugh, they walked over to the cash register and got their drinks. Sitting down at a booth, they smiled at each other. Suddenly Jeremy was glad he took extra care to clean up his hair and beard this morning. He realized that he wanted to look nice for the meeting, but especially for Jane. “So, do you still want to discuss the book?” Jane asked. “No, no, it’s fine. Let’s talk about…I don’t know. Tell me a little bit about yourself.” Jane smiled. “Putting me on the hot spot here, eh? Hm…well, I was born in the suburbs. Two older brothers, no sisters. They were typical brothers: always rowdy, uncivilized…the usual. And of course now that they’re big, important executives, they deny it. But anyway, from the time I was young, I was always called interesting. Inquisitive. I always wanted to know more, understand more, absorb more ideas. And I loved books. Honestly, I could come home one day with a bag full of li-brary books and I would be finished with the whole pile that day. I just stuffed as much information as I could into my brain. I don’t even know why, but I was just so interested in knowledge.”

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“I feel like you’re describing me!” Jeremy smiled. Jane laughed, and said, “Okay, now you’re just trying to be agreeable.” “No! I mean it! Give me any book and I’ll have it finished within two hours. No joke.” “Okay, I’ll hold you to it.” They laughed, and Jane continued her story. “When I got to college, I focused mainly on writing; now that I had all this information, I wanted to be able to share it. And here I am, a magazine editor living in the city.” Jeremy nodded. “Wow. That’s a pretty good life you’ve got there.” “Why, thank you. And now I’ll let you talk. Tell me a little bit about yourself.” Jeremy paused. Somehow he never thought that she would ask him that question. She couldn’t know the truth; she couldn’t know that every day, he struggled just to have a basic meal. That his bathroom was in a fast food restaurant. That his house was a sidewalk, that the extent of his posses-sions was two books, one outfit, boots, and a thin jacket. “Oh. I’m a…teacher. At a small school, right at the edge of town. I teach Language Arts.” “Really? That’s great.” “Yeah. I love the kids. Actually, most of them come from underprivileged families, so they’ve really got it tough. I’m just glad to give them an opportunity to learn.” “How sweet. It’s really amazing what you do. So how did you get to the city?” Jeremy continued, weaving a fake story of his life, avoiding the mention of the many disasters which he had faced in his life. Finally, they left the coffee shop, and each went on their own way. Jane and Jeremy began to make plans with each other more often; however, the fact that he was ly-ing to Jane always remained at the back of his head when he was with her. But she couldn’t know that he was homeless. Jeremy tried to cover up his lie, but as always, the truth is uncovered some-how. It happened on a Monday. For two whole months, Jane and Jeremy had been seeing each other. All the money which Jeremy got was used to buy Jane nice little presents. His living conditions were worse than ever, but he knew it was worth it once he saw the appreciation and happiness in Jane’s eyes. Today the two of them had decided to go sightseeing around the city. At one point, they paused, and Jane said, “Hey. I just realized something.” Jeremy nodded, signaling to Jane to con-tinue. “You never showed me your school! The one you teach at!” Jeremy froze. His smile fell to a nervous expression; he knew this would happen eventually. Of course, the school didn’t exist. It never did. All Jeremy could choke out was, “It…isn’t…” “What’s that?” “I-I’m…sorry.” “For what? What happened?” “There…is no school.” Jeremy finally stammered. “What do you mean?” “I mean I was lying. I don’t have a job.”

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“Oh, no, I’m so-” “No. No. I haven’t been telling the truth. Jane, I’m jobless. I’m out of money. I…I’m home-less…and there was nothing happy in my life until I met you. Until I joined the book club. That was the first time in a while that I actually felt…like a person.” “Oh, Jeremy…” Jane hugged Jeremy, a sad look on her face. “I can help you. Don’t worry-” “No! I didn’t want this! No! This is what I’ve been trying to avoid!” He backed away from Jane, a wild, pained look in his eyes. “I don’t need any help!” “No, Jeremy, I’ll…I’ll get you something to eat. I’ll get you clothes. Really!” “Let me do this myself! I don’t need your help!” Tears came to Jeremy’s eyes. Tears of embar-rassment, of regret. He continued to back away, then turned and ran away from the one person who gave him happiness, and the one person who took it away when he became just another homeless person, just another person in need, who couldn’t help themselves. “Elis was right!” He yelled as he ran. “Elis was right!”

Jane stood still, watching as Jeremy ran. And as she did, she realized something. No, Elis wasn’t right. Because Jane didn’t see Jeremy as a homeless person; she saw him as a kindhearted, intelli-gent, understanding man. She saw him as someone worth knowing. Jane realized that truly, a person can’t be judged simply by their situation; everyone has a story, and until you know that story, you can’t fully know who that person is.

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What Is the Meaning of Procrastination? Jason Silberman I recently received an interesting assignment from my seminar teacher. The assignment was to write an interpretation of a word, parallel in format to that of E.B. White’s, “The Meaning of De-mocracy.” I chose to write about Procrastination. As a student looking to do my best in school, it is obviously my duty to complete this assignment, and I am particularly excited to do so. Surely my seminar teacher knows what Procrastination is, being that she has been a teacher at Ida Crown for many years. Procrastination is the early morning showers while the smell of coffee fills the air. It is the just in just five more minutes. It is “House” and “The Office”. Procrastination is letting your body slowly digest dinner before you get up from the table. It is the lie-to-yourself-so-much-you-think-it’s-true feeling. It is Facebook and YouTube. Procrastination is halftime and the 7th inning stretch. It is 11:59:59 and the feeling of relaxation and guilt. It is chocolate cake and banana crème pie. It is an action—or lack of action—which is universal. It is the living for the moment, mo-ment. Procrastination is waiting until Thursday night to complete my seminar assignment on the meaning of procrastination.

The Meaning of Hope Aliza Jaffe I received an assignment from our Seminar teacher last week asking for a statement on “The Meaning of Hope.” Being a student in this class, I am required to fulfill this assignment, and I shall fulfill it with pleasure. Surely the teacher knows what hope is. It is her anticipation before her students’ hands rise after she asks a question. It is the phrase L'hiyot am chofshi b'artzenu, “to be a free nation in our land”, in Hatikvah and the dove’s olive branch. Hope is Plan C. It is the homemade strawberry-peanut butter milk shake. It is the thumping hearts of children eager to be picked for a team. Hope is waiting for him to call. It is the little patch of greenery amid melting snow and that one warm day in January. Hope is patience and saying “maybe” frequently; it is filling in the bubble next to “undecided major” on the PSAT. It is the ab-sence of an umbrella on a cloudy day. Hope is a student turning in to her teacher a second draft on the meaning of hope.

