♛ THE MUSE Dear Reader, Welcome to the second 2015-2016 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 two 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.
The following written works are the intellectual property of Archbishop Mitty students. All ownership rights reserved.
L etter from the E ditors Writers tend to see the world a little differently than others do. They take in their surroundings with open eyes and absorb the littlest of details of the world. These artists then use their perceptions and talents to try and encapsulate the beauties into a form of art—whether that be a poem, painting, or piece of prose—so that others may too be encircled in its wonders. William H. Gass, a well-known American novelist and philosopher of language, once reflected on the greatness of writers by iterating, “The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change the world into words.” By developing a sense of mindfulness, writers tend to have the ability to bring the graces of the world into the tips of their fingers in any composition they so desire. Truthfully, writers are not the only people that can transform the beauties of the world into a work of art. As proof, the pages of The Muse are adorned with the ideas, experiences, and innermost thoughts of athletes, actors, academics, and artists alike. As you scroll through these works, immerse yourself in the greatness of your classmates and remember that you too foster that same strength within you. Your very eyes intake the world differently than any person ever will, and therefore, we hope this publication inspires you to celebrate your unique frame of reference with others. Whether you are simply a reader of the magazine or a prospective artist yourself, on behalf of all the editors of The Muse, we thank you for your contributions. Together, we make up a community of thinkers—a group of people who seek to paint pictures both literally and figuratively in the minds of others. We are true alchemists, but instead of transforming base metals into gold, we seek to convert our surroundings into melodies of words and artistry. Finally, we welcome you to turn the page and listen for the musicality of the muse’s whisper.
- The Editors of
TABLE OF CONTENTS SECTION / AUTHOR
PAGE
POETRY Summertime Sonnet - Noah Aguilar ...................................................................................1 I Saw You On The Train - AJ Arrizon ...............................................................................2 A Promise Unbroken - Yusra Arub ....................................................................................3 stars. - Poulomi Banerjee ....................................................................................................4 Good Morning - Ali Bell .....................................................................................................5 Get Up - Clare Brady ..........................................................................................................6 Alzheimer’s - Aditi Chatradhi ............................................................................................8 Leo - Caroline Dickens .......................................................................................................9 navigating halls - Ella Garfunkel ......................................................................................10 Our “Adult” Society - Stephanie Jue ................................................................................11 Vice and Virtue Excerpt - Alisa Khieu..............................................................................13 Help! I’m Trapped In A - Siddharth Kulkarni ..................................................................14 I Can - Lance Louis ...........................................................................................................16 Wet Weather - Maureen Mailhot ......................................................................................17 Nights Like This - Emily Malig ........................................................................................18 iridescent - Nina Myers .....................................................................................................20 Passion - Jennifer Prince ...................................................................................................21 Strange Things - Narahari Rao .........................................................................................22 Strange Bird, Last Words - Charmina Rios ......................................................................23 Her - Sophia Scott .............................................................................................................24 Untitled - Sophia Smith ....................................................................................................25
Starry Eyed - Priya Vasu ..................................................................................................26 Tranquility - Celine Wang ................................................................................................27 Losing Someone - Austin Wong .......................................................................................28
PROSE True Beauty - Maria Arenas .............................................................................................29 Untitled - Tanvi Bajaj, Stephanie Jue, Brenna Schumacher, Sophia Scott .......................30 A Fold Over Story - Nathalie Co, Alisa Khieu, Carolyn Richter .....................................31 Heavy Metal - Elijah Brown .............................................................................................32 Berries Of A Different Fruit - Erica Johnson ....................................................................33 The Deserted House - Chloe Smallwood ..........................................................................34 For Daniel - Raymond So .................................................................................................35 Six Word Short Stories - Various Authors .......................................................................38 ART Eye - Hannah Anderson ....................................................................................................39 California Adventure - Emily Kramer ..............................................................................39 Unnamed - Rucha Kopardekar ..........................................................................................39 Unnamed - Lance Louis ....................................................................................................40 Rudy - Katelyn Meyer ......................................................................................................40 Fire - Isabella Shaquer ......................................................................................................41 Flowers, Pathway - Priya Vasu .........................................................................................41
po • et • ry [ the universal language placing special intensity on the expression of feelings and ideas through distinctive style and rhythm ] [ العمل األدبي التعبير عن املشاعر أو األفكارARABIC ]
شعر
puisi [ INDONESIAN ] karya sastra mengungkapkan perasaan atau gagasan [ יצירה ספרותית להביע רגשות או רעיונותHEBREW ] שירה किवता [ HINDI ] सािहित्यक काम भावनाओं या िवचारों को व्यक्त करने [ CHINESE (TRADITIONAL) ]
Dichtung [ GERMAN ] literarisches Werk Ausdruck von Gefühlen oder Ideen поэзия [ RUSSIAN ] литературное произведение выражения чувств или идей poesía [ SPANISH ] obra literaria que expresa sentimientos o ideas poésie [ FRENCH ] œuvre littéraire d'exprimer des sentiments ou des idées ποίηση [ GREEK ] λογοτεχνικό έργο έκφραση των συναισθημάτων ή ιδεών poesi [ DANISH ] litterært værk udtrykke følelser eller ideer gedigte [ AFRIKAANS ] literêre werk uitdrukking van gevoelens of idees poezja [ POLISH ] dzieło
literackie wyrażania uczuć i pomysłów
Summertime Sonnet By Noah Aguilar ‘19 The season of the sun, it brightens up our day to run, everyday, with such vitality, that we never had before. Vitality that helps us physically and mentally, and always end up wanting more. Although it may be dreadful, Summer reading a useful tool. You might be regretful, as there is a test at the beginning of school. Summertime gives us freedom to act a clown and be dumb to find a good place to lie down.
