Muse Literary Magazine Russellville High School 2019 Volume 7
Muse Literary Magazine strives to provide an outlet for creativity by giving students of Russellville High School the opportunity to express their individuality through literary works, photography, and other visual arts. Each piece is chosen by the staff to represent a particular aesthetic. The term “Muse” is defined as the source of inspiration for a creative artist. We believe that inspiration can be found in all aspects of life and encourage people to find the beauty in every experience.
© Muse Literary Magazine Russellville High School 50 copies printed by 48hrbooks.com Muse was created using Microsoft Office Publisher 2018 On 100# Silk Text with 80# Linen Cover Default Title Font: Rockness Default Body Font: Apple Garamond
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(n.) the fear of forgetting, being forgotten or ignored, or being replaced.
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Cover Untitled
14
Soul on Fire
Virginia Gwaltney 9
Class as Usual
Augusta Robb 15
Atomic Squid
Kathryn Causey 10
You’re Not Alone
Hailey Misener 15
Paradoxes and Ironies
Nicole Whitbey 12
Dear Martha
Kayla Medina 16
You Can Still Be Mine
Maria Heinen
Virginia Gwaltney 17
14
Pheonix
Exacto Ryan Ness
Virginia Gwaltney 18 14
My Liberty Kayla Medina
Then I Was Dreamless Anabelle Clark
19
Sours
24 Genesis Gonzalez-Cornejo
20
Funny Face
Alexandrea Abel 25
Katelyn Williams 21
And I
26
“B�
27
I Am, I Need
Gravity
28
30
Standing on Top of the World Andrea Johnson
Edgar Allan Virginia Gwaltney
Rose Hawkins 23
Figures Isabella Blair
Anabelle Clark 22
In My Skin (Trapped) Anabelle Clark
Alexandrea Abel 22
Side Eyed Kathryn Causey
Alexandrea Abel 21
Nothing
Bikini Bottom Hailey Misener
31
Sterile Worlds Anabelle Clark
31
Sleep Lines
39
Spring
Jaxon Shea 32
Pretty Porcelain Petals
Virginia Gwaltney 39
Muse
Abagail Crow 34
Panama City Beach
Kayla Medina 40
Midnight
Hailey Misener 35
Kiss Goodbye
Katelyn Williams 41
Tunnel Vision
Virginia Gwaltney 36
Paralysis
Jaxon Shea 42
Testing Chemicals
Jaxon Shea 37
Octopus
Anabelle Clark 43
Isabella Blair 38
Cat Box Katelyn Freeman
Blue Genesis Gonzalez-Cornejo
44
Unsteady Julia Abernathy
45
Balancing Act
51
Kathryn Causey
"Our Books and Our Pens are the Most Powerful Weapons" Katherine Ausborn
46
Gather Round Hannah Windel-Rivota
52
Firework Shyra Simpson
47
Introduction to Music Kassie Porter
53
From Fire to Embers Anabelle Clark
48
A Tale of My Own Making Anabelle Clark
54
Introduction to Life Abagail Crow
49
My Perspective Ryan Ness
55
Cutlery Isabella Blair
50
Revolutionary Rose Hawkins
56
Sunset Hibiscus Madison Coulter
50
Unapologetic Anabelle Clark
57
Bluffs Jaxon Shea
57
Sunflowers
61
Firebird
Jaxon Shea 57
Desert Morning
Ryan Ness 62
Jaxon Shea
Born to Write: An Interview with Abagail Crow Hannah Windel-Rivota
57
Mother Julia Abernathy
63
femme Genevive Manly
58
Katharine Katelyn Williams
64
Introduction to Ukulele Avery Williams
59
Welcome to the World of Creativity Nicole Whitbey
64
…. . .—.. .— —. Virginia Gwaltney
60
Born to Create: An Interview with Ryan Ness
65
Virginia Gwaltney 61
’57 Chevy Ryan Ness
Belize Shyra Simpson
66
Brainwash the Kids Jaxon Shea
67
Robot
76
Entomophasm
Katelyn Williams 68
The Florist of Sedona
Virginia Gwaltney 76
Pandora
Virginia Gwaltney 72
Home to Me
Virginia Gwaltney 77
Tadrian
Anabelle Clark 72
Eternal Companion
Virginia Gwaltney 77
Me.delete(“love�)
Anabelle Clark 73
Skeleton Keys
Virginia Gwaltney 78
Dream
Katelyn Williams 74
Death
Virginia Gwalteny 79
Not to Eat
Abagail Crow 75
Loafers
Kathryn Causey 80
Katelyn Williams
Harbor Avery Stahl
80
Cursed Curiosity
86
Anabelle Clark 81
Poetry
Dominick Deaton 87
Lance Duran 81
Albert Einstein
In my Eternal Bedroom
88
Harbor
89
90
Daisy
90
Introduction to Mental Illnesses Jasmine Fulton
21 Century Deaths Virginia Gwaltney
Virginia Gwaltney 85
Shot Through the Silence Ryan Ness
Avery Stahl 84
Camelot Abagail Crow
Abagail Crow 83
New York City Again Avery Stahl
Dorian Juarez 82
The Final Stage
Calcium Rose Hawkins
91
Poor Tim Ryan Ness
I sit over your shoulder, weighing down on your heart with each time your forgotten. I only make the pain worse as the grief continues. Some days I’ll have you sobbing on the floor, crying “Please don’t leave me.” Other days, you will just remember me and how I have made your life an agonizing misery I am ... When your lover tells you it's over, I am there. When your friendships begin to fall apart. I am there. You cry beside me, unable to break the bond we have, And each time I am with you, I take a piece of your soul as well. I am Athazagoraphobia. I feed on your fears and loneliness As I feed you the thoughts that trouble you all through the night. We can be together, in our own world ...forever ….because You are mine. We sit alone in your room. Your friend just texted you, saying she was going to hang out with her boyfriend... And take a rain check for next time But there wouldn't be a next time would there? You will be alone But don't worry, because I’m never far behind. I am here for you. After many years, I could feel you drifting away. With each new friend you make, I feel our bond grow weak. Please don't go, I need you. Please? I am losing you. What am I to do?
….You have true friends now Who keep you company and chase away your blues, … a lover who treats you right Showering you with love and affection, But me… I’m alone and I have no one now. You sit on the filthy bathroom floor, Holding your knees close to your chest. You begin to feel alone once more, but dont worry you’re not For I am— your friend just burst through the door, Throwing me to the side as you are immediately calmed. Did you replace me? Heh, isn't it ironic? I am the definition of loneliness And here I am, begging you to come back. Why won't you listen to my pleads? I am Athazagoraphobia,and I am loneliness. You are now married and have begun a family; I am not needed anymore. Everyone in your life has mended the damage that I have done. What am I going to become, just a lonely nobody Because… I am Athazagoraphobia,and I am alone once more.
