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Volume 1, Number 1 of The Muse: Archbisasdfhop Mitty High Scasdfasfhool Literary Magazine

Archbishop Mitty | Student Literary Magazine

ARCHBISHOP MITTY LITERARY MAGAZINE ♛ THE MUSE

Volume 1, Number 1 | 2015

Welcome Reader! Meet the first issue of The Muse: AMHS Literary Magazine.

This creative outlet is published regularly by a group of current

Mitty students, and the selections feature both poetry and prose.

These works are chosen and carefully handpicked to showcase

the superior creative talents of Mitty students. We hope to

provide a place in which student creative writing can be shared

with the larger community, and we seek to foster the love of

reading and writing by encouraging students to have their work

published for a wider audience.

♛ THE MUSE

Student Editors: Ariel Adame Niharika Bhat Philip Brazelton Camille Daszynski Alisa Khieu Shining Liu Emily Malig Arvind Vallabha

Teachers: Mr. Kevin Brazelton Ms. Jennifer Lesnick

The following written works are the intellectual property of Archbishop Mitty students. All ownership rights reserved.

Letter from the Editors

In her intimate and insightful book The Writing Life, Annie Dillard describes the peaks and valleys of her lifestyle as a writer. She poses many valid and stimulating questions by asking, "Why are we reading, if not in hope of beauty laid bare, life heightened, and its deepest mystery probed? Can the writer isolate and vivify all in an experience that most deeply engages our intellects and our hearts? Why are we reading if not in hope that the writer will magnify and dramatize our days, will illuminate and inspire us with wisdom, courage, and the possibility of meaningfulness, and will press upon our minds the deepest mysteries, so we may feel again their majesty and power?” With the pages that bind together The Muse: AMHS Literary Magazine, we hope you uncover a new perspective, a solution, or anything in between so as to discover something true about yourself. Look at every moment in retrospect and allow the words that caress these pages to fill your soul to the brim with inspiration and joy. Each page is infused with artistic talent and wonder, allowing you, the reader, to unleash your mind into a world of imagination. To all the students published in the pages hereafter, we offer up our appreciation for sharing your unique gifts with the greater community. We hope that this magazine serves as the foundation for your literary intellect and inspires you to continue opening up your creative genius. On those late evenings when you cannot seem to put your pen to paper and complete your thoughts, we hope that one of the ancient mythological goddesses—the muses—whispers into your ear, serving as your stimulus to bear the thoughts that you have retained within. Now, we invite you to get comfortable and place yourself in a world where you can appreciate the talent that is ever so present on these pages. Words are revealing, words are powerful, and words are the voices that project within our hearts.

- The Editors of

“As a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake.”

–Aimee Bender

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Use a Mirror By Philip Brazelton

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Unknown Land By Nickhil Tekwani

In the dark and stormy night, Where many seem to fright,

Lie a plethora of creeps, With a beast that weeps,

And bears that cry, Mice that barely get by,

Snakes that hiss for days, And many strays.

Who wouldn’t want to be in this place?

Oh right, the sane.

Bitter Winter Skiing By Leo Tong Skiing downhill at top speed The wind howled fiercely and buffeted my face Surrounding trees all wore a bright white coat The sun reflected the sparkling, crisp snow The skiers below were tiny ants A jet of loose powder trailing behind me My skis slicing the snow like butter A sudden bump Caused me to jump Falling face first into the freezing snow Taking a heavy blow A small avalanche provided me a blanket A blanket that provided my body warmth Slowly I helped myself up and my skis slid down the hill I lay there silently looking at the serene sky

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Wild By Sophia Smith

I crave with all my being To leave behind the whitewashed buildings And trimmed hedges And heed the feral calls of the howling wind I long to be rid of cold paved concrete Beneath my feet I long to shut my eyes to the rows of shiny metal cars To never again hear the mechanical whir of an engine I crave a wildness so deep and mad To experience nature incarnate To close my eyes And the uniform trimmed grass under me To transform into the wild raging beauty of the forest Growing rampantly Unhindered by the metal teeth of a chainsaw To once again be joined wholly with The mercurial tempest of liquid blue To fully experience the surging tides of the sea To give up my soul to the eternal azure of the sky I crave with all my being Wild In its unperturbed form

Treasure Hunt for Sachin Vallamkonda’s Jokes Seven Hilarious Gems to be Collected All across the Magazine

[Joke 1] Congratulations! You found a Sachin Vallamkonda joke. - Q: Which Disney princess is most related to grass? A: Moo-Lawn (Mulan)

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Like Air By Natasha Tolia Do remember this, before I begin— She is no longer a girl, She is a storm with skin. Like scalding liquid gold, They pour silence down her throat; "A lady holds her tongue," She is told, and told, and told. Did you forget she may hold none? For an iron fist holds hers. The screaming becomes incoherent. Deranged, they tell her. Broken. And may she never forget How she must cover herself; Tainted, lustful skin for Tearing, mind you, not bearing. Oh, but don't be a prude. Remove that silk from your hair. Can you not see you are oppressed? These chains are your own! Fear is in her like razor blades, Running across damp cheeks. But do not grow too worrisome, She is lucky to be a typhoon She dares to stretch herself In her cramped cage of falsity. The crack of her bones echo. They fear; they tighten the straps. She is but a child, of course. The preservation of purity, It is all for her, this Is always only for her. Yes, keep her clean; Keep her pure. Pure is all she will ever be. May she never forget that, too,

But she will kick and scream. The words that don't dribble Will beat like lashings. She will not be drowned. Doused in bleach again and again. A pristine ivory image— How splendid, how splendid. Put her center stage.

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Spring Sonnet By Swathi Ramaprasad

My love for you is much like a flower

But it is not at mercy of season You, my beautiful kind hearted lover

For you my heart has committed treason

My heart is in your hands, it is yours As your heart too will forever be mine

Around you, my heart is like a dove—it soars You anchor me, you make our hearts align

But are the songs you sing the truth, my dear

Are they truly more than heavenly dreams That they are untrue is my biggest fear

But for now, I say all is as it seems

If your lies were put out for me to see It may perhaps be the death of me

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For Thee By Alexis Rambac My love for you does shine so bright, my dear. It breaks down shadows ‘til it can find you. It cries at night for you to come, be here with me. It wonders if you had a clue. Oh, how it cares for you through night and day. Oh, how its soul burns red with blazing light. It cries, “Ah, I would love for you to stay,” And yet you fail to see its glowing might. My dear, its silence now can hold no more. It wishes to break free and love you so. Its words must fly away. Oh, they must soar. Alas! It does fear your cold shoulder though. It wishes you knew that it loves you now. It would tell you, but it does not know how.

Forgotten By Cathy Teng The time was just about right I had worked for a day and a night I went up on stage But my words were just caged And my memory went out like a light.

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The Tale of Them By Harika Janjam She never wanted to express how she felt, She hid her personality and emotions, The boy that made her heart melt, She was mesmerized by his eyes as blue as the ocean. Lab partners in science but she wouldn’t utter a word. Too afraid to embarrass herself in front of him, She was always scared to be heard. His presence made her go off on a whim. Every day she gazed at him surrounded by other girls. “Why can’t I be one of them?” she thought with a frown. She was jealous that she didn’t have hair as perfect as a pearl, She felt as if the best thing she could compare herself to was a clown. It was a Thursday and Homecoming was just around the corner. She was doing homework seated under a tree. Suddenly, she sensed a motion beside her. Looking up into familiar, gorgeous eyes, she gaped as he asked, “Leslie, Homecoming with me?”

