♛ THE MUSE Dear Reader, Welcome to the first issue of The Muse: AMHS Literary Magazine of 2016. This magazine is a creative outlet for talented writers and artists at Mitty and is compiled by a group of student editors. The carefully handpicked selections feature poetry, prose, and art, showcasing the superior creative talents of Mitty students. We hope to provide a place in which student creativity can be shared with the larger community, and we seek to foster a love of reading and writing by encouraging students to have their work published for a wider audience.
Call for Submissions The Muse: AMHS Literary Magazine is accepting entries for the next issue: Volume 2, Number 2 until March 24, 2016. Please refer to the MyMitty page under “Clubs” regarding the submission process of poetry, prose, art, six-word-stories, jokes, and memoirs 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.
muse / noun 1. a guide or a source of inspiration for a creative artist 2. the literary magazine created by the students of Archbishop Mitty High School
Letter from the Editors In Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, author Anne Lamott discusses what it means to be a writer. From the inception of a new idea to the publication of the final draft, writing is a difficult process. Yet despite its abundance of challenges, writing is a gift. Lamott explains, "You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build sand castles with words, who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander... This is what separates artists from ordinary people: the belief, deep in our hearts, that if we build our castles well enough, somehow the ocean won't wash them away.� As you scroll through the pages of The Muse, you’ll find there is plenty to discover. From poetry to prose to jokes to visual art, the following pages are filled with sand castles. To the readers of this magazine, we encourage you to immerse yourself in the creations of these talented students. In addition, we hope this publication inspires you to build art and literature of your own. To the authors and artists of these pages, we thank you for your contributions. This magazine would not be possible without you, and we celebrate your work. Together, we form a community of writers, artists, thinkers, and jokesters. We build castles from the sand of our memories and imagination. We create entire worlds from scratch. We construct characters from mere dust. On sleepless nights, we draw these stories on paper in the hopes that they will last forever. The unfortunate truth is that nothing lasts forever. We cannot stop the ocean from its relentless ebb and flow, but we can revel in the temporary beauty of our creations. Finally, we welcome you to turn the page; stick your toes in the proverbial sand. What lies ahead is a palace made of words and images. You are hereby invited to Explore. - The Editors of
TABLE OF CONTENTS SECTION / AUTHOR
PAGE
POETRY For Granted – Vera Alekseyeva ..........................................................................................8 Basically Fall – Tate Archibald ...........................................................................................9 Ode to Monarchs – Yusra Arub .........................................................................................10 Priorities - Noah Aguilar ....................................................................................................11 Music - Tanvi Bajaj ...........................................................................................................12 Hidden - Poulomi Banerjee ...............................................................................................13 Untitled - Alex Basinski ....................................................................................................14 The Poet - Aneri Bhatt ......................................................................................................15 Sunset to Sunrise - Surabhi Bhupathi ...............................................................................16 When I Hear That Song - Clare Brady ..............................................................................17 disappointment - Matthew JT Brennan .............................................................................18 The Defender - Alora Cisneroz .........................................................................................19 Last Breaths - Christopher Civilikas .................................................................................20 Angel - Trisha Dinh ..........................................................................................................21 Depression - Audrey Durham ...........................................................................................22 universe (oh Universe) - Olivia Figueira ..........................................................................23 Sonnet of Storms - Ella Garfunkel ....................................................................................24 Contingence - Jasmine Ho ................................................................................................25 Daddy's Little Princess - Stephanie Jue ............................................................................26 When at Last - Nathan Mack ............................................................................................27
The Unknown - Sabeer Narula ..........................................................................................28 Farewell to Ink - Isabel Newcomb ....................................................................................29 Stinson - Isabella Orsi .......................................................................................................30 Slow Down and Watch - Arjun Pamidi ............................................................................31 Pantoume - Prerita Pandya ................................................................................................32 The Golden Touch - Raina Patel .......................................................................................33 The Ship's Last Course - Jennifer Prince ..........................................................................34 A Thought - Sophia Scott .................................................................................................35 Blue Jay Blues - Isabella Shaquer .....................................................................................36 So, Fall. - Maxwell Shade .................................................................................................37 Joie de vivre - Sachin Vallamkonda .................................................................................38 ART & PHOTOGRAPHY Acari, Cusco Puno, Lomas-Acari - Francesca DePierola ..................................................40 Flowers, Black Cat, Battery Park City - Elina Xie.............................................................41 Unnamed - Aditi Chatradhi ...............................................................................................42 PROSE The Girl Next Door - Aneri Bhatt .....................................................................................44 Untitled - Mary Bonini ......................................................................................................45 A Letter to My Dearest - Brenna Schumacher ..................................................................47 FLASH FICTION & JOKES The Blind Man - Elijah Brown .........................................................................................49 Various Authors ................................................................................................................50
EDITOR’S WORK A Rose Garden - Ali Bell ...................................................................................................52 Today - Camille Daszynski ................................................................................................53 Bird Days - Nichole Lim ....................................................................................................54 moonless melancholy - Alisa Khieu .................................................................................55 Personal Statement - Emily Malig ....................................................................................56
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
For Granted
The rain falls spontaneously,
By Vera Alekseyeva
Telling us to let go of our anger, our sadness in times of stress. That rain that we take for granted.
