Letter from the Editor

Dear Readers,

I am thrilled to announce this year’s revival of the “Written Voice” literary blog. With your cooperation and talent, there will hopefully be a new issue every two months. I was worried about getting this first issue out because ‘tis the season of College Applications, but regardless, the writers of North Shore Hebrew Academy managed to compile a really nice issue. If you are a reader: I hope you enjoy this collection of lovely, artistic literary pieces. If you are a writer who didn’t send me an entry for this issue: fear not! I would love for you to send me something for the next one. If you are a writer who did in fact contribute a piece: thank you so very much and keep on contributing. I believe that writers are a cultural vitality in this school, and help preserve the intellectual environment of our Academy.

In conclusion, I wish any senior reading this the best of luck in getting into the school of your choice, and to everyone else, good luck in your respective academic pursuits.

Keep on reading & writing!

Sincerely,

Rachel Dynkin

Editor-In-Chief

She Looked Out the Window

by Kira Heisler

She looked out the window and pressed her cheeks to the glass, waiting for the world to stop. She focused on the water droplets that ran down the window, while everything around her was moving forward. As the train made its next stop, more people moved towards her as she cringed at the thought of sharing the crimson and violet bench. A middle aged man, reeking of soup, advanced toward her, wearing a misbuttoned striped blue shirt underneath an oversized suit and a watch that was three minutes late.  She readjusted herself and felt mocked by the arrogant floating square pattern that paraded around the fabric of the bench. She was terrified of the possibility of introducing herself or creating a friendly persona. She needed to survive the 45 minutes left on the voyage to her new life. As he dared to venture to the territory that she had claimed for herself, she couldn’t help but stare right at him. She felt safe that the poster of a puppy wearing a bow tie seemed to allure the man, considering she was gawking at him quite openly.  She stopped herself, when she realized that the captivating power of adorable animals taking human form appeared to fade. He sat down on the seat across from her and took out his brown leather briefcase with rusting silver hinges. Once opened, the briefcase was revealed to be utterly hollow aside from a rotting red apple that the man ignored. He closed the briefcase after a moment and she was left bewildered. While, he turned his head once again to admire the eyes of the enticing puppy, he smiled at her.

Whether it was a made up persona that he created to somehow excite his mundane daily routine of commuting to his cubicle or not, he had her attention.  She decided to risk her own secretive identity and introduced herself.  He quickly shifted himself towards her and eagerly reached out his clammy hands. She reluctantly shook his hand and then immediately wiped the sweat from his palm onto the polyester bench that seemed to be her only asylum from the insanity surrounding her. He told her that his name was Harold and that he was an accountant but his real passion was stamp collecting. After hearing Harold babble while opening to the comics’ page of his newspaper that he produced from inside of his suit jacket, she decided to assume that he was charming rather than disturbing.  When he realized that his blathering was not being stifled, he infringed on her personal space and slid over to the crimson and violet bench. Her sense of running to the next train car was suppressed. She felt safe with him.

Harold checked his watch and itched his hand nervously.  She wanted to calm his nerves and informed him that his watch was three minutes late. He smiled and rewarded her amiability by admitting his fear of tardiness.  After a traumatizing childhood experience of coming late to a peer’s birthday party, he missed the bouncy house that held any hope of childhood joy and swore to arrive promptly to all occasions. His watch was a reminder to abide by the moral code of punctuality. She laughed while he was entertained by the misadventures of Garfield. She rested her head on his shoulder, disregarding the normal behavior for meeting strangers. Harold didn’t say anything so she closed her eyes. As the train stopped, she felt the silent air questioning her principles. She started to think about the life she gave up. She reminisced about the warmth of her blanket that seemed to gain a different stain every night. She missed the bubble gum scent of her bed and the accumulation of trash that surrounded it. She remembered the notches she made on her desk that counted the times her mother entered to remind her of trivial troubles in a monotone. She missed her dog that proudly shed over her bed and was the only one that listened to all of her grievances. She missed the reoccurring aroma of fresh paint that filled her house. She recalled how her father used to rant about his “action-packed” days at work.  She remembered the fights she had with her parents about her fear to become like them. She feared to have the most exciting part of her day to be cleaning the windows or making small talk at the water-cooler with people that were oblivious to their monotonous lives.

 When her eyes opened, they were directed towards Harold’s briefcase. She confessed to her sinister analysis and her confusion towards the rotting apple. Harold sighed and explained, “I’ve always been ready to be inspired by fluorescent lights and post-its and have two collies that are on display in a modest home. When I finally achieved a cubicle with the essence of mediocrity and a home where people awaited my return, I convinced myself that I was content. My evening included hanging my jacket on the coat rack and eating meatloaf at precisely six thirty every night. One day, I left for work when I met this apple lying in the middle of the street. It called out for me. I refused to answer to inanimate objects and continued my journey to the place of staples and paper cuts. When I came back, the house was empty and the picture frames were bare. Lying on the place mat that once joyfully read “Welcome home” was a yellow piece of paper that told me that I would no longer have meatloaf Mondays or people who waited for me. I ran outside and lay down on the asphalt, the only thing that could never desert me. I shut my eyes from a world that no longer wanted me. When I awoke, I was ready to leave the pavement and this apple motivated me to regain faith in humanity. When I began to piece my life together again, this apple was my only testament to hope and trust and all the cartoons that brainwashed me to dream.”              