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Clara By Caroline Dickens I saw you this morning. You got on the subway at the next stop. I watched you walk in. I felt my hand tremble. I felt something. We sat on opposite sides of the car, and I couldn't look away from you. I caught your name while you were talking to the talented violinist playing next to you. Clara. You chatted with the violinist for a while, allowing me to listen to the sweet sound of your voice. It was cheerful and happy. You were cheerful and happy. My stop came sooner than I would have hoped, but I didn't want to leave, I didn't want to say goodbye to you, this girl who didn't even know how much I had fallen in love in the time span of a half hour. So instead of being rational, I stayed in my seat. I planted myself further into the plastic bench, hoping this wasn't your stop. And it wasn't. You stayed on the subway long after my first class had started. You stayed on the subway, swaying to the soft sounds of the violin. You stayed on the subway, laughing into your phone. You stayed on the subway. And so did I.

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Memories of a Dead Tree By Catherine Newcomb

It’s dark, and the sky is hazy and almost purple through the trees. There is no moon, no night owls,

no one to share in the beauty of the night. I feel like a stranger. I know this place, but I have been away so long that I almost feel alienated from it all. It’s been ten, maybe twelve, years. I am not far from home, maybe thirty steps or so. But in the wild outdoors of the night, in the forest of maple and oak and eucalyptus, I sit on bark and hard packed dirt, under a skeletal yet stately maple that frightens me with its ghostly silhouette. A leaf falls, knocking aside branches as it goes, and my ears, accustomed to the silence, think it loud as a gunshot. I nearly jump. I am facing an old rotting stump, tall, nearly twice my height. It is falling apart, slowly crumbling to dust. It used to be my favorite place to play, and I would leave presents for the faeries, such as scraps of cloth to keep them warm or acorn caps to use as bowls for their soup. That was when I believed in magic. It’s a funny thing, magic. It makes you believe that anything is possible, that you are capable of anything if only you have a tiny bit of fairy dust. I look at the decrepit stump now, and all I see is the day I fell. I must have been six or seven. I was climbing, all the way to the very top, ten feet in the air, and finally I stood, triumphant, giddy with my own victory.

I thought I could touch the sky. And that was when the earth came up towards me, or maybe I was drawn down to it. I landed hard

on the roots of the dying stump. I was bruised and in pain, and I could barely move my body.

That was the last day I ever tried to climb the stump, and soon after that, I stopped leaving gifts for the faeries. In some way, I felt they had betrayed me, that they had let me fall, that they hadn’t been there to catch me. But even in the back of my seven-year-old mind I knew that they couldn’t have, for deep down I knew that I couldn’t depend on faeries to save me. I think that was when I stopped believing in magic.

I look at the stump now and I see in my mind’s eye a bright little girl, with a head of curly blond hair, wearing denim overalls and a pink cotton tee-shirt, bobbing joyously up to the stump to present a gift to the faeries that lived in the enchanted wood.

I miss that girl. I don’t know where she is anymore. I don’t feel like she is even a part of me now. I guess she got buried along with the magic and the

faeries, but I long for the days when she was innocent, and I didn’t have to worry about a thing in the world.

My mind always feels so cluttered, like a dirty attic that an old woman uses to store all her knick-knacks. Except instead of trinkets, I have worries. Worries about my friends, worries about my future, worries about my family, worries about my health, worries about my heart, worries about my worries. They all pile up and gather dust in my mind, and my only hope is that they stay in the attic and don’t consume the rest of me with their sheer enormity.

I feel like that stump, crumbling in the wind and weather, always at the whim of the elements. I came here to find peace, to find solace, but I only ended up seeing my own reality more sharply than ever.

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I can’t fool myself. There is no way to escape that which is already a part of you. I look up towards the stump. My stump. My face has been buried in the folds of my grey sweatshirt

for probably twenty minutes, as if have been trying to shut out the world. But now, I look, and this time, I don’t see decay, or a falling girl, or magic, or faeries.

I see life. At the base of the stump grows a young oak that I hadn’t noticed before, with healthy, new green

leaves and a thin but sturdy trunk. I see it, and I see my childhood, my present, and my future ingrained in those expanding rings.

And I dare myself to hope. Maybe I, too, can grow out of the dust, out of the termite-chewed remnants of my childhood, to new heights. Maybe I don’t need to worry about the future-- if I will get enough water, if the sun will shine on my leaves, if a disease will come and corrupt my core. Maybe I can just... grow.

And when I grow, maybe, just maybe, I can learn to touch the sky again without falling.

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from dust to dust by medha somayaji how of chemicals do solids form? an inkless pen still leaves scratches, silent words can carry more weight than a scream in the nighttime but how? sometimes there exists only the collection of water droplets hanging above (which minds will find any way to fathom into some entity,) crying out to be freed— but in freedom they are lost forever to the earth, until they are finally bound by the cold and fashioned into some form or another only to begin the cycle again why is it so impossible to let string be? the hand maneuvers it in any way possible: twisting and turning and twisting and turning until its previous form becomes like monkey is to man (though it becomes far more pleasing to gaze at with each knot) mountains in all their glory can be altered, the gentlest of the substances is also the mightiest, a fall into an earthly scar would yield a quicker death than one into the waters; the power to unite and the power to divide, to push and to pull, to expand and to contract; stones and water together make a deadly poison but only if one lets them. so perhaps it is impossible to preserve sparks, to ingrain them into permanence, but if there is a way it must be to turn them into black strokes.

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On Our Nature By Alisa Khieu

Danger erupts And corrupts

For humans, like leeches, turn to Suck friend's blood, and

Trample on kin. Now, won't you ask dear Darwin whether it is

The strongest-- or the most selfish--

That win?

Our Ultimate Destination By Andrew Kang

It is the end of the road.

Its inescapable grip on our souls is inevitable. Death himself in his long, black robe

Only leaves misery and sadness everywhere he roams. He feasts on the old,

The weak, and the diseased like a vulture. Mortals like us say that death is The worst loss that anyone can experience

And that it is bad, evil, scary, Bloody. So we

Do anything we can in our power Our measly power

To delay death, to try and keep it from claiming our lives. But in the end, death is necessary

Not just to prevent overcrowding or global warming or starvation Or whatnot

But it is necessary because death is what makes life precious.

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Life -- A Dubstep Song By Catherine Gong Slow beats to start off A gentle tap, a soft hello Just beginning-- Oblivious to the Tornado You learn-- What's right? What's wrong? You observe-- But don't understand what's going on The rhythm picks up Lifting you from the ground Dance, spin, twirl-- Rest on a cloud Sashay, pirouette, leap-- Take your bow! Confident, you take a rest Eyes begin to close-- As the Bass drops Hastily awakened by the beat of your heart Trip, stumble, fall-- From the heavens Unto the ground-- Thunder booms, as the Earth beneath you shudders Groan, whimper, cry Latched to the ground-- Wondering why? Catch a glimpse of the Clouds Remembering that life-- Or was it a dream? Work, hope, aspire Ascending once again Life-- a dubstep song

[Joke 2] Congratulations! You found a Sachin Vallamkonda joke. - Q: What type of math do the cool kids do? A: Cal-cool-us (Calculus)

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four white walls by shannon o’hara

if all art be twice removed

then let mine be thrice.

for inspiration, like a raw cicatrix now split

has been ripped, torn, like thin tights

to expose the crimson of creation,

and I, inclined to fall forward

have let it grip me tightly.

but if the rest is silence,

then let us crawl, leap, scratch, drag,

and let us dance.

our own flesh cannot bear

to be laden with secretive souls.

sweeter innocence of earthy emotion

we hide together in the dark,

we dream together,

dream of churches and stables

of grey light pouring on white walls,

we scream poems with a silent throat.

so let us twist, run, lift, roll,

and let us dance.

can we shed the ragged shroud?

the cloud of lethal indifference,

the lies, and the shadow of doubt?

they say to impart a secret

on the otherwise fastened ear

is to court the deathless knife,

and yet to walk together

empty-handed, but open-hearted.

so let us turn, fall, writhe, rise,

and let us dance.