The sun rises and sets,
Trying to patter through our fake exteriors,
Every day the same way. The same routine over and over and over again.
Each raindrop willing us to wash off our disguises and not be ashamed of our hardships.
And although we almost never notice,
That rain that we almost never notice.
These colors shine brightly,
That rain that we take for granted.
Promising love, promising peace, in times of lost hope.
The leaves on the trees sway in the autumn breeze,
Those colors that we take for granted.
Eventually dancing their descent to the ground.
Pink, purple, golden and fiery auburn,
The same routine over and over and over again.
Each melting into the other, tie-dying the heavens.
And although we almost never notice,
Those colors that we almost never notice.
The leaves dance joyously even in their final seconds.
Those colors that we take for granted.
Those leaves that we take for granted. The ocean waves lap upon the beach,
That show us that you only live once and to live life to the fullest,
All day and all night.
To take every opportunity to rejoice at the world.
The same routine over and over and over again.
Those leaves that we almost never notice.
And although we almost never notice,
Those leaves that we take for granted.
These waves crash rebelliously, Promising a new start, a new era in times of grief.
People flutter through our everyday lives, Every hour of every day.
Those waves that we take for granted,
The same routine over and over and over again.
Washing away our worries,
And although we almost never notice,
And sending them off to dissolve in the salty depths of the sea.
These people care and look after us.
Those waves that we almost never notice.
Even the casual hello is there to make us smile.
Those waves that we take for granted.
Those people that we take for granted, That support us in times of despair and celebrate with us in times of jubilance,
The rain falls down to the earth in various intensities,
Each individual adding to the fullness of our lives.
Gentle at some times, and in a windy downpour at others.
Those people that we almost never notice.
The same routine over and over and over again.
Those people that we take for granted.
And although we almost never notice,
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Basically Fall By Tate Archibald In the October winds my Uggs feel nice As I hold my latte of pumpkin spice. The cold blows through my Lulu Lemon leggings And I wish I had put on my jeggings. I make my way home in my Brandy Melville Sweater, Which I save for when the weather is colder and wetter. With my outfit precise and my eyebrows on fleek I think about what I will do throughout the week. Maybe I will bust out my Bath and Body Works Candles I only bought three but my bank account is in shambles. I could count all my flannels as the mud gets thicker And pray my town gets a new Snapchat sticker. Whatever I do I'll keep my messy bun high As rain clouds start to gather in the sky. I'll be sure to take some candid shots with my fan Because those will get the most likes on Instagram.
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Ode to Monarchs By Yusra Arub It’s almost as if this moment was made for you and me, When you rushed home with excitement because you made the soccer team, When you scored the final touchdown and screamed for victory, These moments are yours and mine. It’s almost as if these tears were wept for the same reason, When seniors left their home sweet home after a hard earned graduation, When we lost someone close and our hopeful hearts were broken, These tears are yours and mine. It’s almost as if we shared the same pain, When we lost a Monarch whom Heaven gained, When smiles left and sorrow came, This pain was yours and mine. It’s almost as if we do everything together, The sea of white when we cried for our little brother, The madness we feel as Monarchs forever Will always be yours and mine. It’s almost as if our love is silent, Unspoken and strong, giving us hope and guidance, All these moments are crystal-clear signs That this love is yours and mine.
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Priorities By Noah Aguilar After football practice, I have to do what everyone else has to do, Homework. It's time consuming, but a priority amongst my fellow scholar athletes. Sports A priority for sports is to have determination to get better and to strive for greatness. To be so great that everything around you plays in slow motion.
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Music By Tanvi Bajaj A story of joy, heartbreak, love, sadness, of life Music reaches into the teeming abyss of feelings and thoughts and breathes life into them It can recreate the immense happiness of love and life, make the sun seemingly shine on you as your body unwillingly moves, swaying to the smooth rhythm of the beat It can portray the harsh, bitter truth of reality, plunging deep into the depths of your heart with its icy fingers Music re-lives stories, feelings, thoughts, ideas All balancing on a few magnificent, mighty notes At the same time, music is an escape The twinkling bells of elation and joy are a beacon of hope after a dark and dismal day The exhilaration of resounding beats are a relief after a wash of disappointment and sadness When the pain penetrates, the music resonates Music heals The music swells and declines, rises and falls, matching your every breath The soft harmony creates a spark of wonder while the deep, dark bass dares you to keep listening The gentle lull of the melancholy melody clashes with the obnoxious downbeat of the percussion but in a seemingly magical way‌ music ensues The climax arrives and all that exists is the sound of the music, the feel of the music, and nothing but the music Music flows like a gentle stream with increasing intensity Till it finally roars down with the power of an unstoppable waterfall The sweet melody hums softly while the darker chords bubble under the surface, a sinister touch, a volcano ready to erupt Music, music, music The word emerges from the lips of many brings joy, brings happiness, brings a sense of understanding When words fail, music speaks
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Hidden By Poulomi Banerjee
She hides behind her placid mask, running away from society. She runs and runs--never stops before she catches her breath and runs again. Further and further into the distant crowd-Running away from the foreseen prejudice. She hides behind her placid mask, unable to unmask her true expressions. She was a beauty--everyone said she was. Beauty is Power and Power is Evil: back then, that was what the world was. She cried and she cried, she wanted her beauty to die for Beauty is Power and Power is Evil-her whole world crashed into dust. She was poor, that she was: Money is Love, Money is Trust. So she cried and she cried, she was evil and unloved. She wanted to run, and run and run. So she ran, she ran away. Far away with her placid mask, hiding her feelings, which were waiting to be unmasked.