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I Saw You On The Train By AJ Arrizon ‘18 The rhythmic beat of the train tracks were engraved into my mind by now. I don't bother to look out the window, that redundant blur of the outside. I stare down at my scuffed, worn shoes. This life of mine, each day a duplicate of the previous, overflowing with labor. A figure passes by, and something compels me to glance upwards. It was you. I saw your face for a second, one second too short. You set one leg on top of the other, and looked out with passion in your eyes. I saw, saw that you had a unique curiosity, a loving, inviting attitude. I do not know why I was so drawn in to you, but you definitely got my attention. Your whole self had captivated me for the remainder of the trip. You were radiant, bright, beautiful. Your eyes glistened in the moonlight, you were absolutely stunning. Was I worthy of you? I would say no. I dare not to bother such a beauty. The dark starry night didn't seem so gloomy anymore, thanks to you. The train abruptly slows down to a halt, you and I both rise up to depart. We step off the train, to the train station, and begin to part ways. I look back, hoping to catch your face again. Turns out we had the same idea. My eyes caught yours, and you smiled. That was the very first time, that I saw you on the train.
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Source Photo by Bansi Patel
A Promise Unbroken By Yusra Arub ‘19 I promised you that I would bring a beautiful, precious diamond ring. I even stole it from the guards, who left me broken, burned, and scarred. I promised you a million smiles to make your summer days worthwhile, but, alas, the days, they lived too long. You couldn’t bear the birds, the sunlight, the song. I promised you a lack of tears, no inhibitions, an absence of fears. But darkness leapt and gave you a fright-How you tossed and turned that gloomy night! I promised you all that I should, I do what I can, I did what I could. But, alas, I am not among the blessed to make you joyous, or to impress. I promise you my utmost love, for that is what i am made of. So take my hand and let us go see all there is to see, know all there is to know.
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! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! stars.!
By!Poulomi!Banerjee!‘16! ! Oh!!how!I!wish!I!saw!the!stars,! twinkle!across!the!sky.! The!eerie!grace,! never!leaving!a!trace! of!what!night!was!like!without!light.! ! Oh!!how!I!wish!I!could!touch!themBB! being!so!far!away,! reaching!across!on!my!tipBtoes,! stumbling!across!the!blown!away!hay,! jumping!up!and!downBB! seeing!how!far!I!can!go.! ! Oh!!!I!wish!I!can!hug!them,! as!tight!as!the!light! that!they!heavily!shine! on!this!clear!night!sky.!
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Good Morning By Ali Bell ‘18
A Dewed Dandelion stands proudly Its white strands of hair in clumps of the breath of sunrise Lonely it is named A single candle of smeared color across the dreary distant morning sky "Good morning!" It screams into the unforgiving wind It waits for the sunrise
5
Get Up
By Clare Brady ‘17 Moonlight shines through my window, I breathe slowly in my escape. The weight of these thoughts hurt, So I get up and walk away. The house is silent. Wood creaks under my feet. And my thoughts scream, "Go back to bed", But I walk through the dark instead. I'm on the road now. The air is cool... I don't know where this goes. God only knows how much further I can go. Listen... I hear something... No--it's nothing... Wait--it's something It's too dark, I can't see. I can't see what's behind me. She touches me and I turn. She is me. A me that is tired The me that is scared. Me that's been in the dark with no one there. She falls in front of me and cries. She was looking for me. She was in the dark and couldn't see. She was looking for the girl she knew she could be. I take her hands and say "get up". I asked her what's wrong? She said it's been so long. So long since she heard a song or Felt anything to make her strong.
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Together we walk along. The longer we walk the brighter the sky. The brighter the sky the further we fly. Since I found her, I can finally see that there are two of me that need to be in harmony. For I was weak when she was gone and she became strong when I came along. The strong and the weak The joy and the meek The laughter and the tears I'll need these minute years Two sides to this life There two sides of me But I need them both to be complete. Together we are limitless Together in this life And if in the fight of life I fall, she'll protect me from my demons and say "get up, we can fight them all".
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Alzheimer's By Aditi Chatradhi ‘19
dedicated to my grandparents Remember the day when you bought me that antique watch and cooked me a fancy dinner? I ate, joyfully, but forgot. It was our anniversary. You chastened me for letting it slip my memory, it is the 4th of August. Remember all the times when I forgot to buy milk at the store? You wrote me lists in your beautiful handwriting, which laid untouched on the kitchen counter while I hurried out the door. There are two gallons in the fridge now. You used to call me your dear absent minded professor. As I thumb through our old photo album for the thousandth time this week, I can still picture how you laughed when I dropped the croissant off the Eiffel Tower, right before I asked you to marry me. I will never forget how you wept when we carried our bleeding daughter to the ER. Now, as I lay awake, worrying, at the thought of ever losing those precious moments, I carry the weight of our shared memories, my dear, While you are robbed of yours.