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The 4 Seasons ~A Cinquain Set~ By Aileen Levan

Springtime

Flower-filled fields Blooming, growing, thriving Bees ring, birds sing Perfection

Summertime Backyard blazing

Playing, sweating, laughing It's cool, no school

Vacation

Harvest-time Sweater season Dancing, falling, crunching Fruit pies, gray skies Autumn

Wintertime Snowflakes spilling

Freezing, sparkling, jingling Dark nights, bright lights

Christmas

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The Not-So-Simple Answer By Rasika Raghavan

The tittles and tattles that decorate my scribbles Adjoin inked out letters for this rebuttal. The paper as brittle as my toffee just nibbled Smudged with thoughtful, traceless, subtle… Words scurry and skid and sputter across Tracks constructed in pieces, Flattening the creases As a steam engine puffing and pumping smoked soot Leaves darkened, thick ‘ahs” and clean, white “oohs.” How do I answer so vague a topic? An unnatural demand, so macroscopic. Can I not interpret the predictable outcome of sitcoms, Or disclose my secret nostalgia for green apple lip balm, Express my need for a quarter in a gumball machine, Rejoice in the slightly passing grade on my DDR screen, Address my salivating sensation for a midnight burger Just like Pavlov’s dog, incessantly fervor. Retrieving a Slurpee from the 7-11 I walked to, Or the pearl tea and Starbucks we all seemed to flock to. How about the days that I spent running Through the school’s mid-spring sprinklers, And danced in the halls where emptiness lingered, Or laughed in tones rumbling free, Like my feet dangling from a lofty tree. The summer haze I drifted through, The simple times that flew, Drafted from all these Unembellished memories.

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My Resignation Poem By Savannah Sherard

Consider this my two week notice… I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as a high school senior. I have decided I would like to accept the responsibilities of a 5 year old again. I want to go…back to the days when living was easy. I want…peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to be my favorite food and to have an airplane put food in my mouth again. I want…the clouds to be shapes and for people to feel like they are so close to touch. I want…school to only be half a day and to not know what homework is. I want…super villains to be imaginary and to not have real ones in life. I want…my teeth to fall out again so I can get money. I want…two dollars to be like a million dollars again. I want to return to a time…when…no one judged what you did and you could be free to be yourself. When…getting older was the best thing ever. I want to think that…I am still a five year old at heart and everyone has the innocence of a kid in them. I want to live…with no responsibilities and having no pressure. I want to believe…that people have the right intentions. So, here’s my iPad and my makeup, my cell phone and my bank account too, my condolences go to you…. And if you want to discuss this with me further, you’ll have to catch me first, ‘cause… Simon says, be five again.

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Look Up, the Sky's Waiting for You By Audrey Wolfe

Today I found myself seeing the Sky

The Sky was alone with eyes of sorrow The Sky saw me seeing and stopped to cry

Said, "I bet no one sees me tomorrow"

I reached high but empty handed I felt Comfort was something I would've lent But emptiness was the only thing dealt

I take that back, comfort I would've spent

"Everyone stops to look at your beauty How can you not notice the height eyes meet?"

He said to me, "Their brains are off duty All they do is look at their phones or feet"

"Oh, but Sky," I said, "I sure notice you,

And look over there, someone else does too."

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A Collection of Four Traditional Japanese Haikus By Manasi Patwa

Ripples in white sand

Sand flying with swift breeze

Breeze away from beach.

Dark skies, but not night.

Bright lights...sunlight’s far away.

Nature’s paradox

Books gathering Dust

Windows with eerie curtains

But They are now home.

Vintage robes hiding,

In the maple wood closet.

Can we play dress-up?

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From Where She Came From By Ariel Adame

The winter trees stretched across the wilderness. Ebony and evergreen colors

contrasted against slivers of nightlight from the moon. The little girl skipped into the

forest and jumped among the growing poison oak, the lucid hyacinth, abounding oleander.

Her hands grazed foxgloves, fingers sauntered over yew and hemlock. This was her

forest. This is what she called home.

Wolf cries filled the air. Their silken tones vibrated and echoed off the bark of the

hollow trees, filling the atmosphere with a solemn loneliness. The little girl sat on a

stump of an old oak and chewed on rhubarb. Her presence attracted the animals of the

forest, and as they slowly appeared in view, she clutched at her sustenance and stood to

greet her friends. Carefully covering her hands in tapestries she had salvaged from human

disposal, she caressed the heads of the elks, feeling their antlers and marveling at their

beauty. The elks obliged and lowered their heads in response to the little girl almost as if

she were the queen and they were her subjects. She was flabbergasted at the elks'

amicable nature. They usually jumped out of the way when they sensed a person's

presence.

Lost in astonishment, the little girl's hand slipped out of the makeshift glove, and

her fingers skimmed the smooth fur of an elk. In a split second, the elk swiftly pounced

backwards and galloped off into the bleak darkness. The little girl kissed her fingertips

and said a soft prayer, for she knew she would find the body at the break of dawn.

She returned to the haggard cottage she called her own, pushing through the

wooden doors and turning on the night lamp so hastily put together the year before.

Animals flooded from the windows, the holes in the ceilings, her room. They were

ambling around her, calling to her in their bleary languages, telling her of the trifles of the

forest. She listened intently as she made her dinner. She opened the seeds of hemlock and

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popped them into her mouth, all the while cutting the stems of desert-roses and sprinkling

baneberries and crab's eye into the mix. She had always eaten with her hands and enjoyed

the juices that covered her fingers. The animals warily stood feet away from her as she

ate. She knew why.

The little girl was still appreciative of the animals’ presence. But she knew she

would need to leave the forest soon. She was almost eight— eight was the age when she

had to leave. Her birthday was in a few days, and the animals sensed this, for they

crowded around her, their eyes brimming with sadness and despair for the loss of

companionship.

She sighed, feeling anxious for the future that was in front of her. She had never

left the forest before. The black, opaque tendrils that rose at the edge of the forest kept

mankind from stepping into their land. She wished it would keep her from going out too.

However, her fears had never overcome her. She was the promised child, the one with the

most potential. She was fairly aware of the obligations she had, especially as a girl.

She knew what to do, who to become, and how she would become that way. She

was the fierce shroud that enveloped around her name, after all.

[Joke 3] Congratulations! You found a Sachin Vallamkonda joke. - Q: What does Thor have that makes him a leader? A: Au-thor-ity (Authority)

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Older Brother to Soldier By Claire Changras You can hear her heart shatter at the news He was off to serve his country Her role model Her best friend Her older brother Gone Months seemed like years She writes to him She worries for him She prays for him She cries for him He is finally coming home She counted down the days She couldn’t sleep She wouldn’t talk She wouldn’t move Just stared out her window Waiting A familiar beat up, pick-up parks in front She ran out her room Out the door And into her brother’s arms Tears rolled down her cheeks They held each other tightly No words were said A month together only felt like days He had to fight again Leaving her tearful Leaving her scared Leaving her worried Leaving her alone Again

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This is the Right

By Clare Brady So close - so together they drag their fears So "happy" - so together they breathe each other's air So close - so together they can't even share their feelings or thoughts - they're all a smear. never alone - but always lost the existence in numbers those are a Pseudo life Always looking for identity - never will Control is their security Your right is their wrong "Genuine" "Faithful" “Self-Sufficient”? shame, shame, shame Free Willed - Strong and alone Seeing the magnets for what they are Secure Independent - no scars there are This peace is true home. Don't need directions - sailing their own lives Don't need a crew - intelligence, pride. Guided by Spirit- experience life Break away now - this is the Right