She held his hand tight and they looked out the window and watched the plastic bag dance in the wind. She watched his tear run down his cheek and felt incompetent in aiding the emotions of a middle-aged man that reeked of soup.  She confessed her fear of clowns, but after watching him sigh repeatedly she told him of her past life, a life that accepted the ideals of normalcy and conformity. Harold told her that he was bewildered by her discontent towards her fortunes. She felt disparaged and redirected her attention towards the window. Then in a fit of rage, she explained to Harold that he didn’t understand. She told him that she was not ready to be another depressed housewife. She was going to be free and didn’t care how trite it sounded from a girl her age. She told him that she was going to experience life and he missed his chance. She would travel, befriend a starving artist or even become a homeless bird lady and refuse a life of boredom. She disregarded her father’s voice rebuking her for her fixation with Mary Poppins and the song reminding of the importance of bird-feeding. She became too overwrought to continue her rant. Harold smirked and told her that it would be okay. After acknowledging her insanity, she decided to convince herself that her tirade might have kept his mind off of his troubles. She quickly apologized and they continued to study the activities of the plastic bag that seemed hopelessly content. Harold confessed that he once fantasized about running away from his identity. After packing his bag, he realized he had nowhere to go and then feared that no one would come after him. She explained that she always dreamt of deserting her life and fading away from reality. Now that it is the actuality, she has grown to resent that no one had gone on a quest to find her like the movies have taught her. There was no heartwarming speech about unity and love. No one recognized the error of their ways and promised happiness. Whether it was neglect or some type of hidden message with shades of arrogance, she felt that she could never return to a home that fostered so much spite. Harold echoed the lessons of generations of mothers and told her not to cut off her nose to spite her face. He told her to embrace normalcy for a few more years because her home also fostered love and care. She realized in that moment that she could never run away from her mother. Her mother’s notorious smothering and pathological mind games traveled beyond space and time into a place of submission. She turned off the fantasy of freedom. On a crimson and violet bench in the middle of a crowded train, she wept.

Harold apologized and denied the conspiracy that her mother was in alliance with him to bring her to recognition. She gave up. As the train rolled into its last stop, Harold asked if he could join her on the voyage to self-liberation. She smiled and kissed his cheek, gathered her belongings and took a step onto the train platform that perhaps harbored a new beginning.

Do You Want to Sleep Over?

by Rebecca Ashkenazy

Do you want to sleep over?

We never hang out

We can catch up on T.V.

And laugh all through out

We can take lots of pictures

To brag to our friends

That we are having a blast

We can just pretend

We can post them on Snapchat

And watch the view count

We can post them on Facebook

See the “like” amount

We can spend all of our night

Looking at our screens

‘Cause what else is there to do

As 21^st century teens

And at almost 2 A.M.

We might want to sleep

Maybe we can talk gossip

Nothing very deep

But people don’t talk so much

Under the bed sheets

We have 2048,

King games to defeat

Like two silent ghosts we just lay there

Our faces pale from flashing white light

And it seems we don’t actually care

To talk and connect through the night

We’ll drift off to sleep and the

First time since last night

We’ll experience real life

As dream line of sight

When we wake up we can tell

Each other our dreams

But we’ll more likely text it

As we put on our jeans

Time to start the new day

Breakfast and so on

Maybe we’ll take pictures

Of us with bon-bons

Then you will grab all your stuff

Maybe I’ll help you

But never look in your eyes

You’re on your phone too

We might be in the same room

But you’re miles away

and I’d still feel this gloom

whether you leave or you stay

And then you’d be gone

Nothing will have changed

I’ll feel just as lonely

Maybe another date will be arranged

Wow, look at the irony

440 Facebook friends and counting

Plus I hang out with people

Yet, I’m still frowning

I’m starting to understand that

It all means nothing

When I don’t even look up

All I’m doing is bluffing

Because everyone is an island,

So isolated and distant,

When we cast down our eyelids,

Real social lives are non-existent.

If we don’t live in the moment

We can’t see smiles, only screens

People who think “What else is there to do

As 21^st century teens?”

That’s why we must take more time to spend

On those unique and special

Enjoy the surroundings, look at our friends!

Because in years from now I can get all sentimental

Life is all we know.

So live the crap out of it.

Off your phone, look up.

I'm a Big Kid

"I’m a big kid,"

"I can handle it," 

"I’m used to it,”

I’ll pretend for your ignorance 

That I can bare the wounds

That your breath does not 

Make marks on my skin 

As you exit the words, 

I regard myself as empty space 

For him or her to do what he or she pleases 

For him or her to accept me as he or she pleases

To treat me as his or her case study 

I am no one’s case study 

I feel myself plucking at the hair of my identity 

When I surrender to his or her will

What brings me to my feet

Brings me to my knees 

The words I cannot say 

For fear of burns

I am already a lost sheep 

Being branded like cattle