euphrates - sar hs literary journal 2015

SAR HIGH SCHOOL LIT ERARY JOURNAL

2015

EUPHRATES

Editors in Chief

Marianna Najman-FranksBenjamin Perla

Photo Editors

Dena Rosman

Rachel Ordan

Layout Editors

Rafi Kepecs

Lebe Adelman

Cover by Zoe May

Editors

Faculty Advisor

Mr. Er ik Huber

Art ists and Photographers

Writers

Credits

Photo by Jay Eisenstat

Nate KatzEsther Seligson

Madeline Nelkin

Laurel Dobkin

Henriet te Weitzen

Ayelet Senderowicz

Gabi Cantor

Josh Weiss

I t tai Sopher

Olivia T ulkoff

Deena Nerwen

Josh Weiss

Rachel Rosin

Ariel Haberman

Talia Petashnick

Eliana Rohrig

Esther Seligson

Toba Stern

Nate Katz

Amram Zeitchik

Aidan Smolar

Julia Lust ig

Noa Kosman

Josh Weiss

Ateret Frank

Jay Eisenstat

Paul

Horowitz

Ayelet

Rubenstein

Paul Heisler

Emily Knopf

Zoe May

Elly Schanzer

At ira

Zeitchik

Eliana Rohrig

Table of ContentsDirect ions by Josh Weiss.......................................................1

.To Myself by Deena Nerwen...............................................2

Da-vain-ing by Rachel Rosin................................................3

Achilles' Heel by Talia Petashnick.....................................4

Headhunt ing Season by Ar iel Haberman.....................4

Gibber ish by Eliana Rohr ig..................................................5

Escape by Esther Seligson...................................................6

The Rout ine by Toba Stern..................................................7

Double Date.................................................................................8

My Fear by Julia Lust ig.........................................................11

In Blackwater Woods by Jennie Kleiman....................12

I Stand On Stage by Nate Katz........................................13

An Audience by Amram Zeitchik.....................................14

Scraped Souls...........................................................................14

W hat My Mother Warned me About by Esther Seligson........................................................................................15

Till Now by Talia Petashnick...............................................18

Death by 9/ 11 by Aidan Smolar.........................................19

Beginning by Julia Lust ig..................................................20

Midnight Lamentat ions by Mar ianna Na jman-Franks........................................................................21

Evening Performance at Lincoln Center by Rachel Rosin.............................................................................................22

Morning by Mar ianna Na jman-Franks.........................23

Sophie's Mom by Noa Kosman.......................................24

The Truth by Alan Shain.....................................................25

To realize what is missing:LOOK: through the gray haze,

beyond the cow and her newborn, beyond the road that the trucks pass.

FIND: the memor ies you?ve had.FEEL: the kisses your grandmother gave you,

the tears your mother neglected. CLIMB: the thread that stops halfway.

ACCEPT: the past , your childhood.LIVE: the future, your life.

Follow these steps to realize that missing void,

to realize the empt iness and loneliness you feel everyday.

Direct ionsby Josh Weiss

Art by Ateret Frank

2

1

I have almost completely forgotten you I barely hear your manic laugh or remember how you looked after that disastrous haircut in fourth grade I can?t picture your pale blue wire-rimmed glasses or even smell the peanut butter scent that trailed you I am sure you were just here your skinny, silent self tucked into the corner of the room watching like a ghost as I searched for you everywhere so I could tell you to leave me alone you who has few friends and spends every night with a book in bed you were mocking my efforts but at the same time wishing you could be me of course but I am me and I am here and I barely know you anymore of that you can be sure you are not at all pretty and you are not popular in the least and you don?t belong in my now so I have almost completely forgotten you you are less than a person nothing but the most hazy memory of a little girl who didn?t belong but you I catch glimpses of each day in the mirror because I?ll never be able to escape from you

To Myselfby Deena Nerwen

Art by Rebecca Spitzer2

Da-vain-ingI watch her g inger ly place

her weight on the ball of her

foot to create a more elegant

str ide. Her eyes are f ixated on

an object straight ahead of

her ; she doesn't want to stare

at any of her viewers. She

keeps her chin level and her

eyes up so spectators can

see her face. Her head and

By Rachel Rosin

shoulders are st ill as her body moves dow n the runway.

