♛ THE MUSE Dear Reader, Welcome to the first 2016-2017 issue of The Muse: AMHS Literary Magazine. This magazine has been serving as an avenue for creativity and imagination for students of the Mitty community for the past three years, and we are excited to share this new edition with you. The uniqueness of every student’s mind shines brightly through these selections of poetry, prose, artwork, and other ingenious creations. We hope you enter these pages with an open mind and that you find a sense of solace and inspiration with the words they hold. We wish that after you have enveloped yourself in all this magazine has to offer, you hear the light whisper of the muse in your ear.
Call for Submissions The Muse: AMHS Literary Magazine is accepting entries for the next issue (Volume 3, Number 2) until April 7, 2017. Please refer to the MyMitty page under "Clubs" regarding the submission process for the chance to be published in the AMHS literary magazine.
The following written works are the intellectual property of Archbishop Mitty students. All ownership rights reserved.
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Letter from the Editors The renowned author Stephen King once said, “The most important things are the hardest to say. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.� The thought of exposing oneself through writing can be intimidating. It can cause fear, it can cause sadness, and it could even cause anger, depending on the circumstances. But, writing is liberating, and once something is written down--transferred from mind, to pencil, to paper--the thoughts and feelings have escaped the concealed vault of our consciousness and have broken out of our shield of insecurity. Inspiration is something that could prompt someone to compose his/her own emotions and feelings into coherent thoughts and ideas. Some people are inspired by a famous author or a major event in their lives. Some people are inspired by their own achievements and self-worth. And some people, no matter how hard they try, have a hard time putting that inspiration to good use. Learning to put our inspiration to work comes from one thing, and one thing only: the ability to feel. When we feel something, we have the ability to put our thoughts into words and our words into actions. But without feelings and emotions, our inner praises for other people and other things turns to nothingness, and their inspirational light in our lives is dimmed due to our own inaction.
The Muse is evidence of those who have put their emotions in motion by writing down their feelings of happiness, sadness, and anger, among others. These feelings trigger beautiful thoughts and ideas that must flow from our minds, through the tip of our pencil, and onto the blank page of poetry, prose, art, short stories, and nonfiction. Through a variety of means, emotions can be communicated successfully through writing. Through this issue of The Muse: AMHS Literary Magazine, students have created brilliant and sincere works that impart a multitude of genuine emotions. Thank you to the students who have submitted their work for this issue. You have made your opinions, feelings, and personal perspective known through your writing, and it is greatly appreciated. Thank you, readers, for taking time to appreciate and understand the emotions of those around you. Take a chance; really feel for once. Feel the passion and perspective of brilliant writers, close friends, and classmates as you turn the pages of this magazine. Feel the true emotions of your society, and thank them for being bold enough to break through their own vaults of consciousness and shields of insecurity. Thank them for being bold enough to share their hearts and minds with the world. - The Editors of
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
SECTION / AUTHOR
PAGE
EDITOR’S WORK Dream – Aneri Bhatt ‘19..................................................................................................... 7 and the world (she) conquered – Stephanie Jue ‘19……………………………………... 8 Lost City – Nichole Lim ‘18............................................................................................... 9 Participation Trophy – Mia Lombardo ‘18 ...................................................................... 10 Six Word Story – Emily Isabella Ordonez ‘19…………………………………………. 11 Love, Waiting – Sophia Scott ‘19………………………………………………………. 12 POETRY An Ode To Toad – Noah Aguilar ‘19…………………………………………………... 14 Shoelaces – Alexys-Joel Arrizon ‘18…………………………………………………… 15 I See Fire Sonnet – Tanvi Bajaj ‘19…………………………………………………….. 16 Goodbye – Ashley Dela Cruz ‘17………………………………………………………. 17 Love Is… – Caroline Dickens ‘18……………………………………………………… 18 Mixed – John Dugan ‘18…………………………………………………………………19 hearts of threading – Olivia Figueira ‘17……………………………………………….. 20 The Touch of Our Creator – Yabsera Grum ‘18………………………………………... 21 but what have you done – Sydney Hwang ‘19…………………………………………. 22 Fair? – Cassie Korb ‘18……………………………………………………………... 23-24 The Glass Man – Maureen Mailhot ‘17………………………………………………… 25 Twenty – Paola Moreno ‘19……………………………………………………………. 26 Home – Isabel Newcomb ‘18…………………………………………………………... 27
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the diary of an outsider – Anika Nguyen ‘20…………………………………………… 28 How are you? – Charmina Rios ‘19…………………………………………………….. 29 The lake is not for drinking – Audrey Wolfe ‘18………………………………………. 30 Untitled – Jassen Yep ‘20................................................................................................. 31 PROSE My Best Friend – Ashley Dela Cruz ‘17……………………………………………. 33-35 Walking Home – Audrey Durham ‘19…………………………………………………. 36 Untitled – Clare Necas ‘18……………………………………………………………… 37 A Stormy Flight – Bailey Phoenix ‘20……………………………………………… 38-40 The Strawberry Ice Cream Cone – Grace Wagner ‘20……………………………… 41-42 MEMOIRS, ESSAYS, AND OTHER Pine Tree – Dasol Kim ‘19………………………………………………………….. 44-46 The Great Debate – Fiona Pestana ‘17........................................................................ 47-49 Six Word Stories – Caitlene Navalta ’20, Clare Necas ’18, Bailey Phoenix ‘20, Ashir Raza ‘20, Mehar Singh ‘20, Grace Wagner ‘20 ………...……………………………… 50 PHOTOGRAPHY AND ART Human Expression - Henry AvilaLinn 20’ ...…………………………………………... 52 Fr. Jack Russi Field - Caroline Dickens 18’ …………………………………………… 53 YGB - Audrey Durham 19’ ……………………………….……..…………………...... 54 Invasion - Ella Garfunkel 20’…..…………………………………………..…………... 55 Untitled - Rucha Kopardekar 19’ ..…………………………………….……………….. 56 Untitled - Bansi Patel 19’ ..…………….…………...…………………………………... 57 Lanterns - KritikaYerrapotu 20’ .……………………………...………...……………... 58
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ed·i·tor /ˈedədər/ noun 1. a person who edits written material for publication, as in a newspaper or magazine
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Dream
By Aneri Bhatt ‘19 She wears a cape of ethereal A gown of hand woven silk Standing amidst the night under The bridge of forgotten memories Which hang from our minds like A line of drying laundry.
