Mazal Tov

Congratulations to the BIMA Writers for a wonderful day of readings at the Arts Festival. You all surpassed my wildest expectations and made me very proud.

Keep on writing (and posting your work on this blog).

Thanks for being such a great group of young writers.

JON

Reality Unseen

Clean-cut façade

Near impossible to see

the difference between the falsehood

and the reality unseen .

Two-faced Janus,

Deceiving as an elf

hiding behind the images

fashioned by oneself.

Looking glasses

Glazed in lies

created by magazines

and images flickering on screens.

Reflected in silver

Tainted with fading truth,

we find ourselves lost

within our fight to be part of the norm.

Using appearance as a shield

With words as a sword,

to keep ones image

we all wage our wars.

Fear of secrets being told

Those of new and those of old,

We hide behind our web of lies

Our glistening masks.

Those camouflage screens

That have become part of our very beings.

When We Saw the Heavens Aflame

When we saw the heavens aflame,
So were our hearts and eyes.
A burning madness, but no desire,
For filled with gladness were our hearts.

Glorious flags of forty nations
Flapped brightly in the midnight breeze.
Danced we, for the time had come
To fill the dark with our joyous cries.

For we know, but never admit,
That self-doubt is a master.
For we recognize, but never acknowledge,
That we chain ourselves to ourselves.

Now we walk the path undaunted.
Now we praise the martyrs right.
This is our chance. We take it gladly.
Free of guilt and regret, we dance.

She Speaks in Butterflies

This is the final version being put in the anthology.


She Speaks in Butterflies

She is soft.
She is soft,
soft copper waves of hair
and curving brows
Soft fabrics,
thin knit cotton and light,
clinging to her gently glowing skin
Her eyes like water, flowing
dreamily downhill.

She speaks in butterflies:
Not butterfly language, or butterfly tongues,
but in little bright-winged insects
flowing, flying from her mouth
Flapping their wings
to push puffs of air
building words
growing poetry.

She speaks in butterflies,
butterflies with finely feathered wings
feathery soft, like she is
dancing and swishing
and pouring, pouring
out of her mouth in shades of
turquoise, gold, violet, red;
Weaving words into wonder
with every flick and swoop
brushing listeners’ ears
with a wisp of their wings

Butterflies twirl
making silent air sing
making empty space shine
Until, at last, the final dance;
Vanishing
in little puffs of light
a whispered ending:
She speaks in butterflies.

Boxes

Should this be a poem or prose poetry? Any other edits? Here's both a prosetry and a poetry version:

Boxes

I am in a box.
It is a nice box, I think, looking around:
There are candles in one corner,
a challah;
there’s a Torah over there,
next to a bookshelf with ancient,
aging, fraying books;
Someone is cooking chicken soup on the other side,
and nearby, a man with tassels hanging from his shirt
is swaying over a prayerbook, chanting,
while a little girl spins a dreidl
by his feet.

Then another box appears around me,
its walls closing in
The praying man is on the other side
though the little girl is still here
now scrawling out a sign that says
“No Boys Allowed”
and pasting it to a wall.
Near her is a shelf with Cosmo, Good Housekeeping, American Girl magazines
racks and racks of dresses and tight jeans and jewelry and make-up,
and everything is pink
(I hate the color pink.)

Then another box surrounds me,
its walls slamming down;
It cuts off all the dresses and the pink,
which is nice,
But space is getting tight now.
This box has rainbow walls;
In one corner,
women with short haircuts and baggy jeans
are shouting about marriage rights,
waving protest signs.
In another, two girls are making out
so I look away.

Then, slam, a box — I’m a teenager.
Slam, a box — I’m white.
Slam, I’m the oldest child,
Slam, I’m a nerd.
Slam, I’m a brunette.
Slam.
Slam.
Slam.

Slam,
I am alone
in a tiny,
dark
room, curled
into a ball
so I can
just barely fit
within the
walls
of thousands,
millions,
of boxes.

......................................................................................................................................................................

Boxes

I am in a box. It is a nice box, I think, looking around: there are candles in one corner, a challah; there’s a Torah over there, next to a bookshelf with ancient, aging, fraying books. Someone is cooking chicken soup on the other side, and nearby, a man with tassels hanging from his shirt is swaying over a prayerbook, chanting, while a little girl spins a dreidl by his feet.

Then another box appears around me, its walls closing in. The praying man is on the other side, though the little girl is still here, now scrawling out a sign that says “No Boys Allowed” and pasting it to a wall. Near her is a shelf with Cosmo, Good Housekeeping, American Girl magazines, racks and racks of dresses and tight jeans and jewelry and make-up, and everything is pink. (I hate the color pink.)

