kalliope - frisch school

KalliopeVolume 30

Email: [email protected] [email protected]

Phone: (201) 267-9100Hotline: (201) 487-2830

The Mordecai and Monique Katz Academic Building

120 West Century Road, Paramus, NJ, 07652

Editors-in-Chief:Dov GreenwoodMadison FischmanStephanie StifelmanAyala Stone

Editorial Staff:Brooke Schwartz, Short Story EditorJon Katzman, Essay EditorKatie Matofsky, Poetry EditorTabitha Klein, Poetry EditorSarah Elimeliah, Art EditorDov Greenwood, Layout Editor

Writers and Artists:Leora BarkaiJacob BrennanAllison GellersteinKayla GoldbergerAdina HorowitzLara JacobowitzTzippora KaplanSeela LangerMolly LopkinSophia MalovanySophia OsterGila WeinribMichal WhiteMaya Yaacobi

Contributors:Tali ZinerStephanie AppelbaumLiora BrainsonAtara SchulhofShuli Bolton

Dear Reader,Each word has a meaning and each image tells a story. Though, at the end of time all of history is merely a code of twenty six letters strung up in an endless pattern, with the same beautiful lines constructing infinite new images right beside the written words.

This bound copy of letters is part of what will never end, part of the story that each member of Kalliope chose to illustrate and share with the never ending pat-terns of history--and the Frisch School. Every member on our staff has spent time and heart constructing the lines, rhythm, and flow of their artwork so that they may share it with the world. Please enjoy what you see in the pages to come. We hope it inspires you to pour your own heart onto paper some day.

Letter from the Editors

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About this year’s theme: Beyond“Beyond”--it is a word that evokes wonder; beyond earth, beyond reason, beyond understanding. Yet, it is a word with which writers and artists have an immense kinship, as they attempt to elucidate the unknown, to filter it through the media of language and aesthetic, and thus treat us to an experience of the mysterious. Each piece in this magazine can be treated as a manifesto of sorts, a declaration by its creator of the means to unlock another side of reality.

For this reason, and in recognition of Kalliope’s landmark thirtieth volume, we chose “Beyond” as this year’s theme. Based on the submissions we received throughout the course of the year, we decided to subdivide the magazine into three sections: “Paradise,” “Pain,” and “Perception.”

Paradise is, itself, a state that lies beyond that which can be achieved in the world. Inevitably, it has been the pursuit of mankind since its earliest history, sought in idealistic portraits of the past and dreams of an immaculate future. But pieces in this section demonstrate that beyond this impossible aspiration lies a form of paradise that can be achieved through action, emotion, and admiration.

Pain is an experience common to all of humanity; the pain of loss, of missed op-portunities, and of solitude rub off the veneer of life’s perfection. Pieces in this section reflect on the nature and extent of pain, shattering the false personas that we instinctively throw up in order to defend ourselves against reality. Upon introspection, we can deal with this absurdity through optimism or nihilism--as typified by the section’s first two poems.

The final section contains meditations on what lies beyond human percep-tion--the realm of the divine, the sublime, and the inexplicable. These pieces bring to the forefront the feelings associated with the “Beyond,” as they reach past the boundary of personal experiences and communicate their existential musings directly.

Table of Contents

Paradise. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Golden Leaves, Adina Horowitz Golden Leaves, Lara Jacobowitz

For Vinnie, Tabitha Klein Fall, Madison Fischman

A Tourist’s View of Peru, Jon Katzman Wailuku River, Dov Greenwood

Jacob’s Regret, Dov Greenwood Wilting Petals, Sara Elimeliah

My Yad B’Yad Experience, Gila Weinrib Self Portrait, Katie Matofsky

Split Second, Maya Yaacobi Living Book, Leora Barkai

In Eden Alone, Dov Greenwood Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne, Dov Greenwood Gradient Background, Ayala Stone

PoemDigital Photograph


EssayDigital Photograph


EssayPencil on Paper

EssayCharcoal on Paper


Graphic Design

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1213

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Pain. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

Only From Pain Can We Learn, Madison FischmanWithin the Light There is Darkness, Michal White The Long Walk Home, Madison Fischman

Six Feet Under, Michal White Gravestone, Atara Schulhof Rough Background, Ayala Stone

Just Behind the Door, Brooke Schwartz

PoemPoem

Digital Photograph

Short StoryDigital Photograph

Graphic Design

Poem

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Tim’s Reverie, Jacob Brennan Digital Painting

Breaking Point, Shuli Bolton Painting

Cover. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . iInto the Light, Ayala Stone Digital Photograph

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What September 24th Means to Me, Maya Yaacobi Eitan, Maya Yaacobi

Squint Eyes, Pull, Release, Stephanie Stifelman Teary Landscape, Liora Brainson

i wrote this with bloodsoaked hands, Seela Langer Bars, Ayala Stone

An Apple a Day, Stephanie Stifelman Hiding, Stephanie Appelbaum

EssayDigital Photograph

PoemPainting

PoemDigital Photorgraph

Short StoryInk on Paper

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3233

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Perception . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38