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The Empty Dock Aliza Grant Holding myself up, my hands stationed like slanted pillars behind my back, head cocked to the side, Feet dangling, gently tapping the green blue water sending ripples in every direction. I am sitting on the edge of the dock, in the background the cement steps, escorted by moss, lead up to the lawn of the house in which I spend those few summer weeks, the best, A haven. I am seemingly aloof and relaxed, months from sixteen, aware of the lake wind, threatening to blow me over as it tauntingly spirals my hair around my face. I am challenging temperature, wrapped up in my zebra patterned towel and a swimsuit wet hair shooting drops of water into the air at every cold gust. What was I thinking, exhilarated, after jumping out of the water, propping myself into position, more aware than I appeared, as my mother snapped the photo from the motor boat I had just vacated? The look on her face wistful for the moment, before the photograph had placed me in a different time zone. She will clutch the camera for fear of it falling in the lake Her eyes not on the picture, but on me left on the pier in my towel slowly, but surely, becoming a black speck as the boat speeds away with her in it.

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Finding it: Truth Benji Richter Why do we bite Into the Banana before it is unpeeled? Is it ignorance, inexperience? Or the inability to tell the difference. It is a super-human ideal; A transient fairytale, That tasting the banana With the peel is immediate, and the permanence of The banana will slowly rot Away, But when one winnows and sifts through the weeds of disgust, A discovery is made. The peel preserves the banana; the banana the peel: A Dull pearl-- The banana within The peel is unripe. It brings a squint and an “Eww” To a baby’s face, But when a Man; White-bearded in a long-coat peels, The banana is sweet and Wise.

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Finding it: Truth Benji Richter Why do we bite Into the Banana before it is unpeeled? Is it ignorance, inexperience? Or the inability to tell the difference. It is a super-human ideal; A transient fairytale, That tasting the banana With the peel is immediate, and the permanence of The banana will slowly rot Away, But when one winnows and sifts through the weeds of disgust, A discovery is made. The peel preserves the banana; the banana the peel: A Dull pearl-- The banana within The peel is unripe. It brings a squint and an “Eww” To a baby’s face, But when a Man; White-bearded in a long-coat peels, The banana is sweet and Wise.

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Accomplishments

Emanuel Leutze

Washington Crossing the Delaware

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Inspiration Rebecca Turok

While reading a book with my younger sister, I came across the word “inspiration.” My little sister turned to me and asked me what the word meant. It was my duty to answer her. But surely she knew what inspiration meant. Inspiration is the signatures on the Mayflower Compact. It is the “dream” in Martin Luther King Junior’s “I Have a Dream” speech. It is Beethoven’s sonata that he never heard, Robin Hood’s ar-row soaring through the sky. It is Christopher Columbus’s “land ho,” Woody Guthrie’s “This land is your land, this land is my land.” Inspiration is the mysterious smile behind Leonardo DaVinci’s Mona Lisa. It is kindergarteners learning how to hold a pencil and presidents signing bills. It is Fre-derick Douglass’s freedom and Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. It is Neil Armstrong’s first leap on the moon and the president who asked a nation what they could do for their country. Inspi-ration is the fuel of the Earth, the food of leaders, the reason why the human species is not extinct today. It is the key to balancing on a surf board and to taking the first strides in a marathon. It is a little girl, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, struggling to understand the meaning of a new word. Inspiration is the setting of the sun behind the backs of two sisters crouching over a worn out book.

Sunset Hannah Dimbert On an ordinary morning, in an anonymous city, another day began. A butterfly flapped its wings, and the sun rose. Busses shuttled passengers across the grey streets. Planes streaked through the grey sky, pushing the clouds aside. Pedestrians stepped around lumps of grey-black snow and shivered. Nobody no-ticed that grey ran rampant and unexcused. Grey, the ugliest, most drab color, had begun to appear everywhere and to cover everything, like a weed growing unchecked; it shared the sky with build-ings and airplanes and clouds and clouds of pollution. The sun never shone. Somewhere, below the sea or above the mountains, the spirit of the Earth stirred. She yawned, and stretched, and the great cedars stood tall. Flowers unfurled and she opened her vivid and time-less eyes. The tides pulled the fish and the sun pulled the moon. Earth's leaves became open and aware. “My children,” Earth smiled, “today begins the spring.” The streams pushed their waters through ice, the mice scurried out of holes, and the grass laughed. Springtime, the season of joy and content-

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Inspiration Rebecca Turok

While reading a book with my younger sister, I came across the word “inspiration.” My little sister turned to me and asked me what the word meant. It was my duty to answer her. But surely she knew what inspiration meant. Inspiration is the signatures on the Mayflower Compact. It is the “dream” in Martin Luther King Junior’s “I Have a Dream” speech. It is Beethoven’s sonata that he never heard, Robin Hood’s ar-row soaring through the sky. It is Christopher Columbus’s “land ho,” Woody Guthrie’s “This land is your land, this land is my land.” Inspiration is the mysterious smile behind Leonardo DaVinci’s Mona Lisa. It is kindergarteners learning how to hold a pencil and presidents signing bills. It is Fre-derick Douglass’s freedom and Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. It is Neil Armstrong’s first leap on the moon and the president who asked a nation what they could do for their country. Inspi-ration is the fuel of the Earth, the food of leaders, the reason why the human species is not extinct today. It is the key to balancing on a surf board and to taking the first strides in a marathon. It is a little girl, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, struggling to understand the meaning of a new word. Inspiration is the setting of the sun behind the backs of two sisters crouching over a worn out book.

