ISSUE #3: THE IN-BETWEEN
ART AND PHOTOGRAPHY
JoJo Schachter
Hannah Finkelshteyn
Lara Jacobowitz
Allison Gellerstein
Shanee Gabbay
JoJo Schachter
JoJo Schachter
POETRY
Adronitis
By Mia Hahn
This is not who I am,
This is how you perceive me.
I say what I’m feeling,
You say what you think I’m feeling.
I try to make you understand that this is not me
Since I am a complex creature
With complex feelings.
So please
I beg you
To stop with the-
That’s just what you are
Allow me to speak my mind,
And don’t disregard me
Because only I can know what I am feeling
And not you
Because what is true
Is true
And what is not
Is not who I am.
Back to Earth
By Elana Felig
What I want is nowhere in my proximity
The closer I get-- the more I realize that progress is harder than I thought
Because I am stuck here
In a timeless area with possible catastrophes
If I ever do get back to my true habitat
It will be too late
Everyone I knew will have a new life
They will have a new space of their own
And I will be the same person in a familiar setting
But everyone else would be light years ahead
Here I float where only dark and bright can be seen
Hoping that if I ever get back
Someone will extract from their average day
And help me get back to the median
Life or Death?
By Adina Bak
She lives her life embracing the distance
Surrounded, but alone
They disregard her existence
Will she leave this world unknown?
She struggles to pass the minutes, seconds
Doubting why she should be drowned by life's miseries
Why do they care when death’s call beckons?
No one cared when she drowned in her tears bitterly
The wind’s cold breeze kisses her face
She looks down at the people who never gave a smile
She opens her arms with a welcoming embrace
The fall takes a while
As she descends time stops
In between living and dead
She suddenly drops
How can we prevent such bloodshed?
Zichronah Livracha (Blessed Be Her Memory)
By Allison Gellerstein
My bubbe,
zichronah l’vracha, blessed be her memory,
had a strudel recipe that she took to the grave
My grandma, her daughter, attempted it
My father said Grandma could never really get it right
I never had a chance to taste it
I can imagine the smell of her strudel
pretend it was like the waft of my mother’s apple pie baking
but the closest I’ll come to understanding that smell
is the distinct odour
of the miles we logged in my father’s car
(the one that always makes me nauseous)
the odour
replaced with relief of fresh air
when we would finally get to her nursing home
My bubbe, when I knew her, was always inside
My brother and I would eat from her hidden trove of packaged cookies
We would steal cherry and lemon Italian ices from the kitchen
flavors we can’t recreate
When I designed my family tree for a school project
I drew my bubbe at the root of it
All of our branches reaching back to her
And I glued cut out leaves onto it
(Since projects had to be “creative”)
leaves which would fall off everywhere like they do in autumn
Like my family members falling out after my bubbe was gone
Like apples tumble down branches in the fall
Apples would hum, anticipating
Dough would stretch out over entire countertops
And flour would coat the air
When the time came to make her strudel
But these are just my father’s memories
Stretched into a vague story,
whose details I’m just imagining.
But ingredients don't make a recipe
the details I picture, stretched into a vague story
Can't bring me back to my father's first bite of her confections
So all I can do is imagine
My memory fades as time goes on
Like memories blur into general impressions
Like the aftertaste of her strudel melts on my father’s taste buds
I remember the dissipating flavors of her nursing home
The walks up and down her hallway, both of our steps tentative, me on two little feet, she with a walker.
My father remembers my bubbe’s strudel
The production of it all, with the dough spread over the entire countertop
And the taste I’ll never know
Draw Between the Lines
By Brooke Kohl
Draw between the lines
Echoes in my ears
Flowers are red
Beats within my heart
Can you hear it?
A song silenced only by a final breath
The final breath of humanity
As long as we are around, we can never be free
We will always have one hand tied behind our backs
Our creativity stomped out
Our differences scorned
Draw between the lines
Echoes in my ears
Flowers are red
Beats within my heart
When will we sing a different song?
A song of creativity
A song of inclusion
A song of passion
A unique song for everyone
We could be free
Free, but not purposeless
If we were free to be unique
Creative
Different
If we sang a different song
If our hearts beat with a different message
Draw wherever you want
If only it echoes in my ears
Flowers can be any color
If only it beats within my heart
But for now we have a hopeless song
Of indifference
Of sameness
Of exclusion
We must get rid of our terrible song
Before our final breaths
So that we can live the way we want to
Live creatively
Live differently
Live uniquely
Draw between the lines
Echoes in my ears
Flowers are red
Beats within my heart
If only echoes didn’t talk back
If heartbeats drummed a different tune
If songs sang of uniqueness
Of inclusion
Of passion
Of difference
And of drawing outside the lines
Truth For You
By: Adina Horowitz
I whisper it
Breath frosting
A distinct cloud of thought
Drifting along
To you.