New York City, Molly Lopkin

Different is the New Normal, Katie Matofsky Fish, Sarah Elimeliah

Try, Molly LopkinUndying Candle, Michal White Lattice, Gila Weinrib

The Faceless Man, Adina Horowitz Shadow Background, Ayala Stone

Leafing Home, Madison Fischman Frozen Branches, Ayala Stone

The Narrator, Allison Gellerstein Sleep Tight, Tali Ziner

The Devil’s Pact, Madison Fischman Abyss Background, Ayala Stone

Babel, Dov Greenwood Washington Monument, Atara Schulhof

Snapshot, Molly Lopkin Clock, Ayala Stone

Colophon

Poem

PoemInk on Paper

PoemPoem

Ink on Paper

PoemGraphic Design


PoemPencil on Paper

PoemGraphic Design



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Floral Pattern, Leora Barkai Ink on Paper

Paradise“‘Thrice-fairer than myself,’ thus she began,‘The field’s chief flower, sweet above compare,Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,More white and red than doves or roses are;Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.”

- William Shakespeare

Tim’s Reverie. 2016. Digital painting by Jacob Brennan.

For Golden leavesTheir time is short-- They flee the scene, When a shiver Crosses the air. Never have they stayedThrough tough times and troubles.Their innocence Can not be swayed. They fall from above, They tremble and shake,But as they cover the ground, With their last golden breath, They breathe winter up into the air.

Golden Leaves. 2016. Digital photograph by Lara Jacobowitz.

Golden LeavesAdina Horowitz

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“she reminds me of the moon, glowing and breathtaking

For VinnieTabitha Klein

Fall. 2016. Digital Photograph by Madison Fischman.

i am drawn to her like the tide, and it is in the crashing of waves, it is in the stars speckling the night, it is in the sliver of silver and the wide open sky

that makes me think thatthe moon reminds me of her.”

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“Wow. Check out the river. It’s awe-some.” I scampered to the window of the train and peered out. Running par-allel to the tracks, the Urubamba River angrily tossed and turned with torrents of crashing whitewater. As an elev-en-year old boy who loved both nature and action, I thought that it was the coolest thing ever. My family and I were taking an early morning train from Cus-co, Peru to the ancient ruins of Machu Picchu.

After touring, we returned to the train station weary and eager to return to our hotel in Cusco. To our surprise, a large, loud crowd had gathered in the station. A mudslide had washed away the train tracks and train travel was suspended indefinitely.

Along with hundreds of other tourists, we had no place to sleep and had packed nothing but a small backpack with sunscreen, a camera, and a few grano-la bars. We had no idea how long we would be stranded. We had no clothes, no beds, and little cash.

The small Peruvian town of Aguas Cali-entes at the base of Machu Picchu is a village consisting mostly of boutique shops for tourists traveling to the ruins and the homes of the locals who run the

stores. That first night we scrambled to the closest hostel that we could find. We booked a small room with two sin-gle beds. My parents slept on the floor giving the beds to my older sister and me. My father and I awoke early, went into to town to ask when and where the rescue helicopters would arrive. Four days later, we still had no answer.

My strongest memory of Aguas Calien-tes occurred as my father and I were on the way to the market place. We were walking close to the bank of the flood-ing river. As we stood, we could see the rapids pounding the sides of homes and buildings. I watched one home completely collapse into the river and wash away downstream as its occupants looked on from higher ground, clutch-ing whatever they managed to salvage. That image is burned into my memory forever, something I see when I close my eyes at night. It personalized my per-ception of natural disasters.

Although the flooding of Aguas Cali-entes left a tremendous impact on me, others’ reactions to the flooding had an even greater effect. First, there are the schemers--the greedy hotel managers, and the storekeepers who raised their

A Tourist’s View of PeruJon Katzman

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Wailuku River. 2017. Digital Photograph by Dov Greenwood.

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prices ten-fold as supplies dwindled. I saw people bribing soldiers in broad daylight to prioritize them in the evacu-ating process.

The second type is the bystander who watches idly and without empathy. I spotted many tourists waste away their time trying to get cell reception while sitting in the lobby of hostels.

The last group of people had the great-est impact upon me: the heroes. As I walked through the main plaza of the town, I watched self-appointed leaders pitch tents for those who did not have a hotel room, cook communal meals with locals, treat medical conditions in the makeshift first-aid tent, and work hand-in-hand with Peruvians to haul sand-bags and build barricades to protect the remnants of the lower city near the river. Included in those heroes were my parents. Both physicians, my parents treated people with many different inju-ries and conditions. Many of the elderly tourists had medical needs that required more than could be offered in a small town. My parents attended to patients as though they had known them for a

using reason to know when my hand is needed makes me human.”