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Ode to the Flag By Isabel Newcomb I saw the flag on the hill Rippling in the evening breeze A bird sets out a long, sweet trill From thick assembly of trees It stood so regal and so proud I had chills go down my spine It had been many a soldier's final shroud Someday it might be mine I saw the brilliant and shining stars The stripes snapping to and fro A living, breathing, moving memoir, Of victory, pride and woe This flag has the power to rally a troop Give courage to the meek To help all rise up and regroup And show we were not weak A beacon of freedom to how many men? How many sacrifices have been inspired? A guide to the lost and lonely friends It has given comfort to the tired I have seen what victory will cost The price those brave men pay Even when their souls were lost The flag showed them the way

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The Hike By Ali Bell

Air as fresh as morning pierces our skin, as the sun begins its own voyage up the sky Breezes fill the open space and paw at the green and the trees stand timeless and high Hills laugh at us, making no notion to abrade As our footsteps are heavy and sigh Dangerous roads rebel against our feet Thin rope railings stretch towards the sky The waterfall roars its mighty breath and spits when it speaks to the clay The creek whispers its secrets to the rocks, which are written of years of what those waters say Fallen trees applaud us now for completing their clever maze Home smiles and calls out to us and we dream of doing it again one day

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Personalities Over Looks

By Jiho Kim

Don't judge a book by its cover, my mama once told me.

But do people judge others? The answer is quite simple.

Yes. That's why I have learned

to respect the blind people because they judge people

by their personalities and not by their looks.

Please By Nickhil Tekwani Please don’t cry. Please don’t weep. For the power inside of you will reap. Your soul is never safe. So please, Don’t cry. It only harms you.

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eyes by carmen orellana

eyes like stars, shining in darkness

bringing hope to those who are lost. hair like gold, shining in the light like no other

flowing and soft, like a kitten's fur.

walking together, time passes in a blink. you are like no other i have ever met,

giving such happiness to all who meet you. joy! everlasting joy to all who know you!

eyes like stars, a candle in the window

telling all they are free to enter. hope is beautiful and comes in many forms.

i am glad that i met my own.

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reflections by anna krause

the demons

dance outside my window

some with heads like mice

others with hands like snake tails

gruesome and disgusting and

laughing maniacally I stop to stare

at them and

realize they aren't outside

my window they are

inside my mind

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W

Get the Job Done

By Elvira Bertrand

iggle, breathe, panic. A list of actions fly through my head as I blink my eyes awake in an

unfamiliar, dim-lighted room. Kick, breathe, shake. My arms and legs are tied together with a

material that feels like a thick sisal rope; the rope feels wet, making the knots tighter. A door, a

lamp, and a cup of water on a nightstand come into view. “How kind…” I mumble. Lean, breathe,

groan. The chair I’m in squeaks and I hear slight movement from the other side of the door. Stop,

breathe, think. My eyes scan the room as I recall the conversations that seemed to have happened

so long ago. ‘…You mustn’t forget the code...we depend on you…’ ‘I’ll get the job done.’ ‘Just

don’t forget what I told you…’ A liquid dripping down the side of my face interrupts my thoughts,

and a stabbing pain shoots up my neck to my forehead. I’m bleeding. How great. My hand grabs

the side of the chair. It’s brittle, some sort of wood, easily broken with just a thud. Cracks quickly

form from falling, and I tug at the ropes until they snap the remainder of the chair. My vision blurs,

and another memory appears. Vivid, bulgy characters with giant bows pinned to the skin of their

necks present themselves before me. ‘Ah, uncle’s favorite patient’ ‘She hasn’t yet gotten what she

deserves’ ‘Well then, why don’t we wipe her memory clean.’ ‘Destroy the past.’ ‘Get her back to the

idiot ward.’ They disappear in a white flash. My breathing accelerates, and I break free from the

ropes. Groggily gripping the side of the nightstand, I pull myself up to find a note next to the cup.

Drink me. I stumble away to the door in hopes of soon remembering where I am. It opens before

my hand reaches the doorknob. Naturally, I reach down to my boots and pull out a knife. “Why

was that there…” I step through the door to face a black and purple striped hallway that seems to

go on for miles. One step forward and I’m thrown into a downward spiral of furniture. ‘Perfect,

you’re agitated; when you’re calm you do nothing but take up space. A mouth is only worth-while

if you say something of importance and a secret is only a secret if kept inside one mind.’ ‘But

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you’re simply a--‘ ‘No matter what I am! What’s important is who you are! Death halts the

production of carbon from one’s lungs, but delusions and memories extinguish as well!’ A cloud of

smoke abruptly stops my fall, and I float down to a cold, checkered tile. Multi-colored letters

made of smoke dance around me, creating a plethora of questions demanding who I am. Swishing

them away I run towards a light, and the sound of a grandfather clock trails behind me. I’m late.

I’m late! My sprinting accelerates, and the light transforms into a senseless hat made for a man of

foolish taste. ‘How is a raven like a writing desk?’ ‘Well…a raven is bold while a writing desk is

simply, well, a writing desk. But maybe the raven and the writing desk both find a likeliness in

poets’ hearts…nonono that can’t be it…maybe they bot-‘ ‘AH! I am always left tea-less! Rules are

to be measured with a ruler!’ Visions of dusty hills and snappy flowers spin inside my head as I

turn into a dim-lighted room with a mirror and suitcases at the end of it. “This is the same room

as before…” I muttered walking past the scattered chair and ropes, “I remember.” Blood trickled

down my face, and a ghastly grin emerges showing my pointed teeth. “I’m Alice.”

[Joke 4] Congratulations! You found a Sachin Vallamkonda joke. - Q: Which Disney princess is the most annoying? A: Poke-ahontas (Pocahontas)

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Woods By Julia Daley meet me two weeks down The Mainline where stacks of sticks and piles grow we'll pause at every rusted train sign and inward turn so smiles glow with shadows shorter than the daylight East Whiteland snow keeps quiet the road dissolved, distance resolved not a moment we are silent through the woods of Yellow Springs press fingertips to every tree collecting all unbound relief no longer adding time by three and when we're called to come back home not one inch cold or dark we'll beat the horses fast and slow we'll harness every spark

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The Feeling of Living By Calvin Ho

Judgment It comes like a rising fire A nail in the coffin that seals your fate Stuck in a losing debate Who are you now, from where you don’t conform Standing out like a nail, out from the norm A voice that speaks and tells you lies Making you put on a fake disguise Fear Another thousand miles to go A long worn down and dusty road A heavy burden and a tough load Facing the phobia inside is like Running from a monster when you can’t hide Failure Hurts you like a piercing needle The tear comes down long my face Reminding me that I’m a disgrace, Pushing me to greater heights Finishing second doesn’t count. Confusion Finding yourself is a tricky task A labyrinth of emotion A smile and a frown Yet another trickery, a façade Cover yourself. Run from yourself Left or right. North or South. You’re lost now Triumph The feeling of achievement It is the final note to a beautifully orchestrated piece Adrenaline coursing through your veins Keeping you alive and sane