The beats of the prayers and her pace move in tandem,

she makes her turn at the end, places her left foot at a

per fect angle, as she pauses for a beat in the song. Her

hips, shoulders, and feet are facing the side of the pew

as her head is turned to look at the audience over her

shoulder. The scent of per fume infused on her skin

jumps onto the crowd. I can taste the f lowery scent

through the pores of my tongue. After posing for a beat ,

she pivots, and gracefully moves toward her seat . My

ears try to push through the endless chatter ing of the

women, to f ind the sound of prayer. But the only noise

my ears hear is the steady chime of w hisper ing lips. My

fingers caress the silky smooth pages of my siddur. I try

to feel the words to compensate for my inabilit y to hear

them, but the pages don't come alive. I touch my sister ?s

shoulder pulling her from her prayers. Please, my eyes

bore into hers; help me feel something, anything at all.

3

Art by Eliana Rohr ig

He built a horse and breached our wallTo f ind me lurking in the shadows of she

I wouldn't endorse a love so tallSo he built a horse and breached our wall

My line of force star ted to fallAs he told she: "he would only love me."

He built a horse and breached our wall

And found me lurking in the shadows of she.

ACHILLES' HEAL

Trudging through the parkBrothers beside herSled draggingCr isp smell of winter in the airFingers like icicles dangling from her palmsExhausted from trekking up the hillBut a single test remainsAt last a vict im is spottedBaseball bat swingingA cloud of snow eruptsAs the snowman?s head falls to the groundHeadhunt ing season has begun.

HEADHUNTING SEASON

Photo by J ay Eisenstat

by Talia Petashnickby Ar iel Haberman

4

My heart is a boneless cow.

If your mouth is 2 inches wide 4 inches long w hen stretched out , you would enjoy eat ing my heart .

I smell like b lood,

I smell of salt .

Gibberishby Eliana Rohrig

I taste raw,

I look destroyed,

I do not moo,

I have no sound.

If you touch me,

You will be feeling f lesh.

I might smell dead,

But I look alive.

Mrs. Robinson climbed out of the Simon and

Garfunkel track and came to rescue me from Los Angeles

I smell like cotton candy.

My heart was weak because of a ker fuff le

If you give me a cocktail, I will be Mar ilyn Monroe.

"It 's not like I wanted him to see, I just showed him"

My heart is a boneless cow, but even st ill my heart goes skiing in February.

Elsy, you are too afraid of things beyond your control.

This is all my fate, I see it all happening in 23 months.

You are one fluffy dent ist .

Life is evil and therefore you should believe your kitt y will kill you.

"Ein li koach"

The shoelace began to move, it looked like a modern dancer.

5

Art by Josh Weiss

Traveling, I so long for some escape,

for some way home, for someone that I know,

for language mine and eyes that do not gape,

at me a foreigner w ho wants to go.

Here noon, but home already four o?clock--

The t ime here can?t keep pace with my quick heart ,

quick desire to be home. I m ight just walk

straight home so not to be too long apart .

I star t to walk through all the broken streets,

where beggars reach toward me and ask for aid,

and the harsh sun bombards us with it s heat .

I am so t ired that I begin to fade.

Just then I see the market and I think

of coconuts and how I like those dr inks.

EscapeBy Esther Seligson

Photo by Paul Horowitz

6

She follows me, she keeps track.

Every day, the tally increases.

The usual rout ine:

Ms. Worry, I whisper in bed,

how do you plan on keeping me up tonight?

And she digs through her purse,

r if ling through my

The Rout ine

anxiet ies.

Maybe she smiles when she finds

the hidden one, down at the bottom.

Maybe she?s apologet ic.

Tell me, Ms. Worry,

what I must take

away from your game.

Make it light , please.

So I can stack in on top,

let it f it in

to the space left over by the others.

Worry, let me have

a fulf illing day

and a good night?s sleep

like the ones I used to have

pure and simple

before I grew up and met you.