, I am very relieved to have received your letter concerning you wanting to end our relationship. I am sad to say that I have been considering breaking up with you for quite some time, but I did not think that you were mentally stable enough to handle the news. I have had extensive conversations with your family, and we have come to the conclusion that you are absolutely insane. We still are not positive if you realize this, but your decision to break up with me has provided me the perfect opportunity to hopefully get you some help. First and foremost, your unhealthy obsession with cats is a problem. It has irritated me since our first date to the opera when you wore a shirt with a cat holding onto a rocket ship. That is not normal, nor appropriate, attire for that kind of an event. I gave you the benefit of the doubt that perhaps you just did not have enough time to do laundry, thus leading to the cat shirt. The next day, you invited me to your house for dinner. There were cat stuffed animals on every surface imaginable: tables, shelves, counters, beds, you name it. I even found fake cat fur in my Cordon bleu. If that was not creepy enough, you treated each of the cats like they were real, giving all of them names like “Franklin” and “Peewee” and speaking to them through meowing. That night, I knew that there was something wrong with you, but I played it off like it was no big deal because I did not know what you might do if I rejected you. I wore your third favorite color of suit to please you, listened to “We Will Rock You” by Queen on repeat, attended various cheese festivals, bought #2 pencils for your collection, and anything else I could to prevent your eventual mental breakdown. You only got worse and worse. You would insist on playing Wii Sports at 2 AM. You forbid me from going to any park without you because you were afraid of “another girl seeing my bowling pin juggling skills and flirting with me” even though you knew I gave up the life of juggling to pursue my dream of owning my own marketing firm. You even went to my hometown of Adairville, Kentucky just so you could meet my family and “smell the air I grew up in” while I was on a business trip to Wisconsin. You then proceeded to arrive at my parents’ house without even telling them. That was the final straw. I began plotting the right time to break up with you when you did something you never mentioned in your letter to me because I’m sure it was too sensitive of a topic to mention, but I feel the duty to address it: your proposal. On our three-month anniversary, you decided to celebrate by taking a trip to the closed down Hastings a few towns away. At that point, I had given up trying to encourage sane behavior, so I complied. I was the “lookout” while you broke one of the windows, and when I turned around, you were already inside the building. I climbed through the hole, almost cutting myself on the few shards that were left behind, to find you on one knee with one of those cheap mood rings in your hand. All you said was “marry me.” I was shocked; time seemed to freeze as I thought of my answer. Thoughts of us getting married, having children, and growing old together till death do us part ran through my mind. It dawned on me that I would rather cut off my toes one by one than live that kind of life, but for some reason I accepted the proposal. I immediately realized my mistake and made it my mission to do everything I could to push you away. Everything you loved about me, my suit color, taste in music, cheese preference, etc., I changed in order to make you think you had the idea to break it off all along. The guilt has been weighing on my mind since I received your letter, so I must say I am extremely sorry I manipulated you like that, but you must know I could not stand a single day more of being your boyfriend. I truly hope that one day you will find a man who is perfect for you. With Kindest Regards, Herald P.S. I have always been a dog person.
Mercy Was granted to me by thee Time Was no longer the chains at my feet The constraint I knew was no more And saw beauty in my image I, myself, told me I was free And He granted me peace
You call me beautiful as if it were my name, Not only defining the superficiality of my beauty But the complex deepness of my soul My brilliance and my irritation My will to live And my will to die. The paradoxes that define my being You call beautiful. How ironic for you are the one with inner beauty.
He spoke gently, and you swore you had never seen his eyes look at you like this they were brown, of course, but his pupils were so contracted, that all you could see were the green and gold foil-like flecks that sparkled in his eyes every time the sun's rays lit up his entire face you felt like time was slowed down, and maybe all of this was just a dream or something, but he almost looked feigned, like a doll every small wrinkle or line on His face was beloved by you, had been touched by you, had been claimed by you, and you knew that the way he looked at you was a new emotion, something blossoming from deep inside, it was an intimate moment beyond anything sexual or romantic, it was just the way he looked at you It was as if he knew of every little thought that occurred in your pretty mind and with those eyes, you saw someone that desired you, someone who was willing to find you— —and pull you from the darkness.
I didn’t dream about a wedding. Little girl in a field, flowers in her hair, and I didn’t dream about a wedding. I didn’t dream about money. Hungry child, playing in the dirt, and I didn’t dream about money. I didn’t dream about snowstorms. December born, smelling the cold, and I didn’t dream about snowstorms. I didn’t dream about tomorrow. Broken mind, contrite spirit, And I didn’t dream about tomorrow.
Our date is still my password But memories of you make my vision blurred And my phone is 98 photos short But trying to fix us was a sport. Your parking spot is empty From nights of pizza and a 2 liter Pepsi. Narcissus was a boy who fell in love with his reflection, And I was a girl who was afraid of rejection. Robin Williams wanted to make everyone laugh, And I wanted to make everyone forget of my Gaffe. You just wanted to make me love you, And I didn’t believe in love.
Your hoodies are still in my closet, And I don’t want to give them back, to be honest. Seeing you burns my eyes with tears, Thinking about kisses on vacant stairs, And I really just wish you were here But I’ve been taking the long way to class Just so that we don’t have to pass. No one knows me better than you, And nothing from the past 4 months I would undo. Pretending to be sick in hopes to miss school, Just so I don’t have to see you, And I know this is better for us both But we were “One heart, one bed, two bosoms and one troth.”
, Who I am is unnecessary Broken, beaten, it’s all uncanny Hopes have gone all down the drain Except that I will rise again I bite my tongue to hidden spells, Let my lips bleed from sickly smiles Admirations to congregations Of feeble-minded foes Future life, future wife All is the same in the way time flows 5 walls to a house, if you mean what I need That wisdom is knowledge, and knowledge is dull Until you cry ‘the bucket is full!’ And out will pour wine, from the sweet-water From who’s who and who’s daughter Star bright, star light, star will wipe us all till gone Wish upon a Sunday’s bright dawn Does love come with time, or against it? Do I play a part, or am I of secret? Music will always haunt me so It is the world waiting to snow I am decided, full, and new I try to see through, from end to end
I don’t know if your kiss
Body parts, postures, faces and friends
Grounds me
The world has been cruel, brought us all to an end
Or makes me feel
Yet the sky keeps on coming, so right and so blue It keeps lighting the way back to you.