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ne By Poulomi Banerjee

She felt as light as a feather when she danced. She twisted and glided

along the wooden-plated floor below her--drifting away as if dancing was actually easy. She danced and danced--couldn't stop. No words could correlate to the beauty of the piece she was performing. And then all of a sudden, she fell--tripped, in fact. The whole room became quiet. Spectators were appalled--a mistake...How come? Especially coming from a professional like her? She walked away with pride--with pleasure. Because for once she could finally make a mistake--be different. She could finally be human. As human as the people who were watching. She could finally express her anger and stress to the crowd. For when the piece crescendoed, it was then when she fell. Falling that great fall that was supposed to be a twist and yet another glide. Sh -- ne The Great Isn't as Great as We Thought She Was." Articles spreading across town like wildfire. Knowing how great of a difficulty it must have been to be seen like this in the eyes of the public, she felt a huge burden lifting off of her chest. For with that one performance, her life began. Now, she can dance for the sheer pleasure of it, instead of pleasing others. Now she can dance in that one vacant ballroom that was sitting in her house. Now she can fly. She can become the swan that she was trying so hard to become over her entire dancing career. Now, she is an elegant princess, waiting to be danced with--waiting for her prince to sweep her off her feet. She is waiting to fall in love. ne has been an inspiration to people to this day. Her bravery and encouragement helped people to show others who they actually are--why they are so unique. She is the reason people sacrifice for love, for she is love herself. ne was love, shooting people with her magnificent arrows of twists and turns. She was lust, a temptation that everyone failed to resist until one day when she made that fall. She wanted her love to be free. She wanted everyone to love--man to man, woman to woman, woman to man. She wanted peace. She wanted liberation from this God-awful judgement people carry about certain kinds of love. She wanted to choreograph her own dance. She wanted everyone to glide, just like she did.

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Yet, It Was Good Advice

By Philip Brazelton

Whoever told me to look for love

was a devil painted as a dove;

I was told to look for Helen though,

and on this path I do not know:

which way is left? Which way is right?

What paths are left? And which are right?

For surely from this jaded might

might my pride be trampled along the way,

compacted then broken like a stack of hay…

My Achilles Heel is believing in myself,

feigning strength when I know I should doubt.

My bottom sole protests angrily,

It throws tantrums with every step I take.

And yes, I have taken strides in plenty.

But I remind myself this: twenty.

Twenty more. Set short goals

And nothing more,

If I were to be caught within a war

Long goals would be useless among the gore.

Foolish as I am, no battles I

see myself fighting,

not in the future I envision;

but let me be struck by lightning

if Helen be too lofty of a goal,

and if Heaven mocks me for my gull

1

;

If gods are truly made up

Then Helen does not exist,

And if they do she must,

But either way I’ve missed.

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What I’m trying to say is this: Achilles Heel or not, we’re all designed to fail, So grapple onto ideas of “beauty” or “weakness” or “strength,”

And only then will hope be spared.

So why trudge on? you ask

as I ask myself the same,

Because without some hubris

And the ability to blame,

The human pointlessly decomposes in its already

dilapidated frame.

So gods, I hate you!

I hate you for what you’ve done, I hate you for not existing,

I hate you for what you’ve done!

And Helen too I hate you!

But I love you all the same,

for you’re my short-term goal

and long-term failure

and 100% the blame.

You give me an excuse

for my animalistic, ever-blinded brain.

1 gull (n. a person who is fooled or deceived) is unconventionally

used as an adjective (foolishness, gullibility etc.)

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One Time in History By Eleanor Chen

We speak of ages, of Greece, of Rome,

Of one man’s warning of the fall Despite my time and place, I feel it all. A single second—the tension in the air, It sits all ’round, as we have sat for years.

Our secret companion; it whispers and it rings, “There is the fall of the American empire”

as we sit in our green metal chairs.

And in that lone moment I know all I know, I feel my beginning and end: The shape of the world, The future to witness,

The making of history, as my bulging heart beats and my lungs draw the breath of ages.

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Frigid Fire By Ella Garfunkel The cold Sets them aflame: Dips the green into the yellow and red paint Dresses them to be elegant as they dance on their way to meet the ground See breath as the smoke of the chilling Only a ghost of the heat felt months ago

glamorizing brown by ritwik krishnan

no one ever talks about brown eyes but i feel like we should — brown, like the color

of melting dark chocolate — like fudge dripping down whipped cream; brown, like the color

of the patterns on mahogany wood; brown, like the color

of the little teddy bear you used to carry everywhere when you were little;

brown, like the color of warm coffee, with nothing added to it - approaching black;

brown eclipses that melt into golden circles and emit a light like no other.

- (r.k.)

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A Cursed Perception By Camille Daszynski

They say that love is like a red, red rose

But pardon me, because I oppose

How can such a complex concept be understood with the simplicity of a flower?

Love is indescribable, indefinable, and words are far more delicate and powerful

The manner in which language flows through the tongues of Humanity;

The feeling of words brushing upon Your teeth enthusiastically—

The way thoughts travel out of Your mind and form into something comprehensible

Later becoming part of the vivid imaginations and beliefs of Others—that is incredible

What about how a simple, “Good Morning,” “Hello,” or a soft, warm smile

Reverberates within and serves as inspiration worthwhile

Words are the everlasting and sole key to the heart

They fill the crevices within the soul while roses wither and fall apart

Words stand the test of time but sometimes You can’t seem to find the right thing to say, You become entangled in an intricate pattern of “What if’s” and stand breathless in dismay

But in the end, when Humans fall into the whirlwind of love

The smiling apostrophes and dancing commas endure forever more than all the roses thereof.

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Listen By Charles Ibsen

If you Listen to the ringing in your ears On a soft summer night Absent of light And you Tune in to the mystery of the world It's just you and the ring And you can hear everything If you Rub your fists into your closed eyes You will find, it seems More colors than in your dreams And you Have your own private fireworks show It's the most wonderful thing to feel – But it's not real. If you Take a moment of your busy life Submerged in the illusion on reality's brink And remembering all this, you stop to think... Oh, the miracles you could see If you would watch them glisten The wonders you can hear If you would only— Listen

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.

The Advertisement Theory… By Julia Kartasheva What is an advertisement? A song? A story? An offensive comment? No, it's a whirlpool, That sucks in like a vacuum, so cool! It shows an offense, Or maybe a defense. It may be a model, But your dream may topple. Pictures, sparkles, glitz, and glam, They say to lose a kilogram! Clothes, computers, food, galore, I don't want to see no more! A tune that spins throughout my head, I cannot fall asleep in bed. They are everywhere I see, Surrounding me....

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Twiddle

By Joseph Cahn

So there he stood twiddling his thumbs—a nasty habit. He watched the summer fall into autumn… the autumn drift into winter... the winter bloom into spring... the spring rush back into summer...

He watched the sun lose its patience...its excitement...its glow...it felt disgusted, waiting, the moon replaced the sun in its radiance, swimming in the leftover light, the magnificent shimmer betrayed him, as the sun returned to glare at his shadow. He watched the trees sigh, bend, wave in the chilling wisps of shuddering breeze, the desperation, exasperation, and finally, frustration as the conglomerate of rooted bark and roots grew impatient and withered. He watched He watched So there he stood, twiddling his thumbs—a nasty habit He watched the seasons pass, the sun and moon rise and set, the trees sigh...all waiting. So there they stood, twiddling their thumbs—a nasty habit. What was he waiting for? Why? He simply stood there and twiddled his thumbs, waiting for spontaneity.