Art by Ayelet Rubenstein

by Toba Stern

7

It had been a while since we?d gone on a double date with the Campbells. They were wonderful, really, our old fr iends, we just never had much t ime to get out , what with Izzy and everything. I?d wanted to do this for a while.

We?d all known each other since college, which made it even harder to watch the responsib ilit ies of adulthood pull us apart .

I?d only been marr ied for three years and the novelty was already fading into a t iresome rout ine: Diaper change before work, work, more diaper changes after work, and fights- more than our fair share of them.

My therapist , whom I?d been seeing for a few months now, once asked me if I had any regrets. ?Of course not ,? I?d said, though I admit that after a while, the only remaining novelty was sleep.

Yet somehow, all the stress and worr ies began to fade away when I looked at Olivia. I?d never doubted she was the most beaut iful woman in the wor ld. Her hair was done up tonight , with a few rouge pieces falling out in the front , and I not iced they gent ly brushed her cheeks every t ime she t ilted her head to laugh. I loved how she t ilted her head when she

Double Date

laughed.

Josh Campbell was laughing too. Someone must have said something funny. I smiled, though in truth I was somewhere else, somewhere far from the conversat ion at the table.

I really loved her. And it wasn?t tradit ional love; it was deeper. At least I thought it was. Maybe every man w ho ever loved thought his was somehow more special, but I was f ine with that .

Because I was cer tain I was r ight , and everyone else was w rong.

I?d never forget the f irst t ime I saw her-- a Wednesday night in 1993, a club called Mentoes. We?d

Photo by Zoe May

8

Anonymous

been freshman in college, and I?d brought a short brunette named Minnie as my date. Not because I?d been into her, but because the thought of showing up alone had made me nervous.

But not Olivia.

She?d shown up alone that night in the most astonishing cr imson dress I?d ever seen. Somet imes, I could st ill feel my hands on her hips, passionate yet steady, as they?d been the f irst t ime we?d danced together.

The four of us d idn?t know one another yet . Olivia had just met Bonnie for the f irst t ime, and I had just met Josh. I suppose it was beaut iful that we were all st ill together.

It was hard to remember a t ime I couldn?t look at Olivia and feel her every emot ion, but that night I hadn?t even known her name. I?d just known the sensat ion of her waist in my hands, as the music drowned me in something I couldn?t have named at the t ime. Desperate, I?d w rapped us up in the smell

of alcohol and sweat , and hid us away somewhere the night would never end.

?W here?s your head at , David?? Olivia asked, snapping me back to realit y. I looked to her, Josh and Bonnie, all looking expectant ly back at me.

?Freshman year.? I said. ?Freshman year of college. Remember how we all used to hang out at Mentoes??

Bonnie laughed. ?Yes! I loved that place. We all met there, r ight??

I nodded carelessly.

?Hey,? I said, as the waiter handed Josh the check, ?Let?s all go out for dr inks or something. W hy end the night here??

?I wish,? said Josh, ?But we have an appointment ear ly tomorrow morning.?

Olivia nodded in agreement , and her litt le front hairs bobbed up and down. ?Josh is gett ing a root canal, and the

9


litt le baby can?t do it unless I?m hold ing his hand.? She playfully nudged him with her elbow. He nudged her back, to which she caught his arm and held it t ight as she kissed him full force on the mouth. It was quite a d isplay, but it was nothing in the wor ld of Josh and Olivia.

Under the table, Bonnie gent ly brushed my fingers with hers. I reciprocated and took her hand. It felt nice- the way it always did- like familiar it y.

Once Olivia and Josh broke apart Olivia caught my eye. Instead of looking away, she stared into me. Through my skin and bones, past my heart , and into something much far ther away. Something unreachable.

Something I saw in her too.

I think I make her sad. It happens quite a lot , or at least more often than it should; somet imes after looking at me for too long, she runs off to the bathroom to freshen up.

?Next Saturday?? she said, our eyes st ill locked. ?We should do this again next Saturday.?

?We would love-? Bonnie began, but I quickly interrupted. ?We have that thing.?

