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Dedication to the Victims and Survivors of School Shootings


          Ms. Burstein approached me a few weeks ago, asking if we could add a section in the next Kalliope online issue to commemorate the lives lost in the shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida on February 14th, 2018. The goal was to add to the current discussion catalyzed by this terrible tragedy. She said her tenth graders had written some incredible pieces of poetry about the shooting, and thought it would be an important addition to this issue. I couldn’t have agreed more, and thought that the Kalliope staff should add in some pieces of their own as well.

I have been thinking a lot about the school shootings that have happened this year. Not that I haven’t thought about them in the

past when a school shooting occurred, but after the Parkland shooting, many voices had risen up, louder than they had been before. “Enough is enough!” They said. No more children, no more teachers, no more innocent lives should be taken away.

At Frisch, we recently had a walkout where many students from the school, myself included, walked out of class at 9:57am and

gathered in the gym. At 10:00am we, along with many other schools across the world, had a moment of silence for the 17 people who died in the Parkland shooting. Then, we recited a psalm to express our mourning.

I realized through this moment of unity across the world, that our voices, together, can truly make a change. But our spoken voice is

only the beginning. Now we will depict our sorrow through the written word. We must show the world, through any and every aspect we can, the horrible fear and pain people are going through. We must make them understand that this needs to stop.

I would like to dedicate this section in our second official online issue of Kalliope to the survivors and victims of the recent school

shootings. It is important to recognize how abhorrent these shootings are, especially after our lockdown just a few days ago, when we truly believed that there was an active shooter nearby.

The fear was palpable in the air, and everyone was shaken for the rest of the day. Thank G-d it was only a false alarm. Even so, it was

quite traumatic for many students.

We cannot even start to imagine the pain and suffering of the people who were in or affected by real school shootings, but we can

try to be listeners and to express empathy for their pain

I hope this section truly does honor to the difficult topic at hand. But, no matter how you see it, the final message is clear. Enough is

Michal White

Editor-In-Chief of Kalliope



Am I Next?

By Jake Nussbaum


At 10 o’clock in the morning of March fourteenth

Standing in solitude with the seventeen

Standing in the gym, not in class

I, with my peers,

Eyes and ears

Listened in misery to the list of victims who were murdered en masse.


“Alyssa Alhadeff, 14,” they’d said.

And I’d thought, Hey, I’m 14,


“Luke Hoyer, 15,” they’d said.

I’ll be turning 15 in 3 weeks, I’d thought.


Then at 10:17 a.m. we went back to class and the day was normal again.

Until 5p.m. when I went home and it dawned on me.


Am I next?

Will I be the next name to be added to that tragic list?

The next young life to cease to exist

The next universe reduced to two words on a page and a silent moment -


Will those two words be Jake Nussbaum?

Will it be my name?

Or my friend’s?

Or my teacher’s?

Or my sister’s?

Or my father’s?


If nothing changes right now, the sad answer

The awful truth

No matter how many marches

Or walkouts

Led by our youth

No matter the speeches

If we speak or protest

The answer, my friends -

It will be yes

Does the government care more about


Or rights?


Or fights?


Or lives


Or wives


Or old

Please, we must be told

What do you value

What do you hold

Dearest to your heart

Your sick, black heart?


Of course you’ll pick guns

That’s what you’ll choose

Because you’re blind to the hate

And you’re not in our shoes


Until you are


Until the day you come home from work

And your child never comes home from school

Your heart starts beating out of your chest

Where are they? Oh God, let’s just hope for the best

But the best isn’t coming

They’re never coming

Your heart stops drumming


It completely freezes

You can’t breathe


You were hoping, praying for the best

But it happened. They were next.


And you didn’t even get to say goodbye.


By: Noah Schultz


Waking up to see

What life is meant to me


Going about with your day

In a very familiar way


But then you come to see

This isn’t always how it will be


Is life meant to be fair?

The chance was very rare


It came at you in a beat

Leaving with a defeat


Somebody who is so misunderstood

Took all these precious lives for good


And when you’re left to cope

All you have left is hope.

We Struggle

By: Morgan Lazarus


We struggle to face the fact that a gunshot can cause a wound to the heart, to a race, and to the pace at which life moves.

We struggle to stop the moments that our brothers and sisters cry and bleed together, but we pray do not die together.

We struggle to reconcile with the fact that our nation is not defiant to those who weaken it.

We struggle to survive under this predicament.

We ask ourselves,


And we struggle on the day when the children weep.

And we struggle to see the days where guns do not have victims,

Where we won’t light candles at a vigil,

But will light a fire of hope,

of bravery to a

A nation comprised of states who could be as one.

To stop the shootings and stop the fighting,

And to the people who wish pain on us all,

G-d please send them help,

So our world and all people won’t feel the pain.

Never Again

By: Miri Jonas


39 times the police came to his home

A troubled boy, waiting to explode

He bought a legal gun at age 18

And used it to murder 17.

A holocaust on Valentine’s Day,

Real hearts broken, pierced by bullets, not by cupid’s bow

Dripping blood from hearts not made of paper and doilies.

This time it is enough.

We are at the limit of what we can endure.

It is not the numbers that tell the story

Rather, it is the pain on the faces

Those who lost friends

And children,

Those who beg for gun control

And say, as we say on Yom HaShoa, never again.

Never again.


By: Evie Gutlove


“Buzz, buzz, buzz” Another alarm, another day

“Crunch, crunch, crunch” A rush of food, I can’t delay

“Beep, beep, beep” Hoping to catch the bus on time

“Ding, dong, ding” The first bell has surely chimed

“Scratch, scratch, scratch” Wanting to finish this long test

“Chew, chew, chew” Finally lunch where I can rest

“Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle” Last class of the hour

“Tap, tap, tap” The teacher’s mood is very sour

“Bang, bang, bang” Is that a gun I hear?