Her hair looks like gold With specks of copper floating And a crown of roses perched Upon the long waves that Remind us of the beach That we used to visit.
She has eyes that look like Sapphires that glisten in the Light that radiates from her soul And the halo that lays around her As the light tells us that we are Too late to tell her the truth.
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and the world (she) conquered By Stephanie Jue ‘19
they told her she wasn’t good enough she believed their opinions were far from true and she saw darkness in their words too ugly and broken was the society she lived in and so she changed the world herself she cut off the locks which chained her hands and placed a crown upon her head her smile turned frowns upside down and the darkness scattered as hope enveloped her the world was surrounded by her light and the world she conquered
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Lost City By Nichole Lim ‘18
Ghosts crying down the vistas of the years Over the sharp and blood-bespattered stones Which cut my feet upon the ancient ways; I have good reason to wonder.
Now these city streets crowded aside, Growing dark and hot with eager multitudes Hurrying homeward where respite awaits; Footsteps that pass And not a tarry at my door; The loneliest hour.
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By Mia Lombardo ‘18 In the back of my closet, Thrown carelessly in a box, Stuffed haphazardly in the corner, Lies a participation trophy. "GOOD JOB," it reads in faded letters. In my mind it is: shiny, gold, identical, enticing– I tell myself I am heading for the stars. But, Why? I aim for the stars because if I don't I will fall, fall straight back down into a void of false expectations, If I don't I will not see that the stars are even brighter than I hoped– that no shadows hide in my path. The stars fuel my dreams As if I am an astronaut caught on a comet caught in an asteroid belt. I close my eyes because I am scared, And though my craft is littered with scars and riddled with dents, I. am. ALIVE. But, I remember when that plastic trophy sat on my desk, surrounded by light– Falsely encouraging, artificial in its glory. Adults praised it, Praised me– "GOOD JOB," it reads. And I would stare at it until they turned the light off And just think about it, And I was seven years old, pigtails and patterned pajamas, when I received my last Participation Trophy. I am fifteen when I notice it again Diminished in reality, And see that my name, my person, isn't even written on it, One in more than a million Of little gap-toothed girls like me. And I am fifteen when I realize I am piloting my own spaceship And if I want to shoot farther than the moon, I know I am also aiming for the stars.
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Open Notability. Can't focus. Open Instagram. By Emily Isabella Ordonez ‘19
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Love, Waiting By Sophia Scott ‘19
My heart flutters as my hands reach the slight Piece of metal called a doorknob. The cold Reminds me of the cold day: you in sight. For the first time my eyes dared to be bold. You were small that day; covered in the snow, Not daring to look out from your hood. Every time snowflakes would lightly blow, Your long eyelashes would close, tight, for good. Now, here I am, waiting for your smiling Face. Anticipating the love I'll see Your taut eyebrows, patient, reconciling, And your forest green eyes, waiting for me. I open the door to my future, ready To face this cold world together, steadily.
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po·et·ry /ˈpōətrē/ noun 1. literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm 2. a quality of beauty and intensity of emotion
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An Ode To Toad By Noah Aguilar ‘19 Toad, why must you be so alone Boringly sitting on the tree trunk Being as alone as an introvert at a house party Toad, why must you be so lazy Carelessly loathing in the sun Being as lazy as a loafing couch potato Toad, why must you be so salty Basically face down in the mud Being as salty as someone losing the championship game Toad, why must you be so dirty Obviously not cleaning yourself Being as dirty as a toddler without a diaper Toad, why must you be so unattractive Clearly not having a care in the world Being as unattractive as a woman with a bad personality Toad, I want to know why you are these things Curiously asking you Why Toad, why must you be this way
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Shoelaces By Alexys-Joel Arrizon ‘18 Flicker flicker, click flicker, the glow stammers and drones Fractured mirrors reflecting a false facade, from freedom's fright The deafening beat, approaching then fading, approaching then— Malfunctioning lids, my vision succumbing to the weight and dread Shards fumble and shamble, shoes unscathed, untouched Luminescent eyes peer out, scouring for light, for blight Lethargy and shade, was all that I had paid Lethargy and shade, was all that we had paid Knees hit the floor, coughing out the problems, the faint flickering world The faint flickering faint faint flickering— Follow my voice Follow my voice follow— Mustering a recovery, strength and spirit whispering in our ears Glancing down at the reflections and red, burrowing towards our fears The sedated chorus swells and sways, now trudging the exit open The light and shoelaces The light and—
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I See Fire Sonnet By Tanvi Bajaj ‘19 Grieving, the girl stands with a breaking heart. Anguish is on her face and in her eyes, the reflection of flames, tearing apart a city...once stood tall, now its demise A city engulfed in smoke, fire aglow Night falters into darkness in dismay But the flames, without mercy, only seem to grow Intend to destroy, are not led astray Crumbling, dissolving, to break not restore All that is seen is flames, tearing apart Burning, still burning, forevermore Breaking, the girl stands with a grieving heart. Slowly, she turns her back on destruction Sadly walks away, without instruction.
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Goodbye By Ashley Dela Cruz ‘17 Though he may be in a different place, In a location far away from me, I will always think of his special face, Even if he is across the ocean sea. He had a face you could never forget, With eyes as deep as the clear blue sky, A messy hairdo he colored brunette And an attitude that was never shy. We always had the best conversations Either it being something random or us venting, He was someone whom I knew had patience, And no matter what he was relenting. He was the person I could tell anything, But I never got to say one more thing.