?W hat thing?? Bonnie asked.

I took Bonnie?s hand in mine and helped her up. ?Um, we have a, uh, thing,? I said. ?I?ll tell you about it later.?

We all walked out together and stopped in the parking lot to say our goodbyes. Then I remembered why it had been so long since we?d been out with the Campbells: because every t ime we said goodbye it seemed oddly f inal. Because guilt was temporary, and every so often my heart urged me to remember why it was there in the f irst place.

?We?ll see you guys.? Josh said.

?Yeah,? Bonnie replied. I nodded.

And then we walked to our car, parked on the left end of the lot , and the Campbells walked to theirs on the other side. I turned my head to watch them go.

My therapist once asked me if I had any regrets.

If I d id, would it really matter?

10

I am the monster hid ing under your bed,

Taunt ing you as you thrash and turn,

Twist ing your bedsheets into a tornado,

Consuming you down to your toes.

My Fear by Julia Lust ig

Art by Paul Heisler

I am the gir l who sit s behind you in math class,

Trying to sneak a peek over your shoulder

Smirking at that b ig red ?73? scrawled atop your test

Even though you sweat through hours of studying just for that .

I am the captain of the football team,

J amming your skinny back into a locker,

W ith purple bruises skewing your vision,

And tears b lending into your swelling face.

I am the nothingness you feel in your coat -pocket ,

As you frant ically shove your hands through me

Trying to f ind what you know isn?t there,

Just want ing to feed your four children.

But most of all

I am that nagging feeling in the back of your mind

Restr ict ing you,

Hat ing you,

Punishing you. 11

12

In Blackwater Woods Look, the treesare turningtheir own bodiesinto pillars of light ,are g iving off the r ichfragrance of cinnamonand fulf illment , the long tapersof cattailsare burst ing and float ing away overthe blue shoulders of the ponds,and every pond,no matter what it sname is, is nameless now.Every yeareverythingI have ever learned in my lifet imeleads back to this: the f iresand the black r iver of losswhose other side is salvat ion,whose meaningnone of us will ever know.To live in this wor ld you must be ableto do three things:to love what is mortal;to hold it against your bones knowingyour own life depends on it ;and, when the t ime comes to let it go,to let it go.

? Mary Oliver, poet ,

1935- 20 15

In Blackwater Woods Look, the treesare rott ing,wast ing away,their bodies falling to the ear th,w hich reeks of wet , mustydecayand failure, the long tapersof cattailsare wilt ing and drow ning in thethe gray murk of the pond,and every pond,no matter w hat it sname is, is nameless now.Every dayeverythingI have ever endured in my lifet imeis rendered worthless by this: the f iresand the black r iver of lossw hose other side is st ill loss,w hose meaningnone of us will ever know.To survive in this wor ld you must be ableto do three things:to forg ive w hat is mortal;to set it free from your grasp knowingif you don?t it will suffocate;and, w hen all you want to do is let it go,to muster up the will to hold on.

? Jenny Kleiman

The stampede of enthusiasts cheers and shouts,I heave a sigh, and let their roars penetrate.I open my eyes,And stare at the b lank wall.

I try to return to my rever ie,Grasping for my dream,But it slips away. Persist ing, I press forward,Stuck, like a child trying to run up an escalatorThat pulls him fur ther down.

Finally, I g ive up,My eyes wide as an owl?s,I crawl from hibernat ion.

Sleepwalking through the day,Longing for my nightt ime wor ld.Like a tree in winter, shiver ing without it s leaves,As the day yields to night ,I climb back into bed and

I Stand On Stageby Nate Katz

close my eyes.

I stand on stageBelt ing the impossib le f inal notes,Before a crowd, greater than the Super Bowl.I?m louder than gunfire, clearer than glass.Teary-eyed, I wave,And absorb the applause of my loving fans.

Photo by Zoe May

13

Belt ing the impossib le f inal notes,Before a crowd, greater than the Super Bowl.Louder than gunfire, clearer than glass.Teary-eyed, I wave,And absorb the applause of my loving fans.