Sunset Hannah Dimbert On an ordinary morning, in an anonymous city, another day began. A butterfly flapped its wings, and the sun rose. Busses shuttled passengers across the grey streets. Planes streaked through the grey sky, pushing the clouds aside. Pedestrians stepped around lumps of grey-black snow and shivered. Nobody no-ticed that grey ran rampant and unexcused. Grey, the ugliest, most drab color, had begun to appear everywhere and to cover everything, like a weed growing unchecked; it shared the sky with build-ings and airplanes and clouds and clouds of pollution. The sun never shone. Somewhere, below the sea or above the mountains, the spirit of the Earth stirred. She yawned, and stretched, and the great cedars stood tall. Flowers unfurled and she opened her vivid and time-less eyes. The tides pulled the fish and the sun pulled the moon. Earth's leaves became open and aware. “My children,” Earth smiled, “today begins the spring.” The streams pushed their waters through ice, the mice scurried out of holes, and the grass laughed. Springtime, the season of joy and content-

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ment, had begun. Only the people failed to understand the spring. They stayed indoors, and lit fires. Nobody searched for the first wildflowers, or the early croaks of frogs. Instead they polluted the air, and the water, and the ground itself, with their grey poisons. Earth was pained by this, and cried. Even this rain was acidic, tainted by the humans. Earth screamed, but people had lost the ability to hear her voice. With the invention of grey, they had ceased to listen. They failed to appreciate the spring; really, they had ruined it. With an obscured sun and a sickly atmosphere, springtime, despite its initial joy, was choking. “I must find someone to speak for me, to help me,” Earth decided. She searched for wise people, seeking the type who grew small plants, and who smiled, and who, above all things, hated the color grey. When she thought she had found one, she would send a message- a peal of thunder, or a hum-mingbird. Though she searched for a long while, Earth found no speakers. Men shot down her birds and roasted them, and nobody had trembled at the thunder in a long time. Another long search, and Earth was able to find a young girl who sat under the umbrella tree. This was an extraordinary tree. It had been a magical one, atop a grassy hilltop, in days past. Now it struggled to survive amid grey concrete and metal. It had done quite well, spreading its leaves in an enormous canopy and letting them droop down until they formed walls. This girl, Earth's messenger, spread these branches apart and stepped into the canopy. She found herself in a large, circular room. Grey light was filtered down with a green tinge. Stunned, she sat quietly and absorbed the beauty. Time passed, but she did not notice, and soon enough the little girl fell asleep. “My wonderful little girl,” Earth called out to her. “I need your help.” Somehow, the little girl who had grown up in a time of grey heard and understood Earth's voice. Now Earth had become frustrated with all of the grey, and of being ignored. She had long been searching for somebody to help her save herself. By now, though, it was almost too late. “My child, I need your help.” The little girl understood. “What must I do?” Earth drew on ancient, cryptic wisdom. “You must find the brightest type of fire, which has burned since before I was born. Find this and bring it to me, and I will recover.” The little girl was daunted, but she set out on this quest. “What is the brightest type of fire?” She asked herself. She found no answer. So the little girl went to the president of a large country. She told him, “I am trying to save Earth. She told me I need to find the brightest type of fire. Can you help me?” The man smiled, amused. “Earth does not speak, little girl, and does not need to be saved. Earth belongs to us. I refuse to help you with such a silly mission.”

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The girl was deeply hurt but knew better than to argue about Earth's needs. “Please, sir, at least help with the riddle...” The president complied. “The brightest fire? Simple. The brightest fire is loyalty. When a man is loyal, his strength is endless and becomes imbued in that which he is loyal to.” “Are you loyal to Earth?” the little girl asked of him. “I don't think about that. Loyalty is for people. Earth needs nothing; she's fine. And you didn't speak with Earth. Earth does not speak, much less convey riddles. You're just confused,” he told her confidently. The little girl was indeed confused. “Perhaps this is not a quest from Earth,” she thought to her-self. “Or perhaps this is pointless. If nobody gives Earth what she needs, how could I find it?” Still, though, she resolved to continue. Loyalty seemed a fine answer, but she wanted to ask somebody else. She traveled a long while and met a professor. He saw that she was weary and gave her warm tea while she asked her question. “Love” was his answer. “Without a doubt.” He understood that Earth needed help, but said he had none to give. “I do not love. I simply understand it.” The little girl wondered, “How does love help Earth?” She asked the professor, and he told her that love changes all things. “Can you try?” she asked him. But he just smiled sadly. Again she wondered, “If nobody gives Earth what she needs, how can I find it?” “You love Earth,” he told her. “Maybe that will be enough.” The girl was sad to leave the professor. But she set on, and came across a scientist typing furi-ously, entering figures into a computer. “Can you tell me what the brightest type of fire, that has been burning forever, is?” The scientist looked at her sharply before returning to his keyboard. “The sun. It has been burn-ing for nearly forever, yet its light is bright enough to sustain all life.” “Oh!” the girl exclaimed. “Earth needs the sun.” “What do you mean? Of course Earth needs the sun. The sun is almost part of Earth.” “But Earth told me she needs...” “Earth told you? How can Earth speak? It can't. You're confused, or deluded. Anyways, as a sci-entist, I should know- the sun is absolutely fine.” With each word, he put more and more force into his typing. “What about the pollution?” “It is not a problem. We are monitoring it.” The little girl was wrenched by a sudden longing to see the sunlight, untainted by grey. “What does the sun feel like?” she asked the man. “Without the pollution? Do you remember?”

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His face turned stiff and grey. “I do not know,” he said. “I do not remember any time without pollution.” The man fell silent for a moment and his keystrokes slowed, then stopped. “Are you sad?” But he had already returned to typing and did not answer. The girl turned and left. The scientist did not understand. She traveled back and returned to the umbrella tree. She opened the green canopy and she sat down under the tree. It seemed smaller, now, and it occurred to her that, in all her time searching, she had grown and changed somewhat. Earth's needs had become pressing to her, and she desperately wanted to help. She had gone from being a helpful young girl to a devoted young woman. She wondered what had happened, and when, but put her wondering aside for Earth's more pressing needs. Reviewing her answer one last time, she knew what could help Earth. “Earth,” she said, “I have found three answers to your riddle, and I think you need them all. You need loyalty, which makes everything stronger, and love, which changes all things in beautiful ways. With these, you will be able to recover your life-source, the sun.” Earth smiled bitterly. “My child, you have succeeded. Yet..” “Yet what?” “Yet it is too late. There is no hope of recovery. To recover the sun, I must destroy everything.” “What about loyalty, and love? What about this quest? What about these answers? What about me?” “Loyalty and love only exist when there is somebody to give them. Only you love me. Only you have been loyal, searching for ways to help me. I'm sorry, my child, but I am defeated. I must de-stroy everything and begin anew. Once again will I see the sun.” The woman fought an overpowering longing to experience the sunlight. “Why did you send me?” Anger flowed through her, at the people who had destroyed her Earth and at the Earth who was going to destroy them. “Ask yourself.” Earth drew her the umbrella tree's canopy close and, before the woman could protest, she sealed it off. She summoned her energy and broke through those ugly layers of grey that were piled up upon her. And she kept safe, within a once-magical tree, a powerful young woman who had once been a little girl. She would serve a purpose yet.