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Love Is‌ By Caroline Dickens ‘18 "I love you," is a phrase that gets thrown around more than a grocery list, It's said more than hello or goodbye. It's tasted on the tongues of the youngest to the oldest. It's a string of words with so much meaning, so much beauty and power. Yet we use it and abuse it and push its meaning aside to use like any other word. We take it and twist it, and soon, love isn't love anymore. We wrap it around our fingers and floss it through our teeth, And then we toss it aside like trash. But love isn't trash, Love is gorgeous sunsets, bright eyes, lace dresses, clear glass. Love is invincible, love outlasts all. Love is not simple. Giving your love is not simple. It is a commitment, So live up to your words, Live up to your love.
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Mixed
By John Dugan ‘18 Joy dances on the Soul Fears digs into your heart. Anger screams and tumbles. Sadness makes it fall apart.
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hearts of threading By Olivia Figueira ‘17 you’ve sewn me a piece of thought a slight glance into far-flung Future; a stirring, if you must, perhaps a blur of life not yet, things long besought. the needle that goes and goes with no end, embroidered with a vivid paired beat; ribbon and lace tied around face, sweet as candy in my own honeyed friend. know that Time is highbred, a hardhead; and yells and shouts all he wants, but with my dear, a lovely model flaunts our treasured hearts of thread.
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The Touch of Our Creator By Yabsera Grum ‘18 The sun-kissed African sky bleeds through the Earth’s thick atmosphere as an abundance of wildlife observes the extraordinance of God’s creation. As the tired sun begins to slip into its covers, a cold breeze flows calmly through the desert, bristling the crisp leaves that have roamed this land for years, as it whispers… Goodnight.
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but what have you done By Sydney Hwang '19 here’s a story. it’s not a very happy story, but like all things that are real in this world, nothing is ever completely delightful. so, i’ll begin now. there was a little girl whose voice was clean cotton and hair was velvet rose, and she knew of none but pure white snow and tender satin kisses. she knew of love. love was sweet, gentle burning gazes, soft and warm. love was a sugar cookie and soft hands, whispered affection and pink flowers. it was with that love the world had blessed her, the beautiful and warm and gentle she could feel from the very tip of her little finger. but this girl dies. and soon, the sugar cookie is no longer sweet, but is a brittle reminiscence of ashes, smoke, and turpentine. pink fades into mauve, and warmth is no longer a gentle cradle but hot. too, too hot. it burned her, coal and embers and smoke clouding her mouth and it was hard to breathe she struggled to breathe, the pain clawing at her ribs and melting hot feeling into her heart, leaving her throbbing from the passion that dripped from her fingers but oh, it was wonderful. she knew what love was. love was burning, beautiful— a stunning, dangerous spark that lit up eyes of molten gold and passion, love was ecstasy, kisses in the rain and red threads but oh it was so cold she could feel the white hot frost run through her tiny blue veins and scar her skin, and it hurt like drowning but it was wonderful, so wonderful. but this girl dies, too. but why, you ask? why, when you look into a cold mirror, do you see fields of pink and sugar and cotton and decay and ashes and burns behind your irises but no trace of that pure, sweet girl? or that passionately devoted girl, where did she go? you know the answer. after all, you're the one holding a knife in your right hand.
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Fair? By Cassie Korb ‘18 Growing up, my Dad would tell me that fair does not mean equal, When my older brothers got more ice cream than I did, When my younger sisters got longer story times, When kids in other families got toys that I didn’t. But if fair does not mean equal, then what does fair mean? Does the word simply exist so people can claim that life isn’t? Or is it there for society to strive to achieve it? Who decides what is fair and what isn’t? Is it fair that I am able to go to a private school? Is it fair that I have two parents that love each other? Is it fair that I live in America, the Silicon Valley? That I have connections, hope, a future? Is it fair that there is a wage gap? Disabilities? Poverty? Abuse? No, it’s not. Because that means that there isn’t equality, so how can it possibly be fair? Does it even itself out in the end? But how is there time for it to even out if there is death? Is it fair because we all die? But we don’t all die for the same reasons… Is death never fair? Or is it always?
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Everyone dies, So I suppose death is equal, Because it kills everyone. Death doesn’t discriminate… But people do. But if people were like death and didn’t discriminate, Then we would have equality, Because we would all be equal, And that would be fair. So fair does mean equal, But for true equality we need equity. We need resources, change in mindset, legislation, peace. We need to embrace equality. We need fairness for our world to thrive. How can “fair” be achieved? Maybe it’s just a word.
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The Glass Man
By Maureen Mailhot ‘17
Lonely walks without a break in his stride, Never knowing what it is to hurt inside. The cracked smile on his face Is a mask for his own disgrace. Having seen other hearts splinter, He put his in eternal winter. He wears a facade that's paper thin, And lies about what's deep within. Knowing others to have hurt their brother, Lonely swore never to give his heart to another. Fear grips his soul in its paralyzing clutch, Protecting him from pain and a friendly touch. Having seen other's loss, Lonely refuses to bear any cross. Throwing rocks to avoid confrontations, He shakes his glass house down to its foundations. His unbroken heart boasts an untouched surface, But without love it has no purpose. Empty head and sightless eyes, Lonely cuts all his ties. Stepping daintily and never taking a chance, Right to his grave he'll slowly and carefully advance. Unscathed, untouched, and completely unloved.
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Twenty By Paola Moreno ‘19 I have a lurking fear of trying new things, To me, it's anxiety ridden and is uncertainty that it brings, Like meeting new people and going to parties and dances, tell me I don't have to go, what are my chances? But, the thing I remind myself of plenty, Is what will my future self think when I'm twenty? You need to understand that you don't get these opportunities twice, Because everything of course comes at a price, So cherish these fleeting moments and do what makes you nervous, Get out of your comfort zone and do everything with purpose! So looking at your life right now reading this writing, Would your twenty year old self think that your journey’s exciting?