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Leo By Caroline Dickens ‘18 Whatever you say I know I understand
Leo Like a spinning clock Hands of time describe my life
We protect You and ourselves
But we run too fast to be noticed We are ignored
Hide our feelings Only for the fortunate
We stand for ourselves We are encompassed in ourselves
Spring and summers Fall and winters Continuous smiles
We cry, we bleed We die
Sometimes we don't speak We tell with our eyes
Unique abilities and compliments Move on from the downfalls
They say beauty is everywhere Look deep Fingers and legs, blue eyes
There is a view And we will find it Park benches, city streets Machine guns
Slip on your glasses Step in the sun
Creativity leaks and drowns People who lack it
Sun kissed skin Delicate touches
Circles become squares Life becomes death
Opinions reflect like water But we don't tell like clear water
But still there is no black-and-white Only color
Eat cotton candy secrets Melt on my tongue
We are the prideful misery We are rare
Leo
9
navigating halls
By Ella Garfunkel ‘18 always walking walking, walking with people and against them do not stop abruptly—cut across, and angle a shoulder t h r o u g h so much foot traffic
10
Source Photo by Mitchell Koontz
Our "Adult" Society By Stephanie Jue ‘19
From an early age we are taught to mold into the bonds of society From an early age we are thrust into a cage too small for the great minds we have yet to develop And we can’t help but wonder What might have been If our minds had been freed. From an early age we are taught to keep our voices lowered, heads bowed, and mutter a gracious, "yes ma'am" and "no sir" when asked if we would like a lollipop, or if we wrote our English essay, or if we know the first 10 digits of e. The boy who wants to sing his soul out is quickly brushed away, the girl who wants to share her knowledge is quickly tossed to the curb. From an early age we are pushed unwillingly into a sea of a language we hardly know, and we are drowning in all letters of the alphabet from "appointments" you must keep to the "zeros" on your math quiz. Our voices are stolen at the age we watch Ursula take away the voice of the little mermaid, Our feet are bound as soon as the glass slipper glides onto the perfectly-sized foot of Cinderella. In kindergarten we are taught to raise our hands before we speak, wash our hands before dinner, make our beds before school. Before we can even walk or talk, our cries are silenced by a mother's gentle "shhhhhhh", our father's strong embrace. And when we can talk, we must keep "indoor voices" and the teachers are always "hush, hush.. How easily were our imaginative fairy tales and action heroes snatched from our hands and innocent eyes, replaced deftly with heavy volumes of biology, math, and history. How simply can that outgoing, fun-loving girl grow into that quiet, introverted, eye-averting woman, sitting there in the corner of the coffee shop With those big, studious glasses As she sips her coffee Her nose buried in a Volume of words And pages That She Still Is drowning in. It is no wonder this generation is becoming more machine than human, More technology than that which in our hands. It is no wonder the people that make machines are machines. 11
It is no wonder that that woman is still sitting there in the coffee shop. Our voices have been taken, our free paths directed by green lights, and red lights, and yellow lights, and the rule that if Simon doesn't say, then you are out. It is no wonder we are all clawing to the top, when not so long ago, it was the first person to the treasure box who got first pick. It’s no wonder people say "impossible" More than "I'm possible" That they say they are trapped in the stocks And stuck in the bonds That society so kindly lays out for them. It is no wonder we play the game of London bridge the length of our lives, Never wanting to be there when the bridge comes down, and Hoping, wishing, that the bridge falls on our friends. It is no wonder that we always need to ask "y" and that we always Feel trapped, trapped by our "x"'s we still remember from twenty years ago, and that we look to formulas, charts, and books For all our answers Instead of first within ourselves. We are stronger than we think But only if we think that we are stronger, Only if we realize that some of us are strong And some of us are thinkers. We must realize we are not the same mold, Not the same exact lego man with the same exact red brick house In every home in America, Not destined to be that Barbie doll but something more than Pretty faces, shy princesses, helpless damsels in distress. And it is no wonder we are all still playing the silent game, No one daring to mutter a word, A silence so established, So permanent, So familiar That to utter a word And break the delicate Quiet Would be to shatter The glass slipper.
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Vice and Virtue Excerpt By Alisa Khieu 17’ I. His grandma never answered the door, so John always brought an extra set of keys. Sometimes, her flip phone would flash and ring, so John learned to pick up for her, to pick up after her. He convinced himself that he didn't mind. Nobody called except Atenol anyway, and John liked to hang up. II. Whenever she did talk, she rambled. Sometimes about the Vietnam War, sometimes about her son's graduation from med school. John convinced himself that he didn't mind, and occasionally, he didn't. He felt as if he understood his father best from his grandma's stories, like that would somehow cure his disdainful vehemence of that unpleasant sperm-giver. To entertain himself, John would bet on who would forget faster, his grandma or him about her. III. John and his grandma shared silence more often than they didn't. Truthfully, he didn't understand even half of what she said, her sentences crumbling the same way her memories did: halfway through. But John preferred it that way. If the story never finished, it would never end. IV. His grandma never answered the door, so John always brought an extra set of keys. She kept the television on, commercials as company. He convinced himself that he didn't mind, and when he entered high school, he didn't. V. When consistently pitted against one's own powerlessness, one's complete insignificance before mortality— the ephemerality of all good things— does a doctor not die without an immunity of sorts, a type of numbness before pain? What purpose does morality to serve in a world of eat or be-eaten? Both vice and virtue are social constructions, and the conscience is as correct as 2+2=5. Entropy is the nature of the universe, and we breed cruelty. VI. John's college counselor asked him what made him happy, and John could think of many a stimulus for dopamine-- all of which would disappoint you greatly. In his defense, John would say that he was the greatest disappointment of them all, and when both John and the doctor inhabited the house, his father would have agreed. VII. There were only two days of mandated family reunions: grandpa's funeral anniversary and grandma's (always belated) birthday. Usually, people misplaced their spirits at such occasions because blood ties like a noose. VIII. He assured himself that he didn't mind. She forgot his name, not him. All people do eventually, and no one memory traces the precise neuron pathways as the next— his grandma called John by his father's name, and John desperately persuaded himself that he was more angry than sad. He probably hated himself more than he did his father.