Ant icipat ion r ipples through meas the over ture star ts the crowd bust les into their seats expect ing the per forming ar ts

I take my posit ion in the centerthe scr im r ides outthe spot light beams dow nI?m full of doubt

But the show must go onand so must Iand the second I star tnot one butter f ly

although an audience sit s and judges meI can?t be bothered as to w hat might be

by Amram Zeitchik

An AudiencePhoto by Elly Schanzer

Oil strokes visib le on canvas,unlevelled and brailled concretescrapes souls since most beauty is foundunderneath the careless cracksWornDownTo earth, revealing grass, asp-like,slither ing and grasping towards the skygravity b inding and bendingt ime and lighttrappedin

Scraped Souls

by Anonymous

14

dancing to songs with provocat ive undertones. I am not one of them. I d idn?t know that pot and mar ijuana were the same 10 minutes ago. All I wanted to do was listen to music, not get a f irst class look at the wor ld of the inebr iated teenager. I am apprehensive of what they, the stoner teens, think of me.

The fluorescent lights near ly b lind me as band members run

W hat My Mother Warned Me About

The room is hot and I am sweaty. I am surrounded by a thick r ing of high pubescent teens who prefer sex, drugs, and rock & roll; I enjoy listening to NPR, BookTV, and baking cookies on Saturday nights. Knuckle Puck?s guitar ist makes my ears b leed as he puts his amp on ten. All the sounds are fuzzy, but at least it is better than doing math homework. Fog fills the room unt il we are breathing in God knows what . It smells like burnt toast and -- well, it smells like drugs. Tons and tons of drugs.

My fellow concert -goers look like the mugshots of celebr it ies: hair soaked in peroxide and pink and purple dye, ears that have so many holes they look like swiss cheese. And their clothing, my God, don?t even get me star ted. Hiked up shir t s and shorts that barely cover the necessit ies (mind you that it is February and freezing outside). However, maybe their att ire is more appropr iate than mine because heat is

by Esther Seligson

suffocat ing me and I want to str ip off layers of clothing to escape from the redness r ising to my cheeks. They were what my mother had warned me about , the fast lane, and I am r id ing slow as a snail in a carpool lane.

Half an hour, and All Time Low hasn?t even arr ived yet . Fake IDs are being handed to bar tenders and people are

15

Photos by Mar ianna Na jman-Franks

kites.

I try as hard as I can not to focus on the sketchiness of it all -- the inked up bouncers, the incredib le bassist , and the fact that some guy just tr ied to put his arm around me (I stepped on his foot so hard it made him want to cry for his mommy, obviously). But then I see something that makes me rethink even coming into this old pub turned concert hall in the f irst place.

A gir l with thick winged eyeliner, a twig-like frame and a teal b lue beanie is hold ing something in her hand. It is small, and mult i-colored. Scratching her nose r ing and smiling smugly, the litt le woman is downing the molly ( I think) like I do my Saturday night cookies with a tall g lass of milk.

I am not one with my environment ; usually I f it into the puzzle per fect ly, but here I am a puzzle piece that belongs to a d ifferent set .

The crowd throws me once again. Finally, after all of our wait ing the main attract ion comes out playing a cover of a Weezer song, ?Pork and Beans.?

Excitement f izzles inside me as I hear them hit every cord correct ly. The boffo beat moves me side to side. The hyster ia is too much for me to handle, and I am trampled by what seems like juvenile elephants who belong in cages.

energet ically onto the stage. It is past my self designated bedt ime.

I shr iek as the crowd makes way, carrying me and my fr iend with them like buoys in a stormy ocean. But something isn?t r ight . My voice is high pitched and screechy (more than usual) and my fr iend and I sound like Alvin and the Chipmunks.

I am confused.

I am anxious.

I have breathed in about a gallon and a half of helium, and I feel d izzy.

Someone is pumping it into the air, and as the second opening band, Man Overboard, plays their f irst song of the night , their voices sound just like they probably feel: high as

16

The thought of going home and taking a long bath while inhaling the fumes of a scented candle makes me smile ear to ear. My imaginat ion doesn?t let the thought escape me, but I know if I go home I will regret not being here.