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Untitled By Alex Basinski
What are stars but dying lights, Bleeding out across the sky?
And when the night has lost its fire, Which lights will we see by But the ones we lit ourselves?
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The Poet By Aneri Bhatt I used to have a pen in my hand and paper in front. And the words would pour when they asked me to. I could say whatever I wanted to and be blunt. And they never said a word about what I should do. Then the flame lost its spark and the spark lost its flame. I had nothing to write, nothing to speak. They taunted me, teased me, filled me with shame. I had turned from stubborn to meek. I filled my pen with ink and sat down to write. And the paper soon met the pen. But there are only ashes of ideas, nothing that is right. Now never will I write a word again.
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Sunset to Sunrise: A Sonnet By Surabhi Bhupathi The colors blend with both red and yellow, The Sun must linger as he leaves the world; To paint the sky with colors so mellow, While he bears the sky with his blaze unfurled. But Night drives up with her flaming sickle, Marring his mural, calling it fickle, Simply he descends with rage in his heart— While Night rejoices as he does depart. Along with darkness she covers the Sphere; Leaving only the moon to give some light, She gloats over the world that night is here. Little does she know of the Sun’s strong might. As the Sun arrives, Night quakes in despair; Sun rose, while Night fled from his dreadful glare.
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When I Hear That Song By Clare Brady When you hear that song do you think of us? The song was a three minute slice of heaven. The song that made me fall Innocently into something I believed in. God, I loved it all. The time we shared, without a care, You me us we, Are branded in my memory. What a shame how the rain put out the embers. The embers had no reason to die, That's probably why my heart's still on fire. Do you ever hear that song and think about us? And realize what could have been. The embers didn't want to, but the rain sure did. We knew. Knew enough to know what's true and what's true is how embers never died. But no one knows except for I For every time I hear that song I think of us. You me us we are branded in my memory. When I hear that song I cry inside and thinking of us silently.
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disappointment! By Matthew J.T. Brennan! !
i am a disappointment! and i refuse to believe that! i am a decent human being! because, if we’re honest here! i am just absolutely terrible at life! and i don’t think! people care about me! and the reality is! my actions! are influenced by! other people! because i already know! i don’t matter! and it isn’t true that! i live up to expectations! because! i am a failure! and you will never ever hear me say! i am loved! !
! *Note from the author: now read it bottom-to-top!
!
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The Defender By Alora Cisneroz There once was a girl who hid in disguise. For she couldn't let anyone inside. Her voice hidden within her built up walls, Waiting for the day everything would fall. Behind a deceivingly pretty face, A broken warrior is masked in place. She lives among us, an outcast in our home. Quietly defending the world we roam. But the only protector of all things good, Is crumbling before we even could. For she bears the evil scars of neglect. Withdrawing any pain we might suspect. She doesn't hide for the reasons you think. She is only waiting for you to sink.
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Last Breaths By Christopher Civilikas The grey breaths he would always take I never knew they would decide his fate The doctor told him his lungs were turning black Ten years ago he took a light again there was no turning back I never knew the pain that comes from death Til my grandfather took his very last breath He told me not to worry and that it's going to be alright But that was just reassurance for the night Every time he fell into a sleep It made me want to weep For there was no way to tell if it was fake Or if he was never going to wake I shook him til my arms got tired But it was time for the traditional shots to be fired And I stood there in there pouring rain Looking at his grave, waiting for him to be lain
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Angel By Trisha Dinh My dear little angel where have you gone? Come back here, let me mend your broken wings Oh come back home angel it's almost dawn Are you on the roof thinking evil things? Oh come back now angel please don't you cry Darling you'll be okay don't you worry Don't you know it's too cold outside to fly Come back home baby wipe those blurry eyes I know you’re hurting let me help you out Come let me be your light and guide you I'm your best friend angel there is no doubt I'm here for you and your family is too Stay strong keep smiling I love you so much Angel come back home just take my hand's clutch
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Depression By Audrey Durham Crawling through my veins Like hemlock I see you laying next to me Stop following me please I don’t know what you want I will give you anything, just go away You demonic thing limit me Choking me until I go limp I have blisters from the cold metal handcuffs you gave me long ago You thief, you took my heart Killed my hopes and dreams My back aches from the weight you put on my shoulders I can feel the blood in my throat Screaming for help Despite this at the end of the day I thank you
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universe (oh Universe) By Olivia Figueira (oh Sun) why are you what I need no vision, my eyes are weak (oh Moon) why are you what I seek when I’m up awake, needing sleep (oh Stars) why are you what I meet no light, no sun, but oh so steep in just our universe it’s no mystery, (we believe we understand) we pretend we're unique but universe (oh Universe) as far as you go we reach and we reach
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Sonnet of Storms By Ella Garfunkel Her careful pace, his gentle voice, send me Into hysteria. Send cutting winds And rain awry that cause them all to flee. The gale and pour to match how wild I grinned With spark and shock as pressure drops, but high Up goes my pulse. My nerves electric cords Only mad men dare touch. I wide my eyes Up to the sky as falls droplets in hordes. Through leaves dance the damned fairy things with joy Like nightmarish ways, fears do creep and crawl. I'm uncontrolled in storms sick with airs coy. Don't run so fast or you are sure to fall. The palms of fingers kiss under my chin. I'm not ointment, I'm but the poisoned pin.