[Joke 5] Congratulations! You found a Sachin Vallamkonda joke. - Q: How do you catch fish in outer-space? A: With a pla-net (Planet)

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My First Plane Crash

By Charles Meng

I would never in a million tries have guessed that my esteemed pilot was high and intoxicated from excessive consumption of alcohol. Before the crash, I nonchalantly didn’t even think it to be possible. I thought myself omniscient. Pilots, tasked with intense and high-stakes assignments, would never fit the image of one transporting hundreds of lives, running himself solely on drugs and vodka. However, on flight Oceanic 815 from Sydney to Los Angeles, our pilot, Mr. Washington, I believe his first name Denzel, is described in this aforementioned picture. All this, as you know, is now publicly released and scrutinized by the media. Although I walked on board unaware of Mr. Washington’s state, I did see an unbelievably short person, a half-man, with half a nose and a golden pilot’s uniform, sigiled with a lion. Excluding the dwarf and the four affiliated, shockingly pretty, blonde flight attendants, everything seemed in place. The captain and co-captain were introduced, safety exits and procedures were cogently recognized, and the plane took off on schedule. Right off the bat, from when the “fasten seatbelt” sign flickered off, the turbulence began. At first, the plane only wobbled here and there, and the passengers, including myself, dismissed it. But as the plane ascended further, the rumbling grew into jerking, and it became so violent, the plane shook as if Zeus grabbed our Boeing 747 by the midsection and flung it senseless. The walls shook as if they wanted to disperse, far, far away from each other. It frightened me to the soul, and images of death and falling ran through the minds of every conscious passenger, though some hid it better than others. It was silent and awkward, until the lights started blinking. As soon as the situation became visual with the flashing lights, everything fell into chaos. The woman across the aisle from me let out a bloodcurdling scream. Her boy, a toddler, sprawled onto the aisle helplessly, to the dismay of his mother who continued to scream. One of the flight attendants, very beautiful, came to the rescue, crawling on her knees down the aisle. She lifted the boy gently, and handed him back to Ms. Austen.

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I witnessed it all— the plane swinging violently, as if slammed by a wrecking ball, and the attendant being flung to the side. She died immediately, her neck snapping and head dented when making contact with my armrest. I don’t remember whether there was blood. I added to the screaming myself; it was a choir of shrieks and prayers and curses by then. The plane continued to shake, and the roars of thunder flooded through the walls of the plane, the magnitude feeling tenfold greater. I should’ve cherished those last few moments before the plane was hurled through the air, almost as if it were dancing like a paper bag in the wind. Even then, my passionate connections with great movies did not leave me, and I pathetically referenced American Beauty. Something exploded in a deafening roar, likely an engine, because we started to drop. Everything blurred, and my head screamed in agony, the speed far faster than any dropping roller coaster of my past experiences. I looked around in my seat to see that most eyes were closed in terror, and tears streamed down the face of many as well. I watched as tiny, dark figures left the plane and flew into the abyss. I blacked out. I opened my eyes. It was only a brief unconsciousness. The plane continued to dance, while falling at terminal velocity. I think I blacked out a second time. I remember in my darkness, envisioning myself on a dizzying Mad-Hatter’s Teacup ride at Disneyland, the first time I had brought my daughter there. At the thought of Haley, my heart hurt and my throat became sour, my fear clouded by the desire to be reunited with her, but there was nothing I could do. I missed her so much then, and all that I hadn’t appreciated previously. At some point during the fall, I’m not sure, the tickling feeling inside my stomach vanished, and it stopped feeling like falling. City lights of some city, could already be seen. The wind was unbearable. We were close now, and I recall a loud crack shortly after the lights. Was it a wing, or another skull? The wing would destroy all chances of survival, right? It must not have been the wing, then. Shapes of a peaceful city at rest could now be identified, and the vastly different situations of us on the plane and those comfortably at rest was comedic. Sometime during

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the fall I threw up, but the wind cradled it into its arms and carried it off. The spinning stopped, and the whirring of an engine turned on—music to my ears. I prayed for protection and gave thanks to Jesus. I hadn’t gone to a church in years. I could feel the descent slowing down because my ears stopped hurting so much. The falling turned more into a gliding. We were only a few thousand feet from the ground. The fall slowed more, and I celebrated a little. Then the plane flipped upside down, and we glided forward. Uncanny piloting by Mr. Washington, but a scrupulously ingenious move. Being one of the passengers saved by him, I believe Washington’s heroic actions are a venial cause to dismiss, in this case, his dishonorable condition. I clutched my armrest and noticed that this was the first time I’d ever benefited from a seatbelt. The plane then flipped back around, and “Prepare for impact,” blared over the public announcer. I blacked out. This was my third, and last, experience with unconsciousness. Reflecting back, I remember sounds, of screaming and crying and fire. I remember urgent voices and muffled sirens. Visions I do remember were blurry fuzzes of color. I did not open my eyes until yesterday, and I was in this very bed. “Thank you for your time, Jack. Just some things I need to ascertain. Dr. Linus has cleared you, and you will be able to see your daughter in a few days. Is there anything else you can tell me about the crash?” I replied to the officer, “No, officer, that’s all I remember.” "Thank you, once more. Rest you merry." He exited. My god, that pilot was high. I laughed. Out loud. Like a madman. Then silence. I survived a plane crash. I survived a plane crash. I survived a plane crash. I survived a plane crash. I... Sleep is a panacea. I sat in the room, accompanied by an invulnerable, motionless, and soundless calm. And a story to bequeath.

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Look at Me By Poulomi Banerjee My mother was a star athlete-- getting gold-plated medals on every contest she ever participated in. I was nothing like her. Sure, I was an athlete but not quite as charming or beautiful and definitely not as successful. My mother was a prize to all the men out there when she was my age. She had that look--the innocent eyes and luring voice to anyone who came to her I was nowhere close in comparison to my mother. And with that, she looked at me with disgust-- "Jules"- she used to say- "look at me and tell me that I am not wrong for feeling disgusted." I couldn't look. I understood I was a failure. For, all the times I ever tried to be like her, ended up to be just an empty journey to confirm that I am indeed a failure. I gave a small nod and went to my room-- broken, as I always had been. "Mother"--I went to her and said--"I'm sorry for your loss" And with that, I joined the figure-skating club, I dressed with more femininity and poise for the men to approach me, I started to have that luring voice and shy smile. I started to become my mother in a similar but different way. Was I happy? No. And no one can know about this-- except that stupidly curious man I lured to paint my picture for me. I told the man after telling my story--"Look at me." And that was when I saw tears--for the first time--come down a stranger's eye. how beautiful it seemed All that emotion come out through a single teardrop-- how it mattered so much when someone else cried but when you cried, no one listened. How beautiful it seemed-- that I was there to care. He looked at me. But with pity. With such anger against my mother-- my mother who had so much self-confidence that it bothered her that I was nothing like her. His anger toward her made me feel guilty. Have I said the story wrong? One will never know. He finished my painting. He touched it with the colors of sadness, humbleness, and fear.

He figured out my long held emotions-- how I kept it all inside for over 20 years-- he figured it all out just by looking at me.

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Cinquain Three-Set

By Danning Yu

A White Powder The snow Falls in silence Outlines the land’s surface Buries all things, stopping time. A White land.

Watery Drops

The rain

Pitter Patter Water dropping from sky

Brings moisture to the world. They are Crucial.

Opaque Mist

The fog Covers all things

Walk through, you’re kissed by dew A wall, it goes when the sun comes.

Cool, moist.

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Out of This World By Nichole Lim Vacant eyes Empty Words Life is but a flock of birds Fly away Into the sky All at once without goodbye

Sleepiness By Andrew Kang

You wrap up a long and exhausting day, When I am worn out from all my events. From my life you’re the only getaway, For you my body constantly laments.

Because you are the blankets and the bed,

The joyful comfort that I always seek, The fluffy pillow to rest my spent head,

And without you, I am useless and weak.

Yet I am still unable to meet you; For we are separated by a wall.

Oh, woe is me! There is homework to do.

I’ll have to study and complete it all.

Do not worry, Sleep, for I am coming. To your rest I will soon be succumbing.

