Ghost
Yael Nissel, Yeshiva University

View the rest of the series on Instagram @yael_n_photography.

Walking on a minefield or something…
Rocky Pincus, Yeshiva University

(Pencil, Pen, and Ink)

Blessing in Disguise
Yosef Rosenfield, Yeshiva University

In memory of my grandma and the other COVID-19 victims.

Updates From the Apocalypse
Dassie Okin, Yeshiva University

Checking the news
For the end of the world

Wait
Did I miss it?

Nope
It’s still loading 

Who’s Still Counting?
Yosef Rosenfield, Yeshiva University

I just buried my grandmother
Along with any hope I still had
That this nightmare would end
Before things got too bad. 

But now we have given up
Counting the dead
And have all turned
To counting our blessings instead – 

Counting the Omer,
The twenty-four thousand –
We count just to count,
But it’s just a distraction. 

So add another name to the list –
Add one to that scary number –
The one veiling this beast
That took my dear grandmother. 

The View From My Porch
Dahlia Laury, Yeshiva University

I hear a buzz
I turn my head
Some flies were sleeping
But soon they’ll be dead
The streets look solemn
With an uncommon engine
Those nasty loud cars
We rely so heavily on them
Though the trees remain still
And the branches forgotten
They’ll outlive us all
That is, if we don’t go and kill them
A light by the corner
As tall as I am on my porch floor
Gives a brightness contained
They never really share much more
Lonely red stoplight
Standing as if it is a being
Crooked and forgotten
It has no life and no meaning
Silly girl on the chair
Have you no more to say?
You write with intention
Pretending, or hoping, it all continues to stay 

As Long As This Exists
Chana Weiss, Yeshiva University

(Gouache and Pen on Paper)

Thoughts from Quarantine
Eli Azizollahoff, Yeshiva University

People talk about prison – about confinement 
As four walls
Bars 
Cuffs 
That’s not what it is
It’s isolation 
It’s the monotony of walking through the same rooms again and again 
It’s considering getting dressed an accomplishment 
Seeing the sun is a vacation  
Time stopped existing when we lost track of our Mondays and Wednesdays 
When we forgot if sleep was for during the dark or light 
It is seeking stimulus like an addict chasing dope 
Aren’t we all chasing dopamine?
~
I have washed more pajamas tops than I have real shirts 
~
My friends are two dimensional 
My world is two dimensional
Confined to the other side of the glass
~
I cut my hair
Making a change when there are no changes we can control 
The hardest part is that it’s infinite 
We know one day it will end 
But now how or when 
~
I think of my ancestors 
Living for years in foxholes and behind bookcases 
And I am in awe 
Because thank God, we have so many luxuries 
And we are being swayed by the lull of this pitch black ocean 
How did they hold out hope?
Not knowing when it all would end

The Daffodil
Matthew Silkin, Yeshiva University

I spotted the daffodil as I limped up the lane to my home, in a field of untrimmed grass. The white of the petals stood out to me amongst the muddled greens of the blades swaying in the wind, and as I knelt, the sweet scent of its pollen mixed with the smoke of the passing train. 

I noted the subtle yellow in its stamen, thinking of Elise. The soft touch of its stem was reminiscent of her silk dress – the burgundy one, that she wore the day of her departure. 

Now that I think about it, her favorite flowers were daffodils. She could talk at length about the symmetry of the daffodil, the subtle aroma compared to the rhododendron, and the white coloring that was brighter than the asphodel. She would go out in the summer evenings, when the humidity of the day had abated but the sun did not yet retreat beyond its horizon fortress, and beckon me to join her among the flowers in the backyard. I would laugh as I declined, thinking myself too old to frolic, yet she always pulled me in anyways. The first time she did it I nearly dropped my briefcase out of surprise, which is why from then on, whenever I saw her motion out the back door with the devilish smirk on her face, I left it on the dining room table. 

She would often be in a sundress in those days, as the burgundy dress was reserved for more formal events than evening frolicking. Which is probably what caught me off guard the most when, the evening I came home late from work, she was wearing the burgundy dress. 

An urgent meeting came up, she told me over supper, with her mother in California. Something to do with that season’s grape harvest, and the poor sales of the wines. I was half paying attention, half feeling the sleeve of the dress, the same material that constituted her wedding veil all those years ago. In my daydreaming, I heard the words “gone,” “month,” and “love you.” 

I saw her off at the train station that next morning. We had elected to walk hand in hand, me carrying her heavy bag in my right hand and her carrying her purse in her left. Few words were exchanged between us, and we basked in the midday sun and the silence. She kissed me on the platform as the train arrived, and blew me another as it departed. She also shouted something, but I could not hear what it was over the whine of the whistle. 