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lifetime. As they worked, my sister and I were called into action with them.

In those critical moments, I wondered who I would become. Would I be the one raising the price of water or would I be the one lugging bags of sand to protect a town from flooding? I have strived my whole life to become the latter. The heroes in Aguas Calientes helped because they understood a very important social responsibility that preserves mankind: They knew that humans, especially during times of cri-sis, must care for one another with no expectation of reciprocity.

When I engage in community service, like living in a children’s home in Israel or doing homework with a child whose parent has recently passed away, I try to hold true to the intentions of Aguas Calientes heroes. Trying to define what makes us human is hard, but I believe extending my hand makes me humane; using reason to know when my hand is needed makes me human.

Seven years for Leah, for Rachel seven more,For each, from each, a maidservant to bear them children four.Flowers passed from wife to wife to bear them fruit of loveSo Jacob wou’n’t forsake their disbelief in the above.Twelve children was he borne, yet he saved his love for two--

Jacob’s RegretDov Greenwood

His soul bound up in theirs, a mem’ry too late, he knew,Of the woman he had toiled for, for years that seemed like days,But now, at his nostalgic age, he honored her in these two ways.When one last time he saw her face, Israel could not rejoice,For, though his facade was strong, he still spoke in Jacob’s voice:

Wilting Petals. 2017. Digital Photograph by Sarah elimeliah

“And I--in my journey home--there my purpose diedFor thence, in your brother’s birth, I lost my hard-won bride.And on a path in wilderness, untread by day or night,She’s buried with no marker; save your face, she has no light.And now, I lie here sick, an old man with one regret:That Rachel lies so far from me--just this my heart besets.”As his arms began to tremble and his legs were falling numb,And the world began to darken and his mouth was rendered dumb,He saw an angel reach to him and pull him back in timeTo show him all the woe he’d caused and tell him of his crime.On a sickbed, one much like his own, there his father lies,Alone, but for his eldest son, there his father cries--Many years have passed since Jacob fled and did not return,A treacherous betrayal that his poor blind father did not earn.Now he relives Laban’s house--through his cousins’ view--And sees his theological pursuits in light, anew:Desperate to see God again--to see angels, visions, dreams!--He cut his ties with humans, his relations by the seams.Israel, forever, dwells alone--feel compassion for his soulThat so struggles with gods and men, insisting it’s his goal.But along the way he forgets himself somewhere too far gone,And yet--although he’s lost his love--he still continues on.The angel leaves once more, and the darkness is restored,But--in his dying breath--he calls out Joseph’s name once more:“Angel who has guarded me, whom I’ve sought in times of strife,Protect my children’s children and bless them with long life.By them let my name be known--and my father, and Abra’am too;Let them and their compassion spread--don’t save it for the few.”

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It was my first night on Yad B’Yad, a program that takes people with abili-ties and disabilities to Israel for a sum-mer of a lifetime.

After a long, sleepless flight, we final-ly made it to Israel. When we arrived, they announced my roommates: one girl I had met on the plane, another that I had known from camp, and one who had difficulty speaking and walk-ing. I was nervous--I had no idea what it would be like to share a living space with a person who seemed so different from me.

I didn’t get much of a chance to speak my roommates that first night--we all collapsed the moment we saw our beds. As I got into bed, I felt some-thing tickling my foot. Extremely jetlagged and beyond exhausted, I decided to ignore it and went straight to sleep.

After what felt like only a few sec-onds, I felt the tickling sensation again. I checked my phone. 2:03 AM. I turned on my flashlight and there they were: hundreds upon hundreds of ants. In my suitcase, and on my legs, face, arms, and feet. Every part of me was slimy and crawling. My entire bed was as black as the night outside. The ants were everywhere, and I was petrified. For the rest of the night, I sat alone outside, imag-ining their slippery bodies crowding me, following me everywhere I went.

My Yad B’Yad ExperienceGila Weinrib

Self Portrait. 2016. Pencil on Paperby Katie Matofsky.

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The desert sun rose and my roommates woke up; they were horrified upon hear-ing my story. The two mainstream girls gave me hugs and offered lots of choco-late and their beds for as long as I need-ed.

But the other girl didn’t. She waited until everyone else left the room and quietly said to me: “At least it wasn’t bees.”

Yes, this girl was different from me. But not in the way that I ever would’ve ex-pected. Her disability didn’t make her different from me, her attitude did. She was more positive, more optimistic, than I could ever dream of being. ---

“At least it wasn’t bees.”

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They say what you dream of is the last thing you thought of before you fell asleep. The split second before you fall into your most vulnerable state is the deciding factor of what visions your mind will conjure up for that night.

So when you feel that weight pulling down on your eyelids and when your body begins to slowly sink into your mattress, catch that last second and make sure that last thought is worth the rest of your night’s imagination.

Split SecondMaya Yaacobi

Living Book. 2016. Charcoal on Paper by Leora Barkai.