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Home By Isabel Newcomb ‘18 the sky is humming a tune i can barely hear over the sound of the warm midnight air hanging over your backyard like a memory from a time when no one wore shoes and the sun never went down powdered lemonade dusting our knees s ticky fingers grasping old photographs; gray, but somehow holding more color than we’d ever tasted in this life how can we forgive ourselves for the things we will not become you can't silence something that has always been quiet can't end something that never began
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the diary of an outsider By Anika Nguyen ‘20 pitter, patter, the sound of the rain's splatter the streets of downtown full of honks and window shatters i wanted to leave so i walked fast i didn't know where to go, i knew that i listened to the rain to find some healing in me my heart was too hurt to heal so easily my friends took notice but said no words because what could you do when your friend is hurt not by the people around her who treated her so kindly but the one she lived with who lived so blindly first time it occurred was back in 5th grade the stress came too much for me so i rotted away by the time i was 7th grade i was already half dead had no bullet in my mouth but a monster in my head the emptiness i felt became a daily routine the more wrong i did, the longer my sleeve my parents taught me never to talk to strangers but the only stranger i found was the one who put my life in danger i had no anchor, no self control all i could do was cry and watch time go i cried from my heart, releasing the pain so that everyone could hear the sound of my rain
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I decide to swallow my lake of ink I look at the barren ground and slowly blink Blue drips from my eyes, my lips, down my chin the inside out, instead of outside in
The lake is not for drinking By Audrey Wolfe ‘18 Ache seeps in every once in awhile My skin soaked on my desolate isle
I drink it so the ache swims in me now my heart is unprotected and drenched now
Like a lake full of ink, I lay in it I like the way it hurts, I swim in it
When I fill my stomach and lock my door There is no one to save me anymore I drink the pain so my skin is still white no one listens for my ink tears at night
When I'm alone, you know, I feel it more In the lake I sink to the lonely floor Why do I think it is purer this way? I make sure no one takes my ache away
I just meant for it to glide over me slide through my fingers and hold my body not dwell in my stomach, live inside me
It does not penetrate my enclosed heart my skin keeps the insides and ink apart I come up for for air, ink tears in my eyes forget to put on my white skin disguise
One body can only hold so much ink Words in the world, I succeed from my brink I start a transfer from body to page or body to body—body to stage
people start noticing blue in my skin they wring me out if I let them in
Slowly, pain escapes from inside
of me I stop drinking the inland sadness sea
they like to tell me I look good as new they scrub my skin so it isn't as blue
my skin still stained and my pain still sacred livable instead of isolated
I scream that the ink isn't hurting me It just appears to be—yet they guard me My friends block off the lake with caution tape Say "porous human, this is for your own sake"
Advice to my lake lovers: don't swallow the sorrow Trust me, you'll want to throw it up tomorrow Tell your friends that it is fine being blue As long as it does not stay inside of you
So
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Untitled By Jassen Yep ‘20 Raindrops sting my cheeks But It's not raining Mist clouds my eyes But The sun is shining Fire burns my heart But It’s just my imagining.
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prose /prĹ?z/ noun 1. a literary medium distinguished from poetry, especially by its greater irregularity and variety of rhythm and its closer correspondence to the patterns of everyday speech
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My Best Friend By Ashley Dela Cruz ‘17 Wednesday afternoons are always my favorite because that means I get to see my best friend, Sydney. We are both five years old and have been best friends since we were born. We have done almost everything together, but Wednesday’s are my favorite because we get to do art and just hang out at daycare. Sydney is this really cool girl. She has dark brown hair, and she is always wearing this really cute outfit. We are almost like the same person, except I’m blonde and love pink. We both love playing with my dolls, we both love mac n’ cheese, and we both love spending time with each other -- that’s why she’s my best friend. “Charlotte, you ready to head to daycare?” my mom shouts from the front door. Shouting a quick yes, I grab my backpack full of Barbie dolls and head to the front door to meet my mom and drive to daycare. Once we get to daycare, I quickly unbuckle my seatbelt and wait for my mom to open the door. I run to the daycare doors and wait for my mom so that she can sign me in. My mom gives me a quick goodbye and tells me that she’ll pick me up at 5, and then I run over to Sydney, who is sitting in the corner. “Hi, Sydney. I brought my dolls today. Do you want to play dress up with me?” I ask, but she just looks at me. As I take my dolls out of my bag, I ask her which one she wants to play with, and she just grabs the blonde doll without saying a word. She doesn’t talk much. She’s wearing the same outfit -- her blue jeans and favorite teal shirt -- and I tell her, “I like your outfit,” and she smiles in response. Sydney and I don’t really play with the others in daycare. It is just Sydney and me. We do everything together, like playing on the playground and eating snacks together. Most of the time, when we are inside, we just play with the dolls and play dress up. It is our most
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favorite thing to do in the world! We even dress up our dolls and pretend to have little fashion shows. Our favorite thing to do at daycare is art. Every time we get to do art, Sydney and I both make each other something, but we don’t show each other until we are both done. That way it is a surprise, and we can explain our art to each other. Like last time, we both made each other a painting. I painted her name in the background and then put flowers, and Sydney painted a picture of both of us in her favorite outfit. I hung it on my wall at home because I love it. I love everything she makes me because she is my best friend. I draw her a picture of us holding hands with our dolls in the other. She has the blonde doll in her hand, and I make sure to draw Sydney with her brown hair in her blue jeans and teal shirt. I am wearing a pink dress with my blonde hair in pigtails, and I have the black-haired doll in my hand. Then at the top I write “Best Friends Forever.” After explaining the drawing to her, I give it to her and ask her, “Do you like it?” She nods her head yes and takes it from my hands while looking at it more closely. It’s Sydney’s turn now and I look at her drawing and see that it is me in her favorite outfit. I ask her, “Sydney, you drew me wearing your favorite outfit! That’s so cool, and I love it! But it’s your outfit, why am I wearing it?” She shrugs her shoulders in response and just starts brushing the Barbie’s hair. I know she isn’t going to tell me why, so I just look at the drawing and run to my backpack to put it away. When I get back to her, I try to get her to talk more and ask her how her week has been, but I get nothing. She does this all the time. Most of the time, she just looks at her doll or focuses on her drawings and nods her head to what I am saying. She’s a very good listener. I remember that her birthday is coming up, so I ask her, “Sydney, what are you doing for your birthday? I think you should have a princess party. Those are so much fun, and we can play dress up!”