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Contingence By Jasmine Ho In the cool breeze The sounds of the night Cars whiz by The loss of light Voices blurred Only a soft murmur Possessed by the sight A shiver runs through your spine You feel the chills of the night Echoing through your veins The night is cold But you feel no hindrance As you close your eyes Lost in contingence
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Daddy's Little Princess By Stephanie Jue Look at her Those golden curls And rosy cheeks And dimples She's daddy's little girl They say A princess and a fairy She runs to daddy Open arms And he spins her 'Round and 'round Fast as he can Slow as she wants Together He takes her on trips With her on His shoulders To the little ol' park To feed the birds And squirrels And she wishes to be swung To feed the squirrels To smile Together With her daddy
He doesn't have the strength To lift her Nor does she want To be A fairy or a Princess
She smiles widely Her pearly whites And innocent Rosy cheeks And because of this He grins
She's lost her golden curls Replaced by auburn-brown Her dimples Now hollow bones Her rosy cheeks Now painted on
Back at His little Princess *** Now she's grown Not little anymore She's busy with this Busy with that The smile wiped off Replaced with a frown And grown-up Lipstick
She now travels to D.C. To Boston and New York She wants to see the world And not the little park Where she and dad Fed squirrels
She doesn't call him "daddy" And he can spin her no more But she can't
Now he's sick in bed She rushes back from Europe And pounds her heels Upon creaky old steps With blue peeling paint Of the porch her father Swung her 'Round and 'round She reaches the bed On which he lies A little old shadow Of the strength he Had She cries a million Oceans Her heart shatters into A trillion Shards
*** And Hope comes crashing Down
And alas It is too late Her chance is gone The time is up
But
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Strength still allows For his last dying words A whisper: "My Princess�
When at Last By Nathan Mack When at last the sky is open, When the clouds have come and gone, It's impossible to focus, Empty skies and cluttered heads. Cluttered heads and empty skies, One can tell the other lies, One can hear the other cries, When the clouds have come and gone. When the clouds have gone and come, When the sky is shuttered grey, One can see the other's dawn, Empty heads and cluttered skies. When the skies are far behind, Out of sight and out of mind, When the clouds and their surroundings Are a distant memory, When a memory is clouded, When the clouds are blown away, When at last the sky is open, And the clouds have met the sea.
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The Unknown By Sabeer Narula
My thoughts as scattered as these leaves on the ground My heart thumping on my chest is the only sound My head is spinning and going round and round I can't shake the feeling that I'm alone
My hands are shaking, in this time of fall My ears are ringing, like a dead man's call My knees are buckling, I try to stand tall I can't shake the feeling that I'm alone
I feel uprooted like the trees swaying There's no one around me but I can hear the wolves baying The wind whispers to me, relaying their saying I can't shake the feeling that I'm alone
My body is racked with pain, I let out a groan My body is shivering violently, I'm chilled to the bone My body is submissive, but at least it's my own Maybe I'm not walking into the unknown
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farewell to ink By Isabel Newcomb
Imagine a world with no Hardbacks Newspapers Picture books In which the digital age devours everything Leaving the survivors of the massacre behind glass The last of their kind preserved but unused Imagine a world with no Writing hand cramps Handwritten Letters Left Hand Ink Smudges Where we have to live and read Squinting at a dark screen For fear our battery will run out Imagine a world where you can't Lose your place Misplace your bookmark Dog ear pages Where you are not even trusted to keep your own place The decision of where to start is not left to you There is no room left for aimless meandering Imagine a world in which our children will not know The rough feel of the paper The heavy weight in their hands The old book smell The constant companionship of the dusty pages The power of the written word in its purest form They will grow up alone Imagine a world where we said Farewell To Books Farewell To Paper
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Stinson By Isabella Orsi
She was Beaming In her Thoughts, In her Feelings, Immersed In her own Meaning Of the Equator Rubbing her dÊcolletage, Recharging In spite of singularity. She’s falling, Falling into Eucalyptus euphoria In her rolled up Floral denim, Simply aroused In her head And in love With it.
