In the name of God
By Tzipora Gordon
So there’s this ring
You might’ve heard about it
And maybe you’re wondering
What it has to do with anything
Maybe you’re confused
About a ring and a chain and a pit full of wine
Or maybe you know full well what the story is
Because maybe it’s according to plan
Maybe you’re “the wise one”
Who knows better than the rest
Maybe you’re “the clever one”
Whose designs are always best
Maybe you made the command
And laid the trap in sand
So maybe you know all about that ring
You foolish, commoner king
And for the record
I quoted your book while avoiding your trap
And I learned the scroll you’re supposed to hold
And I hope you found that stupid worm
But you could have just asked me first
Our grandparents would be disappointed
Sarah Podolak
יִּתֶּן־ל֣וֹ
By Tzipora Gordon
I don’t know when I started to notice him. I could tell you when my father noticed him, certainly, almost five years ago now, but that’s a different kind of attention altogether. To my father, he was successful, hard-working, trustworthy. He was careful in his tasks, and my father finds favor with every servant who does so. This time was somewhat different, of course– this time, he was appointed over our entire house, put in charge of everything but the food on my family’s plates. But still, to my father he was just a superb slave and servant. To me, well. It’s not my fault he’s beautiful. And he’s a good man– Father says he must have been blessed by the god of his people, for that is the only explanation for how he has been so successful and made our house so successful. I would not marry him, of course, for he is a slave. And besides, I think there is something foul playing between him and my mother, though what it is I do not know. But he is handsome. I don’t know when I first noticed that.
What funny things the gods orchestrate. It’s been almost 10 years since I last saw this man, and here I am, being given to him as a wife by the Pharaoh himself. He is, admittedly, still beautiful, though a good deal different. And to look at him, I don’t think it’s the simple fact of added years. After all, the same time has passed for me, and while it is more a virtue for a woman to continue to look young, I doubt I have changed so much as he has. When we last spoke, he was begging everyone on my family’s estate to believe him, that nothing had happened between him and my mother, that he was innocent. But Father didn’t believe him and so it was to jail that he went, and yet somehow he has made it to the rank of second to the king, renamed by Pharaoh. And he is still a good man– I see it for myself, his miracles, and besides that I see that he is kind. I laugh, now, to think of myself, so young, practically fawning over a slave boy because he was handsome– and to know that now I stand his wife, and happily so. I imagine this is perhaps the best match I could have found, with a man who is not only good looking but kind, and not so old either. He would certainly encourage me to think so, for the way he speaks is full of praises to his god for bringing him to where he is today, despite the hardships I know he faced. It is admirable.
I think I might love him. I don’t know when that happened.
Chaya Guttman
Perfectionism
By Abby Rich
In the mind journeys this Herculean demon
Goes by the name Perfectionism
Strutting to each crevice of the mind
And impaling it with his flaming red trident
It is too late, you are possessed
Never to land on the ground of normalcy
From which you were sometime violently launched
By this bastardly, menacing, grinning red beast
Reality distorts, your soul grows sorrowfully heavy
The devil dances at your self-deemed demise
But alas, what can you do?
Nothing, you are paralyzed
Horned, winged, tailed, hooved and all
Abhorrent in form like the feeling you feel
After every slip, small as this sly scoundrel
Your sense of self ripped, never to return
You relentlessly aim for an impossibility
Though only approach an ever-closer insanity
But the cosmos are deaf to your deafening cries
There is no one for yourself, not even you
What shall you do but toss and turn
Fidgeting over what could have been?
You lie awake, in despair
Unable to turn to any other care
Sarah Podolak
Bird calls
By Elana Algarin
Fly fly little bird
And go on home
Cross the sky
And see the creatures of earth roam
Hear the heavens
And gossip to your friends
Fly fly fly little bird
And go back home
Baking bread
By Abby Rich
The smell of baking bread
Dust playfully glistens in the window’s divine rays
A colorful aroma paints the room
The brown hues of fresh dirt swirl around
Or maybe of oak, or cedar wood
Your oven, the hum of concordant angels
Diiiiiiinggg
The tender, flaky taste of foodstuff
Fused with a river of butter
Your liver shall surely shudder
Sarah Podolak
Eternity at the Desk - Chapter 1: The Weight of Tradition
By Auras Raven
The wind howls across the cavern, permeating the oppressive scorching heat with its biting chill. The Arbitrator continues his monotonous work, unfazed by the turmoil swirling around him. He diligently stamps his constant stream of paper as the line of souls slowly drifts by, the line always getting shorter — yet constantly expanding. A soul floats up and begins analyzing the Arbitrator, repulsed by his unsettling appearance: gaunt cheeks accentuating his sharp chin and ghostly white, almost translucent skin. The soul slides a paper across the desk towards the Arbitrator interrupting the brief moment of repulsion.