Like I’m floating.
At a feast of misery, You’re the main course And I'm the dessert. Kisses are now equivalent to bruises, And you treat the ones you love like they’re dirt. No matter how much makeup And cute clothes you wear, You never seem to be the one that people want to bear. Maybe it’s your heart that everyone finds disgusting. So instead of changing, you decide to fade away Until you become nothing.
I’m staring in the mirror with twisted curiosity, Searching from every angle until me is me. But this body’s not mine, not mine, not mineI’m like Frankenstein. My parts are out of line. I try to squeeze away the unwanted shards, pressing the puzzle together But all these attempts bring no peaceI can’t make this feeling of dread, dysphoriaIt's not me, not me, not me. When will I ever be? I hear all their voices like coins on the ground, ringing. Sweet honey-sickled smiles are the only thing drowning me, And yet I still can’t breathe. Every day is like a battle I know I can never win. I’m going through life with a broken speedometer, Crashing at sharp turns and too afraid of speeding through it, Even if it makes me feel. My tank has been stuck on empty for a while now, The gas light going out, Sputtering on by a force unknown to gravity.
ith a certainty greater than any man who claims he is correct, I know I had loved my Edgar with my entire being. I had given him all that I could, and he returned my feelings with the same loving exchanges that I had once handed to him. He was similar to that of a flan, sweet and squishy, but leaves a somewhat bitter taste in your mouth after they’re gone. I suppose, in a sense, it’s the same way for all of us humans to feel that way once we had loved and we had lost. There was no man nor God who could combat my strong feelings for my Edgar before he passed away. And yet, still, I wish to meet the God up in the distant heavens who whisked away my Edgar before it was truly his time. I had plans— we had plans— to be together until the universe collapsed, until the Earth collided with its darling Sun, followed by each planet in orbit. But, some daring angel— some unjustifiable God— had left me unable to speak by taking my Edgar away from me. If I could have my way, I would’ve made that holy being beg for forgiveness under my fingertips, as they plead on their knees sunken into the clouds. My Edgar was the purest being, sent by a prayer I had made when I was little. I wished for a prince to sweep me off my feet and carry me away to our kingdom. My Edgar was no prince, of course, but
he could’ve easily passed for one. His features were handsomely sculpted, most likely by Aphrodite herself, and he was the kindest spirit, a gift from Gaia’s craftful hands. I was so fortunate to have met him, and have him to call my own. He was the same towards me, he loved every inch of my existence and he would have done his all to stay by my side. We lived simplistically; it was a modern house perched upon a cliffside overlooking a dark, tarnished ocean with whitecaps that fell over like turning and shifting bodies. It was our little kingdom by the sea. Most oft, we enjoyed to call it that, especially when we saw the house on the cliff from afar. Some days, when the sun peeked through the clouds, we’d take a stroll through the woods and we’d enjoy the sweet spring scents, the weighted summer air, the gentle autumn breeze, and the frozen winter rain. Yet, one winter, it was awfully chilly inside of our little humble abode. Even though we tried bundling up, my Edgar had gotten sick. He would sneeze, cough, and hack to the point where he wouldn’t move any longer. I had awoken to his deathly pale body lying cold next to mine. I tried to shake his body, his shoulders, but it seemed as if all life was sucked out of him, his cheeks hollow and his
skin an unsaturated pink. I felt hot tears roll down my cheeks as I held his body against mine, feeling how cold he was, and the unsettling fact of his death tore apart my heart like a wild animal had gotten ahold of it. I wouldn’t allow him to waste away, so I stumbled to my feet out of our dusty bed, onto the creaking wood floor. I tried to wipe away my blurry tears, holding back the urge to wail his name in repetition. As I allowed my feet to carry me to the other room, I wrote a hasty letter addressed to his kin, attempting to not smudge the dark ink on the parchment with my tears. I sent the letter away as quickly as I possibly could, and all I could do then was avoid my bedroom. I had thought myself fortunate I didn’t catch my Edgar’s ailment, since he insisted I sleep elsewhere. I refused. The thought of leaving my dearest by himself when I swore I would be there for him just ripped me to shreds. It was rather quick that his family visited, since they lived nearby, but they took his body. They took his belongings, they said that I was always unfit to be his wife, and it was a good thing I was now a widow. How dare they, thinking that it was good my Edgar passed so that finally I’d be alone. The pain was unbearable, but I could not go against my loving husband’s family—he surely would be upset. I wasn’t even invited to see the funeral, resorting to living in my home without the many things that brought me joy. I lived most of my days, wearing and dreading the rest of my life, wondering if I would ever be able to recover, or love, again. I took up my unspent time by writing, writing small things, writing long things, just writing until my emotions went numb with feeling. My hands were red with labor, age, and the indent of a thick pencil in my right ring finger. It was the night of my Edgar’s funeral. I had decided to sneak into his sepulchre at midnight, when the moon was risen high into the night sky, and see him. It was forbade, by his kin, for me to visit him during the funeral, but nobody stated I could not see him when he was laying in his cold tomb. So, I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders and pulled the hood up, trying to conceal my hollow face the best I could. Taking a small lantern with me, the dim light flickered in a swaying, hypnotizing motion, trying to make me dizzy through the ever
night. I left my house on the cliff, my kingdom by the sea, and set forth towards the small town that I was nestled by. Nobody was awake during these hours, except for the insects and the frogs. I made my way towards his kin’s household, knowing they had a family tomb. Sneaking around the dark corners of the town, I edged on the moonlit streets, trying not to get caught. I heard a clatter from afar, and my skin exploded with horripilations, and my heart nearly came to a complete stop. If right then and there I died, then I would be with my Edgar, surely. Turning my pale self towards the source of the noise, I heard it again. Like a doe, I froze on the pathway to my Edgar and I stared, my eyes searching all around in circles. I felt my sweat against my hot skin, and it was like rain, freezing cold. The noise grew louder, and I felt my feet turn on the gravel, scratching against the earth in a ghastly shriek before I sprinted away from the sounds, trying to get to the sepulchre before someone had found me out. Maybe, I suspected, it was my Edgar’s kin whom knew I would pull a stunt such as this. I fell into believing that I had lost the creature behind me, hence the lack of rowdy banging. I was finally at the tomb, but a way in was not ensured for me. I set my lantern down, which had been obscured by my midnight-colored cape. I fumbled with the entrance, my fingers sticky and slippery from my sweat. Finally, in the dim, sickly, yellow light, I pushed the door open and took my lantern. I quickly shut the door behind my person, hoping that it wouldn’t mysteriously lock. Then again, if it had locked, I would be with my Edgar forever. Speaking of my Edgar, I turned on my heel and held up my lantern to the mildewy ceiling. I descended down stairs, seeing separate corridors in the tomb that were fit for my Edgar’s long family line. I saw faint light coming from another part of the big stone coffin, and I began walking towards it with a certainty greater than any man who claims he is correct that my Edgar was laid in eternal sleep there. I turned the corner and nearly fell to my knees. There, lit with flickering candles, he laid under a thin blanket. I approached him, flipping my cloak hood downwards, and gently tugged on the blanket, exposing his peaceful face. I sighed, falling to my knees on the cold, damp floor. The