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Slow Down and Watch By Arjun Pamidi
Does life have a speed limit It goes by too fast Everyone is afraid to end up last Don't worry there is no hurry You don't want it all to go by in a flurry Slow down so you might See those pinpoints of light That bright light blue sky The sounds of the birds The beautiful language of words Not just the sounds of your life Admire the sounds and sights Slow down because it's worth it to watch.
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Pantoume By Prerita Pandya
Autumn
The leaves slowly turned crimson, red As they let go of their hold on the tree Down from the tree they were led Leaving home and being free
As they let go of their hold on the tree They were going to see the world Leaving home and being free A thirst for discovery unfurled
Going to see the world They floated in the soft wind With their thirst for discovery unfurled The leaves slightly grinned
They floated in the soft wind Down the from the tree they were led As they slowly grinned As they were turning crimson, red
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So what if you could only be as good as pyrite? With your every such thought, she slowly crept away
The Golden Touch By Raina Patel She was guarded, very much so Her ribs a metal safe protecting her heart Her skin a shield from the touch of the world itself Her eyes two glassy pearls Always leaving you wondering if they saw the same things you did
Now there’s no more gold left for you You feel stripped, empty, cheated Like the good in your life had been unfairly snatched away Like a robber stealing the single gold coin that a poor man has You cried, "Why me? Why her?"
She spoke a language unable to be understood Something so hauntingly familiar Like the nursery rhyme your mother used to sing you to sleep Or the rhythm of waves crashing on the shore Something at the back of your mind seemed to light up in hope
Well it’s obvious isn’t it? Just look at the order of your words You saw her just as everyone else did, nothing at all more And so you lost her, so painfully and painlessly You complain that everything has lost its luster Still, you see her in the city lights at 2:30 AM In the warmth of the sun as it hits every nerve in your body In the pitiful smiles of strangers that see the hurt in your eyes
She was like personified gold Touched by King Midas himself So illuminated, radiant, more than the light of a thousand suns But also so very cold, hardened The latter is what you often forgot
In all the things you so fatefully ignored She did some good in your life, you admit to yourself Gold she was, and gold she did
They say that with time comes some level of intimacy You expected her to be the same But little did you know Gold doesn’t corrode, and neither will she It’s no secret that this was fated to be doomed So you tried your very best To turn yourself into gold Gold is only valuable because it is rare
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The Ship’s Last Course By Jennifer Prince Sailing through day and night Wrestling in high winds and choppy seas She emerges in the water’s horizon Floating Though the gale keeps her back Though the waves battle with her She moves on without cease Fighting At long last the sky turns bright again Hope returns and starts to fill the air She shall continue on her conquest Finding With calm waters surrounding her With peace holding her fast and still She rests in pride Finishing
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A Thought By Sophia Scott A thought, an idea, A simple thing, So small and sweet Like a silver ring. Place it on your finger, And keep it close To your heart of hearts Through the highs and lows. It will lead you on, Through the darkest tunnels of life, Its light never faltering, Never letting you fall victim to strife. A dream is always there, No matter how shy and small, To get you through it; Through struggles short and tall. 
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Blue Jay Blues By Isabella Shaquer I look out my window And see the blue jay Which meant today Would be a good day.
I rush into school And lay out my pens Before I knew it Alarms start ringing like hens.
Let's go mom! Otherwise we will be late Calm down son I promise you can wait.
What was that? Was it coming from the school? Where is my son Please be safe not a fool.
Why are you suddenly in such a rush Do you have a date Did I make you blush?
We duck and cover As the gun shots go off We try to be silent Nobody cough.
I just want to be On time mom I swear I am always late And my teachers can't bare.
I count the shots A patterned rhythm of death And all of a sudden I am without breath.
Goodbye son Please remember I love you Be safe at school And learn something new.
I love you mom Come visit me soon and together we will listen To the blue jay tunes.
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So, Fall.
(Lyrics from German Dark Grand (So, Fall.))
By Maxwell Slade a sight for sore eyes but a saved memory has her out of a safe place that feels the growth of fruitful gardens around. this hardship of a prolonged feeling is a struggle beyond the help of a helping hand or an 'i got your back.' growing pains hurt and can't always be overcome in a state of tranquil normality. throughout these fears and unwanted emotion this causes us to fall: for each other. to temptation. under 'the' influence. asleep. down. over. to this we can perceive in the retrospect of picking back up, or not leaving the falling point reached. falling points can scream at the untied shoelace, or the cause. concluding this pain comes a helping hand. a branch reaches out to gather its leaves during fall. all in all, this concludes a learning experience. so, fall. 