How can I feel one with an environment in which I stand out like a Frank Sinatra record next to AC/ DC and Nine Inch Nails.

The music changes everything. Even me. I realize that I have a lot more in common with this crowd than I thought . We all have one thing in common: we revel in the music.

The heavy bass, the quick, sharp drums. Somehow the the per fect ly crafted sequence of notes f loat ing into my ears unite us. Music can do it all: turn enemies to fr iends, mutate NPR-loving, cookie-baking, TV-watching 15-year-olds into helium breathers, the kind of g ir l who stands near another g ir l as she downs ecstasy like Advil.

I?m done judging people I don?t know. People have the r ight make their own choices, and I have to respect their decisions, whether I approve of them or not .

My att itude has changed. I am happy, and I thoroughly enjoy the rest of the concert . Even the crude jokes they make on stage make me laugh instead of want ing to cut off my ears, Van Gogh style. The songs are unusual and ar t ist ic that d isplay heart instead of a manipulated idea industr ies want us to buy into.

The room is hot , I am st ill sweaty, but I am happier than ever.

17

18

We sat in wooden chairs as tough as coff ins, like bunkers that squeaked with every shuffle. The glass on the window so cold it could almost shatter. The teachers rambled on about the President?s polit ics w hile every boy and gir l thought only of the cold winter ahead. The wood they would have to burn. Their parents. The labor. The news spoke of a storm,

November 10 , 1938by Micah Levy

Broken glass infested the streets of every town. We heard days later and tr ied to be sad. Our neighbor ?s cousins st ill lived off in Germany. A poor family in Brooklyn can only do so much. My struggling father could not afford to spend his t ime mourning with neighbors. We gave a card. And on went the week of November 10 , 1938 without much care for the g lass on the streets, the b lood by the doors, the families torn. Dinner was cold and filling. The ice on our g lasses kept the water shiver ing cold just how I liked it . I had a test the next day. I couldn?t study. I thought about the children. W hat could I do? My name was Levy, but I lived in Brooklyn.

Art by Ayelet Rubenstein

I had no money for a call. I had no money for stamps. My heart was all I had. It wept . I slept . And woke the next morning to take my test .

9/ 11 by Deathby Aidan Smolar

I awaken, although I never rest , in the cit y of New York. A scowl begins to knit it self upon my face because it 's going to be a stressful day; I even stretch a litt le to prepare myself. Walking dow n the busy blocks while all the people hust le on by, I yell, ?Get out of here! I already have enough work as it is!? They didn?t care, seemed to have more important things to worry about . I wait ? Finally, 8:46, t ime to get to work. People run dow n the streets, as if the wor ld has come to an end, as I stroll dow n to the Wor ld Trade Center.

* * * SOME OBSERVATIONS * * *

The sky was a morbid jet -grey.

The W TC was ruby red, g lazing the street .

Buzz...Buzz. My phone aler ts me of a text message from The Boss.

?Sorry 2 interrupt u while ur hard @ work, but at 9:0 3 ur gonna be gett ing some more, and at 9:37 I?m gonna need u in Washington - f inish up quick.?

- 613

Great , more work!

I run into the North Tower and begin collect ing all the "precious" souls. W hy did He have to assign another job? I need a litt le break in my line of work. Very seldom do I sit back and take a minute to enjoy life.

In the process of taking yet another soul, a shadow catches my eye. The second plane comes and hits the South Tower. Uch, why must these humans fight?

* * * MORE OBSERVATIONS * * *

More smoke, more humans, more colors, more work. That is all I see.

Screw ?em, they?re gone anyways.


19

Have you ever taken the t ime, Sat down r ight there in that chair, To just f igure it out?

Not just the small things, though. Not the f ight you had with your best fr iend because she stole your favor ite sweater.

Not the constant b icker ing Between you and your sister Because mom probably likes her better.

Not the worr ies you have about your boyfr iend Because he keeps star ing at his phone whenever you?re with him

So you know it ?s not you he?s wait ing for a text from. I?m talking about the b igger quest ions, The ones that haunt your mind Right before you?re about to fall asleep.