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She shrugs her shoulders while brushing the doll’s hair. “Do you want anything for your birthday?” I ask, and she just shakes her head no. That’s weird. Who doesn’t want anything for their birthday? I just look at my doll and start changing her into a different outfit so that we can have a little fashion show with our dolls. We don’t do anything else during the day because Sydney won’t tell me if she wants to do something different. When 5 o’clock comes, I realize it is just me and Sydney left at daycare, and my mom hasn’t picked me up yet. I ask Sydney, “When is your mom picking you up?” She just shrugs her shoulders up and down, and I tell her, “My mom said she will be here at 5. But she isn’t here yet.” Sydney just looks at me, then back at the Barbie in her hand. I’m still playing with Sydney and my dolls when the daycare lady comes up to me and tells me, “Charlotte, sweetie, it looks like you’re the last one here.” I look at her, kind of confused, and tell her, “What are you talking about? Sydney is still here. Do you want to play with us?” “Sweetie, there’s no one there,” she tells me, looking a little uneasy. I look at her angrily and tell her, “Can’t you see? Sydney is right here! She is playing with my Barbie.” “Sweetie, I don’t know what you’re talking about. It is just you and me in here,” she tells me again. “No, she’s right here! Sydney, my best friend, she’s right next to…” I cut myself off when I look around and realize that no one is there.
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Walking Home By Audrey Durham ‘19 The air is still, only interrupted by the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves of the ginkgo trees that tower over the street. I stop to appreciate the serenity I am surrounded by. I watch a squirrel travel from tree to tree, disturbing the nests of birds inside. I don't feel myself anymore; my arms and legs are no longer part of me. I feel myself melt into a heavenly body, taken aback by its beauty. The natural world follows no rules. Birds argue amongst themselves, blind to any part of human society that lives around them. The air is crisp, the wind bites at my ears. A car whirs by, oblivious to the beauty it has screeched through. My peacefulness is shaken by the loud cries of a brainwashed mankind. I focus on the dainty shadows that the newly fallen leaves cast on the uneven cement, leaving splashes of color in a gray world. The leaves had yet to be disturbed by opinion; they lay where they wish and fall when they want. They follow no schedule, they live with no deadlines. I am envious yet amused. I am jealous of leaves who live with no care in the world. I lack the desire to continue living by social norms; society has led us to follow a path that has already been trodden on. As a dog barks off in the distance, I come to the conclusion that I am striving to make a new path.
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Untitled By Clare Necas ‘18 I'm hiding behind a smile. No one sees the sadness beneath the lies. Endless days filled with colorless nights. My only wish is for someone to see the plastic smile. The real pain hiding, unknown. The look in his eyes says he sees me and won't let me go. "Take off the mask," he says.
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A Stormy Flight By Bailey Phoenix ‘20 There I sat, watching the clouds roll in and the sky grow darker and darker with each passing minute. Like ants, the cars drove by in single-file lines, illuminating the darkness ahead. The wind whipped past me, causing my skin to crawl and my bones to chill. I shut my eyes, wishing for sunlight and warmth. In an effort to stay warm, my breaths became more rapid and short. I was running through the grass, panting, my short legs sprinting as they shortened the distance between me and my pursuer. I stumbled over my flowery pink dress several times but caught my balance and kept running. Nothing could save me now, and I knew it. I sucked in my breath, ducking behind a tree across the meadow. I was hyperventilating, desperately trying to quiet myself so they wouldn't catch me. A hand grabbed my shoulder, and I screamed loud enough to wake the dead. “I found you, Addy!” The little girl giggled, brushing her blond hair away from her face and tying it back with a blue bow. The ribbon matched her eyes, which were as bright as the sky. “Awww…. I really thought I could’ve won!” I complained, rolling my eyes. “I don't want to play hide and seek anymore, Tiffany. Can we do something else?” “Okay!” The wind snapped me back into reality. It was much colder than before, and traffic had picked up, moving at least 10 miles faster than it had been. The cold nipped at my cheeks, causing my eyes to water. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I sat at the table alone. A cake decorated in many bright colors was placed at the center of the table. Around me were empty seats, each equipped with its own pink plate and silverware. Paper streamers were hung on the wall, spelling out “H-A-PP-Y-B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y.” The ten candles stood in a perfect ring,
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untouched by their fateful flames. I reached for the lighter, flicking the side to ignite the flame. Through watery eyes, I gazed at the light as it danced in my hand. Each waxy purple candle was topped with its own bright dancer. The cars’ bright lights brought my focus back into the present. I blinked my eyes several times, trying to clear the tears so I could see properly. Traffic was starting to lessen, and the vehicles were moving almost twice their original speed. It seemed as if the wind picked up as traffic did -- it was windy enough for me to fall over. My teeth chattered away in the cold as I shivered. I was holding my arms and rubbing them to generate what little heat I could. Her arms shivered as I held her hands. All I could do was sit with her and talk; there was a continuous beeping noise ringing in the background. Her skin, once smooth and soft, felt dry and cracked. It was as if her hands hadn't been washed in years when in reality, it had been hours. My mother looked so frail and thin, her haunting gray eyes sunken back into their deep pockets. I admired her wispy brown hair as it had been pulled back into a lovely braided bun. She stared blankly at the wall behind me, not taking a moment to focus her attention on me. I gazed at her, a tear rolling down my face, as the beeping halted. An ominous buzz filled its place as a flatline sounded, and my mother’s cold hand went limp in my own. My hands felt like ice as I continued to rub them, breathing warm breath as I cupped them. A car honked as the one in front of it failed to notice its turn and darted toward the exit ramp. The speed of the mechanical monsters was now unbelievable, and once visible cars turned into streaks of yellow and red lights. It seemed as if my mind was racing as fast as the cars below me. Memory after memory flooded into my thoughts, and before I knew it, the wind had decided to speed up as well. My once combed back hair was now a mess of tangles in front of my eyes. I used my fingers to brush my hair out of my eyes as I walked down the hallway. Textbooks in hand, I opened my locker to see a note
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fall to the ground. After placing my books delicately on the shelf, I bent over and picked up the note. It read: “Freak!� Annoyed, I crumbled up the paper and shoved it into my pocket. I saw the blonde girl with the blue ribbon, Tiffany, in the hallway, watching as she turned to her friends and snickered. Putting my head down to avoid eye contact, I made my way past her. She stuck her foot out in my way, and before I could react, I was on the ground. People surrounded me, pointing and laughing. My cheeks burned red from humiliation. My cheeks were now a rosy color from the harsh cold. My breaths were faint, white clouds of steam in front of my face. A drop of water splashed onto my nose, and it was followed by its thousands of friends. Raindrops pelted the glass, creating streaks of water. I watched as the streaks go by from the inside of my room. Brother and Sister had just left from tormenting me. My tears matched those of the clouds outside. The dim light from my lamp was just enough to buffer out images of the outdoors; I was able to see my reflection staring back at me. Soon enough, I could hear the sound of Dad yelling. His footsteps thundered as he made his way up the stairs to my room. Thunder echoed loud enough to shake me and my surroundings. I was drenched in water, and my body was shivering quickly; I was vibrating. Lightning flashed in the distance, covered by the dense, dark clouds in front of it. My breathing slowed down as I found a sense of calm in the chaos. I stood up from my perch above the traffic, hair whipping my face. My foot slowly stepped forward, releasing me into flight. Lights flashed. Voices called. Thunder echoed. Rain fell, and so did I, until darkness wrapped its cold arm around me.