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Ode to the Pencil in my Hand Ben Auerbach When writing, One must choose A subject to rant About. Whether it be about The sun, or trees, Or just about the piece of paper In front of them. In my case, However, I cannot write about Such things without Giving acknowledgement To the object that gives me The me the opportunity To do so. This is my pencil That I hold in my fearful Hand. When I hold you pencil, I feel the courage to explore The deep wonders of the World. You my are savior When I am in a state of Dire need for safety. You are always within

Reach. You complete the Work that an absolute dread And turn it into a masterpiece. When my fingers cradle you in Them they say, "You are in command. What ever you shall desire, We shall achieve." And then they follow you As you guide them along The page. Many would think That you, Pencil, are just A slave to the holder's will. But it is I who is indebted To you. For you let me jot Down my feelings and views Of society right onto this Page. For you are the reason I am able to right this ode. Because of this I can say, Thank you. However, It does no justice To the gracious act that you Accomplish for me

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The Next Step Sabina Hanani Balancing my aspirations and reality. Schoolwork and television, family verses teachers. Who I hope to become, and who I will become. All these thoughts and questions are overflowing my mind at this very moment. In a sea of hopeful teenagers waiting feverishly for the next chapter to begin, there I am, poised, anxious, but imitating confidence, my hands, steady at the sides, with nothing but a stage beneath my feet. Ready to challenge any obstacle that may conflict with my dreams.

I am covered in white from head to toe. Underneath, is a simple black dress representing the countless hours my mother spent on this day. There she stands, tears streaming down her face, thinking how old I must look with all this makeup on, and reflecting on what the future will bring for me. Beside her, hiding his big brown teary eyes behind a silver lens, stands my father, wearing a gray suit that must have taken seconds to pick out, constantly reminding me about the future, but always dreading the next step I take.

Confidence Miriam Mosbacher Surely everyone knows what confidence is. It is the “chin up, shoulders back” on a dimly lit street. It’s the pep talk and the adrenaline rush during pre-game warm-ups. It is the courage to canter over a horse jump and the uncontrollable smirk. Confidence is the ignition for taking chances. It is the push to speak before a demanding crowd, the final line said with a lasting ring. Confidence is the urge to belt out a song without practicing. Confidence is trusting your instincts. It’s the firm hand-shake and proud poise. It is knowing that everything will be alright, even when failing last time. Confidence is the running start off the diving board.

all right, even when failing last time.

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The Meaning of TriumphJessica Weil

About two weeks ago, I received an assignment in seminar class from my teacher Ms. Gold-stein, asking for a statement on the meaning of an intangible feeling of choice. I contemplated about what topic to write about for my paper. I wanted to write about a personal experience but one that others could relate to as well. After much thought and deliberation, I decided to write about “The Meaning of Triumph.” Surely anyone knows what triumph is. It is the smile on a high school student’s face after receiving her hard- earned diploma. It is the “Yes!” in “Yes we can!” Triumph is the feeling after landing a perfect triple- pirouette in ballet class, it is the “100%” marked in red ink, on a white piece of paper, amidst numbers, letters, and scratch-work. Triumphis the feeling that comes with a first paycheck earned from a “real” job, it is the hi-fives shared after the White Sox win the World Series. Triumph is the basketball that falls through a hoop as the ending buzzer sounds. It is the last touches of a paintbrush to a colorful canvas that is finally complete, the bow taken in front of an applauding audience as the curtain closes. Triumph is finally reaching the ending sentence of a seminar class assignment that is due tomorrow.

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The Next Step Sabina Hanani Balancing my aspirations and reality. Schoolwork and television, family verses teachers. Who I hope to become, and who I will become. All these thoughts and questions are overflowing my mind at this very moment. In a sea of hopeful teenagers waiting feverishly for the next chapter to begin, there I am, poised, anxious, but imitating confidence, my hands, steady at the sides, with nothing but a stage beneath my feet. Ready to challenge any obstacle that may conflict with my dreams.

I am covered in white from head to toe. Underneath, is a simple black dress representing the countless hours my mother spent on this day. There she stands, tears streaming down her face, thinking how old I must look with all this makeup on, and reflecting on what the future will bring for me. Beside her, hiding his big brown teary eyes behind a silver lens, stands my father, wearing a gray suit that must have taken seconds to pick out, constantly reminding me about the future, but always dreading the next step I take.

Confidence Miriam Mosbacher Surely everyone knows what confidence is. It is the “chin up, shoulders back” on a dimly lit street. It’s the pep talk and the adrenaline rush during pre-game warm-ups. It is the courage to canter over a horse jump and the uncontrollable smirk. Confidence is the ignition for taking chances. It is the push to speak before a demanding crowd, the final line said with a lasting ring. Confidence is the urge to belt out a song without practicing. Confidence is trusting your instincts. It’s the firm hand-shake and proud poise. It is knowing that everything will be alright, even when failing last time. Confidence is the running start off the diving board.