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Joie de vivre By Sachin Vallamkonda A hollow pebble falls upon the hard rock Cracking, for its turtle shell is no thicker than the line between love and hate And no more fragile than that of human brevity. Upon a river oh so fast there flows another pebble One of which is dense with love and thought Dense with faith and will For when he falls upon the hard rock I only hear the sound of a slap on my back And see the pebble jump as though frogs have no bourne Unbroken - unfathomable - but obtuse that he has been stabbed His vision impaired by the ocean of severity that rumbles through his core. Two pebbles thrown into the same jar of dye Two pebbles only willing to try Two pebbles but one floats to the top with a shallow crux The other is dragged down smiling at the fish and Joie de vivre Resting upon the ocean bottom with a dark shell and verve white light.
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art /채rt/ 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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Acari — Francesca DePierola
Cusco Puno
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Lomas-Acari
Flowers — Elina Xie
Black Cat
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Battery Park City
Unnamed — Aditi Chatradhi
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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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The Girl Next Door By Aneri Bhatt It was the memories that kept her alive, until the day she died. Tarnished bottle caps, stolen kisses, roses lightly covered in dew. She was a beautiful mass of contradictions. Like the stars. The stars spoke to her. She stood outside in the crisp cold air, plucked a single white rose, and then the dog came and barked at her. She patted him, and he sauntered away into the bush of white roses. "No, everyone hates white roses." And he turned around and went back in. She looked back at the sky. Like the stars. She was a beautiful mass of contradictions. She was fascinated by colors. All the shades and hues of the rainbow. She would stand near the window and smell the freshly made s'mores from the neighbor's backyard and dream about orange kayaks and orange peels. She would entertain herself with the idea that orange peels were purple and that the sky was green and the grass was blue. And then the smell of the chocolate and marshmallows would wake up her hunger and she would go inside to eat cold peas and oranges. She would take the orange peels and color them with a purple pen. All the shades and hues of the rainbow. She was fascinated by colors. She collected bottle caps. Shiny ones, dirty ones, broken ones. She would pick off the dirt with her fingernail and examine the bottle cap. It would be a soda pop, or a beer. She would sit in the grass and look at the red metallic hue of the metal piece in her fingers until the sky grew dark. Shiny ones, dirty ones, broken ones. She collected bottle caps. She once had love. Romance, lust, infatuation, whatever it was. She would wait for him by the back door, keeping it a crack open so he could slip in. And she felt happy. She would laugh, and cry, and love. He would console her when she was in pain. The pain was there by then. And the rain would pour, and the storms would cloud over, but he would wrap his arms around her soul and it would go away. She would never see him again, months later. Romance, lust, infatuation, whatever it was. She once had love. She was angry. A swarm of reds and oranges. Her eyes scrunching up with tears, the cold beating of her heart becoming a vivid fury of impeding heartbeats. She would kick the chairs down in the morning, remembering who she had lost. And then the tears would pour, the heart would break, the perfectly combed down hair fall apart into a wild mess. The hands that had once held love wiped away the tears that poured from the face onto the ground. A swarm of reds and oranges. She was angry. Tarnished bottle caps, stolen kisses, roses lightly covered in dew. It was the memories that kept her alive, until the day she died.
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Untitled By Mary Bonini Not having any friends doesn't really start to suck until summer. I figured out that the summer sucks more because during the school year, you have homework. Homework is a beautiful thing for a kid with no friends, because you can just go to the library and it gives you something to do. This isn't the case in the summer. Sure, you have summer reading, but you get that done in what? Two weeks? Now you're just a kid in a library with nothing to do but reflect on the fact that you have been here for almost a year and the only friends you've made are the librarians who are both at least twice your age.
This was the library theory I developed during the summer before my senior year. This was the same summer I discovered Instagram and Snapchat, so I got to see all the things the guys back home were up to. They did stuff like go to the 7/11 around 9:30 PM to buy the most random things they could find, wear their visors upside-down, and buy candy cigarettes and pretend to smoke them outside the local bookstore. I envied them so much. I was jealous of people who WORE THEIR VISORS UP-SIDE-DOWN!!! This was a dark time in my life.
It wasn't until one day, June 8th, 2014, to be exact, that I stopped moping around wishing I had never moved away. It wasn't until June 8th, 2014 that I met her. Now this isn't one of those stories where the new kid with no friends meets this girl and they fall in love and there is some sort of separation that will test their love for each other. No, she and I were never in love. Quite the contrary, we hated each other. She was a rude, sarcastic narcissist, and I was a quiet nerd.
The only reason we ever met was because I didn't see her walking into the library after me, so I didn't hold the door open for her. That really made her mad, so she yelled at me. She yelled at me in the middle of the public library for not holding the door, and then walked away. I saw her a few days later, presumably returning the book she had checked out after publicly shaming me for not being a gentleman, and she saw me staring at her and started to walk over. I really didn't feel like being yelled at, so I made a move toward the exit, but she followed me. I left the library, but she caught up to me.
Now if this were a story of romance, she would have apologized to me for making a scene and embarrassing me, but it isn't, so she didn't. She simply stopped me on the sidewalk, and explained to me that "here in America, we hold the door for people." And then she walked away. She did that a lot–say things either filled with sarcasm or profound thought then walk away.