The ones you slave over Because nothing seems to match up Nothing seems to make sense.

Have you ever really taken that t ime to f igure it out?

The answer is you haven?t .I know you haven?t .

Because that would take more than a lifet ime to do

Beginning by Julia Lust ig


20

The mattress stuff ing felt familiar against my t ired spine And I lay f lat on my back Star ing into the darkness My eyelids begin to get heavy But I shake myself awake And sit up slowly I cannot slip into the depth of slumber Barely aware of my aching limbs A thick quilt of d izziness Covers me And I fall back onto my pillow.

Shards of memory Fade in and out of focus And the same pair of eyes Cont inue to reappear Like the sun Hidden behind tall trees: Always there But not always in clear view. It s ir ises were colored a soft grey Gather ing clouds before a storm Covered in a thin f ilm of forming tears. It sees into me All the darkest corners of my soul

And then the light turns on. A f lood of white f ills my eyes, And I f lip onto my stomach in frustrat ion.

Midnight Lamentat ionsBy Mar ianna Na jman-Franks


21

The esteemed windows of Lincoln Center b lazed with light

d irect ly streaming south down Broadway;

we hurr ied into seat . Then baller inas

ballonnée-ing Balanchine?s poised panache, then Vaganova,

appeared to inhale with their fervent d iscipline,

step by step, the zest from the precise pink pirouette,

the blazing blue batt lement , so that the listening pupil

saw instant ly the thick b lack lines, in shapes

of shield and cross and strut and brace, that held

the holy g limmer ing image together.

The dance swept , the g limmer became a silk,

a sight to the ear, a g low ebbed

unt il our leaping hearts, our baller inas

were cur tained by the long but narrow sheets of velvet drapery.

Evening Performance at Lincoln Centerby Rachel Rosin


22

The fog over threw the sky this morning

Seeping slowly behind the naked trees

Their bare arms and trunks ambushed, collapsing

Under the heavy greys of air we breathe.

The sky was a conceited, gar ishly royal b lue

Paint ing thin strokes of rain on windows

But fog is a relent less muddy hue

Eroding November ?s glistening glows.

Suddenly the fog merges with the clouds

Trees embrace the f luffy breaths of winter

And the sky is humbled, politely bows

As beauty merges in a gorgeous blur.

The whole wor ld sighs, g iggling like a newborn

At fresh, tranquil scents of December ?s morn.

Morningby Mar ianna Na jman-Franks

Art by Ayelet Rubnstein

23

Sophie?s mom opened the door

Her eyes looked crystallized

hair was tousled

hands shaking

Her face t ired

Like she hadn?t slept

She looked older than she was

Sophie?s mom had stopped taking her pills

In school Sophie cr ied all the t ime

Every day I tr ied

New ways to cheer her up

But it wasn?t that easy

We bought b ir thday presents for my grandmother together

Spending as much t ime in CVS as possib le

Decid ing which per fume smelled best

I got a call from my mom

Sophie will spend a couple of nights with us

her mother threatened her husband with a knife

The police came

Sophie lost

Her once lovely mother

To an illness that changed her

Sophie?s grades suffered

And she was mean to people

She had been nice to

But she never got angry at her mom.

Her mom never took her pills again

Sophie wanted to get over it

Forget what happened

W hen I was about to leave

I saw her mother reading a book on her bed

Beneath a picture of Sophie and her from long ago.

I wanted to take it

And r ip it to pieces.

Sophie's Momby Noa Kosman


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We hold these truths to be self-evident .As the governmentwatches every move:w r it ing, reading, talking, tweet ing.W ho watches?They watch.Does God watch?He does.No he doesn't !Heret ic! Sit down! Take your seat .My r ights to w r ite the freedom of the mind,mind you, we're busy being watched,chained, guarded.By what?It seems to me that if you can't see,The Being that tr ies to be The End All and be All.There is no other. Is that Truth self-evident?

The Truth

Photo by Zoe May

by Alan Shain

25

SAR High SchoolLiterary Magazine

50 3 W 259th St , Riverdale, NY

euphrates - sar hs literary journal 2015

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