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I watch as roots spring from your toesAnd leaves cover your thighs,And you utter your final laughAs I’m left in surprise.

In Eden AloneDov Greenwood

And I see you become the groveThat was my paradise,As you become a faean treeAnd I’m left in surprise.

Sometimes I think back to the daysWhen I lived here alone.But those days are so far from now--How did I live alone?!

Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne. 2015.

Digital Photograph by Dov Greenwood.

I can’t recall a time beforeThe sun alighted here.The light is all I’ll ever wantBut I’m just left with tears.

I wish not to be ApolloNor am I Adonis;But still I offered my-self to You, Venus, my goddess.

But alas! You are immortalAnd, though I see your face,My tragic place is with mankind:I don’t deserve your grace.

Still I thought I could fool my self,And hide out here in Eden,In this place that I made for usAnd be with you herein.

But Eden’s just a fantasyA palace of my mind;Such places don’t exist on earth--Mere distractions for the blind.

And so you saw beneath my veilInto my paradise.And so, alone, you left me here,Alone with my own lies.

But now you turn around to meAnd flash me that sly grinAs branches spring forth from your handsAnd I’m left in surprise...

Gradient Background. 2016. Graphic Design by Ayala Stone21

Pain“Wouldn’t it be better to retreat to a faraway corner of the world, where all its noise and complications would be heard no more? Then we could renounce culture and ambitions; we would lose everything and gain nothing; for what is there to be gained from this world?”

- Emil Cioran

Facing Page: Breaking Point. 2017. Painting by Shuli Bolton.

To hope is to loseTo love is to dieTo want is to killTo pray is to lie.However,I hope I don’t loseI love that I dieI want never to killI pray I won’t lie.But,Sometimes I will loseOne day I will dieI will inevitably killI’ll pray I’ll lie.So,My life will be livedThe world will still turnNothing will stop movingOnly from pain can we learn.

The brightness, it’s so blinding, but I feel something leech--It’s lurking, in the shadows, where the light cannot reach.

And I know it’s just a feeling and a stupid little thought,But I just can’t shake the feeling that it’s all but for naught.

The fear is all consuming, and I think, how could it beThat in the light, there is darkness, and something I cannot see.

Only From Pain Can We LearnMadison Fischman

Within the Light There is DarknessMichal White

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The Long Walk Home. 2017. Digital Photograph by Madison Fischman

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As the wind lifts my hair away, I look out to the city and wonder how the sun can shine so bright on such a terrible day. My heart aches and my legs shake as tears roll down my face. How can this be? Why should it be? I shake my head, wishing this was different, as my tears fall in dismay. The wind kisses my cheeks, and the world looks so bleak on this soft yellow day. I turn away from the view, and feel the warmth of the sun on my neck, as I walk over the grass. I sit on the green and try to not lean over the fresh brown dirt. But I stretch out my hand and pick up some of the sand. And watch as it slides through my fingers. And watch as it catches the wind. The grains of dirt smack against the polished stone, and drop back down to their origin. Where he lies six feet under.

Six Feet UnderMichal White

Gravestone. 2017. Digital Photograph by Atara Schulhof.

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Just Behind the DoorBrooke Schwartz

Sometimes people are shoved behind the door Sometimes they go without thinking or knowing Sometimes they go behind the door simply to be left alone

When you are behind the doorNo one looks at you

Talks to youSpeaks to you

You are alone with yourself and your thoughts Ignored Not appreciatedYou lack the attention that you deserveAnd sometimes that’s a good thingBut almost always it isn’tWhen you are behind the door people keep the door open With you behind itThere are so many doorsSo if you find that you are a person behind the doorDo something to get attention Anything Because people that lie just behind the door

Are invisible to anyone but themselves

Rough Background. 2016. Graphic Design by Ayala Stone

What September 24th Means to MeMaya Yaacobi

For as long as I can remember, there was one week in September that was the “birthday week” in my house. Hordes of calls from family around the globe shook the house with every ring and I awaited their calls eagerly, self-ishly waiting to hear what they were sending me as a gift. I can’t lie -- I’ve always loved gifts. Interestingly enough, whenever posed with the question of what I actually wanted, my mind would go blank. I’ve realized over time that the best gifts are the ones you don’t chose, rather the ones given to you that you eventually come to realize their worth.

A perfect example: my brother, Eitan.

Eitan, age eleven, swims in Cape Cod.Digital Photograph by Maya Yaacobi.

***My younger brother, Eitan, was born a year and a day after me. My mother cleverly arranged that her second child’s C- section would fall out conveniently a day after her eldest’s birthday. This meant many important things: one birthday par-ty, one cake, one collective gift. One big birthday bash week that she only had to deal with once a year and then forget about it until the next September rolled around.