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The Strawberry Ice Cream Cone By Grace Wagner ‘20 The hustle and bustle of the foreign city excited me. All the new strangers in their unique, colorful, handmade clothing intrigued me. A long day of walking around and adventuring in this new place fatigued my little legs. Taking in the beautiful views and understanding the way of life boggled my curious mind. All the new words and spicy foods interested me. But exploring Bangkok, Thailand is a lot for a five-yearold-girl to take in, so it was about time for an ice cream cone. We entered the big, cold ice cream shop with all the flavors on display. Smells of all different kinds surrounded our noses in a blanket of tempting sweetness. There were a million flavors to choose from! Would I get my favorite flavor, vanilla? I know I wouldn’t get chocolate. Should I get mint chip, another one of my favorite flavors? Or strawberry? Mmmmmm strawberry. The delicious, pink, juicy, refreshing fruit that reminded me of summer. I had decided that I would get the mouth-watering strawberry ice cream. “Can I get strawberry ice cream in a cone, please?” I kindly asked the woman behind the counter. face.
“Of course, sweetheart,” the nice lady replied with a smile on her
As I watched her scoop the ice cream out of the container and into my cone, I felt the saliva building up in my mouth. I desperately wanted to take a big lick of my delectable ice cream cone. It felt like hours as she was preparing my yummy dessert. She finally handed me the cone, and I prepared myself for the beauty of this dessert. My tongue was extending out of my mouth to savor the first lick of the ice cream. However, I only tasted a meager amount of the heavenly flavor before my ball of strawberry ice cream fell off the cone and onto the floor. The
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world around me stopped as I stood watching the ball of sweetness fall to the floor. It was moving in slow motion, but I could not do anything to save it. When the ice cream hit the floor, a small part of me broke. I immediately realized what I had done. It was the end of the world! I would never get another one! I broke down crying, mourning the loss of my ice cream. After all the waiting, it ended so quickly! I hardly even tasted it! “Grace, what happened?” my mom asked. I just pointed to the pile of ice cream on the floor and continued to cry. As my mom was calming me down, the small Thai lady who gave me my cone walked up to us politely and handed me another gorgeous strawberry ice cream cone. “I am sorry about the accident. Here is another one.” “Thank you so much!” I responded as I wiped away the tears and took the yummy treat. I was overjoyed and immediately felt better. Before I took another big lick of my ice cream, I pushed the ball of ice cream into the cone with my tongue to make sure that it was secure and that the tragedy would never happen again. I realized that accidents happen; sometimes, you are given a second chance. I continued on my way, a happy fiveyear-old-girl, exploring Thailand with the help of my delectable strawberry ice cream cone.