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Help! I'm Trapped In A By Siddharth Kulkarni ‘16 Help! I'm trapped in a Strange and fleshy prison With only two holes for vision A cage of meat and bone and gristle A hollow and empty vessel There are these appendages, rigid, and breakable, The terror is unmistakeable That I've only got one mind and one body, And sometimes God's work can be shoddy Because I can't know what you're thinking Without trying to read and decode your blinking A lonely and imperfect species We write our own complicated theses Because we can't communicate brain to brain We lie and cheat and cause pain Because the great joke of the world is God didn't give people telepathy We're all mannequins made of meat who say we have empathy But sympathy is really just a glorified currency You give me some, I give you some, thanks, that transaction was sufficiently Handled. Or was it a Solipsistic mis-click on the Friend button A nitpick, a qualification, I'm not actually friends with him or nothing They talk about social justice and they say they love feminism too But they always make sure to buy the SI Swimsuit Issue Is it all just an act to get you to like them, you don't know A wolf in sheep's clothing, the trappings of kindness just for show No one can trust anyone, there's the capacity for sin in everyone When "good" and "pure" priests have done horrible things just for fun, How can we know what thoughts others are thinking When our own thoughts are a mystery, always unlinking 14
We can't even divine our own destiny Let alone remember our own history Because everything someone says in the future tense is a lie There's no way they could know, foresee, or scry We're all selfish, my perspective is the only one that I can see I say I saw it with my own eyes, What other eyes would they be? So maybe we should all Split our own skulls And ooze out the cracks And have our brains pool gently on the floor And all be one big happy mind together Connected at last, free of our body's fetters And leave our oily fingers, and greasy faces behind The last vestiges of asymmetrical humankind Because I need Help! I'm trapped in a Physical brain, And Help! I'm trapped on the Physical plane Help! I'm trapped in a...
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I Can By Lance Louie ‘19 I can be your jewel as long as you cherish I can be your feet as long as you run I can be your star as long as you wish I can be your clown as long as you have fun I will be your mentor as long as you let me in I will be your eyes as long as you look higher I will be your glass as long as I'm full to the brim I will be your words as long as you'll inspire I am your goal because you aim above I am your clock because you manage time I am your heart because you always love I am yours because you are mine
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Wet Weather By Maureen Mailhot ‘19 When skies of gray and glories be Completely crazy to some degree Wet weather shines down on the earth And fire climbs out of its hearth Translucent souls and opaque hearts Faith and Hope to us imparts I open note test but strike the wrong chord Mop up the mess and win an award Arching citadels and crumbling towers Whisper to the wind as by time they're devoured Soft and silent silhouettes stand solemn at their spires. An icy heart will quickly melt when warmed by forest fires. It's hard to say if a heavy heart can really weigh you down When knowing that cement skeletons cause us sink and drown In a bleak and bitter world that seldom never changes Sometimes you need to spout some nonsense to while away the ages.
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Nights Like This By Emily Malig ‘16 On nights like this when the stars go up and the moon's filled up you like the sound cars make as they pass by your bedroom window reminds you that there are streets outside and cars with people in them heading on their way maybe only to deliver pizza maybe only to drive back home after a long day's work maybe just for the sake of driving On nights like this after the children are tucked into their dream-ridden sleep after bedroom lights have turned off across the globe after everyone else has fallen fast asleep you like to stay wide awake along with the oddballs like you who can't seem to resist the freedom the knowledge that there are no expectations no jobs to be done no rules to be followed the rule-makers are sleeping and the job-givers are sleeping and no one knows what's going to happen next no one knows where the cars on the road are headed or where drivers' steering wheel hands will lead them the only thing you know for sure is that there are streets outside and cars with people in them going places you've never been before
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On nights like this the gravity changes somehow not the gravity that keeps your feet anchored to the ground stops you from floating up into space like a hot air balloon‌ this gravity weighs so heavy on your shoulders time after time most days, you forget it even exists the closet doors that never open the ticking clocks that never stop the songs you sing when you think there's no one there to hear you you keep your hope bottled up inside hidden behind the person you say you know you are but the truth is you're just like everyone else human and you're not the only one who's ever felt alien in your own skin before On nights like this you like to close your eyes and imagine the ocean isn't too far away rushing cars sound like crashing waves it's easy now to let yourself go imagine the people in cars going places you've never been before imagine the wide open seas you've never seen before lie back and float along the current of your absent minded thoughts wonder what the martians are up to? you think it must be nice to be surrounded by so little gravity
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iridescent
By Nina Myers ‘17 remember. it takes all I have to not forget, to stand tall as dust falls from my fingertips. promise me. this is what we always wanted; you are not alone. i will stand for you, i will always Leap (though i often prefer to stand by your side). you are iridescent; in your smile, in the way your lips part. with your hand reaching for the stars, the world feels whole again. with your strength And the way you carry happiness on your tongue, And your grace And the way you spin while you are idle and how you hypnotize Us All. remember. remember where we came from, remember where we will go.