Name: Johnson, David
Sex: Male
Religion: N/A
Profession: Lawyer
The Arbitrator looks down then back up at Mr. David Johnson, his soulless, sunken obsidian eyes piercing through him. He lifts his hand and slowly, deliberately, stamps the paper before saying in his rough, emotionless voice “Left” and sliding the paper back. The soul picks up the paper and moves along. Upon reaching the blue flame of a gateway the soul drops the paper into the blaze, the paper bursting into flames and falling into embers and ashes. The inferno roars and shifts to green before splitting, showing two winding paths. The soul drifts through the rift, diverges to the left, and disappears into the darkness, the flames returning to their haunting blue behind him.
“Next.”
…
“Right.”
…
“Next.”
…
“Right.”
…
Next.”
…
“Left.”
…
“Next.”
…
“Right.”
…
Days pass, months, years, centuries, millennia. Yet through it all the Arbitrator continues his arduous task. A soul walks up, gets his papers stamped, gets told the direction to go, and next. The sounds of his silent work filled the chamber. The work is numbing, yet fulfilling—the task of finality; the unending job to dictate and direct. No job could be more important. No one could ask for a more important job. The president? Thousands have gone by. Messiahs? Hundreds. “Gods”? Tens. Everyone eventually comes to face the Arbitrator, yet NONE are truly happy with their lives. “If I only had one more day to make things right.” “Please no, not yet.” They may not say it out loud, but their eyes say it all. Their souls trace their inhibitions. Their figures tell magnitude. He is used to it. His ears no longer listen to the pleas. At one point he gave in to the cries, the pain too much; the result: Jesus— never again. Their cries now fall on deaf eyes and an iron heart.
Auras Raven
Auras Raven
Chokehold
By Abby Rich
Colossal rage has a chokehold OVER ME
It’s that face, that face again
My eyebrows plummet to my eyes.
Pupils WIDEN.
Nose wrinkles.
teeth grit.
A flame flares in my chest.
I can hear the steam shoot from my ears
The erratic grinding of my sore teeth
Every “annoyance” sees the emergence of my beast
A primal spark I can’t quite quiet
So quick, so long, so cyclical
Like a wildfire, devastating everything in its path
Serene valleys and plains, UPROOTED
What remains?
ONLY—
ash.
debriS.
collapse.
I unleash a sharp scowl in a beastly FLASH
It’s raw, it’s relentless, I just don’t care
Liberating, sure, but something’s wrong up there
This frenzied parasite always slips my clumsy leash
Maybe it’s just who I am
Yet it feels so alien, like it’s not part of me
The intensity has only amassed in time
This chokehold tightening more, starving me of oxygen
Until I’m unsure where the beast ends and I begin
Stay the Course
By Abby Rich
You try to keep your balance, stay the course
But your flimsy two feet teeter-totter the tightrope
Two feet on the rope, one foot, two feet, but then almost none
Hail and thick fog cloud your perspective
And yet, you still haven't fallen completely
Though you’ve felt gravity’s grip many a time before
But circumstance becomes no more forgiving than ever
And you wonder: how can I possibly stay the course?
No solution is given
Is it supposed to be a given?