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oth·er /ˈəT͟Hər/ noun 1. a special section in the magazine that includes memoirs, essays, and six-word stories
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Pine Tree
By Dasol Kim ‘19 The young woman looked out the window. She carried a days-old newborn in her arms, its face tiny under the wads of fabric. Looking at the delicate sleeping face, she couldn’t help but smile. The sterile walls of the hospital blocked out the storm as the trees shrugged under the hail and wind. She looked at the rosy head again, noticing the pink sign on the nightstand next to her bed. Her tired face scowled. Life was cruel, she knew – she would make sure her daughter would be strong enough to handle it. Kiwha was born in the 1970s in South Korea, a time when most girls would grow up simply to be housewives. However, she spurned this stereotype, investing thousands of hours perusing her textbooks at home, eventually earning the highest national scores on the Korean language exams. Thus, she easily graduated and slid into college, studying for a journalism degree. Her dream was, childishly, to transform the world into a better place, so she continued on her upward path. Even as she heard news about a recently killed college student in a demonstration, she fearlessly continued to pepper her college life with political protests, where she encountered actual pepper spray. Even as she saw her close friends drop out of college to get married, she openly vowed never to do so, unintentionally hurting her mother with her words: “I never want to end up like you!” She knew she shouldn’t have said that. Besides, in the end, Kiwha had still gotten married. In fact, her mother was the strongest person she knew, stronger than the pine trees that always towered over the fallen ginkgoes after a storm. When her father had lost his company and began to waste his time drinking with his friends, her sweet, hardworking mother had stepped up to open a restaurant to raise Kiwha and her brother. Her father was a good father but not a good husband–how much had her mother suffered in order to raise her children? Constantly filled with the responsibility of chores or earning money, her mother’s world revolved around her two children, especially Kiwha: she even considered her happiest day to be when her daughter went to college. Her second happiest was when her son did. The first company Kiwha worked in after college, ThruNet, was a internet provider, the first and largest of its kind in Korea. However, when she first came, it was still just a startup, with a grueling work environment: her manager would often schedule meetings at 2 a.m. before important deadlines to ensure that the team worked all day. Often coming home at 5 a.m. after these late night meetings, she would ignore her bed despite her exhaustion to change her clothes and stumble back to her workplace. Being a young woman didn’t help her
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situation either; there were only four or five other female college graduates in the company. Any other woman seen in the workplace was an office lady, fetching coffee and paper copies for the employees. As a strong-headed woman in a patriarchal society, she tried to ignore the feminine stereotypes in her workplace. “I’m the same as any man!” she would tell herself as she worked. Early on, she had realized the foolishness of her idealized college dream, but now she planned to hike up the corporate mountain all the way to the CEO position. When her team manager asked her to bring coffee, Kiwha refused to act like another office lady, saying with a smile, “I’m very busy now, so could our team manager please bring it for himself?” This became her default response for any other coffee or paper-copying requests. She earned the ire of her team manager, but she held on. She was also beautiful; everyone had told her that. However, sometimes she found that beauty was a double-edged sword. She was immensely popular in her workplace and had many boyfriends. Finally, after a year of dating, Kiwha Seo, the first of those five ThruNet career women, and Mansu Kim, an engineer from the countryside, had gotten married–the happiest day of her life. However, her superiors were not as excited. Actually, they were so vexed by this intracompany marriage that she was called in by her manager: she had a month to leave or she was fired. With no other options, Kiwha reluctantly agreed. Every night for nearly a month after that meeting, she would go back home to research other jobs in the few minutes she could secure. Sometimes, she just sat there and cried. During those harsh, bleak nights, she realized that she could never escape herself; she would always be considered a woman, only worthy of low pay and coffee-toting. “So be it,” she thought, “they’re losing a talent: me.” Eventually, she managed to procure a job at a web design startup and quietly quit her ThruNet career. Her husband stayed in the original company. Unlike her previous job, the new business had far more female corporate workers. Namo Interactive had around twenty percent female workers. Although this business was just as arduous as the last, there were beds on the second floor to minimize any commute time from sleep to work; in this company, marriage and having children were at least accepted. Most of the female workers were married mothers and a few women were even developers in the engineering department, a rarity at the time and even more so in Korea. This was a company that appreciated her talent. She even got a position as a team manager, and, eventually, she knew she would at least become a Director of Marketing. She loved her job with a passion, which rivaled the burn of the pepper spray in her college years. She worked with newspaper reporters and broadcasters to introduce her company and products. Ads were the best part–she convinced famous celebrities to star in the ads she helped the agency design. She even ran a contest for Namo where the best homepage designer got a car, courtesy of her connections.
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Even better, she had a full six months of paid maternal leave. This was how she and her husband had been able to finally have the tiny baby that was now in her arms. There was no way would she spend all six months resting; she had to keep working if she wanted her Marketing Director position. In a month, Kiwha knew that she would leave her daughter with her mother, who was already closing her beloved restaurant in anticipation of her role as a caregiver. Little did Kiwha know that in the future she would go to America and pursue her dreams further. But for now, Kiwha only needed to rest and figure out what she wanted her daughter’s name to be. She looked out the window, carrying the tender newborn in her arms. Outside, the rain and wind pitilessly ripped apart all of the fragile trees, like a bully tossing his victims around. No, she was wrong; far off in the distance, there was one tree that was still. She stepped towards the window. It was a pine tree, strong and straight against the storm trying to push it down. Kiwha smiled instantly, remembering a name from her research: Dasol, which meant pine tree. Life was cruel, she knew – but her daughter would be as strong as a pine tree to handle it.
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The Great Debate By Fiona Pestana ‘17 I am losing faith in humanity. Not because it seems like nobody cares about anything anymore—although that may be true, with the amount of philosopher stoners spending all their time getting high and wondering “why we exist in the first place, man.” Actually, it’s the opposite. Aggressive know-italls plague our world. They constantly remind us of their intelligence simply because they want to assert their superiority over “basic plebeians” like ourselves. And, whenever you disagree with them, they spend at least half an hour lecturing you about how wrong you are. They’re opinionated, they talk WAY too fast, and they always look at you with inquisitive, judgemental eyes. You know who I’m talking about, right? The worse of two halves, the scum of the earth: high school debaters. Okay, maybe I shouldn’t make too cruel of a blanket statement. Not all debaters are mere disputers. In fact, we can actually learn from the best of them– debaters talk about important problems and analyze potential solutions, sparking communication that could alter our society for the better. We must transform today’s world, shifting from haughty disputes to respectful discussions—from mediocre debaters to inspiring ones. So let’s start our research and note the negatives of instilling a dispute-based society. Then, we’ll break to the next round and examine the perks of polite discussions. And finally, we’ll win the sweepstakes, successfully revealing why this move from dispute to discussion will spread a sense of respect to all parties involved. Before a few arrogant Lincoln-Douglas kids came about, debating did not have too negative of a connotation. Merriam-Webster defines the word as “a discussion between people in which they express different opinions about something.” Sounds fine, right? Until they later had to preface the definition with “a contention by words or arguments.” I understand why this was added every year at Christmas dinner. Coming from an immediate family that is a bit more liberal than our extended family makes eating at the table difficult. My older cousins yell tipsily across the table about problems with “The Liberals,” clearly pointed at my family and me. In only 15 minutes, a happy Christmas dinner is ruined by a short-fused argument over the credibility of political figures. Plus, what does that even mean?! “The Liberals.” Are we like a group of supervillains or something? If so, I hope we’re at least a little better than the Suicide Squad... disappointing. Anyway, family dinners have not always been this bad. According to The Six O’Clock Scramble, the average family dinner used to be around 90 minutes in the 1950’s, standing in stark contrast against today’s less than 12 minutes. Disputing is easy in such a short period of time - argue your side for 6 minutes,