Then another box surrounds me, its walls slamming down: it cuts off all the dresses and the pink, which is nice, but space is getting tight now. This box has rainbow walls; in one corner, women with short haircuts and baggy jeans are shouting about marriage rights, waving protest signs. In another, two girls are making out, so I look away.

Then, slam, a box — I’m a teenager. Slam, a box — I’m white. Slam, I’m the oldest child. Slam, I’m a nerd. Slam, I’m a brunette. Slam. Slam. Slam.

Slam,
I am alone
in a tiny,
dark
room, curled
into a ball
so I can
just barely fit
within the
walls
of thousands,
millions,
of boxes.

Steffen

Based on the photograph taken by Collier Schorr entitled 'Steffen'.

I pay the taxi driver and step out of the car, my legs wobbling while I try to stop my heels from sinking into the gravel. Unfortunately, it is my fate to break the heel of my right foot and I cannot help but groan aloud as I look down.

"Are you all right?" A half-worried, half-amused voice comes from before me, and I look up to see Steffen standing in the doorway of his family's quaint country cottage. He is trying to hide a smile, but I can see the laughter in his eyes; my ego demands of me that I do not beg for his aid, so I respond with, "of course, I'm fine."

To prove my point, I bend over, pull at the strappy contraptions that adorn my feet and relieve myself of the anguish that most women subjugate themselves to in order to appeal to the opposite sex. Yes, my relationship with Steffen has advanced to the degree that I am meeting his family, but even so, I know that I have to make a good impression; and no good impression, in my experience, has ever been successful without a pair of heels.

Nevertheless, the heels have been shed and so I am praying that my past experiences will be proven wrong as I tread across the gravel, trying not to cringe, and reach Steffen, who is now leaning on the porch railing. "Hello," I finally greet him and he smiles before kissing me and then grabs my hand.

"My family is in the kitchen, preparing a meal fit for a king," he says as he leads me down a hall, just before he enters a doorway, though he stops me from following with a hand motion, and closes the door behind him. I stand there like an idiot, unsure of what is going on but a minute or two later he walks out with a pair of flip-flops in his right hand. "Do they fit?" I take them and slip my feet into them. I look up at him and say, "perfect." He grins before taking my hand again and leads me back to our origin and down another hall which, finally, leads to the kitchen.

The five people within stop what they are doing, one, I assume she is Steffen's mother, stops cutting lettuce with the knife in midair. "Oh, she's gorgeous!" she says causing me to blush and Steffen to look slightly embarrassed, which he relates by crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes. I can’t help but laugh at his embarrassment.

"It's fine, really," I tell him, still smiling. "Thank you," I say, turning to his mother. "I am Gabrielle."

Steffen's mother open her mouth, but a little blond girl, interrupts. "I'm Laura, you know, right? Laura, the little sister?" She appears to be about ten and very excited. "That's Mama, obviously. And Papa," she points to a man who has the same strong face as Steffen, albeit with a bit more age. She then continues, "that's Uncle Franz Schorr and Aunt Collier. She's American, like you!" I look to the last two in the kitchen and the middle aged, mostly balding, man with a slightly disturbing handle bar mustache and beady black eyes nods while his brunette wife smiles warmly; she seems very American, but perhaps I merely think that because Laura has mentioned it. I open my mouth to speak, but Laura interrupts again. "Are you going to marry Steffen? Because I want to wear a pretty dress!"

"Laura!" her five relations shout at her at once, Steffen louder than the rest and, yet again, I notice his uneas iness but this time I do not laugh at him but rather I just smile at Laura's bubbliness. The small blond girl seems as if she is generally a very enthusiastic child. The family starts to work again, as if they are all unsure what else to say, and as they do so I notice some of the tension flee; I am relieved that Laura isn’t further pursuing the question. I like Steffen very much but... Well, I met him less than a year ago!

Steffen walks over to where his father stands, using an indoor grill to cook either tilapia or halibut; I am glad to see that it is not pork for despite the fact that I am not a practicing Jew, I still do not eat pig. I want to help and glance around, trying to find something to do. Steffen’s aunt, Collier Schorr, motions to me to come over to her. I move and see that she is making dough. She gives me an apologetic look around and says in a comforting, American tone, “I’m sorry; I overslept and Sarah, Steffen’s mother, should have known better than to trust me to make the sourdough bread. Maybe we can have it as dessert, though.” She laughs at her own words and I can’t help but laugh with her and soon I am helping her shape the dough.