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Faith

Marc Chagall The Praying Jew

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The Blue Siddur Joshua Cooper “Hurry up,” shouted a low and impatient voice from the bottom of the staircase, “We’re going to be late.” Typically, my father was not strict about me going to synagogue-I was only twelve; however, tonight was Yom Kippur, and each year my father made certain that my mother and I attended with him and arrived on time. I suppose the only reason my father persisted in making sure our family con-tinued to carry the heavy burden of orthodoxy was mainly because of my grandfather. My grandfather was a Holocaust survivor, and after the war he became a very religious man. I suppose that as his old-est and only son, my father felt he had an obligation to keep religion alive in the family. As the echo of my father’s words repeatedly drummed their way through the doorway of my bedroom, I quickly threw on my freshly pressed suit jacket and made my way down the stairs. As I hopped off the last step, my father tossed me a Kipah. “Let’s go,” he snapped as he began to open the front door, “We have to go pick up my parents first, and I don’t want us all to be late.” After my mother complimented me on how good I looked in my new suit and kissed my forehead, the three of us grabbed our jackets and left the house. I suppose I did not mind walking instead of driving. It was fairly nice out and the cool breeze felt pleasant against my face. After walking several blocks, we arrived at my grandparent’s house. After slowly opening the large wooden front door, my grandmother, already wearing her dress and jacket, greeted us each with a big warm hug. It had been a while since I had been in my grandparent’s home, but each time I was there, I was able to identify the distinct aroma that filled the air. Responding to the heavy footsteps coming down the staircase, I quickly turned my head toward the stairs. There he was with a wide, wrinkled smile. “Hi everyone,” said my grandfather joyfully. “You all ready to go?” As he grabbed his coat from the staircase railing, he suddenly stopped. “Shoot,” he said, “I forgot my Siddur upstairs.” As my grandfather turned back towards the staircase, my father gently grabbed his arm. “Don’t worry about it, Dad,” said my father. “Sam will run upstairs and get it for you.” As the words left his mouth, my father was already giving me a push towards the stairs. “But Dad,” I argued, “there will be plenty of siddurs at synagogue.” “No,” said my father. “My father needs his siddur, now please just go and get it.” With everyone quietly standing there in the hallway, I did not want to start arguing with my father, so I did as he said. “Thanks Sammy,” said my grandfather as I climbed the steps. “It’s the blue book on the bookshelf in my bedroom.” It was unusually dark in his room, and as I entered, a small ray of light caught my eye from the corner by the nightstand. It was my grandfather’s habit to purposely leave his bedside lamp on, so that before he went to sleep he could read one of the many thick books that he kept on the massive book-shelf next to his bed. Luckily for me, the lamp shined enough light on the shelf, so that I could distin-

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guish between the different books that rested on it. I began to run my fingers on the ridged edges of the books, glancing at each one, trying to

find this blue siddur that was so important to my grandfather. Finally, after what seemed to be a life-time, my eye caught a very decrepit, small, blue book. As I yanked the tiny book from the shelf, I felt the feeble binding crush in my hand. I quickly repositioned my hand in order not to further damage the book. I walked out of the bedroom into the well-lit hallway and carefully opened the blue book to the first page. The faint handwriting was barely legible but the words stopped me in my tracks. “September 1943. May God bless the one who possesses this book and watch over him at all times.” It was signed by Avraham Ruptfer, my great grandfather. “Where is that kid?” demanded my father from downstairs. I quickly closed the book and darted down the stairs. I handed the siddur to my grandfather and he seemed relieved to have it in his hands. We then all headed out the door and began our walk to the synagogue. I knew my grand-father had been imprisoned in Auschwitz during the war, but my father always told me that my grandfather did not like to speak about his experience; however, tonight was different. After reading those words on the first page, I felt obligated to ask my grandfather about the mysterious story be-hind the blue siddur. We walked a little further down the block when I finally formed a question to ask about this puz-zling book that he cared about so deeply. As I made my way to my grandfather’s side, my hands began to shake. For the first time, I was actually scared to speak to him, but I knew that if I did not ask now, I would never discover the story behind my grandfather’s blue siddur. Slowly, I took a deep breath and looked up at my grandfather. “Papa,” I said. “Why does that blue siddur mean so much to you? Why do you need it? And what does that writing mean on the first page?”

My father, listening, quickly stopped walking and turned around towards me. “Samuel!” he barked, “leave it alone!”

“Relax, David,” said my grandfather. “I think it’s about time the boy heard the story. He is almost a man, you know.” My grandfather tightly gripped the small book in his hand, cleared his throat, and began his story. “It was 1944 and under the guidance of German SS officials, Hungarian police began rounding up hundreds of thousands of Jews from each of the small Hungarian towns. Most were immediately deported to Auschwitz-Birkenau where, upon arrival, they were brutally murdered by the SS in gas chambers or crematories. My family, unfortunately unable to escape before our town was “liquefied,” and was taken to Auschwitz- Birkenau. “My mother, father, and I were all taken by train to the camp.” explained my grandfather.

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Moonlight on the Ocean--Seen From a Roof-top in Georgia Zach Millunchick Moses’ face shines-- Reflecting the full glory of God-- Shockingly bright in the darkness. Then, clouded becomes God’s face, But still Moses’ shines, Refusing to relinquish His glory. Slowly though, the shining face draws away, Receding slowly from its observer. But surely that light will return For a couple more nights at least.

“Once we arrived at the camp, we were immediately stripped of all of our belongings and stood shivering in a mile long line. The scene was complete chaos. At the front of the line we could see that there was some sort of separation going on, and after overhearing a conversation between two old Jewish women in front of us, we discovered that the SS were separating the ‘Valid’ from the ‘Invalid.’ As our turn was approaching, my father quickly turned to me and thrust the hidden siddur at me. ‘Moshe,’ said my father. ‘Take this siddur. It will protect you.’ Moments later I was separated from my parents and never saw them again. They were ‘Invalids’ and immediately sent to the cre-matory.” “For the two years until I was liberated,” said my grandfather, “I prayed with this book every chance I got. My father, before giving me the book, had written on the front page a small blessing for me, which I believe truly did save my life.” My grandfather then became silent as he brought his story to a close. As we arrived at the synagogue, my mother and grandmother wiped the tears from their cheeks. While we were walking through the front door my grandfather quietly called me over. “Sammy,” he began “I would like you to pray with my siddur tonight. God has blessed me enough and now I be-lieve it is time to pass his blessing on.”

Then, it seems, God’s glory has dimmed Till it becomes a sliver of what it once was. But that weakness lies in the observer Not in the observed. And when it seems gone forever, Slowly the full grace of God is again revealed And Moses shines.