shell of his body was just my height, tall enough for me to peer over his gelid features, his prominent rounded, yet sculpted, nose, the facial hair that had just began growing during his illness, and his cheeks that were once red with life and puffed up. I reached and felt his silky hair under my fingers. I half-expected him to leap up and shout at me in surprise, but my Edgar would never intentionally terrify me such as that. For the second time, I exhaled dramatically and felt my own heart twinge with pain. If I couldn’t be with my Edgar, I wished that I could know why. I contemplated suicide, it oft crossed my mind to just end it all, but I believed I’d sink down into Hell, where I may never be with my Edgar ever again. So, I’d have to continue living, just for the sake of spending the rest of my afterlife with him by my side. I hoped I’d catch disease or be in a terrible accident, but these thoughts— memories of mine— consumed me. Memories that once brought me joy, true
avidity, now brought me sorrow and pain. I recall when my Edgar and I had first met, when we got married, how we fell in love… all of these things brought no more enjoyment in living. And all this time, the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of my Edgar, and the stars never rise for I feel the bright eyes of my sweet, sweet, Edgar. But, for his sake, on this moonlit nighttide, I lie down in the tomb, of my darling— my darling— my life and my groom, in his sepulchre there by the sea, in his vault by the sounding sea.
Sterile Words for Sterile Worlds Nothing but sweet for Sterile Worlds Bleach and pain and purgatory Nothing but, in Sterile Worlds Purify and sweat it out, The souls that still have mouths Beat it, Break it, Burn it off All the best, for Sterile Worlds Chip them, Cut them, Carve it out Marble stone in Sterile Worlds Slice her, Dice him, Rip them up Statue poise, from Sterile Worlds.
Rising from my mattress like a victim of insomnia, My head is compressed, fiesta-red pain And my legs burn like brass steam engines. A humanoid chasm, is indented on the sheets. That’s where I used to be.
As Daisy was beginning to blossom and bud From a sproutling to a flower Her leaves grew thicker, her stem longer, and her petals began to prosper. Though her appearance aged, she was still a sproutling at heart. She still enjoyed the scorching sunshine and tickling worms with her roots. She loved to dance in the rain and sway around in the wind as all sproutlings do. Her pretty porcelain petals, long and pervaded with purity Held on to her youth like a locket. Her pretty pure porcelain petals persisted to pursue and kept her beauty growing stronger. She adored her porcelain petals, and they kept her very proud. She blushed as the beetle bugs and bumble bees prowled upon her strong leaves and pure petals, And she grinned as they raced up her stem of grace simply to devour her pollen. She stood taller than the others around her and she adored when those who walked by admired her beauty, And she never felt the need to conceal what was hers because it kept her self assured. There was no reason for her to cover her succulent leaves behind the blades of grass, And there was no reason for her to lean into shadows simply to dull her pretty porcelain petals. Though she stood taller, she still respected herself, And her purity continued to remain as it did when she was a sproutling and a seedling As she was soaking up the sizzling stems of sunshine. Her pure porcelain petals intrigued the eyes of a boy, So he stayed around to admire her beauty. Daisy enjoyed his company. Daisy thought of him as kind, but the boy simply liked Daisy's pretty porcelain petals And before asking, he began to tug at her stem, And though Daisy squirmed and pleaded that he stop
The boy refused to oblige simply because he admired her pretty porcelain petals. He said that she drew him in and because of this it was what she owed him. He jerked at her stem until she was isolated from the ground, And as her porcelain petals began to wilt to brown, Daisy knew that her purity would never remain Simply because her porcelain petals were pretty. After he glared at her with satisfaction for one last time He left, He left her bruised stem among the ground of dirt, Isolated from what she always knew, And her pretty petals, once porcelain and pure Have now wilted Similar to the abuse that flowers receive consistently when someone finds them pretty enough to pluck Somewhere there is a woman hurting simply because a man found her pretty enough.
You'd never believe it but those nights I stayed awake lying in my bed, I cried myself to sleep wondering if you'd ever lie next to me someday.
"Please, listen to me, I want you to always smile with someone who loves you I never wanted to accept the way
just as much as I do."
I obsessed and beset. All my family, my friends, they knew it was just about you. So, when I saw her face with her flaxen hair and her rosy cheeks, a sudden plague overcame me, choking and blinding my throat and mind. I realized rather quickly that you and I were not meant to be. I suppose now all that's left to do is give you my kiss goodbye.
Stone-like body, prospect jeopardy. Eerie twilight, chasmous space. Jet-black shadows, prospect nihility. Owl speaking, like a midnight banshee. Movement in darkness, creeping pace. Stone-like body, prospect jeopardy.
The figures emerge, from the carbon sea. Their hollow presence, disquiet grace. Jet-black shadows, prospect nihility. Right or flight, primal mentality. Globulous tears, streaking my face. Stone-like body, prospect jeopardy.
Spindly protuberances, curious dormancy. Peering upon me, a morbid showcase. Jet-black shadows, prospect nihility. Pressing upon me, bedeviled vulnerability. Seizing my mind, my fate encased. Stone-like body, prospect jeopardy. Jet-black shadows, prospect nihility.
The spring promises life and new growth for the world around it. I would often witness small animals scamper across the new dewy grass, fresh with abundance and swaying in the dimly lit sunrise. The skies weren’t perfect; most of the time, I often noted hazy and thick dark clouds lingering above the plains and mountains that drifted along, causing sun rays to flicker in and out of existence for just small moments. The fir pines glowed radiantly with their emerald-like needles and whispered against the sturdy, tall oaks that budded with new leaves after a long and hardy winter. A man-made path trailed along the mountainside in the dusky cool air, and as one walked along the unforgiving winds and twists, he’d see fallen trees uprooted from their homes nestled deep into the earth and wildflowers like cyan forget-me-nots and crimson poppies dancing with their comrades in the pleasant sunrise breeze. Brushed gently by the wind’s soft caress were lilac Chinese wisteria that emitted a fragrance unlike any other. This scene, alongside the babbling and cooing of the nearby creek, created an unearthly serenity that resembled that of Heaven—or Eden’s Garden.