I devoured every letter she wrote me during that month. She told of the fights with her family over ownership of the vineyard, of the sleepless nights listening to her father sobbing in the kitchen, of her homesickness and missing of my company and the flowers in the backyard. 

At the end of the month, I read of the crash. That one came in the papers. No survivors, they said. A representative of the train company would be speaking to everyone at the station, to share words of grief and consolation. Against my better wishes, I went. 

The wind brought me back to my surroundings, to the daffodil in the wild grass. I stared at it – its silky petals, its stamen burdened with pollen – and I wept, for Elise, for the train company, and for the loneliness of the daffodil. 

I stood and continued limping down the lane. After a moment of thought, I turned back, but alas, the daffodil was lost amongst the long grass. 

Running Away
Sarah Last, Yeshiva University

(Acrylic Painting)

Fear Its Self
Emily Hoschander, Fashion Institute of Technology

(Ink Drawing)

Germophobia
Emily Hoschander, Fashion Institute of Technology

(Marker Drawing)

Getting Started
Yael Frank, Yeshiva University

(Digital Photography)

note to self
Elazar Krausz, Yeshiva University

you are not what this panic is making you think you are.
four unyielding walls cannot turn you into impotent slush.
they have. but they cannot.

you are not a failure, though you are afraid to be graded one.
but even still, you won’t be. and if you are, you won’t be.
you are not any number.

you are not the sweatshirt you hope they won’t notice
four days in a row. you are not even what’s inside the sweatshirt.
you may or may not want to be. but you are not.

you cannot be muted. you are not a small box.

you are the sunshine. there behind the walls, behind the muggy sky. always.
you are the sun.

How am I supposed to pretend I never want to see you again?
Micah Pava, Yeshiva University

(Photography and Creative Nonfiction)

People around the globe have been instructed by the powers that be to remain in their homes and yet the world is anything but quiet now. Online, a torrent of posts cascade down the liquid crystal screen in my palm. The particulars vary, but seemingly anybody with a desire to contribute their hot take to the digital conversation now possesses a great wisdom that only calamity can bestow. For the most part, these forms of self-expression and self-promotion are not insightful. The mediated spectacle of pandemonium we witness everyday and the sense of impending annihilation it impresses upon us merely provides confirmation for the worldviews of the loudest voices in the room. 

With this in mind, I will attempt to describe my own experiences during the pandemic. I am privileged enough that the consequences of the coronavirus manifest themselves primarily as inconvenience and boredom. The first week of cancelled class, the week before Purim, was a time for recreation and relaxation. The instruction to stay indoors had not yet been decided upon as the necessary means of containment and people, or at least my friend group, had not yet committed to, nor knew they were supposed to, flatten the curve. I wandered throughout the city without purpose, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends, freely riding the subway, taking photographs, eating sushi, going to Starbucks, and so on. Although we would nervously chatter about the apocalyptic tidings on the airwaves, it was less a reality than an abstract topic of conversation. 

After Shabbat ended on the weekend of Friday the 13th, while saying goodbye to friends who would be working remotely and leaving the city, I was overcome by a vertiginous sense of indefinite departure. “See you never” I said, a performance of fear to mask my underlying fear. “Let’s not do this,” responded my friend, eyes shining beneath the yellow of the streetlights. 

Now I am in my home; my days are filled with Zoom sessions in place of the brick and mortar classroom and Facetime calls with friends. Sometimes I go for a walk while maintaining the prescribed social distance or I listen to music and paint. I avoid the news but avidly consume my Instagram feed. HBO has started airing the new Plot Against America adaptation and there is plenty of Curb Your Enthusiasm and High Maintenance to catch up on, as well as Better Call Saul on Netflix and the animated series available on Hulu. This past Shabbat my parents, brother and I walked to my grandparents house and talked with them from about ten feet away; they stood on their front porch and us, in the front yard. 

On the whole, I have not suffered and don’t feel as though my particular experience contains any special significance that others may learn from. I am grateful that my circumstances have kept me insulated from hardship. I have not lost my job, will not have trouble making rent. There is plenty of food for me and my family to eat. I don’t have to jeopardize my own health to perform an essential role in the service of the public. I wish I had something to teach others, that I was a public figure of great influence but all I know is that the future is totally uncertain and as an individual, I am powerless to effect meaningful change. Maybe things will turn out one way and be okay, or maybe they won’t. The best I can do is pretend to be unbothered. Regardless of what happens I will stay here a while and struggle like an autumn leaf. 