So for as long as I can remember, Eitan and I basically shared a birth-day. Everything birthday-related we

did together. Just imagine a nine -year- old and seven -year -old very serious-ly discussing what this year’s shared birthday present would be. It was a very serious matter indeed.

Eventually, sharing a birthday wasn’t fun anymore. We both grew into our personalities: me, a girly- girl who loved everything clothing and make-up, while Eitan was an intense sports fanatic. My mother’s dream of forever having a joint celebration was flushed down the toilet at the peak of puber-ty. It was definitely not cool to have a birthday party in sixth grade, especially not one with your brother and all his friends!

So our “birthday week” changed a lit-tle. Instead of it all being together, we had separate parties and gifts. Even-tually, all I ever looked forward to was September 23rd, my birthday. What did September 24th mean to me any-more? It wasn’t like I was getting any benefit out of it; that was Eitan’s sepa-rate birthday now.

In a couple weeks, September 23rd will roll around. I’ll be turning seven-teen years. I’ll probably do something with friends, get a couple gifts and the phone calls from family. Then the next day, I’ll wake up and go about the day as normal. No party, no gifts and no calls. But I’ll know exactly what day it

is. It will be September 24th, Eitan’s birthday. How old is he turning? Fif-teen years old. But he won’t be there to celebrate it. The last birthday we celebrated with Eitan was his twelfth birthday — before he got sick. Now it’s no longer the “birthweek” in my home; how can you celebrate a person’s birth-day without them?

When I was younger, I never under-stood how lucky I was. I got to cele-brate the most amazing thing with my best friend. I got to celebrate the day we were born, the day when I became his sister. It’s cheesy but it’s true — you really don’t appreciate some-one until they’re not there anymore. So on September 24th, it’ll be regular day for everyone else. But for me, it’ll be bittersweet memories of Eitan. I’ll be thinking of his big blue- green eyes, his lopsided smile, his contagious bel-ly laugh and the freckles that dotted his nose. I’ll remember him healthy, but I’ll also remember him sick. I’ll remember everything about him and I’ll be happy. Although he might not be with me anymore, September 24th shouldn’t be a sad day. It’s a celebra-tion of his life, of his accomplish-ments, of his being. So on September 24th, just think of a silly twelve-year- old boy and wish him happy birth-day -- because everyone deserves a happy birthday.

green gone army and life gone overwe said goodbyes--family crying and smile waveringwe wiped their tears off our shirts and waitedfor the moment when we would wipe blood the world now: is squint eyes, pull, release. roll and duck. shout and cry.

a blood rushing and shoulders pumping kind of life running and sprinting and wanting every second back to live it again like we lived it before and to live it before just once more

the world now: is squint eyes, pull, release. roll and duck. shout and cry.

get your shit together or get out, they saidand we kept on living but we never stopped dying and we kept on dying but we never stopped living day after day, we would just squint eyes, pull, release

and, sometimes, breathe.

Squint Eyes, Pull, ReleaseStephanie Stifelman

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Teary Landscape. 2017. Painting by Liora Brainson.

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i wrote this with bloodsoaked handsand it smeared across the lettersseeped into the pageand when I swallowed my wordsmy mouth flooded with iron like hers did when they shot her.

that taste will never leaveno matter how many times i wash my mouth outwith the gas they fed usi can never get clean in these showers

when was the last time any of us were clean? never, they sneer.my filth is in my veins it was branded on me at birth as well as on my armit grows every time my heart beats. we must purge the world of this filth, they say.

i hear my kin cry outbut there are no tears for there is no water and the cries make salt stingit burns my eyes

like the synagogues ablaze melting sacred scrolls as the ink dropped back to us to our lips and scorched our tonguesbut our tradition survives

and that much needed heat we wish we could send to our brotherswhose hearts no longer beatand what was their only semblance of warmth can’t even bring itself to stir let alone boil no matter the anger

veins frozen in place like fingers needing thawing skin cracking leaving marks smelling of rot of pain

our pain is bile in our stomachswe push it down when it tries to come upbecause in this fight there is no time to be sick but we are sick of being in pain sick of the burning hot seer of cold of the slow biting heat of gas of the growling hunger louder than our sobsof the parched throats that taste of ash

we are sick of being scapegoats led to the slaughterhousewe wanted to go home but they have took that from us as well we belonged here

i wrote this with bloodsoaked handsSeela Langer

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but now?we are leaving europe we are leaving mother russia.we have waited far too longto be able to wash our handsand our mouths and our hearts and to feel in our blood the pride of our lineage

Bars. 2016. Digital Photograph by Ayala Stone.

let our blood run through their streets it will stain there forever and we will never be forgotten.33

Crunch.

The girl bit into the apple; the flesh was abrasive against her teeth and the juice was a stinging swish inside her mouth. It was like her body was rebelling against the very concept of nutrition. Her body wanted her to stop eating.

Her body wanted to be perfect.

But she felt her mother’s eyes on her from across the room, her glance smoth-ering the girl with worry. For once, she didn’t listen to her body.