But something came over me. Maybe it was that I had just seen a snapstory of some guys back home doing the cinnamon challenge, something I thought looked like a great time until she later told me how lame it really was, or maybe the fact that I had been living here for eleven months and hadn't made any friends was setting in, but I yelled
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after her, "Hey! Can we hangout sometime?" She turned, shrugged and said, "Sure," and then continued to walk away.
At that moment, I was expecting the amazing experiences that my friends at home were having. When I told her about the cool stuff my friends were doing and asked her if we could do crazy stuff like that, too, she laughed and asked me if I was in the sixth grade. I never wore my visor up-side-down that summer, nor did I pretend to smoke candy cigarettes, because I realized–well, she made me realize–that these childish antics were not what I really cared about, they were just a lame attempt to kill time.
She told me her theory of how everything anyone ever does is an attempt to kill time, but no one ever seems to be able to do it. She told me that, sure, people can injure time or temporarily maim it, but it has yet to be truly killed. She told me her goal was to actually succeed in killing it. She said she wanted to murder time, and I told her that was crazy.
Then I asked if I could help.
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A Letter to My Dearest By Brenna Schumacher Every last drop of ink goes to him. I write my deepest feelings, I write of our memories, good and bad. I tell him my darkest secrets, ones I would never speak aloud. I pen each line so neatly, packed from top to bottom. Each word etched uniformly, so black and thin. I sit by the hearth, savoring the light and warmth of the fire until what remains is nothing but ash. He has been long gone now. Sometimes I wonder if he ever really existed, or is one but of my imagination. Yet I write the pain away, I write my feelings and lock them tight. I take the key every night, to open the chest. I place each letter so carefully, in a straight, clean pile. I lock the chest and throw the key into the fire, yet the key always remains. I cry each night, my tears accumulating, hoping that the tears will collect until they flood the whole house, and carry me away to the edge of nowhere. I take my pen and write, write the tears away. I try to burn the letters, tear them, shred them to pieces, erase the words, but I cannot. Each time I attempt at tossing the letter into the fire the key appears. I take the key and lock the pain away, I put the pen down, and stare into the fire. I see him, smiling at me, his smile so gentle, so kind. I take the pen and start to write, yet again, every last drop of ink goes to him, a letter to my dearest.
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flash fic·tion /flaSH ˈfikSH(ə)n/ noun 1. a style of fictional literature characterized by its brevity
joke /jōk/ noun 1. a thing that someone says to cause amusement or laughter
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The Blind Man By Elijah Brown There once was a man who was stricken with a terrible illness. He was to lose his eyesight completely in a matter of months. To prepare himself for a blind existence, he wore a blindfold and learned how to do daily chores and routines without being able to see. The man learned his way around his house, how to use a white cane, and read braille as well. He eventually became masterful in managing himself without eyesight. And come a few months later, the man eventually went blind. His sister came by his house one day to deliver his guide dog. Upon astonishment with his adjustment to a handicapped life, she asked, “So how does it feel living without your sight?” The man responded, “I have learned that adjusting to a life like this would’ve come with time. I had a rest of a lifetime to learn the skills to go about life blind. I just wish instead of spending all that time preparing, I had taken it in more those last few months. All I want now is to be able to look at the sunrise and the sunset, to view my wonderful neighborhood, to watch the morning news on my TV, or gaze upon your beautiful face. But I guess from now on, I will have to leave it up to my imagination.”
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What happens when you put Nutella on salmon? You get salmonella! – Joyce Lin ! The!smallest!coffin!was!the!heaviest.!–!Aditi!Chatradhi! Forgive!and!forget,!but!how?!–!Malina!Hatton! There!was!no!light.!It’s!gone.!–!Mayank!Killedar! Saddened,!she!changed!“is”!to!“was.”!–!Abigail!Matthew! Tried!to!fly.!Failed.!Everything!hurts.!–!Rachel!Min! From!strangers!to!friends!to!family.!–!Emily!Noronha! Pick!yourself!up.!You!will!survive.!–!Jessica!Oliveira! The!powerful!words!impacted!everyone.!–!Kajal!Patel! Run.!Fly.!Even!fall.!Don’t!stop.!–!Saachi!Sahni! I!don’t!understand.!Please!send!help.!–!Shanaya!Sales! Wanted!food.!Got!food.!Felt!good.!–!Nabeel!Shaikh! I!saw!you…!by!another!man.!–!Anshul!Zutshi! ! Did you hear about the boy who got injured ransacking the library? He couldn’t blame it on anybody but himshelf. – Joyce Lin !