For the stars
That surround us
For the night
That’s lies beneath us
For the love
That’s defines us
The truth flies
In that breath,
In that whisper.
The truth spirals along
For you,
For us.
SHORT STORIES
Attacked
By Tali Berg
As the little girl lays in her bed, her blanket pulled up to her neck, she begins to wonder. She can never fall asleep so easily. She knows there are monsters, hiding in the dark. She’s aware that they are only biding their time. She hasn’t been hurt yet, but she will. She won’t fall asleep, she refuses to. She feels her eyelids closing, her mind drifting off to sleep. But she won’t let herself. She stays in her position, eyes half-open, mind half-aware. Even in her sleepy state, she can sense them. She can hear the creaks as they walk across the room. She can almost convince herself it’s just be a windstorm, but she can hear them plotting her demise. Just a few minutes now...she’s beginning to fall asleep. She can feel their hands when they push her out of the haven she’s built up around her. Without her blanket, the chill from the open window hits her, and she starts to shiver. She shuts her eyelids tight, not wanting to see what they do to her. Suddenly, she is jarred awake. Her eyes open wide, and her heart rate slows.
Oh.
It was only a dream.
Between Life and Death
By Brooke Kohl
Imagine the time between life and death. I imagine it would be peaceful. Quiet. Calm. Bittersweet. Imagine holding on to that final thread of life, trying to cling to the world, but also slowly relinquishing your soul. Feeling your soul separate from your body. Where do you go? Down with your body? Up with your soul, up through the gates of Heaven, to live there eternally? Or will you be free, free to do anything, and yet a purposeless being forever wishing for the life you could have had?
Imagine the time between life and death. I imagine it would be sad. Heartbreaking. But joyful. Imagine the crying, the mourning, back on Earth. Imagine the sadness of never seeing your friends or family again. Of never getting a chance to complete your heart’s desires. Of past regrets, and of unspoken apologies. Of leaving everything you know behind. But imagine the joy of finally going back to the place you came from. Of allowing yourself to break free from your life, of having no worries, no stress, no pain. Of having only peace.
Imagine the time between life and death. I imagine it would be like stepping into a motionless swimming pool. With your final breaths you create ripples in the water, tentatively touching it, until you submerge yourself forever. Imagine the moment where you finally let go, finally allow yourself to fly. Imagine the heartbreak. The sadness. But also the joy. Leaving the pain of life behind. The peacefulness that would engulf your body as it is swallowed up by the water.
Confinement
By Chava Nagel
How can one know what is missed when never having experienced it? How can a person see what has never been there? Life turned its back on me without a second glance. All I have ever known is this small room. I have spent countless nights staring through the same window. These walls have tormented me my entire life.
It’s like waiting to resurface from the drowning waters without knowing what awaits on dry land. My life ended before it even started. All the air I breathe is tainted with confinement. I long for the leisure of freedom. I live for the hope of breaking the walls that have restrained me for as long as time itself. With each passing day I fall deeper into isolation. Emptiness fills my untouched skin yearning for a warm embrace out of my grasp.
Every day constricted to this confined room where I’m known by my surroundings. Some find comfort in familiarity, I find it repulsive. I have never left this room but the room has never felt my presence. Sight is a funny thing that can not be imagined. My walls may be white but who is to say others do not paint walls other colors I long to discover. Beyond this prison there may be foreign concepts.
Inanimate objects exist without ever absorbing what happens around them. There is bliss where thoughts dissolve. This room refuses to let me out yet feels no guilt. Holds me prisoner yet doesn’t comprehend the atrocity. The true crime is the overlooked life held captive. The world has forgotten me and I have never lived…….yet.
Shadows
By Rochel Leah Itzkowitz
I lived in my brother’s shadows. As each moment passed, the shadow grew. Each glare, each disappointed face, shattered my frail heart. My heart shrunk and slowly concealed itself deeper into my body. It yearned for recognition, or, at the least, an ounce of acknowledgement. However, it recognized that any love was virtually impossible. I sympathized with my tormented heart, pitying it more and more that with every move I made, I fell deeper and deeper into my growing shadow.
I lived in my brother’s shadows. The growing shadow controlled me. Shadows so restraining that my passion and hope was scarce. If only I had a drop of ambition, these restraining shadows would vanish.