She took another bite instead, wavering under her mother’s unrelenting stare.

Crunch.

Her mother watched as her daughter’s eyes filled with tears. She watched as tension strung itself in the emotions of her daughter and wound itself so tightly that she looked like she might just crack.

She watched as her daughter ruined herself.

Crunch.

The girl took another bite, an angry

An Apple a DayStephanie Stifelman

one this time. Anger at the calories that would crawl into her body, into her plan, and destroy everything that she had worked so hard for. Anger that her mother was practically forcing the apple down her throat.

“You okay?” Her mother asked, coming towards her, skinny hips swaying back and forth to a rhythm of their own beat.

“I-I’m fine, Mom. Really,” she said, at-tempting earnestness. Her eyes were wide open, her head cocked to one side--she looked fine. She looked imper-fect, though. She always did. That’s what an extra ten pounds did to someone.

“You’re not fine, honey,” her moth-er started, taking the apple from her daughter’s hand and waving it in front of her face, like she was insinuating that there was something inherently wrong with her.

Her chest tightened.

Nothing could be wrong about her. All that was imperfect was her weight, and that could be fixed. That could be fixed if she didn’t have to eat this--

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“Honey,” Her mother pressed, a cold hand lifting the girl’s chin to meet her mother’s watching eyes.

“I don’t need help, Mom. I’m fine.” The girl took the apple from her mother’s manicured hands and avoided her eyes.

She submitted to her mother’s wishes.

Crunch.

Her mother looked at the girl. The way she swallowed with a sort of pain. The way that she now had an undertone of artificiality so potent that it sometimes felt like that she was staring at a perfect Barbie instead of her wonderfully idio-syncratic daughter.

She stood still as her daughter opened her mouth to take another bite, letting thoughts and confusion ignite within her.

Crunch.

Failure failure failure, the girl thought, the greedy arms of defeat wrapping themselves around her throat as she swallowed.

“Darling, you’re not ‘fine.’ When you eat, you look like you’re about to cry,” her mother responded, trying to sound harmless.

“Do I look like I’m crying now?” The girl asked, her voice tapering off at the edg-es, submitting itself to a silence full of still air.

Her mother wrapped her arms around her in a feeble attempt at comfort.

The girl wrenched herself from her mother’s clutches and repeated “I’m fine,” with a twisted sort of conviction. She made sure to add, “I’m perfect, actu-ally. Or, I’m at least getting there.”

“Oh, so you’re getting better?” Her mother asked, clearly not understand-ing the meaning behind her daughter’s twisted words. She thought perfection equated to eating, when it really meant just the opposite.

Perfect meant flawless. But her mother wanted her to be full of flaws.

Crunch.

The noise came from the mouth of her mother this time. The mother who was waving the apple in almost a taunting way, as if it was a challenge.

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She was challenging her daughter to eat the apple, to be ‘fine.’

If her daughter ate the apple, she was normal. If she didn’t, then her mother should worry. It was simple.

Except for the fact that her daughter didn’t eat the apple.

Her mother sighed, disappointment and anxiety laced into the sound. She knew what had to be done.

“Honey,” her mother said, trying to ease her way into telling her daughter that she would have to see a specialist.

Crunch.

The girl had recognized that tone from her mother, so saccharinely sweet that the phoniness of it was suffocating. She knew her mother was going to tell her something she didn’t want to hear. She also knew her mother wanted her to eat the apple.

So, she ate the apple. She practically devoured it. She proved her normalcy to her mother.

She ate it because she could not let one apple, and the subsequent barrage of doctors, ruin her progress.

Hiding. 2017. Ink on Paper by Stephanie Appelbaum.

She could sacrifice one apple— a simple 40, 50, 60 calories— if it would lead to better things. People had to make sac-rifices for their goals, and hers were no different.

She took one final bite, one final sacri-fice.

Crunch.

Her mother watched, bewildered, as juice dribbled down her daughter’s chin. Her daughter, who had barely eaten for the past week, had just inhaled an entire apple in less than a minute.

She watched as her daughter sauntered to the garbage and dropped the core in with a resounding thud.

“Can I go to my room now?” Her daugh-ter prodded.

Her mother faltered for a moment, re-playing all of the dinners masked in tension, remembering the animosity that always crossed her daughter’s being

when she was faced with the prospect of food.

Then, she remembered how her daugh-ter had eaten the apple. She remem-bered stoic pleasantness that had masked her daughter’s face, replacing the stiff crunching of before.

Maybe all it took was an apple to bring her daughter back. Maybe now every-thing could go back to normal.

“Yes,” she told her daughter, slightly tripping over the word.

The girl nodded.

Then the girl walked upstairs and head-ed straight towards the the toilet and made just one more sacrifice:

Belch.

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Perception“I use the words you taught me. If they don’t mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.”