Here’s the problem, I’m a writer. When I can’t think of things to write, I think of you. You are always my inspiration. The good, the bad, and the ugly of our relationship has bled into my stories like melting ice cream bleeds on the hand of a messy child. I just don’t know how to let go of you. How do I stop eating the ice cream, if it tastes so good?
There is a metamorphosis of disposition, Whether it be appearance, or diction, That will push through you like a piston, and can disrupt your system.
This tree of unrest bears afresh passions, But among the bulbs, the codling moths, hustle ice down into the cores. And a deep seeded greed, so foul.
The diseases travels from the heart Into the eyes, where you are deceived The eye are the wires, and the heart, the puppeteer taking you down a tunnel, with no exit in sight
The mouth of the path is within, the mind has its own tunnel to burrow.
Testing, testing Goes the mic Announcing the beat of my heart Dip my toe in the water Of adrenaline and dopamine But I forgot the serotonin And now I’m left In an empty silence As I listen to your smile And I imagine me just jumping in And you staying for a while
I met you at the library
I’ve reached out to you again,
My hair was a mess and I was trying to study.
My heart pounds still
I saw you there—
At the thought of your expressive brows.
I loved you With your grumpy eyebrows.
But I loved you, Even knowing what I know,
They confused me then but
That you’d leave me again,
Quickly grew to be the biggest indicator
That you used me to feel needed,
of how you were feeling.
To feel in control of someone.
When your focus was on me, they softened. But I’ll see you soon We fell for each other,
In the same place and
And we fell hard.
I’ll regret going and
We spent nearly two years together.
I’ll have to fight against myself—
You would vanish with no trace for months at a time.
Just like last time
I missed you and felt unsteady
To keep from running to you,
And you broke it off
To keep from hugging you,
Leaving me stunned
To keep from kis—
But you came back
And it’s driving me mad.
Asking for me back
I want to pull at my hair.
And I said yes.
You drove me crazy in love,
My friends disagreed
And now you just drive me crazy
And said I should leave you
Cause I loved you then
But I was blinded by love.
And I love you still But you didn’t love me then—
I wasn’t enough, And you left me again. It hurt just as much as the first time. And the worst part is that it’s been so long And I still miss you.
If you did at all.
Their ears turn oblivious when the radio comes on. They tap their feet to something unreal, Something so ugly that it’s beautiful. They hold their hands against the burning fire, But they ignore the pain. They listen to the same lyrics Repeated over and over again, Yet they decide to sing along. Music is more than a verse and a chorus. Music is a battlefield. Take a song with such bleak and dreariness And let the soul do the work.
I am my own clock, Telling time by my own gears, Announcing schedules and meanings as I go
I am my own drum, Pounding at the beat Declaring my arrival and determination
I am my own thread, Pulling together friends and family, Stitching up the cloth around me until I am whole
I am my own knight, Braving my fears and demons, Saving the world and lives each night
I am my own tale, My own protagonist, My own enemy. I am my own.
I am my own.
I long for the revolution of mankind. I dream about shattering glass, Signs on sticks, Shouting voices. I await the day I stand United With others Resisting with all our might Against the raging tide Of injustice. There Will Be Change.
I am Unapologetic Because When I say “I’m sorry” I feel weak Apologizing Only means I am wrong And no one wants to feel like that
I am
I am Unapologetic Because When they say “You’re going to hell” My heart feels as black as they say And the only way I can escape that Is to live With a pride Apologies will stain
I am me
Unapologetic Because I calculate my thoughts And to say That you are right When you live with an air of brazen ignorance Is hard for me to do No I am only me
I am Unapologetic And while it may be The only thing keeping me I know It will someday Tear me apart Because I’m too scared to say I’m sorry
We are all born To burn in our might A beacon, a pillar of light But time will pass And we will slow To ash, to something we know But before the ash Comes the embers Sparking their last breath of life Finding heat from within An ethereal glow Searching for somewhere to sow To share is to burn To set a light new A generation unknown But it's something to do
The atmosphere is always so cold in December With a cup of tea, I decided to read a book The tea was warm and it aided the bitter cold brought on by the winter months I became carried away with the book in my hands And the tea sat alone next to me for a good moment As the winter chill provoked a shiver up my forearm, I decided to indulge in the warmth that the tea brought me But as my lips touched the rim of the cup The liquid was below room temperature and the flavor was awfully bland I figured a spoonful of translucent tawny liquid would make the harsh flavor of the tea more bearable But it still held the same gruesome taste as before I wanted to discard the tea To reheat it in hopes for it to gain back its once enjoyable flavor To add a great amount of honey up until the tea’s vile taste was concealed behind sweetness But I decided to continue drinking that dreadful cup of tea It’s too much of a worthless hassle to waste my energy working to better the tea And despite its foul flavor, I felt obligated to drink it because I found it selfish of me to discard something that was kindly given to me
Protrusions sprout out
Spiraling staircase
Shadows create city scapes
Sun reflects bright yellow glow
Critter jungle gym
Dropping seeds to chew
Stones lie, still asleep
I cannot shield you
A hot breeze, Joshua trees
By taking on your problems
Shadows creep, morning
And setting a choice
Boys and girls of all ages, Come to the world of imagination Where you could make anything into your wildest dreams. Grab your paint brush and your paints— All you need to do is let your thoughts and creativity wander free onto your canvas Like the paints spilled onto the hardwood floor. Painting is like a needy plant The more you practice The stronger your skill will grow Until your skill blossoms to produce a beautiful work of art In the end, no matter what you make will be Beautiful and unique
AN INTERVIEW WITH RYAN NESS by Virginia Gwaltney
Many artists tend to find themselves in a rut and see submitting their artwork as a difficult thing to do, especially before their last year of high school. I sat down with Ryan Ness to talk to him about his creative process, his inspirational outlook, and overall how he began to create. His father is also an extremely revered artist.