I lived in my brother’s shadows. Restraining my identity and passions is a minimization of the truth. My passion was music. The downside of having a close relationship with a talented musician such as your brother was my lack of attention. Regardless, it was expected. You know, one sibling trapped in the other’s restraining shadows.
I lived in my brother’s shadows. The way the piano keys felt on my relaxed fingers had a powerful effect on my soul. The piano keys diminished my growing shadow. For a brief moment, I felt unrestrained. As if I had more musical talent than my brother. My growing shadow soon vanished. I lifted my trembling fingers from the piano keys. Then reality struck. Instantly, my growing shadow restrained not only my music passion, but also my mental desire to advance it.
I lived in my brother’s shadows. My aunt was blessed with a baby boy, obliging me and my relatives to attend the celebration. My brother returned from his music tour the day before the party. Obviously, I understood what was going to happen at this family party: my presence would be disregarded and my brother’s would be worshipped. Later, we arrived to the celebration and all eyes were planted on me. This was unsettling. What changed, Aunt Ora? Why was I important all of a sudden?
I wasn’t certain if I lived in my brother’s shadows anymore. My brother had recorded my piano songs, as I played the instrument. My famous brother sent this recording to my family and friends. Why? Why would he expose my passion like this? How could he bring himself to take me out of my restraining shadow?
I was never in my brother’s shadow. My restraining shadow was all in my head. I perceived my restraining circumstances as my brother’s fault. My brother wanted to see my success unfold and much recognition from my loved ones. I was wrong to despise my dear brother. He is my flesh and blood.
I am hiding in my own restraining shadows. My own thoughts control my lack of musical passion. My brother did not. My thoughts make me resent someone who wants the best for me. My brother is innocent. I am to blame. I now recognize my misconception and deeply pray I will never fall deep into a similar restraining shadow.
I look over to the right and glimpse at my sister. Ugh, my sister...such a talented artist...
Transformation
By Annabel Kermaier
I walk as if in a daze. The roaring crowds, the flashing lights, the jostling and screaming— they reach me through a tunnel: blurry, quiet, and disconnected. It’s good, I think, to feel this detached. You might think I would hold on, like a screaming child clinging to their parent, but this way, it will be easier to let go when the time comes.
Yes, I know what to expect. Yes, I know what I’m getting into. I’ve always known what I would be willing to do, from the moment I signed up for this journey, even if I didn’t know the details. It’s hard for you to believe that I ever would have expected this, but I’ve been training my entire life. I’ve learned how to expect things no one else ever would. That’s the reason it’s even come to this, the reason they want me.
You accuse them of forcing us, of coercing us, lying to us. It’s not true. And anyways, I don’t know why you would want to stop us. After all, we’re doing this for you. So you don’t have to.
I blink, and against my eyelids I see a blue light. I close my eyes again, and the image resolves into a tank full of glowing blue liquid. It’s the tank they showed us yesterday on the tour of the facilities, burned into my mind.
I reach the doors, steel and solid, and push through them, closing out the crowds. Quiet. Peace. I stand silently, breathing softly in a dark room. A man approaches.
Yes, I’m one of them. Yes, I know what to expect. Here are my papers, signed and approved. He seems unwilling to refer to it exactly, using strange general words, but I know what he’s talking about. He makes a note on his clipboard and motions me forward through a doorway in the back of the room.
A hallway stretches forward, windowless doors at even intervals placed on either side. The man leads me to one of the first doors on the left, and then leaves. I hesitate for the first time since joining the program. Is this really what I want? I tell myself not to go down that line of thinking. I reach forward, turn the doorknob, and push gently. The door opens silently, and swings shut behind me as I step in. I hear the latch click, the only sound in the room.
And it’s right in front of me, the glowing blue tank. It’s not as bright as I remember, just enough to hint that its contents aren’t entirely natural. Even so, the light seems harsh, and I turn away to avoid looking at it directly.
The door opens again, and a man in uniform walks in. He moves to stand against the wall and clasps his hands behind his back. When I’m ready, I may proceed.
Am I ready? Can I ever be ready? I’m ready for after, for the new sensations, the new body, the new mind. I’m as ready as anyone could be for the new planet, the new way of life– or at least I will be after the transformation. I have memorized every procedure, planned for every contingency. After this, I know just what to expect. But my time in the tank is a mystery.
What will I feel, as my limbs stretch and my thought processes change? Will it feel long, or pass in a blink? When I begin to forget, will I let go, glad to be rid of myself, or will I cling to a past I have already signed over? So, yes, I suppose I am ready— for the after.
It’s the in between I’m worried about.