- Samuel Beckett

Floral Pattern. 2016. Ink on Paper by Leora Barkai.

In New York City you should always look up.Why?Because.Because up is where the real New York is.The dazzling lights and the half naked womenhiding behind an ad for anything.Because of who you could be.Just look at ‘em.All like you once,head full of dreams, pockets full of change, carefree whistles leading the way.Only they had the courage to find that luckthat put them up there while you’re still here.Look at them.Look at them.Just don’t look too closely.Or you’ll see the pain masked with a smilecrafted still from overuse.Or aerosol cans for the perfect skin that burns the inside of your throat.Or heaven forbid allthatmoney.

In New York City you should always look down.Why?Because.Because down is where the real New York is.The beggars wrapped in blankets who gave up trying.And the pot peddlers you know are there.Because of who you could be.Just look at ‘em.All like you once,Now everything you fear you’ll become.Just sitting there.

New York CityMolly Lopkin

40

Try not to trip over the misery of that great city’s underbelly.Look at them.Look at them.Or you’ll forget they’re there.Would you ratherbecome the one who can ignore the poorwithout an ache in his heart.Or become one of the wretched yourself.Or surrender to the piles of those who never practicewhattheypreach.

Up.Down.Up.Down.New York has no middle ground.So remember who you could be if you gave fate all your money.And walk with caution and with carebecause New York is everywhere.

41

Being different is the “special of the day”-- I guess I just haven’t caught up with the times.I am always told that I am mean for thinking this way, But who’s to say that what I am feeling isn’t fine?

I was comfortable with the way things were-- Why does everything need to change?I miss how the world used to be when things had an order. I can no longer be normal; I am forced to be strange.

Different is the New NormalKatie Matofsky

Fish. 2017. Ink on Paper by Sarah Elimeliah.

42

Like a flame in the night I walk to you My feet move of their own and I travel Like a lighthouse guiding a boat home

I try to run to you as I unravel But you’re farther than I thought before

And I don’t know how I’ll be able to handle The distance between our broken souls

As I search for your undying candle.

The first time I try to be able to do it allWill come someday, this I know.Just today is not that dayAnd neither will tomorrow beWhen will it come? I can’t say.For sure, when the wind will blowThe leaves of change in my direction, I’ll heed the call.Maybe.

TryMolly Lopkin

Undying CandleMichal White

Lattice. 2016. Ink on Paper by Gila Weinrib.

From the depth of the shadowsfrom the mist of the fog

plodded a heavily cloacked figure.the shine of the moon,

and the gleam of the stars,glinted off of the wide brim

of the dark man’s hata chill shivered in the air,

the swish of a cane,echoed in the dead night.

the cloak of darkness lessenedas the scratch of a match

illuminated across the black night.my heart beat quickened,

as the faceless man rose above me.

The Faceless ManAdina Horowitz

Facing Page: Frozen Branches 2017. Digital Photograph by

Ayala Stone.

44Shadow Background. 2016. Graphic Design by Ayala Stone

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LeafingHome

Madison Fischman

Heavy wind pushesPast, too far, too fast, all gone,Leaving, left. For good.

The high flying narrator soars above the clouded sky,floating in his gaudy hot air balloon.His garish balloon fueled not by fire,instead by the burning desire to see.

Who is this man that tells our stories?And how does a man the likes of him travel?

What does this man look like,a man who immortalizes heroes on the page?

The narrator has all the words he needsbut only deigns to speak to every third person.

His multiple tongues offend somebut a select few see past their grotesque figure.

Where on the map was this writing man first foundAnd was his first tool a pen or a feather?

Why does the man not claim his compositions,his words instead falling to the nearest hand?

The narrator’s learning is all his own,but his teachings belong to everyone else;

He leaves nothing behind but his latest editionAnd the lingering scent of sunshine.

The NarratorAllison Gellerstein

46

Sleep Tight. 2017. Pencil on Paper by Tali Ziner.47

People come from far and near for my advice,When they get it they must pay the price,Some may say my fine seems steep,But people only come when their situations are bleak,

Why do they all value my word?From where, of my power, have they heard?What is their infernal act?Why do they beg from me a contract?Are they sad?Is someone mad?Did they steal?Are their lives real?Was a promise made?

I can help, I can give them a blade,A sacred one, from the only God,One I obtained in the city of Lod,It will then bind their word,An idea some people may call absurd.A small scratch to bring out blood,And then their lives will turn for good.

My only words to them as they leave,A warning they may choose to head,“Be careful with the life you lead,Enjoy your days, with all your greed,Love all of those you can,Live the life through its full span,Enjoy each second as it may be your last,And never lose sight of the shadow you cast.”

A sacred covenant, to bind one’s soul,A precious thing they can’t control.It always ends as a gift for me,Their last breaths will be their fee.As their soul leaves the devil cries,‘One more from the poor angel dies’,

But God above laughs in disdain,Slowly letting me clear my name.A deal we made long ago,When I took his life and sent it fro,I realized when it came my time,That the life that we all hold benign,Is twisted too dark to even see,But I’ll share something just for you and me...