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Passion
By Jennifer Prince ‘19 Burning you like a dancing fire Poking me with shards of ice Passion reaches us. Giving me an untamed spirit Overfilling you with raw energy Passion envelopes us. Opening up all your senses Coursing rapidly through my veins Passion fills us. Breaking into my untouched soul Unlocking your sealed heart Passion controls us. Traveling down your spine Moving in my restless mind Passion becomes us.
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Strange Things By Narahari Rao ‘19 I stare at the sky, thinking What a strange thing. I breathe in the air, thinking What a strange thing. I hear all the crickets, thinking What a strange thing. I drink my water, thinking What a strange thing. I think in my mind, all this is here. What a strange thing.
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Strange Bird
By Charmina Rios ‘19 It was the spring when God’s gift had come. There wasn’t a clue of what it would become. Summer had arrived. There was a happy bird. However, it didn’t know that it would be absurd.
Last Words
Autumn had settled in and there was a big change. The bird was very sad because it was called strange.
By Charmina Rios ‘19
Until our memories fade
Simply go through the wonderful life Enjoy creations God made Do not pick up the knife when in strife
The winter had become worse as the strange bird was mocked. Other birds made fun of its feathers and the way it awkwardly squawked.
And our hearts cease to beat Remember every moment To make ourselves complete Seek goodness in each opponent
It was spring once again.
We will always love and remember you
Life’s emotions were a mix, but the bird was no longer strange
Excel in each possibility we're given Like a bird freely flying in the sky Last words have been thoughtfully and wisely written
for it had become a beautiful phoenix.
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Her
By Sophia Scott ‘19 Her hands were not too small to hold, Nor too big to write and create. And Her nails were painted a deep, dark Blue, like the sky when it's late. Her hair was brown, but not like the Leaves, and more like the rising Sun. It was so soft to the touch; Flowed like the sea; hypnotizing. Her face was made of porcelain, It was painted carefully, To match Her warm, delicate smile That made an appearance, rarely. Her eyes; Her eyes we all her own. Singed with the fire of Her love And ringed with the remnants of Her doubt. Her soul, they all wanted a part of. Then, one day, a stranger came, To the land that She called "Home". His wounds were deep from a past Love, and his eyes chilled to the bone. She was eager to help him heal, And did all She could to wrap His broken heart in perfect Hands, but, alas, it was a trap. He took Her innocent soul and Never gave it back. He took One look into her light heart And turned it all to black. Her eyes: faded. And her smile: gone. Her story: she never told, Anyone, but me, who holds her Love, even as we grow old.
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Untitled By Sophia Smith ‘17 Round and round Earth round sun Or sun around Earth History on the ebb Time flows constant – four seasons, three crops Humans hand in hand or arms at ready The humble, sun-beaten face is untouchable Dirty hands and sore back, he fills our bowls at the table Lay down all weapons before his Church Rows of brown and leaves of green Up before the Sun and water before the rain His lined eyes stay down Down at the earth which he knows so well Down at the Earth which he will know someday The handle of a sickle between hands closed in prayer Dirt under fingernails and callused palms He need not look to the sky and wonder For all mysteries of the Book and of the heavens Have been explained and understood under a straw-brimmed hat Seed to store And home again
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Starry Eyed By Priya Vasu ‘19 ebony skies with swirling symphonies of stars lighting up my heart
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Tranquility By Celine Wang ‘19
Tranquility is the white figure That floats upon a lake, And need not say words, But sings like an angel, And pleases the mind, Which settles stress, And soothes life. I’ve seen it in dreams, And also reality. Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a speck of me
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Losing Someone By Austin Wong ‘19
Sometimes I dwell on the past Hoping to find an answer at last But it was a question as far up as the sky Where I can only say… Why? Why do people have to die? It just makes life sound like a lie Losing one hurts so bad And makes one feel far too sad But that's what reality is like No one knows when something bad will strike I myself had lost someone before His fate was as harshly cold as a kitchen floor Our world… Can be so cruel Sometimes it makes me feel like a fool He was my friend and he was so dear Sometimes thinking of him brings down a tear
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prose [ the universal written or spoken language in its ordinary form, without metrical structure ] [ مكتوبة أو اللغة في شكل عادي لتحدث دون هيكل موزونARABIC ]
prosa
كالم عادي غير ممتع
[ INDONESIAN ] tertulis atau lisan bahasa dalam bentuk biasa, tanpa struktur dangding
ללא מבנה מטרי,כתובות או מוקלטות בשפה בצורתו הרגילה [ HEBREW ]
ּפרֹוזָה
गद्य [ HINDI ] िलिखत या अपने साधारण रूप में बोली जाने वाली भाषा, छंद संरचना के िबना [ CHINESE (TRADITIONAL) ]
Prosa [ GERMAN ] geschrieben oder Sprache in ihrer gewöhnlichen Form gesprochen, ohne metrische Struktur проза
[ RUSSIAN ] письменной или устной речи в своей обычной форме, без
метрическую структуры
prosa [ SPANISH ] lenguaje escrito o en su forma ordinaria hablado, sin estructura métrica prose [ FRENCH ] écrite ou la langue dans sa forme ordinaire parlé, sans structure métrique πεζογραφία
[ GREEK ] γραπτή ή προφορική γλώσσα στη συνηθισμένη της μορφή, χωρίς
μετρική δομή
prosa [ DANISH ] skrevet eller talt sprog i sin sædvanlige form uden metrisk struktur prosa [ AFRIKAANS ] geskrewe of gesproke taal in sy gewone vorm, sonder metriese struktuur proza [ POLISH ] języka
pisanego i mówionego w swojej zwykłej postaci
True Beauty By Maria Arenas ‘19 I was taught that beauty is everywhere. It wasn't until I got called "ugly" for the first time, I realized how truly rare it is. It cannot be found on the price tag of your clothes, on the karats on your fingers, and not even the plastic smile you wear to fool your friends. No, instead it is in the hearts of those you love the most, the noise that fills the air when you are with that special anything! You see, "beauty" is a fixed six letter word that has become distorted in our eyes, and you might find that it is becoming harder to realize honest beauty. Beauty does not rest upon your skin for all the world to see. It hides in your flaws, under all the brands you wear, the tears you shed, and the facades you raise up. Because true beauty can only be found by those who are willing to look deep enough see it.