When and how did you get interested in art and begin creating it? RN: Elementary school. My art teacher, Mr. Craner, got me to open up, as well as my Middle school and Junior High teacher, Mrs. Hines. The reason I was interested is because they told me that I was very talented and could draw very well, which made me want to do this even more. Another reason would be because my father was, and is, very good at drawing comic book-style characters and is good with sculpting. What drives you, or what is your motive? RN: My motivation is to get better, impress more people, and finally, satisfy myself with my ability. I know there is a lot more to learn, and I wish I could learn it all. For now, I want to perfect my own skills. What do you do to stay inspired? RN: Look at other pieces, interesting cars, landscapes and anything else that strikes me as art. I also look at the successes and failures of others and think that I too can improve upon my own based on their experiences. Who’s your biggest role model for your artwork and why? RN: My biggest role model is Jim Lee because of his amazing ability to draw comics and never quit. The fact that he never gave up on his dream sets an example for mine.
What do your pieces say about you? RN: They say that I’m growing, or learning, I should say. Every piece of mine is unique because I'm never sure what medium I want to use, and when I use an unfamiliar medium, I work out the difficulties and find new ways around them. What’s your favorite medium to use and why? RN: Charcoal. The reason for this would be because of its extreme highlighting and contrasting capabilities. When I use white paper, I prefer to shade with charcoal rather than graphite because of this. What is the process you go through when creating a piece? RN: Find something to photograph, print it out, find my medium and canvas (paper, etc.), and work from there until it looks as close as humanly possible to what I see in the picture, as well as what I want to see. If you could meet one artist from anywhere and any time period, who would you meet and why? RN: Jim Lee, because my father had the privilege of meeting him at a Comicon (JEALOUS), and because of my love for his work.
‘57
AN INTERVIEW WITH ABAGAIL CROW by Hannah Windel-Rivota Writing has always been a therapeutic and creative outlet for many people. I recently sat down with Abagail Crow to discuss her take on writing and what it means to her. She also dished on her inspirations, experience with writer block, and plans for the future.
What made you want to become a writer? AC: I started getting into poetry when I was in the sixth grade. I read a lot of Walt Whitman and that inspired me to write my own. I also was getting more into reading in general at that time. What kind of writing do you do? AC: I like to write poetry the most because it’s my favorite kind of writing. I write some short stories but feel as though I’m not committed enough to finish them. Who are your biggest inspirations in writing and life? AC: The beat generation poets. They wrote things that were taboo and not talked about at that time. They revolted and created a new style of writing and I admire that. It also inspired people at the time to write about things they didn’t feel open to writing about. Do you feel as though writer's block is a thing? AC: Definitely! Not necessarily with poetry, but more through writing short stories. It’s easy to find yourself getting bored with the topic of writing the same things over and over. Writing about the same characters gets tiring; it’s fun to create them but when they are constantly doing the same thing, it gets tired. What do you find most difficult about writing? AC: When I write, I constantly compare myself to other writers, and I
don’t think that is a good thing to do because then your writing starts to lack originality. It's more interesting to write something your way than something that is similar to someone else’s writing.
If you had to give up one thing to become a better writer what, would it be? AC: I get too preoccupied with other things to the point where I can’t focus on writing—such as using my phone or hanging out with friends in my free time instead of writing. If I could give that up, I think it would make me a better writer. How do you find inspiration for your writing? AC: I try to find it everywhere. When I was in the creative writing club, my teacher said that it was good to carry a journal with you everywhere and write down things as I see them or get an idea. I would be at the store and see someone do a certain thing and think “that’s a good story starter” or something along those lines. I feel like you can find inspiration from things you might not expect. What do you want to accomplish in writing in the future? AC: I have stories on the backburner right now that I would like to finish. I wish in the future that I could motivate myself to finish them. I would also like to continue with poetry instead of getting occupied with things. My goal is to write something every day.
…. . .—.. .— —. Daydreams have gone by Where I just wanted to fly When I support the light wooden instrument Into my hands and strum down on the strings, I feel a sense of harmony and I feel a sense of peace To pluck the strings and manipulate sounds In any way I want them to. It makes me feel like I can create art With just my small hand. After each day I can feel my fingertips Harden with callouses, Proof of my determination and dedication To the art of music And the love of sound.
and I knew that why I wanted to see with my own eyes is because his lies Pull the muscles on my wings and the tender meat gets wringed to the point where I can't feel a thing, and I'm on a single fraying string Trying to clutch; to cling to top it all off, she is just Acting a mess and losing my trust and I resort to weeping stardust, allowing sparkling gems to rust, and in the mirror I see disgust. Knowing that I'll never be the same after his little game, looking for someone to blame and trying to reclaim someone who's already aflame.
These days, the kids want nothing more but more. They beg, they plead, they pray to me, indeed. Of what silly pretext do they implore? Of course, the new machine they think they need.
Oh where, oh why did the good times go cold? The family, the fun, why’d it have to run? The time of cheer, crushed by tech, so bold. The time of fear, replaced the time of fun.
It makes them quiet, but It sticks like lime. I want what's best for them, but can’t relate, to their wish for the trend of present time. This has been a day to love, but now, to hate.
Will it have to consume for you to see? Money shall not grow on the tree of glee.
edged between two mountains and nestled deep in the heart of an evergreen valley slept a small town named Sedona. The population could hardly be rounded up to two hundred and the residents were all kind hearted and never caused issues for their neighbors. It was here, in this little town, that I lived peacefully running my shop as a florist. I sold bouquets, clipped the thorns off of roses, and dyed white lilies blue. I enjoyed my job, and I had a husband to love. Being a woman of virtue and purity, you can imagine my shock when I found out he was talking to other women behind my back. And, truly, I had no idea my story would start from that point on.
I had a regular day, just like any other. I had just finished cutting the stems of a beautiful baby’s breath arrangement, placing my Tajika scissors down onto the damp table. I wiped my hands, making sure to get off all of the water before I carried on through my day. I was always careful and precise, but I somehow managed to find small cuts on my hands later in the day. Stepping into the kitchen, I noted the time. It was noon, a beautiful time of day for a beautiful time of year. The fresh and blooming redbud trees coated the sides of the valley that surrounded our little town and spread small pink petals across Sedona. This was the most peaceful time of year for our town, and most often you’d see the citizens roaming around. So, I went into town. I was revered by many, thought to be one of the most gorgeous women in Sedona. My long yet curly blonde hair complimented my fair complexion. Not many people were born blonde in the town, there were only a select few others. Continuing through the street, I waved hello to some people and greeted them happily. I wanted to stop by the market firsthand, but I paused. I came across an unsightly image, something so strange that it made my throat wrench into a knot. My husband, with an adoring expression, was speaking to a woman with short rust-colored hair. She reminded me of a rose, diligent and refined. She pushed her hair behind her ear and laughed, hearty and velvety. I stared at them, watching my husband gently reach behind her and pull her in, pressing a soft loving kiss to her cheek. This only made me even more taken aback. Why would he be with such a charming rose when he had a beautiful pure lily awaiting at home? It made me sick. My fingers curled into a fist and realized I had to get back home. So, I turned on my heel and returned. I stayed up late through the night, waiting for him to come back to my arms. He didn’t, and I made my decision: I must concentrate on my hard work. Walking into my shop, I began to make a gorgeous arrangement of crimson red roses.