While I help, I notice that Mrs. Barbarostrase is finishing the salad while Steffen, his father, and his uncle are grilling, and Laura is bringing dishes through a doorway, down a hall which, after a quick question, I learn leads to an outside alcove.

Just as Mrs. Schorr and I put the dough into the oven, the little blond announces, “I’m ready!” in a sing-song voice. I wait a moment and then Steffen beckons so I follow him into a small grove with a prettily set table. We take seats opposite his aunt and uncle, while Steffen sits between me and Laura, with his parents sitting opposite one another, at each end of the table. Mr. Barbarostrase offers us wine, even Laura, who drinks a mouthful, makes a face, and then demands water. We start to eat the fish, the salad, and several other dishes which were prepared in advance and the meal is very comfortable; I find myself liking Steffen’s family a great deal.

We eat until we are full and then Collier realizes that she has yet to take out the bread and brings it to the table, thanking goodness that the oven t imer worked. Laura frowns and whines that she wants to eat the chocolate chip cookies she made as dessert and Steffen tells her that they shall have two courses of dessert, letting nothing go to waste; but savoring both the bread and cookies independently. Seeing him so at ease with his family makes me like my boyfriend even more than prior to the meeting.

After the bread is finished, while we wait for Laura to retrieve the cookies, Collier says, “oh! I almost forgot! I developed the picture!” She reaches into her purse and passes around a framed photo; everyone smiles an odd sort-of smile and I wonder what I shall see, for nobody is making a sound. Steffen passes it to me and I nearly drop it. “Is this a sick joke?” I demand as I stare at a picture of my boyfriend wearing the uniform of a Nazi. The photo slips out of my shaking hands, the glass of the frame breaking as it lands on the table; I say nothing and as the family stares at me in shock, which quickly turns to hurried explanations which I tune out, I kick off the flip-flops and walk to the front of the house.

There is a shout from behind me and I turn around, primarily out of desperation; I do not want to leave. I like Steffen and his family a great deal and the logical part of my mind tells me that he is no neo-Nazi. The Jewish part of my soul, however, shouts out to me that no German, unless they are Jewish, is to be trusted. But I stop and turn because I am a logical person.

It is Steffen; he is out of breath from running after me. As he approaches, I see that he has the flip-flops in his left hand. “What the hell is wrong?” he implores of me.

“What’s wrong?” I seethe, wondering how he can be so callous. He is aware of my heritage, even if I am not a practicing Jew. I told him about my grandmother who was in Dachau, for she died three months ago. And he had comforted me! Yet he had been a supporter of Hitler then! How could his family support that? They had seemed so nice, too! And yet none of them had said anything earlier... “How could you support the murder of eleven million people?” I demanded.

Steffen looked as if I had slapped him. He inhaled deeply and shook his head, “I don’t! You think because I were that uniform that I am automatically a Nazi sympathizer?” I nod and his eyes narrow; he is glaring at me as he has never done so before and for the first time since I’ve known him, I wonder if he is capable of hitting me out of rage. I never thought so before but that look... It is horrible; it is one of disbelief, dislike, and a little bit of pain. “Do you think I am capable of that?” he challenges me.

I stand there for a moment as I grapple with my thoughts. I never did before but... “I didn’t. But, how could you wear that if you don’t? How could anyone? We live in a free world but that... ” Why is nothing ever as simple as we desire it to be? I came to meet his family; not to confront him. And yet, I thought I knew him, hence the meeting. I am completely baffled.

And he sees this confusion and the anger on his face changes to something else. Recognition, perhaps? “Gabi, Gabi, Gabi... I forgot that you didn’t know. I thought Aunt Collier told you about it when you were baking. She’s Jewish too; she’s an artist. A Jewish artist.”

“Wait, what?” Collier’s a Jewish artist. And her nephew’s a neo-Nazi?

“Collier. Is. A. Artist. A Jewish artist who is using that picture for her exhibit to show that what you see isn’t always the whole truth,” he says calmly and my eyes grow wide. I say the only thing that I can: “oh.”

It’s nothing brilliant, but I cannot comprehend this; I am no artist. I’m majoring in childhood education and as a result the only art that I understand is finger-paintings. Steffen is watching me and I decide that I need to sit down, so I walk over to the porch steps, brush some dust away, and take a seat. He sits down besides me and looks at me expectantly.