Sanctuary
Dina Seidenberg, Yeshiva University

Who knew my house would become
The sanctuary I would need 
To save myself from the dragon that roams 
Waiting out there to catch me 

I listen to the news 
For the dragon has hurt and killed many 
Coming into my area 
Dropping lives like they are pennies 

That mighty dragon has struck 
What I thought was my safe place 
Hitting people who mean the most 
Leaving his sickly trace 

Feeling stuck in the sanctuary 
I thought was truly safe 
Yet the sneaky dragon has snuck his way in
Leaving horrid things in his wake

He is driving people crazy 
Doctors and nurses working late hours 
Parents with young kids home
Can’t even go out to smell the flowers 

The monster has burdened our sanctuaries
As the passover holiday nears 
The holiday that is freedom
Yet stuck in our home in fear

Take this time 
To appreciate what we have 
The dragon can roam where he wants 
Stay in your sanctuary, stay safe

Are you Stuck?
Eliyahu Muszkat, Yeshiva University

You crave
the freedom
of air
that I 
never breathed.

A world 
you lost
that I 
never found.

To roam 
the land
that I 
never touched.

Welcome.
Welcome to
the prison
that I 
never left.

Does it
hurt?
Do you
hate it?
Sounds like 
you do.

Then 
pray
tell me
why?

Why did
you leave 
me here 
to rot?

This prison
that you 
fear
yet are so
willing 
to fill.

Welcome to 
the enslavement 
of the
mind
where 
boredom
and self-hate
rule the land

Prepare yourself 
to learn
the pain
that I 
never lost

Enjoy
the darkness
that holds on
with its
asphyxiating grasp.

Help you?
Save you?
I’m sorry.
I can’t. 
I don’t 
have time.

Let me
offer
some advice.
Turn on
the lights
flick that
switch.

Go ahead
press the 
button
to make 
everything 
better.

What’s that?
Its not 
there?
Why should
I believe
you?

Go on
check again.
I’m sure
it’s there

skype calls
Annie Charlat, University of British Columbia

we are as much our bodies as we are our minds 

it is one thing to exchange and it’s another thing to share 

in person 

words can be savored like bread 

words are made up of feelings and weight, sights and sighs, tastes and smells 

in person, words linger 

Simon Says
Yoni Weisberg, Yeshiva University

(Short Play)

Simon Says (PDF)

Before Myself
Rocky Pincus, Yeshiva University

(Digital Photography)

Torah u’Zoom
Elazar Abrahams, Yeshiva University

(Graphic Design)

The Ill-iad
Josh Leichter, Yeshiva University

Morning sun refracts against the dark windows of an empty library. Under the morning dew lay no footprints and the songs of the birds carry on undisturbed from the usual chorus of cars. Yesterday was the exodus period. People leaving with hastily packed suitcases before the borders closed. 2 – 14 days, the newsman said, yet wash your hands or use a hand sanitizer with 60% alcohol. He says this behind breath that betrays a little more than that. Like corpses of the Black Death, we lay in wait, eager for news from the outside world. Is it all clear or do the health groundhogs render a longer verdict? We stare out the windows at the bright sun, muttering curses to Apollo for choosing today of all days to ride his chariot. Could Aethon, Pyeios or Eous not wait in the stables another week? Couldn’t Zeus continue the storms until his winds blow this away? What is there to do now other than wait for the all clear? If only we could run free through the vineyards of Dionysus one last time without fear of contagion. What I would do to dance with nymphs or naiads to the sounds of Pan’s flute. Will a cure be commissioned soon or are we forgotten in our four-block radius to fester sickly? Will your chariot rest so you can fulfill your duty as healer, O Apollo? May we not be forsaken while others lead their lives. After all, we aren’t even the sick ones, so drop the shame of sin attached to the letter we have been forced to wear and recall that only those without sin may cast the first stone. Toss the case for we are the unfortunate Fort Tryon Park Five, whose sole crime is going to the same university as the one infected. Grant us clemency so that we may pull the reins of the chariot of the Elaphoi Khrysokeroi under the moon of your sister, Artemis. 

Kavanah
Zoe Stoddard, Missouri State University

(Pencil, Water Color)

Hallelujah
Zoe Stoddard, Missouri State University

(Pencil, Marker)

Bitachon
Moshe Rosensweig, Yeshiva University

(Digital Art)

Isolationship
Eli Azizollahoff, Yeshiva University

i·so·la·tion·ship

/ˌīsəˈlāSH(ə)nˌSHip/

Noun

An isolationship is a relationship fostered for the duration of COVID19 isolation with the knowledge that as soon as quarantine is over, both parties will part ways.

“So, me and this guy I met on Facebook are kind of in an isolationship but maybe if he converts it could last longer”

See: Isolation, Relationship

Days Which Seemed Identical
Elazar Krausz, Yeshiva University

(Digital Art, a blackout poem based on Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49)

New Beginnings
Victoria Brenes, Nova Southeastern University

Life support taken off
Always having to start from scratch
Stuck in this loop of
New beginnings
But sometimes all I want to do
Is see what would have happened next