The next day came by so quickly, but I could hardly recall anything that had happened through the night despite the fact I stayed up. When I walked into town that day, the sky was dark with thick hazy clouds. I overheard, at the market, some old women speaking of a crime. “—The body was discovered in a ditch.” “I heard it was in the river.” Oh, dear, a murder? Part of me felt afraid. Why, in such a little and innocent town, would someone do something so twisted as this? It made me nauseous as I thought about the gruesome details. I carried on through my day and walked to the bridge. But, I paused. I came across a sad scene, something so sorrowful that it made my heart ache longingly. My husband, with a responded look on his face, was speaking to a woman with wavy blonde hair. She reminded me of a dahlia, strong and prominent. She placed her hand delicately on his shoulder, consoling him for whatever reason he was upset for. It was rare to see another blonde woman, someone who looked just as pristine as me. It made me disheartened. Why would he be with such a secure dahlia when he had a beautiful pure lily awaiting at home? It made me sick. My fingers curled into a fist and realized I had to get back home. So, I turned on my heel and returned. I stayed up late through the night, waiting for him to come back to my arms. He didn’t, and I made my decision: I must concentrate on my hard work. Walking into my shop, I began to make a resilient arrangement of dyed blush dahlias.
When I came into town the next day, I wasn’t expecting to hear of a second crime. It was a shock to hear that a psychopath was on the loose in the town, but I knew that my strong husband would eventually return home and protect me from any threat. I went to go buy a beautiful new dress while the sky grew darker and thicker with threats of an oncoming storm. But, I paused. I came across a sickening scene, something so nauseating that it made my stomach churn regretfully. My husband, with a soft look on his face, was speaking to a girl with thin brown hair. What was he doing with such a young girl? He should be ashamed for being with a little girl over his own wife. She reminded me of a daisy, cautious and innocent. She gave him a comforting hug, forcing a smile out of him. I watched him place a hairpin in her hair, something bought as a gift for his new lover. It made me bilious. Why would he be with such a little daisy when he had a beautiful pure lily awaiting at home? It made me sick. My fingers curled into a fist and realized I had to get back home. So, I turned on my heel and returned. I stayed up late through the night, waiting for him to come back to my arms. He didn’t, and I made my decision: I must concentrate on my hard work. Walking into my shop, I began to make a simple arrangement of petite white daisies.
Finally, my hard work was done. I had made the most complex and intricate of my arrangements. The red roses, pink dahlias, and white daisies made it entirely unique to itself only. I had a plan this day, my eyes red from the habit of rubbing them way too often. How many nights had I stayed awake, fretting for the well-being of my dearest husband? Today, it was raining. The crimes I had heard so much about still waged on, another young victim taken from our little town. But neither of those stopped me from finding him, holding the bouquet in my hands. I was shaking, damp from the rain, and my makeup was streaking down my face in thick layers. I knew, though, that my husband wouldn’t mind as he had always loved me no matter what I looked like… before this, I mean. I saw him walking in the rain, an umbrella held above his head as he kicked his feet. “Hello?” I gently called out. His red puffy eyes looked up to me and met mine, making my heart race. I held the bouquet out to him, trembling. “For you.” “Oh, this is… gorgeous.” He complimented, looking at it. I smiled toward him, but he looked unsure as he glanced back up yet again. “Who are you again?” I paused. What was he possibly talking about? Why was he acting as if he had no idea who I was? Surely he slipped and fell, hit his head, or even was shaken up just as I was. I wanted to speak, but nothing came out from my lips. I turned on my heel and left the scene quickly.
I woke up at my work table. I couldn’t recall anything but my eyes felt more rested today than they did yesterday. Sitting up, I stretched and yawned, glancing at my Tajika scissors. That was weird, had they always been stained red? I walked into town although it was still raining. The world around me seemed ghostly and gloomy. Sedona, even during this beautiful season, was asleep and didn’t have plans on waking up any day now. As I went to go back to the market for a new pair of scissors, I overheard a crowd of people murmuring about a family of four that had been murdered. A father, his wife, and two daughters, all mercilessly ripped from this world. A part of me felt sad for them, as nobody knew who the murderer was—
—
.
Home Is the smell of Gold Bond lotion Burning twigs Dryer lint Home Is the colors blue and green, Yellow dress White walls Home Is the numbers 3 and 5 2 and 4
Pomegranate seeds are plucked one by one For pleasure that lasts none till the coming sun When will it matter, when will it end?
8 and 9
Will I ever be asked to do something but bend?
Home
Two children talk, hand in hand
Is the sound of laughing calls
A wide pace slower than a usual walk
Jangling keys Pots and pans Home Is all that you are
But the clock still runs, still holds you in Until you have lost more than a friend Eight shops are closing, one by one
Beautiful
Switching and flicking signs till they’re done
And mine
Till we give up our lives and breathe our last breath And welcome sweet, eternal death Death and I lie side by side And I ask what the point is of his pride If we still come, one by one “If death would be none, what would be sung?”
When we lack the fuel to even flinch a finger And our frail bodies resemble a skeleton cloaked in thin nylon And we only own enough strength to produce a single thought, We sense the end is near. Ironically though, the thought of death becomes somewhat euphoric to us as we age, For in our youth we sought comfort in the sadness that life brought us. But now, we wish to cease the constant melancholy that’s hurled at us from the unknown. When we reach the stair of the golden age, We lose our sense of everything cruel in the world, As if our remaining scraps and crumbs of life have an inability to contain sadness, For the child like mind of the elderly fails to allow one to die in completely misery.
Pandora opened up those doors. She ran in the forest and explored, She searched and she wound Up in her dreams; never found. She fell and fell deeper down, Into her own despair town. She woke up and she never knew Just how much her problem grew. Mister Fruit Fly Miss Ladybug Mister Butterfly Miss Mealybug Collect them all, collect them all, Don't let them cause your downfall. Little Dora, little Dora, Sleeping in the Rhizophora. Twisting down, twisting down, She's making them all frown! Keep on running, keep on running, Don't let them get too cunning! Skin off all her flesh, Make a nest, keep it fresh, Cook it slow, then her meat, Oh, it all tastes so sweet! But little Pandora had found the key Away from the town, she did flee. Waking up in her father's arms, She knew she escaped from all the harm, And, yet, he held a little blonde doll With a conclusion, she began to bawl.