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bustling branches by nina myers the trees that dwindle the trees that grow thicker than mineself thicker than your bones; buried in the past that wallows in wait beckoning anyone to lie in restraint bustling boughs burrowing branches stronger than any attempt at romance is only but a dream in the mind, my worst idea to hide at your side leaves fall on anyone they fall on me surely this isn't what you wanted to see: a bright young you (a tattered dream) faintly falling apart at every seam as water falls and winter advances this bleeding forest is out of chances eleven footprints in the snow are perfectly scattered (as far as you i suppose) and even every blooming spring anyone promised to wait for me, for you but simply waiting is not a game and i heard the brook babbling in my sleep it told of secrets i can no longer keep but remember my name written on a something; on a nothing on an everything lying in Wait (the swinging rain waters blue they bring i went walking in a forest) with boughs bustling faith dwindling and secrets spilling from every flower petal. the birds cannot find my burdens written carelessly in no one's burrowing memory

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Mother Nature Knows Best By Annie Moultray I look at my surroundings, studying the canvas of nature's creation, and I watch in awe as the earth turns and shifts, remaining a flawless work of art. With my flaring nostrils I inhale the cloying fragrance of flowers, the sharp sweet scent of honey, and the cleansing clarity of rain. With my open ears I listen for the constant hum of insects, the warm breath of the dry breeze, and the persistent slap of water against hot sand. With my wide eyes I explore the vivid palate of falling leaves, the fading green of the drying grass, and the rich brown of the upturned soil. With my reaching fingertips I feel the abrasive surface of the gray stones, the slick wet surface of the cloudy ice, and the powdery chill of the snow. Smooth aromas blending together, sweet next to clear next to saccharine. Unrehearsed voices harmonizing as one, string and wind and percussion instruments. Diverse shades complementing the following ones, red and

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orange and yellow and all others Distinctive textures sitting side by side, rough with smooth with granular. With infinite colors and textures and odors and intonations, I suppose one would not think that they could be thrown together into a bowl and be beautiful, and would not clash or conflict or mismatch. But somehow earth is perfect, without a single part that could seem out of place. Nature created beauty that painters and photographers and artists try to capture or recreate. Nature wove together everything in the world so that every aspect compliments every other, individual parts looking better because of those that surrounded them, and every detail distinguishing itself to be worth noticing. Then I look back at the people of the world, tearing their home down, their peers down, their morals down for their own gain, destroying the man next to them in order to step on his chest and rise above him so that they could be seen better and breathe fresher air. So I tear off my gaudy garb and walk down into the forest.

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an Excerpt from Catherine Newcomb Prologue

Four men stood clustered around the glowing computer screens. The nervousness in the air was almost tangible. Four pairs of eyes followed a glowing shape on one of the monitors. The man nearest the screen said, “He should go through the atmosphere in five...four...three...two...one.....” “He stopped responding!” “Where did he go?” “He can’t have crashed!” Three shocked voices rang out, all at once, talking over and around each other. “Check the charts!” Frantically, the men searched in silence for several minutes for the missing vessel. Pushing buttons, checking screens, flipping switches, the men feverishly worked. “He’s not here, sir. He’s not anywhere. He has completely vanished.” Chapter One

The rain lashed against the windows of the ancient classroom in an ever-quickening rhythm. Rachel Cole stared glumly out at the harsh-looking storm clouds, and then turned back to the small clock on the wall. Silently, she willed the minute hand to reach the five. Staring intently at the black Roman numerals, she tapped her finger on the top of the desk in time to the red third hand.

“Rachel!” Mr. Phillips nearly shouted, startling Rachel from her reverie. Groaning inwardly, she realized that her English teacher had been calling her name. Rachel loved English--in fact, she was most happy when she was burying her head in a good novel--but she despised the grammatical rules that always seemed to govern literature. Of course, it was this that Mr. Phillips had been discussing and therefore the reason she had started drifting away.

In the back of the room, several of the girls giggled at Rachel’s blunder. Rachel gave a little sigh. She couldn’t stand being laughed at.

Rachel looked back toward Mr. Phillips. He was about six foot three, with a bushy black beard and horn-rimmed spectacles. From the first day of English class, Rachel had known that he would be a wonderful teacher. However, he was quick to discipline those who didn’t pay attention in his class. Rachel answered him quickly, trying to keep her voice passably casual.

“Yes Mr. Phillips?” Mr. Phillips sighed heavily. “For the third time, Rachel”, he said, exasperated, pointing to

the white chalk words written on the blackboard. “Can you identify the infinitive in this sentence?”

For the rest of the period, Mr. Phillips rambled on about infinitive phrases and gerunds, and who knows what else. When the bell signaling the end of school finally buzzed, Rachel gathered her books hurriedly and was about to head out the door when her English teacher called her.

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“Rachel? Could I speak to you for a minute?” Great, she thought. I’m going to be given a detention by my favorite teacher. A few of her classmates looked curiously in her direction, some pitying, some disdainful.

Noah Thornton, a slight boy with shortly cropped curly brown hair who sat next to her in English class, gave her a tentatively encouraging smile. Rachel was grateful, even though she wasn’t friends with Noah. It seemed like not many people were friends with Noah. By Brookmont standards, he was deemed a little “weird.”

She walked slowly up to Mr. Phillips desk, feeling vaguely like a prisoner going to her trial. Mentally, she reprimanded her overactive imagination. Stop being stupid, Rachel.

Reluctantly she looked up at him. To her surprise and relief, his expression was gentle. “Rachel, I think you know what I am going to tell you.” Did she? Rachel wasn’t sure now what to expect. He seemed to wait expectantly for an

answer, but she gave none, so he sighed a bit and continued. “Rachel, you are a good student. I am extremely pleased with the work you produce in

my class. But you have to learn to pay attention to the grammar so that you will have a solid foundation for your writing. You work very hard at writing, Rachel. I can tell you enjoy it.” Yes, that was true. She always seemed to work a little harder at the parts of English that she liked.

“But,” Mr. Phillips continued, “you can’t just pursue your dream blindly without a foundation. Though what I am teaching you now may seem irrelevant, it will prove to be extremely beneficial in the future. A dream is a wonderful thing to have, Rachel, but a dream by itself is just a wish if you do not have a plan to make it succeed.”

Several minutes later, she ponderously joined the thinning crowd of people in the hallway. Thinking hard, she slowly made her way towards the double doors at the front.

At the door, a graceful and petite girl with long black hair stood expectantly, as if waiting for someone. Rachel smiled, happy to see her best friend after a long day.

“Hi Ray! What kept you?” Rachel told Rose about her talk with Mr. Phillips. Stepping out of Brookmont High, the two girls were pelted by a barrage of fat rain

droplets, jolting them from their conversation. Rachel sighed heavily, unconsciously mimicking Mr. Phillips. A long, wet walked stretched before her. ***

Rachel and Rose trudged home in the merciless rain with their textbook-laden backpacks. It hardly ever rains in May, Rachel thought to herself dryly. But here I am, soaked from head to toe. The two girls were getting too wet even to talk. The half-mile walk from Brookmont to her house seemed to take a few hours.

When Rachel came to her house on the corner of Laurel Street, she saw the two ancient oak trees in the front yard that served as great landmarks for visitors. Saying a quick goodbye to Rose, who lived in the house across the street, Rachel hurried up the path towards her front door. Through the kitchen window, she saw her mother making challah, her arms white to the elbows with flour. Her beautiful face smiled in the window, and the eyes that were bright and brilliant yet full of an ever-present pain smiled lightly. Despite the bad weather, Rachel smiled when she

55

saw her mother, and started humming her favorite song as she walked up the towards the door. Rachel opened the door happily, shook off her soggy shoes, and flung her heavy backpack down on the floor.

Rachel’s mother washed her hands, dried them with an old dish rag, and came over to hug her daughter.