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[ ex·quis·ite corps ] ekˈskwizət,ˈekˌskwizət/ kôr/ extremely beautiful and, typically, delicate / a body of people engaged in a particular activity
Untitled By Tanvi Bajaj '19, Stephanie Jue '19, Brenna Schumacher '19, and Sophia Scott '19 The purple panda jumped on the trampoline with a blue horse. They were able to jump tremendously high and could almost touch the stars and feel the rays of sunlight. The chirping and tweeting of various birds echoed in the background of the perfect moment on a beautiful summer's day. Their song reminded me of a time when life was still bright and hopeful. When, before anything else, I would only think of the light. But that brightness is gone, vanished, leaving only the darkness of despair behind. I am trapped, alone, and forgotten in such a world of darkness—no light enough even to see myself, my soul. It consumes me, the painted walls of black inching towards me, haunting, creeping. I feel myself entering a world of madness. Then, a light appears. Not sunlight, as one might expect, but a bright glow from underneath my purse. I saw it, but it didn't see me. I reached for this beacon of hope...stretching, leaning, hoping to find solace and comfort during this miserable time. But I found it—not in the world around me—but in myself. Inside, I know, is a light that will keep on shining through my darkest days. And I smiled.
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A Fold Over Story
By Nathalie Co '18, Alisa Khieu '17, and Carolyn(Richter('18 There was once a blind mouse with(the((appetite((of((an((elephant.( But my brother never ate anything and would only eat brussels sprouts. Ew! Once, my evil step-aunt forced me to plant brussels sprouts in my(grandmother’s((garden.( But in her garden I fell into a well And into a strange girl’s room where we(decided((to((have((a((spontaneous((dance((competition. The kangaroo won, followed by the zebra who accidentally was eaten by an elephant. But it turned out to be a mouse in disguise. He wore rad shades and a charcoal overcoat to(impress((everyone,((but( instead people laughed at my pink eyebrows. But I was too cool for school, and I(didn’t(listen((to((what((anybody((said((about((me.(
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Heavy Metal By Elijah Brown ‘18 There once lived two brothers who served as knights in the country of Germany. The elder was called Gunther and the younger was called Oskar. Oskar was timid, reserved, and careful in his words. As for Gunther, he was prideful, showy, and selfindulged. Both of the brothers were remarkable in swordsmanship and overall athleticism, but Gunther felt that with great skill came a great need to impress. He had a personal armorer create the greatest suit of armor that could meet the naked eye. The armorer used extra metal to embroider gorgeous floral patterns and unique Celtic designs. As for Oskar, he stuck to the metal that was originally given to him, but he was as awe-stricken as many were at the sight of Gunther’s armor. A battle soon approached the brothers Oskar and Gunther and all their comrades. In anticipation for battle, Gunther actually tried on his armor suit for the first time. But low and behold, it was far too heavy to fight in. His horse could not support the armor’s weight, so with that Gunther had to fight on foot. Every step on the battlefield for Gunther was heavily labored. All he could think about was when the battle would hopefully end. And his wishes were met early, as he was struck in the leg with an arrow, and had no choice but to retreat back to safety. As for Oskar, with his armor feeling just right, he was able to triumph in the battle and become a hero, despite his reserved demeanor. Back in the barracks, Oskar decided he was due to talk things over with his brother following their victory. “Forgive me, my brother,” Gunther said in heavy realization. “I got carried away in pursuits of my image. I forgot what was really important. Now look what had stricken me.” “Your leg will heal,” Oskar replied. “And when it does you shall return to your old armor. It may not have the glitz but it will serve its purpose. And you are just lucky enough to see a second chance for yourself.”