(
)
I’m sad. I tell you the dreams that I had weren't all too true. I feel lied to, Fooled, too, like I’m not supposed to be a girl that just knew that from the start of my love's intent. It would rip my heart into a never-ending repent.
God, please make these dreams stop. You’re tormenting my mind and soul Forcing non-consensual confessions like a cop, Looking for new victims on his game of patrol.
Thought he might be my TRUE end, Dreamt that he’d kiss and never tell, Maybe it was something like a godsend, To tell me that I’ll never end in his arms as well.
Please tell me if it was just a dream Or if you planned for us to connect Where someday we meet far, far upstream, Or will I turn away with a heart full of deject?
Don’t let me go, And please, soon let me know Next time before you let me woe, Next time before it becomes like long ago 2011 when my world filled with cold, cold snow.
Sometimes I wonder how it would feel To hear the peace without the world. Always bustling, so surreal I swear I’ll never heal To drown in serenity Fill my lungs with ice Tranquility through simplicity I’d only have to pay, the ultimate price
Poetry, poetry is fun. I don’t know... it’s not really something I’m big about. I guess I can make a poem about my lack of poetry. Maybe if I knew how rhythm worked it’d be easier. I guess it’d be fun to have it around. Poetry is like a crazy uncle, You will have to meet it someday for better or worse. It is a dog. Not everyone likes to see it.
Throughout the lonely days and the lagging nights, I hear my hurried heartbeat in solitude, such a faint sound. My eyes wander around the place without light. All that's heard are muffled titters from the outside songbirds in flight. Occasionally, a grieving visitor when it’s believed no one is around, Throughout the lonely days and the lagging nights. There's no need for eyes, for it’s as if I've lost my sight And at times my ears sense the pitter patter of raging raindrops once they've parted ways with the clouds, My eyes wander around the place without light. I question if the world above me is experiencing afternoon or midnight, While the broken meats of the Earth rest above me, piled in mounds, Throughout the lonely days and lagging nights. With fists of frustration, I beat the darkness with my weak might. I wish to be treated as if I were living, but it’s clear that my death is bound, My eyes wander around the place without light. I’m with the roots and the worms that weave their way around my plight And despite their company, I still feel lonesome breathing six feet under the ground. Throughout the lonely days and the lagging nights, My eyes wander around the place without light.
Just because you don’t see it, Doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It often goes without mention. It’s much like a ghost, Many people believe in them, But most people don’t. People are afraid to be made fun of So they don’t say a word. Mental illnesses are no fun And they certainly aren’t a joke Unless you’re a comedian Then everything is a joke. You want people to laugh So you hide all the pain And let the sound of their laughter drown it out.
I realized that I’ve reached the time When it’s very plain to see, I’m not the boy I used to be. Sitting happily up in the old oak tree, I’ve slowly grown old and weak with age, My strength gone down to none Life has so much to offer To each and everyone. My life has been full of fun and promise And I must say that I am content. I’ve done my best throughout the years, Giving my all each and everyday, But now its time to lay down to rest On this peaceful summer’s day.
From Massachusetts to The District of Columbia,
November 22, 1969,
Which would later tip the first disastrous domino,
Dallas, TX
What happened in 1969 sent the country into mania,
People were everywhere, standing in staggering lines,
And despite the oblivion that time brings,
Including Lee Harvey Oswald, who Camelot seemed to vex.
his memory will fail to go.
The piercing sound of a bullet to the skull
During World War Two,
Ceased all the triumph that Camelot was bound to give.
Near the Solomon Islands
Such a heinous action allowed America’s children
Where he saved his PT-109 crew,
to gather and sulk.
Were little words engraved into a coconut skull
How different this country would be if only he had lived.
that acted as a safety siren. On his office desk then lay the same coconut skull, A reminder of his youthful deed. But now his crew was the nation as a whole, And it was his duty to force his country to succeed. Crimson blood began flowing into his territory. The failed Bay of Pigs invasion Pushed and pulled his body away from glory, And with this failed action, he had disappointed the nation. Declaration of a man to the moon Acted as an apology for his past mistake, For it was a promise to make his people swoon And it was seen as an opportunity he must take. After careful preparation, We were given Apollo eleven, And with Camelot’s successful glamour, he was bound to speak at a second inauguration. However, due to fate, he would never speak anywhere again.
If you break my skull, Crack the shelled bone, You would find more stars Fill my head Than the universe could ever hold.
Do you ever wonder about those people that you see left as ghosts, asunder into memories and an apology?
21
The worlds they had built, social medias and stories, slowly begin to wilt when their absence fades from glories. Sitting with a phantom of what had once been, sinking into the solanum something nobody would have foreseen. A haunting peace grows over their world, stillness never threatens to cease as they remain untouched and unfurled.
Since joining the Muse Literary Magazine staff, my life has done a total 360. Not only has it improved my creative writing skills, but it has also nurtured my closest friendships and taught me what teamwork really is. I have always been independent, but through the Literary Magazine, I was able to break out of my shell and discover a side of me that I never knew I had. Being independent, I had always found it hard to interact with other people, especially in a school setting (being a hater of group projects). When I joined Muse, I immediately felt as though I found myself with amazing people, whom I probably wouldn’t have met her otherwise. So I would personally like to thank the previous year’s Literary Magazine staff for being inclusive and making me feel at home when I felt as though I didn’t belong anywhere. I would like to give special appreciation to my amazing adviser/teacher, Mrs. Nodurfth, for giving me a creative platform and teaching me everything I need to know. Finally, I would like to give recognition to those from my staff who have really stepped up and helped produce a marvelous Literary Magazine. This book would not have been possible without you!
2019 Hannah Windel-Rivota
Avery Stahl
Editor-in-Chief
Copy Editor
Alexandrea Abel
Virginia Gwaltney
Alyssa Black
Hailey Misener
Madison Coulter
Shyra Simpson
Katelyn Freeman
Joshua Williams
The Muse Literary Magazine Staff would like to express our sincere gratitude to Mr. Jeffrey Wright and the Wal-Mart Corporation for their generous grant that helped to fund our publication.
In addition, we would like to thank Mrs. Rebecca Ward, director of the RHS Art program for her assistance in the process of producing this magazine. Finally, we would like to extend special appreciation to all of the brave students who contributed their original artwork, photography, and writing and whose talents are undeniable.
MUSE