Recurrent Lullaby
By Anonymous
Letting sirens comfort me
As I try to fall asleep
Nothing leaves me more at ease
They wail and I wail and we wail endlessly
Nothing stops the train from running over the body
Even if the conductor sobs
Even if the wheels get clogged
Everything is bloodied
And it’s no one’s fault
No one’s at all
Auras Raven
The Dungeon
By Abby Rich
The sunlight glistening on my soft skin gives a radiant hue
But I oft prefer the dungeon, almost derangedly
Utter darkness, solitude, silence
An inner peace to feel my inner piece
My soul, my spirit
Illuminated in the dark, a paradoxical farce
Light is everything
And nothing
Light is woven in the tapestry of the cosmos
Feeling, abetted by it
Alas, darkness is nothing
And everything
The Waters of Omaha
By Jacob Ruttenburg
Little children laugh in shrill voices as they dig their fingernails into the sand
One little boy excitedly shrieks as he reveals a smooth white rock, cradled in his hands
His hands are caked in mud with a deep red color
As the tide laps against my ankles, the sand below my feet gives way
I fall deeper and deeper into the ground, my bare legs tickled by the ocean’s edge
The ocean reaches forward and then draws back within a second as if to play a game
Laughing hysterically, she pulls over footprints of the little children, concealing their existence
She keeps the secret within herself, along with so many others before she kept it from me
She once swallowed blood and grabbed the bodies of lives that let me live
She witnessed the death of a thousand futures and turned away in shame
Knowing she had bridged safety with its enemy
She did not mourn that day, not until she was promised never to be forgiven
Now she screams day and night for the redemption of her purpose
I hear her now, and step away, for she still holds the blood of all my brothers
Along her shore’s surface, lay the fallen ones
Her heartbeat rang like bullets
They ran to her in need but found no comfort in her presence, as she did not slow the piercing of flesh all depending on the gun’s mercy
She rises again, hurling mud in her transparent stomach
It is her who made the mud turn red
Though she longs to hoard the memory, she is all but futile
She remembers and so do I
After all, the waters of Omaha are only a cemetery
Yet she dresses up in innocence
So she becomes a cemetery where children come and play
How else could a boy undig a bone?
So-So
By Chaya Guttman
I don’t know how to make sense of it.
Everything is underwhelming and overbearing at the same time.
Other people have plans, and they feel right with them – more than that, it makes them happy.
But I can’t set something up for next week without nausea following.
People put time into things and feel satisfied and proud,
And I can’t help but be baffled.
I tell my therapist I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what I want,
But she says at this age that’s normal.
This confusing middle ground of neutrality falters and dives into episodes of trembles, and saltwater tears;
But, I suppose, at other times I talk, too.
I eat, I sleep, I listen to music.
I stare at a wall in my room without a face,
A cavity in its place luring you in to feel around its vastness,
When I enter rooms containing perceptive eyes, I blanket it with a veil of a person.
One who wears overalls, and stripes, and toothy smiles,
Who is at times a bit too loud, a bit too excited, a bit too intense,
And people make something of it.
Something nice, and warm, and unaware,
And that's a good way to be thought of,
But I couldn’t agree with it.
Chaya Guttman
“What I am – it's like an exaggeration.”
Help me. I’ve magnified it and now it’s taken on a life of its own, separate from me.
“Like I’m faking it.”
Is what I say really what I think? Is how I react really what I feel? I don't know. I don’t know. I don't.
“Well, you do a pretty good job of pretending then.”.
Frustratingly, my therapist does not understand the severity of this,
How I’ve admitted to being an aimless, walking lie,
But the sick part of me overlooks the purposeful sarcasm of her words and swells with pride;
‘I do a good job.’
And it rings in my ears, it seasons my food, it headlines every newspaper, it reflects on all surfaces, it wafts pleasantly through the air like a home-cooked meal.
‘I do a good job’
I, however, do not miss her implication. I hear it. I can’t believe it. It’s not true.
‘But it is,
Underneath,
Still you.’
Elana Algarin
English: Prompt A - Just Write
By Auras Raven
Everyone take out your pencils and notebooks, read the prompt, and begin.
Ok, Just write
It’ll come… I hope
When your brain is forced to come up with something,
Something cohesive that is, it’ll manage
Just write. Keep writing. Don’t stop
I feel those thoughts bubbling up
Those emotions
But I don’t know how to express them
So I just write
Write until my fingers go numb
Write until my hands want to fall off
And then keep writing
And eventually… eventually… they’ll come out
Those emotions
I’m sure of it
They’ll pour into my writing in a way I’ve never seen… never thought possible
But I HAVE seen it. It IS possible
And it’s because I just kept on writing
And writing
And writing
..........