“Pow, pow, pow” Yes, it is. It's very clear

“Drop, drop, drop” We all cover our heads

“Breath, breath, breath”  We hope tonight we’ll see our beds

“Woo, woo, woo” The sirens seem so close

“Go, go, go” We get up from where we froze.

“Honey. honey, honey” The parents are outside

“Why, why, why?” They say my friends have died

“Woosh, woosh, woosh” As I stare at the sky

It’s silence I wish for on this day that’s gone by

School Shooting: A Tragedy

By: Rami Berman


Sounds of horror are heard throughout the school,

Gunshots are heard everywhere,

Chaos in the building,

People are running everywhere.

Blood is seen every time you open your eyes,

Frightened parents awaiting their children and praying to God,

Heartbreaking news sent many into mourning.

One man ended the lives of many,

Years of happiness came to an end for some,

Amazingly some were spared.

This tragedy united our country as one.

Oh, What a tragedy it was.


By: Tzivia Itzkowitz


Round one

Ripples flow through every vein

Round two

Trying too hard to refrain

Round Three

Eyes tied to a heavy chain

Round Four

Over there, one slipped from the pain

Round five

The ground holds the bodies and the shame.

Sight of Death

By: Ben Greenbaum


Lying in a hospital

I saw a black crow swoop in

A light started to shine

And then it all went dim.

     Short Stories


By: Michal White

It’s dark in here. The nervous giggles and tears fill the silence of the blackness. There’s a ringing in my ears, a quiet in the shadows, as I curl up in the

corner out of view of the door. The window blinds are pulled closed. Today is a sunny day, but its brightness, its warmth, must be hidden from us, or else it would be able to see inside.


A bang is heard.

I curl tighter in on myself, but most of the other kids jump and cry out. The teacher shushes them, trying to stay calm and serious, but I see his

hands trembling as he crosses his arms and stands taller. A toy soldier protecting us from the monster in our closet. A sweet notion, but useless, because what good is a human shield against a flying bullet?


Tears sneak out from my eyes, and drop onto my bare arms. They are covered in goosebumps, and my hair is standing on end. I feel like the

shadows in the room will swallow me whole. People are in ones or twos, some alone, some holding a friend. I am alone. It makes this whole thing so much worse.


The fear within the room is palpable. The knowledge that a person, a monster, could walk through that door, in all its shadowy glory, and kill the

people in my class. The people I have known since we were children. The knowledge that I have gone through four years of high school, but may never graduate. The knowledge that I haven’t done everything I’ve wanted in life, that I’ve wasted many incredible opportunities for the safety of my bed and a book. I’m scared.

Sirens wail. I hear them through the ringing in my ears, but they seem so far away.

An eternity.

Another bang.

Then three more shots in quick succession.

The girl to my right lets out a muffled sob. She’s curled into herself tighter than I am. No one is around her. They are all texting, or hugging, or

crying. She looks forgotten, embraced by the shadows. I pull my arms out from under my head, and reach out a shaking hand. Her shoulder is warm when I place my palm there. Her sobs become more prominent, and a jolt runs through my heart. I scoot closer to her, my shoes squeak on the ugly beige tiled floors, and I wince. The sound seems so loud, that I pause, wait a couple of heartbeats, and then continue. The girl’s long golden hair is in beautiful ringlets. She is always so pretty, every day. She would always come into school looking dauntless in her mismatched vintage clothes, and I would admire her from afar. She is so comfortable in her skin, so incredibly confident, and I am so not. Yet, here we are, the confident girl crying, and me, the invisible quiet one comforting her.


I wrap my cold arms around her from behind. Her hair tickles my nose, so I brush it to the side. A tear of her’s slips onto my arm, and a calm washes

over me. My panic subsides in place of comforting a comrade. Nothing is more important than making her feel just a little more safe. Nothing is more important than giving her just a little bit of human contact, a little warmth in the cold darkness of this moment. But this moment is no longer only darkness, because as another shot goes off, a small light builds. No, the classroom lights are not turned on, and the shades are still drawn down. This light is hidden within my embrace. A comfort of two acquaintances. Two girls who have barely spoken to each other, never truly knew each other before this horrific moment. A shuddering sigh whooshes out through my chapped lips. My warm breath blows against her neck, and she shudders.


Something undeniably warm and soft touches my shoulder. I turn my head to the left, and look up. Another girl is standing there, her lips pursed,

eyes shining with tears. She crouches down and wraps her arms around me and the girl. She leans her head against my shoulder and whispers a quiet, “Thank you.” I don’t understand what she means, and before I can ask, another girl comes up on my right, and joins the embrace. Soon every girl has moved over to our little shadowed corner, and add to the tiny light. It’s nothing bright, mainly girls who have barely talked to each other taking comfort in this moment of need. But it is special, and it is beautiful, and it pushes back those unholy shadows threatening to engulf us all.

The sirens wail loudly, and our arms all tighten as car doors slam as more shots ring out.

Then silence

A voice comes over the loudspeaker, telling us “It’s over,” and “You are safe to go.” But we do not get up, we do not leave. We all just huddle

closer, tighten our embrace, and force that light to shine brighter. Because we recognize that the second we let go, the second we push up from the floor, grab our bags with shaky hands, and wobble out of this building on unstable legs like newborn fawns, the light will be engulfed once more by the darkness. The knowledge that someone we know, or someone we have never had the opportunity to meet, could be lying somewhere, alone, the heat of their body dissipating in the chill of death.


So, we stay here, soak in the warmth, and cry.

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