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ignore the opposition while stuffing your face with food for another 6, and you’re done. But discussion needs time. Maybe, 20 minutes for one side to take the stage, 20 for the other, 25 minutes of cross-examination, 15 minutes to conclude, and a final 10 of friendly banter to end on a light note—a full 90 minutes of healthy conversation. Discussions require patience so people can consider both sides of the coin. Disputes, on the other hand, don’t need extra time for listening. All you have to do to argue is shout out how you feel—no comparison or compromise required. Not listening to one another, arguing to assert dominance over the rest of the room...are these not the common qualities of a bad Policy round? But, let’s look at the affirmative side of this case. In starting a battle-of-thebrains, skilled debate kids are sparking a discussion on a topic that has clear importance, requiring them to either reach a solution or swap ideas. Both of these goals were reached in Watts and East LA, two areas with heavy histories of gang violence, through community policing, according to Charlie Beck, chief of the Los Angeles Police Department, and Connie Rice, member of Obama’s Task Force on 21st-Century Policing. Police officers are assigned to one section of the city where they culturally educate themselves on the area by learning the local languages and collaborating with members of the community, doing things like setting up sports leagues for kids. Beck and Rice state that “they do not view residents of high-crime areas as potential suspects or deportees but as partners in public safety.” In fact, after a man who was shooting at a police officer was killed, a former gang leader responded that the police defense was fair—a surprisingly peaceful conclusion reached simply because the police officers took the time to build a bridge of understanding between authority and community. This promotes self-defense; talking things through allows both parties to explain their points of view. If the police had not reached out to the community on a personal level, the residents would not have had the chance to tell their stories or ensure that the police cared enough to listen. But the LA Police Department did it right—not through just words or just actions, but both, with justice. Discussing for justice. So clearly, discussion saves communities. But why support the pursuit of discussion over dispute in everyday life, for all people? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think arguing can be kind of fun—pushing people’s buttons is an exhilarating form of rebellion. That’s probably why immature debaters started debating in the first place— from bugging their mothers after a long day to bugging their opponents. But passionate debaters are not only just phenomenal speakers but also phenomenal listeners, even when the opposition is speaking. Major respect for them, man... that’s it! Shifting from dispute to discussion is
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about respect, not just for some communities or a few people but humanity as a whole. Nobody knows this better than Brandon Stanton, the founder of Humans of New York—you may have seen his world-renowned photography and personal interviews with all shades of people from across the globe. From Syrian refugees to prison inmates, Stanton gives those often labeled as the underbelly of society the chance to tell their stories. In an interview, Stanton comments that there is a “schism in America between compassion and accountability.” His goal as a blogger and photographer starts to break down such a schism. Interviewees explaining their struggles evoke sympathy from the audience, and their admittance to personal mistakes forces them to take responsibility. People have the fundamental right to be listened to and respected, despite dirty pasts, mistakes, or even debate skills. Now, imagine a world without discussion. Where people stand on different sides of a topic and only defend the people who think the same way they do. Imagine a world where people disagree through defiance instead of discourse, a world where bullying, throwing a rock at a window, and building a wall divides us just as much as disrespectful cross-examination does. Imagine a world where both sides fight till the death, because it's easier to debate with guns and violence than with words and peace. Imagine this world and realize we're in it. So what can we do? Let's discuss. Discuss with people who are different, without being disrespectful, and dare to do so often. Because the best high school debaters prove that you don't need to put down others in order to make your point rise. So let's all rise to this challenge. It's going to take patience, at times it'll be uncomfortable, but just think of the things we'll learn, the people we'll meet, the pride we'll feel and the new dreams we'll dream. Yes, I believe in a world where people can discuss their dreams freely and not feel the need to define others’ dreams for them. If you listen, learn, and never forget to love— you can dream a little bigger darling. And there's no debate about that. We all have differences, and we should be able to speak about those differences respectfully, remembering that we are all humans at heart. So wipe off that judgmental face and listen up! Let’s change the Communication Game, from dispute to discussion. One debate kid, one speech kid, one human at a time.
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Kicked my shoe. Hit something. Oops. By Caitlene Navalta ’20
See the pain behind her eyes. By Clare Necas ’18
Dark skin. Blue uniforms. Red floors. By Bailey Phoenix ‘20
Three Seconds. He dribbled. He stumbled… By Ashir Raza ‘20
Small coffin brought to delivery room. By Mehar Singh ‘20
The rivalry. The tension. The shot… By Grace Wagner ‘20
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art /ärt/ noun 1. the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power
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Human Expression - Henry AvilaLinn ‘20
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Fr. Jack Russi Field - Caroline Dickens ‘18
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YGB - Audrey Durham ‘19
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Invasion – Ella Garfunkel ‘20
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Untitled - Rucha Kopardekar ‘19
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Untitled – Bansi Patel ‘19
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Lanterns – KritikaYerrapotu ‘20
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Mission Statement The Muse: AMHS Student Literary Magazine is a collection of original, creative fiction written by students of Archbishop Mitty. The purpose of this magazine is to support students' creative expression, to allow students to share their words and experiences in an imaginative way, and to establish a community of artists, writers, and thinkers. By creating an outlet for student voices, The Muse hopes to foster a culture of self-expression and interconnection throughout the entire student body.
Thanks for reading this issue of The Muse: AMHS Student Literary Magazine! The words we write can have a profound impact on our understanding of the world around us. It is our sincere hope that the words within this issue have inspired you think, write, dream, and understand more fully. Please look forward to more issues. We look forward to seeing you again and publishing the fantastic work of AMHS students. – the Editors
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ARCHBISHOP MITTY LITERARY MAGAZINE
Moderator: Kevin Brazelton Student Editors: Aneri Bhatt Joshua Harmon Stephanie Jue Katya Katsy Alisa Khieu Nichole Lim Mia Lombardo Anne Moultray Emily OrdoĂąez Valerie Remaker Sophia Scott Raymond So Administrator: Keith Mathews
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