‘Invalid.’ ‘Moshe,’ said my father. ‘Take this siddur. It will protect you.’ Moments later I was separated from my parents and never saw them again. They were ‘Invalids’ and immediately sent to the crematory.” “For the two years until I was liberated,” said my grandfather, “I prayed with this book every chance I got. My father, before giving me the book, had written on the front page a small blessing for me, which I believe truly did save my life.” My grandfather then became silent as he brought his story to a close. As we arrived at the synagogue, my mother and grandmother wiped the tears from their cheeks. While we were walking through the front door my grandfather quietly called me over. “Sammy,” he began “I would like you to pray with my siddur tonight. God has blessed me enough and now I believe it is ti me to pass his blessing on.”

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How to Discover Your Talents Eliana Block When you’re in bed trying to fall asleep, although you want to, don’t close your eyes. Rummage through your art supplies and get to work. Let your heart take control of your hands and fight the urge to sleep. Know you can’t sleep: It is not time for sleep. Taste the urgency of your words as they leave your lips towards God. Pray that that family will be comforted. Continue writing and drawing late into the night. Create artwork that will console not only the family in pain, but yourself as well. Draw a world containing multiple fractures with a pair of hands embracing it. Inscribe your creation, “As your world seems to crumble, we hold it together. We are your crutch, we are your aid, we are your friends and family.” Recognize that accomplishment never felt so bittersweet. Offer on a piece of paper your heart to the two little girls and wait for their reactions. Tell them how sorry you are for their loss. Remind them that you can empathize. After two hours sobbing in the girls’ bathroom, return to class. Discover you are talented.

How to Discover Your TalentsEliana Block

When you’re in bed trying to fall asleep, although you want to, don’t close your eyes. Rum-mage through your art supplies and get to work. Let your heart take control of your hands and fight the urge to sleep. Know you can’t sleep: It is not time for sleep. Taste the urgency of your words as they leave your lips towards God. Pray that that family will be comforted. Continue writing and drawing late into the night. Create artwork that will console not only the family in pain, but yourself as well. Draw a world containing multiple fractures with a pair of hands embracing it. Inscribe your creation, “As your world seems to crumble, we hold it together. We are your crutch, we are your aid, we are your friends and family.” Recognize that accomplishment never felt so bittersweet. Offer on a piece of paper your heart to the two little girls and wait for their reactions. Tell them how sorry you are for their loss. Remind them that you can empathize. After two hours sobbing in the girls’ bathroom, return to class. Discover you are talented.

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Divine Crescendo Zach Millunchick The blinding light of the heavens shines As the angels raise their voices in heavenly praise. A single voice comprised of an infinity In a register that no human can comprehend-- They sing for death along with birth; They rejoice in failure along with success; They exalt unrequited love along with the discov-ery

Ever Since I Died Moshe Brimm As I walk down the dark, long, moonlit alley, I think to myself that it is a beautiful night, to eve-ryone except me. To me it is a lonely dark night filled with no happiness. Loneliness had become my best friend-no-my only friend. He accompanies me wherever I go. He sees the same faceless people I do. I never do see people’s faces anymore. Let alone a smile. Walking through the streets I see people’s heads are always looking down, looking for something that’s never there. It’s as if their souls have been taken from them and not me. I continue walking, and I walk through someone’s wooden gate followed by my lonesome-ness. Of course I didn’t open the gate, I am not able to. I have not been able to touch anything since I walked away from my badly burnt body still lying under the covers. The only thing I can touch is another one like me. But I have never seen another one like me before. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one like me in this universe. On the day I died, my new habits became natural to me. I found myself tired in the mornings and wide awake at night; I have no need to eat, and I roam the long moonlit alleys looking for a friend. Alleys used to mean danger to me, but they are not even a simple threat anymore. After I died I remember the feeling of my skin, all hot and crusted black. But when I walked away it was smooth and milky white. I miss seeing my reflection in mirrors and rain puddles. But most of all, I miss people. People cannot see me, and it pains me. Occasionally, they look up, straight into my

Of a soul mate Because they grasp that which we can’t. But when their voices reach a divine crescendo, The ultimate Divinity orders silence So He can hear those voices that don’t under-stand-- The imperfect voices of humans Whose humanity is their perfection.

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Divine Crescendo Zach Millunchick The blinding light of the heavens shines As the angels raise their voices in heavenly praise. A single voice comprised of an infinity In a register that no human can comprehend-- They sing for death along with birth; They rejoice in failure along with success; They exalt unrequited love along with the discov-ery

Ever Since I Died Moshe Brimm As I walk down the dark, long, moonlit alley, I think to myself that it is a beautiful night, to eve-ryone except me. To me it is a lonely dark night filled with no happiness. Loneliness had become my best friend-no-my only friend. He accompanies me wherever I go. He sees the same faceless people I do. I never do see people’s faces anymore. Let alone a smile. Walking through the streets I see people’s heads are always looking down, looking for something that’s never there. It’s as if their souls have been taken from them and not me. I continue walking, and I walk through someone’s wooden gate followed by my lonesome-ness. Of course I didn’t open the gate, I am not able to. I have not been able to touch anything since I walked away from my badly burnt body still lying under the covers. The only thing I can touch is another one like me. But I have never seen another one like me before. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one like me in this universe. On the day I died, my new habits became natural to me. I found myself tired in the mornings and wide awake at night; I have no need to eat, and I roam the long moonlit alleys looking for a friend. Alleys used to mean danger to me, but they are not even a simple threat anymore. After I died I remember the feeling of my skin, all hot and crusted black. But when I walked away it was smooth and milky white. I miss seeing my reflection in mirrors and rain puddles. But most of all, I miss people. People cannot see me, and it pains me. Occasionally, they look up, straight into my

Of a soul mate Because they grasp that which we can’t. But when their voices reach a divine crescendo, The ultimate Divinity orders silence So He can hear those voices that don’t under-stand-- The imperfect voices of humans Whose humanity is their perfection.