Because at some point your brain runs out of ideas
and all it can do is write that feeling that’s been lingering, hidden in the recesses of the mind
That feeling you subconsciously repress
That feeling that you don’t want to feel but you know you should
I can’t force it out
Trying to force it won’t work. It never has.
I just need to keep writing.
Even if I don’t know what to say
Even if I literally write “I don’t know what to say”
I just write
Because then, I get to the point I’m at while writing this when I can just write:
Anxious
Angry
Annoyed
Confused
Overwhelmed
Sad
Depressed
Dejected
Hopeful, at least a little
Still overwhelmed and anxious
And there we go
Emotions
And time, good job everyone
Auras Raven
Embed
By Elana Algarin
Specks of a memory remain in your heart
The details are gone, the situation is hazy
You barely remember it
Yet somehow it has shaped you
It’s lodged in your heart unable to be forgotten
But you can’t remember
It’s deep within your being
It’s inseparable from who you are
It is your beginning
And it'll be there with you till the end
You can’t remember the specifics of where you were, or how you looked
But somehow
It’s as if you do
Under layers and layers of your subconscious
When certain music plays
You walk past a few locations
You see specific colors
You taste certain foods
You hold an object
And feel attached
As if it was a part of you
As it is a part of you
To rediscover
And know
Maybe you can’t physically remember it
But somewhere deep inside of you
This memory binds you
From the moment it was created till you dance with the angel of death
It lives on within you
Auras Raven
Auras Raven
Igniting Fire
By Emuna Caplan
I look into the burning flames
Reveling in the beautiful light
My flaming red hair mirroring the blaze
The crackling sound filling my ears
A bead of sweat slides down my back
My marshmallow a crispy shell
The laughing of my friends surrounding me
Flames dancing around me
The crackling sound filling my ears
The flame lighting the words on my book
Increasing the temperature around me
But I’ve never felt happier
Suddenly, a hand wraps around my arm
Soon enough, I’m off my feet chasing another
The crackling sound filling my ears
Laughing, I catch up and snatch my tome
Which by now is smeared with marshmallow
Sitting around the fire, I feel fulfilled
The crackling sound filling my ears
Auras Raven
Peeled Back Skins
By Chaya Guttman
When they hold you down, and raise the candlelight to your eyes,
Know that they will be deaf to reason.
Your shouts and defenses melt into the ground like the snowman you built when you were six. There is a story the people found in them,
In the eyes,
And they will run with it.
They will drop the chamberstick and dash out of the room screaming,
Like the robins in your yard with Kitty.
“Danger!”, “Danger!”
And once that is what you are,
“Danger!”, “Danger!”
Then that is all you will ever be.
But there is no poison to your vivid colors.
You need not an unmistakable warning before contact.
So be a sweetheart and tell them you are unashamed,
And sorry
For in revealing you,
They forced themselves into deceitful shadows.
Cascade
By Tzipora Gordon
You’ll never see anything like this
Really?
Yes
You’ll never experience a night like tonight
Dance as you will, sing as you might
Nothing will ever compare to this light
And the joy of these festival rites
But I know joy, I know laughing and singing and celebration
I understand what tonight is, I’ll see more like it
Who are you to tell me I can’t?
It’s not just singing and celebration, child
I’m not a child
You’re the unborn to me, that makes you a child
So are you an old man then?
Since you’re so long dead?
… I suppose
But this night is not just singing and dancing
This night is sanctified joy, a gathering of a nation
Torches whirling through the air
Light glinting on faces
(Your family, whether you know them or not)
And shining on golden bowls
The air is heavy with the presence of divinity
The city is glowing, ablaze with golden light
Instruments resound across the courtyard
Their music melding with songs
In an ecstatic praise
The horn sounds loud above the rest
Signaling water being drawn
There is nothing like this
Nothing you know can compare
I’m sure you have been happy
But you have not known true delight
I hope you experience this soon
“מִי שֶלאֹ רָאָה שִמְחַת בֵית הַשּוֹאֵבָה לאֹ רָאָה שִמְחָה מִיָּמָיו”
“Whoever didn't see the rejoicing at the Beis HaShoeva (the place of the water drawing) never saw rejoicing in their life.” – Mishna Sukkah, 51a