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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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A Rose Garden By Ali Bell the sun stands in disarray but the roses know no time of day the garden is calm
sitting in this space all the colors of the earth a garden of roses
lost spots of sunlight dreamed into a flower how a rose is born
light dabs of paint scattered across a green canvas a garden of roses
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Today By Camille Daszynski Don’t you think it’s a little interesting, maybe scary That we look forward to growing up for so long in our lives Only to let the fleeting moments pass us by? And before we know it, We start looking back and feeling an overwhelming sense of nostalgia Eventually you get a job, find the love of your life, and maybe even start a family But is that supposed to be the day your life finally begins? The day when you revel in the past and have a desire to return to your youth? No. Every living day that your chest puffs out And slowly sinks back behind the safe crevices of your body is a day your life flourishes We measure life not by age, but by the criss-crossed moments of pain and happiness Each day is a day your life has begun, Live life to the fullest—embrace, love, and remember There is nothing more amazing than an experience that ingrains itself in your memory Today is a day your life begins anew, Yes, Today your life has begun (again)
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Bird Days By Nichole Lim
Dew on soft white feathers, Rested wings unfurled, What is, I thought, as lovely In all the world? Noon and sunlit splendor, Earthly ties undone, Out from morning shadow, Into the sun. Night of mist and starlight, Still I fly ahead. “What after all are clouds To me?� I said.
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By Alisa Khieu the black and blue eyed embrace a moonless melancholy, a same sickness in lonely obedience, to the whipping and whipped master for whom you will brand your burns in both names and numbers: in kinky chains, or colored collars— and sloppy kisses from a sugared daddy taste sweet & salty just like your saliva so smell the lavender from the gated garden where you will bury your bones, because mor(t)ality¹ is a mutt!
whining and writhing for pain and for pleasure— because home is for the hedonists and our hearts: and lust does not lie (. . . !) like love nor like loyalty so breed your hurt in the dogged hunt: heart beat! (bark &) beat! (bark &) beat! (bark &) (—broken) ... ... ... bow - wow~! dear darlings, survival of the silliest and the stupidest: good girl, good boy, (so silence the muzzle) and good night!
¹ Gardner, John. "Chapter 4." Grendel. N.p.: Random House, 1971. N. pag. Print.
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Personal Statement By Emily Malig "What do you want to be when you grow up?" A question I've heard way too many times in recent months. I have a hard time answering this question for two reasons: 1) Being "grown up" doesn't feel like as much of a distant dream, and 2) the finality of declaring my One True Aspiration is, to say the least, overwhelming. Throughout the college application process, I've been asked repeatedly to define myself, to explain what makes me different from the tens of thousands of other applicants, to discuss what makes me "special." I am not special. I'm not a class clown, a prom queen, or a National Merit scholar. I'm quiet. I'm introverted. I'm studious. I am straight black hair, glasses, textbooks. I am the trademark Asian chick in your glossy diversity pamphlet. But it's more complicated than that. I do not fit in 250-650 words. I cannot be defined by an essay or a story or an anecdote, however well-composed it may be. I am a collection of contradictions, a composite of sound and memory. I like to think of myself as a closeted rebel. Quiet on the outside, anarchy on the inside. Realist and idealist. Ordinary with a flair for the extraordinary. My peers say they want to be doctors, lawyers, astrophysicists. When I grow up, I want to tell stories. I don't know what stories I want to tell or how I'm going to tell these stories. All I know is I want to create art. From poems to songs to stories to short plays, I've explored a number of literary genres. Nothing gives me more life than a new idea for a story, a new concept for a character, a new line for a poem. Writing is how I connect with the world. It's how I make sense of myself. I also perform. I present original songs and spoken word poetry. I sing. I dance. I act. Sometimes my art feels like a reflection of some sort of perverse narcissism. But I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing. On the contrary, I think it's kind of a good thing. Art makes me proud to be human. When I am writing, I am honest. Brave. Hopeful. Loud. Outspoken. When I am performing, I am raw. Authentic. Confident. Loud. Outspoken. I am the unexpected. As a writer and performer, I've learned there is more to discover beneath the surface. The world exists not in the duality of right and wrong, black and white, male and female, but in the spaces in between. I live in the grey area, where questions cannot be answered, only discussed. Where nothing is truly as it seems. I live in a world where Grendel is more than just a monster, where Manic-Pixie-Dream-Girls are just strong, complicated young women in disguise. I want to tell stories about weird, nerdy, badass girls struggling to find their place in the world. I want to tell stories about losers, lost people, horrible people, flawed people, real people.
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I want to explore the unseen nooks and crannies of the world. I want to share my findings with others. I want to tell the truth. I do not fit in 250-650 words. Neither do you. Neither does the world. I will never be able to fit the whole realm of human experience into one piece of writing, just as I will never be able to fit my entire self into one essay. But I can try to capture something true. Something real. Something honest. Brave. Hopeful. Loud. Outspoken. I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. But I do know that I want to keep telling stories. I don't know what stories I want to tell or how I'm going to tell these stories. All I know is I want to create art.
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Emil Antonucci, 1989
ARCHBISHOP MITTY LITERARY MAGAZINE
Moderator: Kevin Brazelton Student Editors: Amy Baylis Ali Bell Niharika Bhat Philip Brazelton Camille Daszynski Nichole Lim Shining Liu Alisa Khieu Shannon N O'Hara Emily Malig Anne Moultray Valerie Remaker
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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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