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Yair Sakols The Meaning of Faith

We received an email from the Vatican asking for a statement on “The Meaning of Faith.” It is apparently our responsibility to fulfill such a request, and it is unquestionably our pleasure. Cer-tainly, the Vatican knows what faith is: It is the daily bedside readings to the lifeless. It is the flick-ering candle. It is the one against the many. It is the praying atheist, a pack of cigarettes in a buried man’s pocket. Faith is the vitality of a survivor, and pleading guilty or the Fifth. It is the single mom and the recovering junkie, the lone nail in a plaster wall, and the door-less closet. Faith is going for two in a tie game. It is the idea that can never be proved, yet a notion that no other reason can be had. It is from concentrate and from artificial ingredients. Faith is single ply and single stitch. It is the swallowing of a pill, the injection of a needle, hair loss and chemotherapy. Faith is a request from the Vatican, on Christmas Eve, wanting to know what faith is.

eyes, and I this cold icy feeling runs down my spine. And they, they feel nothing. Not even the con-tent feeling of knowing that your eyes will meet a smile. I continue walking down the long narrow alley the lamps have already been burning for hours. I look back on my life for a second and see all the things I miss. I miss my family, my friends, and my loved ones. Family was always the one important thing to me. I was the only son in my family. I haven’t seen my family since they perished in the fire with me. I don’t know why I was the only one who walked away glowing that night, perhaps I had some unfinished business on this world. Maybe to meet someone who needs me. I continue walking down the alley in my own atmosphere of nostalgia and wonderment. I stare down at the cobblestones just like everyone does when they pass me, never making eye con-tact. As I walk, I keep count of all the bricks I pass until I walk straight into something solid. It hurt. My brain takes a few minutes to process what has just happened. I quickly refocus my eyes and stare at the white thing that I had just slammed heads with. I can see her head is sore as well. She is in as much shock as I; slowly she lifts her pale translucent face to see the cause of her joyous pain. She raises her lonely pearl eyes straight into mine… and smiles.

“ 08

Yair Sakols The Meaning of Faith We received an email from the Vatican asking for a statement on “The Meaning of Faith.” It is apparently our responsibility to fulfill such a request, and it is unquestionably our pleasure. Cer-tainly, the Vatican knows what faith is: It is the daily bedside readings to the lifeless. It is the flick-ering candle. It is the one against the many. It is the praying atheist, a pack of cigarettes in a buried man’s pocket. Faith is the vitality of a survivor, and pleading guilty or the Fifth. It is the single mom and the recovering junkie, the lone nail in a plaster wall, and the door-less closet. Faith is going for two in a tie game. It is the idea that can never be proved, yet a notion that no other reason can be had. It is from concentrate and from artificial ingredients. Faith is single ply and single stitch. It is the swallowing of a pill, the injection of a needle, hair loss and chemotherapy. Faith is a request from the Vatican, on Christmas Eve, wanting to know what faith is.

eyes, and I this cold icy feeling runs down my spine. And they, they feel nothing. Not even the con-tent feeling of knowing that your eyes will meet a smile. I continue walking down the long narrow alley the lamps have already been burning for hours. I look back on my life for a second and see all the things I miss. I miss my family, my friends, and my loved ones. Family was always the one important thing to me. I was the only son in my family. I haven’t seen my family since they perished in the fire with me. I don’t know why I was the only one who walked away glowing that night, perhaps I had some unfinished business on this world. Maybe to meet someone who needs me. I continue walking down the alley in my own atmosphere of nostalgia and wonderment. I stare down at the cobblestones just like everyone does when they pass me, never making eye con-tact. As I walk, I keep count of all the bricks I pass until I walk straight into something solid. It hurt. My brain takes a few minutes to process what has just happened. I quickly refocus my eyes and stare at the white thing that I had just slammed heads with. I can see her head is sore as well. She is in as much shock as I; slowly she lifts her pale translucent face to see the cause of her joyous pain. She raises her lonely pearl eyes strait into mine… and smiles.

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The Light at the End of a Tunnel Maor Rudick I am an optimistic soul trying to put light in the dark. I wonder why our dreams get caught in a battle of love and hate. I hear the lap of waves colliding with the breath of millions. My eyes rest upon a winding road of people, jumping, screaming, each one a character in my book of life. I want to see the words from my mouth become a reality, A vision full of excitement without stress. I am an optimistic soul trying to put light in the dark. I pretend I am a wall of rubber, unable to be harmed, but beautiful enough to envy. There are feelings of pain that wrap their tendrils around my heart, Quickly banished by the love so abundantly handed out. Finger to finger we touch, careful not to let go, for our small worlds will crumble if we do. Worries surround my core, desperate to be voiced. The belief that G-d created a cure before a curse suppresses them. I am an optimistic soul trying to put light in the dark. I understand that pain precedes happiness, and perfection is a hazy vision never achieved. My mind releases torrents of words, sometimes with no barrier to suppress the wave. I dream for a happily ever after, the possibility of an existent form of perfection for life. I try the roller coaster of life, thriving on my strengths and banishing my faults. Hope lays in the silver lining, whirled around so everyone can see and approve. I am an optimistic soul trying to put light in the dark I am an optimistic soul trying to put light in the dark

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In Praise of Clouds Benji Richter He wears an awesome facade of white, and happiness but inside he is filled with tears. tears that could cover the world, that could destroy cities and towns, that could make people dance. When his hair turns grey he becomes honest; showing his tears , and shedding his natural misery unto the world. but then, the rumbling sobs end, and they suddenly turn to salty tears, and then to mere dribbles down the side

of his face, He starts anew: He again becomes clear white, again, but there is a beautiful spectrum of color portrayed in his smile. It’s as if it reflects off the tears and takes over his facade with true beauty. He is himself again, but, he is changed; he is, for the next fleeting moments, so sure, that he will stay white and colorful.

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Eliana Kahan An Empty Room As I walk into my son’s room I see a desk. I try to picture him sitting at it studying; no image comes to mind. He has never sat at that desk. It has three empty drawers and several empty shelves. The only thing in this desk is his laptop. A laptop I bought for his homework. The laptop lies closed on his shelf. I’m sure no homework has ever been done on it. I worked hard to get him that laptop. I know I will not be rewarded. I have never even received an e-mail sent from that laptop. My son hardly talks to me. He is out right now. Honestly I’m not sure where. He could be gone for all I know. The bed that I made this morning lies empty across from me. Its 3:00 a.m. and I don’t know where he is. His comfy down blue blanket awaits him and he is not here. I’ve lost my little boy. Somehow I can’t bring myself to call the police. “He’ll come home,” I tell myself. The painted bas-ketballs on his walls dance around me. I feel sick. The enormous Piston’s logo on the wall reminds me of the first game his father took him to. I remember the happy child he was. I was at that game too, but he didn’t notice. He was Daddy’s little boy. He barely spoke to me even then. Now that his father left, he’s grown even more distant. I gaze at the beautiful gold bar mitzvah invitation pinned to his wall with an outline of Jerusalem on it. It sparkles like the light that used to shine in my son's eyes. I know he'll come home.