“So... You’re not a supporter of the Nazi’s?” I simply had to ask the question; I needed to hear him answer, to reassure me.

Steffen turns his face away, runs a hand through his dusk-colored hair, sighs then turns back. His eyes bare into mine and he says, “I do not support the neo-Nazi cause and I posed for my aunt for that precise reason; she’s trying to explain the difference between German’s now and then. We’re not our predecessors.”

I say nothing, for there are no words and Steffen seems to understand this. I stand up, take his hand and murmur an apology. And then we go back to the table and I compliment his aunt on her photography skills. The mood is slightly tense but I see that Collier knows this and she realizes that it is her fault.

And I realize something; that’s the point of her art, isn’t it?

Alright, so I'm planning on putting this in the BIMA writer's anthology so any critique would be loved. Oh, and for some reason the indents aren't showing up for the first portion of the story, but there are paragraph breaks.
-Edited at 3:45 but still not complete, of course. Critique still adored!

Synonyms for said, from http://www.thecaveonline.com/

Synonyms for "Said"

GENERAL

SYNONYM	MEANING
added	to embellish or enhance an argument
continued	to further an earlier point
stated	to say, usually confined to quotes or paraphrases from documents, or to official statements
announced	to declare publicly or formally
asserted	to state positively, with great confidence but no objective proof
commented	to make a remark to explain, interpret, or criticize
declared	to make known clearly and openly
observed	to mention casually
remarked	to make a brief, casual statement of opinion
reported	to give an account of; to carry message; to give a formal statement

The following verbs should be limited to the specific circumstances described by the definitions:

ACKNOWLEDGING OR REVEALING

SYNONYM	MEANING
acknowledged	implies reluctant disclosure of something that might have been a secret
admitted	implies reluctance to disclose, grant, or concede, and usually refers to facts rather than their implication
affirmed	implies deep conviction and unlikelihood of contradiction
alleged	to assert or declare, especially without proof
avowed	implies boldly declaring, often in the face of hostility
conceded	similar to acknowledge and admit
confessed	may apply to an admission of a weakness, failure, omission, or guilt
disclosed	to reveal something previously concealed
divulged	to reveal something that should have remained secret or private, which may imply a breach of confidence
revealed	to make something known that had been secret or hidden

INQUISITIVE

SYNONYM	MEANING
begged	to ask in a humble or earnest manner
demanded	to ask for boldly or urgently
implored	to ask with great fervor, implying desperation or great distress
insisted	to demand strongly, to declare firmly
pleaded	to answer a legal charge, to offer as an excuse or defense, to implore or beg

EXPLANATORY

SYNONYM	MEANING
answered	to respond to a question
explained	to make an explanation
rejoined	to answer an objection
replied	to answer a question or comment
responded	to reply to a question or comment
retorted	to reply to a charge or criticism in a sharp, witty way
returned	to reply to a charge or criticism in a sharp, witty way; to answer an objection

ARGUMENTATIVE

SYNONYM	MEANING
contended	to argue or dispute
countered	to dispute
emphasized	to stress
exclaimed	to speak suddenly or vehemently
maintained	to assert, to support by argument, to affirm
proclaimed	to announce officially
proposed	to set forth a design or plan

SUGGESTIVE

SYNONYM	MEANING
hinted	implies slight or remote suggestion
implied	similar to suggest, but may indicate a more definite or logical relation of the unexpressed idea to the expressed
insinuated	refers to conveying a usually unpleasant idea in a sly, underhanded manner
intimated	stresses delicacy of suggestion
suggested	to propose as a possibility, to convey indirectly by putting an idea into the mind by association

TONE

The following words all describe manners of speaking or tones of voice and should be used when necessary and appropriate.

SYNONYM	MEANING
barked	to speak or shout sharply
bellowed	to roar, to cry out loudly in anger or fear
cackled	to laugh cynically or sneer; implies sinister intent
cried	to call for help, to shout, to sob, to weep
croaked	to make a sound like a frog or raven, to talk dismally
declaimed	to speak in a pompous way or deliver a tirade
drawled	to speak in a way that prolongs the vowels
joked	to make a joke
mumbled	to utter inarticulate or almost inaudible sounds
murmured	to speak in a low, indistinct voice
muttered	to speak angry or discontented words in a low, indistinct voice
roared	to utter a loud, deep sound
scolded	to find fault with angrily
shouted	to make a loud cry or call
shrieked	to make a loud, piercing cry or sound
wailed	to express grief or pain through long, loud cries
whispered	to speak softly, especially to avoid being overheard