The devil is the kindest of all,Who weeps when one starts to fall,The God we all love and praise,Is set forever in a steady daze,He hates us all,And awaits our fall.

So when I feel your last breath leave,I hate to say I shall not grieve,But through every single soul I yell,Through every life, to God I sell,I get one step closer to death,Fewer days to my last breath.

The Devil’s PactMadison Fischman

48

Every day I yearn for release,All I want is eternal peace,Working for God is all I do,Hoping one day I will return to you,My sweetest love,My purest dove,

The only life I wish to end is my own,To return to you in the city of stone,But God will not let me be with you,He does not think our love is true.So I sit here for now, counting the lives,Of the free humans, whom I’ve grown to despise,Waiting for my end to come,Waiting for God to let me be with my ‘one.’

49 Abyss Background. 2016. Graphic Design by Ayala Stone

When all the land, to the ocean’s brink,Were of one words and by language linked,Man journeyed west, drawn by a thought:The paradise lost, once more they sought.They found a plain ‘tween two rivers of yore--Euphrates and Tigris, from Eden of lore--And settled there, in the land of Shinar.Then to his neighbor, each man gave speech:“Come, let us bake bricks, and burn them hard.”And so the bricks were made and tarred.Then they said unto themselves, “Come, let us dispel this dreadOf our great community being spread!We’ll with these stones have city builtAnd thus disperse our heavy guilt.And a tower--yes!--with the highest reachWith which even heaven can be breached--Then all the land will know our name.”But God came down to mock their claimAnd see the city and the tower’s spireThat the scions of Adam had sired.God said, after his heaven-bound ascent:“They are one nation with a single intent,And by language linked, this is just the start.Soon no distance will set them apartFrom gods; nothing is beyond their reach.Come, let’s descend and baffle their speechSo that none will know what his neighbors sayAnd the tower's builders will be set astray.”And so God scattered from that city of yoreAcross the land, from inland to shore,Those who conspired to bridge the divide.Thus was the city left to the wayside,It’s name called “Babel,” because of the fameThat God brought to it by bringing it shame;There God baffled the way of the land,And spread mankind like grains of sand.

Babel:A New Translation of Genesis 11Dov Greenwood

Washington Monument. 2017. Digital Photograph by Atara Schulhof.

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SnapshotMolly Lopkin

Snapshot, right now, this moment.Where are, when are, who are you?Would you say this picture’s a fixture of honorOr is it a small black seed to rue.

Snapshot, right now, this moment.What’s the focus, backdrop, scenery?Cramped and demented, a source of resentmentOr expansive, mountainous greenery.

Snapshot, right now, this moment.On a camera, polaroid, a phone?To forever keep, to quickly deleteOr hide for a scandalous tone.

Snapshot, right now, this moment.Is it portrait, landscape, wide?To hate and regret, and wish to forget,Or to become your greatest pride.

Never spend a momentIn an unflattering wayBecause if someone is watching,Then by God, you’ll pay.

So live every momentLike someone is thereWho’ll scold if you don’t actWith the utmost care.

Clock. 2017. Digital Photograph by Ayala Stone.

Kalliope has been a creative outlet for the writers and artists at the Frisch School since 1987. It is a compilation of pieces submitted by Frisch students through-out the academic year. In order to join Kalliope, prospective members must sub-mit applications with samples of writing, art or graphic design and assume the responsibilities of the magazine’s staff the following year. Throughout the year, staffmembers meet to peer edit, workshop, brainstorm, listen to music, and eat cake. Many works created during these sessions are featured in the magazine, in addi-tion to those crafted by staff members and contributors outside of these meet-ings. The purpose of Kalliope is two-fold--as a community of young individuals, we hope to create a memorable publication, while also fostering our budding creativity.

Kalliope participates in the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and, proudly, has been awarded gold medals for the 2008, 2009, and 2011 editions, and silver medals for the 2010, 2012, 2013, and 2015 editions. It did not participate in 2016.

This magazine was designed in InDesign CS6 using Photoshop CS6 for image ma-nipulation. The paper size is 8 inches by 11 inches. The following fonts were used in the making of this magazine:• “Britannic Bold” for cover and section titles• “Minion Pro” for writing piece titles• “Chapparel Pro” for all writing pieces• “Optima” for art attributions

The Editors-in-Chief would like to thank our principle, Rabbi Ciner, for his de-votion to Kalliope and Ms. Mantel for her art assistance. We also wish to thank our talented and enthusiastic staff who made the creation of the magazine truly unforgettable. Last but most definitely not least, we would like to extend our utmost thanks to our mentor Mrs. Besser for her dedication, determination, and support. The creation and completion of this magazine could not have been pos-sible without her!

Colophon

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