Rebecca Turok The Magical Water

I ducked my head under the murky waters, taking care not to allow any part of my body to touch the walls of the strange pool as I held my breath and counted to three. I raised myself out of the water, aware of the thin sheet that clung to every part of my body and the woman who stood be-fore me on the pool’s ledge, watching. Her thin lips parted and a whispered word floated towards me as she exhaled: “Again.” I lowered myself back under the magical water. It was an enigma to me how this pool was any different from the one in which I had spent most of my summer playing. But somehow this water could change me in a way that my favorite summer destination could not. Somehow, this water would make me accepted by the people whose customs I had practiced for as long as I could remember. Lifting my head above the water, I drew in a deep breath. I could see a few strands of dark hair floating in a corner of the pool and I wondered about their owners. Behind me, I knew three pairs of eyes were watching my every move while waiting for their turns to sub-merge themselves into the pool. I plunged back under the cloudy water for the final time. As I

“ 38

Eliana Kahan An Empty Room As I walk into my son’s room I see a desk. I try to picture him sitting at it studying; no image comes to mind. He has never sat at that desk. It has three empty drawers and several empty shelves. The only thing in this desk is his laptop. A laptop I bought for his homework. The laptop lies closed on his shelf. I’m sure no homework has ever been done on it. I worked hard to get him that laptop. I know I will not be rewarded. I have never even received an e-mail sent from that laptop. My son hardly talks to me. He is out right now. Honestly I’m not sure where. He could be gone for all I know. The bed that I made this morning lies empty across from me. Its 3:00 a.m. and I don’t know where he is. His comfy down blue blanket awaits him and he is not here. I’ve lost my little boy. Somehow I can’t bring myself to call the police. “He’ll come home,” I tell myself. The painted bas-ketballs on his walls dance around me. I feel sick. The enormous Piston’s logo on the wall reminds me of the first game his father took him to. I remember the happy child he was. I was at that game too, but he didn’t notice. He was Daddy’s little boy. He barely spoke to me even then. Now that his father left, he’s grown even more distant. I gaze at the beautiful gold bar mitzvah invitation pinned to his wall with an outline of Jerusalem on it. It sparkles like the light that used to shine in my son's eyes. I know he'll come home.

Rebecca Turok The Magical Water

I ducked my head under the murky waters, taking care not to allow any part of my body to touch the walls of the strange pool as I held my breath and counted to three. I raised myself out of the water, aware of the thin sheet that clung to every part of my body and the woman who stood be-fore me on the pool’s ledge, watching. Her thin lips parted and a whispered word floated towards me as she exhaled: “Again.” I lowered myself back under the magical water. It was an enigma to me how this pool was any different from the one in which I had spent most of my summer playing. But somehow this water could change me in a way that my favorite summer destination could not. Somehow, this water would make me accepted by the people whose customs I had practiced for as long as I could remember. Lifting my head above the water, I drew in a deep breath. I could see a few strands of dark hair floating in a corner of the pool and I wondered about their owners. Behind me, I knew three pairs of eyes were watching my every move while waiting for their turns to sub-merge themselves into the pool. I plunged back under the cloudy water for the final time. As I

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hoisted myself out of the warm pool, I came to a realization about myself and the reason I was going through this process. I did not come to this pool because I wanted other people to accept me. I came so I could accept myself. I wanted to have the title “Jew” because without Judaism, who was I?

My mother had practiced Catholicism in her youth, but she always felt that something was missing. When my parents met, my father introduced my mother to Judaism, a religion that pro-vided answers to all of my mother’s questions. My parents got married and had two children before my mother, my sister, and I went through a reformed conversion. Two years later, my family moved to Chicago where my mother, two sisters, and I went through an orthodox conversion. I had always felt Jewish and practiced Judaism. I went to a Jewish kindergarten and walked to a syna-gogue with my father every Shabbat, but I felt different after my conversion. I felt like I had been lost and stumbling around blindly without any sense of direction before my trip to the mikveh. But afterwards, I knew I had found my path. I was becoming the person I was made to be. There was no other place for me. I had never expected that one unassuming seemingly ordinary Tuesday morning could come to define the rest of my life. On that one warm morning at the end of first grade, I became part of G-d’s chosen nation. I became a Jew.

The Painter Leah Edelman We think we have it all under control; we are masters of our own fate We think we know what tomorrow brings – the future we have straight We take all the credit because of our strength, brains and abilities to do it all We often fail to remember how even the mighty and powerful sometimes do fall We are taken so aback when things do not proceed as planned We have trouble accepting when things do not play out by our own hand When will we begin to fathom that there is something greater, above your head and mine Something superior to human beings that exists outside space and time Yet each person is integral and we cannot disregard another's strife We are each a mere dot in this beautiful picture that the Painter calls life We are unable to see that bigger picture with our limited vision Only the Painter can, who painted each stoke with perfect precision While we're still on the canvas we will not be able to see our own fate All we can do is live life to the fullest and make an effort to make it great We do not need to know what the future holds to make our lives as fulfilling as can be And the Painter is smiling admiringly at His artwork that only He can see

was I?

The PainterLeah Edelman

We think we have it all under control; we are masters of our own fateWe think we know what tomorrow brings – the future we have straightWe take all the credit because of our strength, brains and abilities to do it allWe often fail to remember how even the mighty and powerful sometimes do fallWe are taken so aback when things do not proceed as plannedWe have trouble accepting when things do not play out by our own handWhen will we begin to fathom that there is something greater, above your head and mineSomething superior to human beings that exists outside space and timeYet each person is integral and we cannot disregard another’s strifeWe are each a mere dot in this beautiful picture that the Painter calls lifeWe are unable to see that bigger picture with our limited visionOnly the Painter can, who painted each stoke with perfect precisionWhile we’re still on the canvas we will not be able to see our own fateAll we can do is live life to the fullest and make an effort to make it greatWe do not need to know what the future holds to make our lives as fulfilling as can beAnd the Painter is smiling admiringly at His artwork that only He can see

dedication editors’ notechallenging them to understand themselves and appreciate their own...

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