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Berries Of A Different Fruit By Erica Johnson ‘17 I don't believe in love; I can't. For believing in the unwanted inevitable would mean surrendering to the infernal depths of what one may call "feelings.� You know, those things that tend to blind the true intentions that one might feel for another? Unnecessary, redundant. You see, though I may feel said "feelings" for you, they go unwanted, wasted like the over abundant rainfall that floods the forests of the Amazon. Your unresponsive eyes and prosaic state of mind is off-putting and frankly an outward performance of cowardice. An outward portrayal of your lack of valiance, as if something unseen hinders you, preventing you from attaining the self acclaimed goal you have set for yourself, so you turn your back to the cause and continue with whatever preoccupied your mind before. Why? You have this ability to be the intelligent knight in shining armor that you so strive to be if you opened the cage that your voice is captive in and let it immerse itself in the crisp, enlightened air that you have been depriving it of. Though you stand a staggering six feet to your minute counterparts in stature, you are but a child in mind and soul. How? All these unanswered questions shall be buried in the depths of my mind as I am too a coward, too afraid of the preconceived thoughts you have of me and the thoughts that shall continue to form after many revealing inquisitions of your character. Which brings me back to the topic of feelings and love. How could one concoct feelings for one who cannot even devise a proper and adequate excuse for their lack of maturity and selfbeing? With that said, how could one ever come to love another who doesn't know themselves, and, therefore, exists as an unreliable source of this confusing thing called love. But how am I to judge? I have not travelled far enough soul-wise to truly know who I am. I guess we're both growing in age and wisdom, finally becoming acquainted with different parts of our being, but maybe that's why we're so perfect for each other. Maybe that's why we're better off apart. This is why I don't believe in love. I can't. For believing in that unsatisfactory forthcoming would mean befriending the beast-like "feelings" that come out from within to play at night. And I would rather waste my feelings on someone who could care less to reciprocate than someone who doesn't possess the ability to.
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The Deserted House By Chloe Smallwood ’17 As I approached the deserted house at the end of the road, I saw what I thought to be a person. How oxymoronic—an occupied deserted house. The figure can only loosely be described as a frail older man; no other material seemed to be able to embody it. He seemed alone, not because of the absence of people around him, but rather by the sullen reflection glimmering in his eyes. Some force was drowning him. He stood still as if there were some crippling antagonist crushing him with every movement. Despite the constant torture I decided the man must have been enduring, he preceded to live his life with subtle grace. His eyes must have expressed his loneliness, but his mouth displayed his wisdom. He remained quiet throughout his painful existence. Not a single grunt could slip out of his impermeable lips. He had mastered complete self control. While I continued to approach the seemingly un-deserted house, I contemplated the occupation of the old man. What was his purpose? Why was he there? Naturally I was to fearful to ask him. I did not want my curiosity to somehow deter him from his struggle to live. My anxiety transformed into the realization that I did not belong near the somewhat deserted house. My presence alone would have disrupted the nature of the place. I turned around, but I could not let go of the image of the man. My youth was not suited to understand his wisdom and poise. I turned around one last time for a final glimpse of the man, only to find that he had disappeared and that the house, once again, was deserted.
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For Daniel By Raymond So ‘17 On March 3rd, 2012, I shared a greasy, pepperoni pizza with my friend. To this day, I still remember opening the white cardboard box, the comforting steam brushing across our faces and leaving behind a stripe of dew. I still remember the silky cheese stretching and stretching until it could no longer resist the pull of our hungry fingers. I still remember the loving chuckle my friend gave me. True friends we were. Six days later, he would be gone. Most stories start off with a happy “once upon a time,” but this one’s no fairytale. Sure, I used to think that there was a “once upon a time.” I used to believe that Peter Pan was real, that Alice did go to Wonderland, that Hakuna Matata was really a thing, but once again, that was all once upon a time. I would soon learn that life is no fantasy, that life is far from a Disney movie, that there’s no such thing as a happy ending. On March 4th, 2012, I helped my friend with his Biology homework. I still remember question #3, which asked about enzymes and their functions. I still remember the puddle of ruby eraser shavings collecting at the corner of his desk. I still remember my friend’s tirade about his “low” grade of 94%. Five days later, he would be gone. Most stories avoid repetition by having a variety of expressions, but not this one because, sometimes, no matter how hard we try to move on, all the nightmares keep replaying and replaying and replaying until we lose sight of the present. Sometimes, we can never find enough words to express how we feel. On March 5th, 2012, I went bowling with my friend. I still remember falling onto the alley as I prepared to release the eight pound ball. I still remember the three blisters I had on each of the segments of my index finger. I still remember my friend’s seven consecutive strikes and my five consecutive gutter balls. I still remember how much he beat me: 130 - 20. Four days later, he would be gone. Most stories have a clear order with an introduction, conflict, and resolution, but not this one because, sometimes, our lives lose structure. Sometimes, our lives cease to be stories and become a mess of ideas and tragedies. Sometimes, our lives are only conflicts, the resolution nowhere to be found. On March 6th, 2012, I ate dinner at my friend’s house. I still remember the pungent Brussel sprouts sinking into my plate. I still remember the tender, juicy pork chop that I used to cover those Brussel sprouts. I still remember his hungry dog pawing at my knees as I fed him the Brussel sprouts. I still remember my friend eating four plates of food. Three days later, he would be gone. Most stories are long, but not this one because, sometimes, our lives end without the finishing page. Sometimes, all that our memories have to offer ends up short one. Sometimes, the author just cannot go on. On March 7th, 2012, I played basketball with my friend at the park. I still remember my friend making the shot all the way from the other side of the court. I still remember climbing on top of his back, using his plushy head for high-fives. I still remember the trail of sweat we left behind as we walked off the court. Two days later, he would be gone. Most stories are descriptive and colorful, but not this one because, sometimes, all the adjectives and adverbs in the world cannot replace the sorrow of reality. Sometimes, life is a movie from the 50s, just black and white, and trying to paint over it creates a smudge, and trying to erase the smudge creates a bigger one. 35
On March 8th, 2012, I went to the movies with my friend. I still remember spilling the buttered popcorn onto the lady sitting in front of us. I still remember how my phone rang during the quietest part of the movie. I still remember how many times my friend left to use the bathroom: four. One day later, he would be gone. Most stories are logical, but not this one because, sometimes, things in life just happen without any reason. And the more we try to create explanations, the more we find ourselves trapped in the limbo of questions and answers, the more we find ourselves longing for an explanation for our own explanation. On March 9th, 2012, my friend ended his own life. I still remember the shivering phone call I received from his mother. I still remember running as fast as I could, a mere block becoming a marathon, the red and blue lights paving my way. I still remember begging the officers to let me see him. I still remember his mom trying to comfort me when it was really she who needed comforting. I still remember seeing the pill bottle lying in the corner of his room. I still remember myself screaming, punching the pavement to somehow change the laws of the world so that I could bring him back. I still remember calling his father to tell him what had happened because his mother could not find the courage to do so. I still remember the ten seconds of silence before his father started to accuse me of lying. I still remember wishing that I were lying. I still remember my life falling apart right before my eyes. Most stories go unheard, but not this one because for far too long, the muffled screams of a tormented teenager have remained silent. For far too long, his prayers have gone unanswered. For far too long, families have despaired and mourned. For far too long, friendships have been stolen by an unexpected departure. Maybe there were signs. Maybe I was blind. Maybe we were all too consumed with our own lives to notice. ... What if he told me? What if he trusted me? What if he told me and I just didn’t hear? What if he knew that I was there for him? What if I could have stopped him? What if . . . what if? Every day, I ask these questions to myself. Every day, I lie to my parents and say that I’m okay. Every day, I run to the shower and cry and cry and cry. Every day, I find myself staring at a picture of him. Every day, I replay all the things we did together in his last week. Every day, I find myself trapped in the past. Sometimes, we have to accept that one plus one can equal one but that one minus one always equals zero. Sometimes, we have to accept that life is no picnic, that no matter how hard we try to hide behind fantasy, reality always finds its way to the surface. Sometimes, we have to understand that once Death swings his scythe, we can never turn back time no matter how many tears we shed, no matter how many times we bloody our fists from pounding the floor, no matter how much we loved him. Sometimes, we just have to bury our guilt . . . Sometimes, we just have to accept . . . Sometimes, we just have to heal . . . Sometimes, we just have to move on . . . Sometimes . . . sometimes . . . just for Daniel . . .
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6-Word Short Stories Empty table for two, wilting roses. -- Philip Brazelton 16 Breathe the water of the Styx. -- Philip Brazelton 16 I love because I love you -- Caroline Dickens 18 Missing piece, unfinished puzzle, unfinished ending -- Emily Kramer 19 Nothing is madder than the Hatter -- Emily Kramer 19 Sunlight shines after the darkest days. -- Kristen Voelker 19
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art [ the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination: any and all artistic endeavors included in this section, from photography to other forms of written art ] [ التعبير أو تطبيق املهارات اإلبداعية البشرية والخيالARABIC ]
فن
seni [ INDONESIAN ] ekspresi atau penerapan keterampilan kreatif manusia dan imajinasi
[ ביטוי או יישום של מיומנות יצירה אנושית ודמיוןHEBREW ]
אומנות
कला [ HINDI ] अिभव्यिक्त या मानव रचनात्मक कौशल और कल्पना का आवेदन [ CHINESE (TRADITIONAL) ]
Kunst [ GERMAN ] Ausdruck oder die Anwendung der menschlichen kreativen Geschick und Phantasie Изобразительное искусство
[ RUSSIAN ] выражение или применение
творческого мастерства человека и воображения
arte [ SPANISH ] expresión o la aplicación de una habilidad creativa y la imaginación humanas art [ FRENCH ] expression ou de l'application des compétences et de l'imagination créatrice de l'homme τέχνη [ GREEK ] έκφραση ή την εφαρμογή της ανθρώπινης δημιουργικής ικανότητας και τη φαντασία
kunst [ DANISH ] udtryk eller anvendelsen af menneskets kreative dygtighed og fantasi kuns [ AFRIKAANS ] uitdrukking of toepassing van menslike kreatiewe vaardigheid en verbeelding sztuka [ POLISH ] Wyrażenie wyobraźni twórczej
lub aplikacja ludzkiej umiejętności i
Eye – Hannah Anderson ‘16
Unnamed – Rucha Kopardekar ‘19
California Adventure – Emily Kramer ‘19
Unnamed – Lance Louis ‘19
Rudy – Katelyn Meyer ‘19
Flowers – Priya Vasu ’19
! Pathway – Priya Vasu ‘19
Fire – Isabella Shaquer ‘19
THE$MUSE$ AMHS$Student$Literary$Magazine!
!
MODERATOR! Kevin!Brazelton! ! STUDENT!EDITORS! Amy!Baylis!‘16! Niharika!Bhat!‘16! Philip!Brazelton!‘16! Camille!Daszynski!‘16! Alisa!Khieu!‘17! Shining!Liu!‘16! Emily!Malig!‘16! Shannon!N!O’!Hara!‘16! ! APPRENTICE!EDITORS! Ali!Bell!‘18! Anne!Moultray!‘17! Nichole!Lim!‘18! Valerie!Remaker!‘17! ! LAYOUT!AND!GRAPHICS! Amy!Baylis!‘16! Shining!Liu!‘16! Emily!Malig!‘16! Anne!Moultray!‘17! !
Mission Statement The Muse: AMHS Student Literary Magazine is a collection of original, creative literature 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 to think, to write, to dream, and to 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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