“Hi Ray, how was school?” Rachel recounted all the small, trivial details of the day, taking her time with each one.

Her mother, laying aside her work, sat on the nearest bar stool, listening carefully. Rachel’s younger sister Cassie sat on the faded couch pretending to do her homework. She was pretty, with light blonde hair and a face with soft and delicate lines like Mother. Cassie was in sixth grade at Brookmont Middle School, and had often complained that her teachers gave her too much homework. Rachel had always laughed when Cassie said that and told her she should try carrying her backpack home for a few days.

After listening to her mother talk about her long work day as a nurse in the emergency room, Rachel went to her room to begin working through the large stack of homework by her bed that she could not put off any longer.

She had been in her room for nearly an hour and had been stuck on one quadratic equation for about ten minutes when her her mother called up to her room from the bottom of the stairs.

“Rachel! Phone for you. It’s Rose.” It was rare that the two girls called each other. Usually, they just walked across the street

if they had something important to share. But Rose must not have wanted to go out in the rain, and Rachel didn’t blame her. Unburying herself from her work with difficulty, she trudged down the stairs towards her mother.

Taking the phone in her hand, she wandered back upstairs. “Hi Rose. What’s up?” “Um, hi Rachel. Uh, were you listening to the radio just now?” “Why would I listen to

the radio?” “It’s just...well...I heard something weird a minute ago while I was listening to the radio

and doing my homework.” The words tumbled out over the phone. With a start, Rachel realized that Rose was

actually nervous. Rachel had been best friends with Rose since kindergarten, so most of the time the two girls could read each other perfectly, even over the phone. Often, they could tell if something was really troubling the other. Rachel’s curiosity increased.

“What, Rose? What happened?” “I...um...maybe it was just my imagination. It wasn’t as if they talked about it very

long...” Rose seemed to be talking to herself. She trailed off into silence. The silenced lengthened, as if Rose had forgotten she was talking to someone.

“Rose? Rose?” “You know what Rachel? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Rachel heard a click and stared and the phone in disbelief. Rose, hanging up on her?

Rose, her best friend, her next door neighbor, calling her? It was all too strange. And what was she so nervous about? Why didn’t she tell Rachel her thought? Perturbed, Rachel returned to her homework, but she couldn’t seem to focus very well.

The next day at school, Rose was quiet and evasive all day. Rachel could not get a word out of her, and gave up. During study hall that afternoon, she did something she’d never done

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before: she sat alone. She didn’t mean to offend her best friend, but she was fed up with her furtive looks and nervous gestures that went unexplained.

Rachel was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she didn’t even notice James Holt coming towards her. James had dark hair and deep brown eyes that the girls called “mysterious.” By general consensus, he was considered the most good-looking of all the boys at Brookmont High School.

“Hey Rachel, what’s up?” he said, leaning over against her desk. Rachel should have been thrilled that he was talking to her. In fact, in any other

circumstance, she probably would have been. But right now, she was just annoyed. She sighed.

“Hello, James.” James rolled his eyes at her. “‘Hello James’? Is that all that’s up?” “Yes, it is,” Rachel said firmly. “Now can you please go away and let me finish my math

homework?” “Geez, I was just saying hi! You don’t need to get so worked up about it.” He stalked

away, glowering, but still retaining most of his haughty air. Rachel wondered why he’d bothered to talk to her at all. She shrugged it off, more concerned about the behavior of her best friend than the odd way boys like James sometimes acted.

After her last class got out, Rachel waited at the front doors for her best friend. On Thursdays, the two of them volunteered together at their church, St. Andrew’s. Though Rachel was looking forward to working with the children’s program, she guiltily thought with apprehension of having to spend two hours with Rose the way she had been acting that day.

As preoccupied as she may have been, Rose didn’t fail to show up. Though she still seemed a little distracted and nervous, she still greeted her best friend with a small smile and a “Ready?” Rachel was relieved, though not completely off her guard. Rose was still showing some signs of nervousness.

When they got to St. Andrew’s, it turned out that the children’s program at church had been canceled that day. The two girls decided to sort clothes for the homeless ministry instead, a task they usually declined because of its monotony.

After about ten minutes of an unusual silence between them, Rachel burst out, “Rose, you’ve got to tell me what’s up. You’ve been acting really strangely all day, and honestly, I’m pretty worried about you. So what is it?”

Rose started, and looked into Rachel’s eyes. “I...I think you need to hear it for yourself, okay? Just--just turn on the radio and maybe

you’ll see. I don’t think I can really tell you. But I’ll tell you this Rache: I’m worried. I really am. And I’m...afraid.”

Rachel walked home two hours later, pondering her friend’s confession. She still hadn’t the faintest idea what troubled Rose, but she knew that whatever frightened Rose the strong, Rose the resilient, was something to be concerned about. Chapter Two

Rachel was on edge all afternoon.

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It probably had something to do with Rose’s warning, but every time she passed the radio in the kitchen, she glared at it resentfully.

Finally, she went up to her room to continue her endless cycle of homework. But again, she couldn’t concentrate. She felt like she was waiting for something to happen.

Her intuition never disappointed her. A few minutes later, she heard her mother cry out from the kitchen. Readily dumping her

books in a heap on the floor, she rushed out to see what the matter was. Mother was usually a very calm person, so Rachel was becoming fairly worried. She found her in the kitchen with a soapy dish in her hand, staring at the radio with a horrified expression on her face. Rachel felt like she’d been slapped in the face, seeing her mother frightened and staring at the radio.

The radio.... “Mother, what happened?” Rachel prodded a little frantically, her heart pounding. Rachel

had only ever seen her mother lose control once in her life, two years ago. But this was nothing like that day, no, no, it couldn’t be, but Mother’s expression made Rachel nervous. The radioman was blabbering about more rain this week, but Rachel had a feeling that that was not what had scared Mother.

“Nothing, I guess,” Mother said shakily, turning off the radio. Rachel pressed her, but she shrugged her daughter off and continued washing the dishes

methodically. Rachel left the kitchen reluctantly and went up to Cassie’s room. She opened her door without knocking and walked into her room. “Rachel!” Cassie said indignantly. “You forgot to--” She broke off when she saw the

expression on her sister’s face. “Oh. What happened? Rachel told her about the scene she had witnessed, recounting every detail. She even

included what Rose had said earlier that day and over the phone the day before. Rachel had a perfect memory and could always describe events, people, and places flawlessly. Today was no exception, but it felt like a mockery to be able to remember every detail from today, which she already wished to forget.

“It would not have worried me as much if I hadn’t seen the expression on Mother’s face,” Rachel finished, with an upward glance to Cassie. She had been looking down at her feet throughout the narrative, but now she looked up, meeting her sister’s eyes for the first time. What Rachel saw there did nothing to cheer her up, but then, she hadn’t expected it to. During moments such as these, Rachel was so grateful to have a sister to talk with, even if she was only in sixth grade. It is so relieving to have someone to listen to my ranting, Rachel thought.

“Wow,” Cassie said, her forehead creased with worry. “I have no idea. Maybe we should just keep an eye on her for a while.” The way she said it, it sounded as if Rachel and Cassie were the parents talking in worried tones about their child. Strangely, Rachel almost felt like laughing. But then she remembered the stricken look of her mother’s expression and Rose’s confession and became solemn again.

“I’ll keep the radio on in my room while I’m doing my homework,” Cassie said. “I’ll tell you if I hear anything.”

“Thanks,” Rachel said. For some inexplicable reason, Cassie had the only other radio in the house stationed in her room. But for once Rachel didn’t bother her sister about it.

Twenty minutes later, Rachel was still working on a lengthy math problem. After a few more minutes of chewing on the end of her pencil and falling deep into the land of numbers and variables, she finally saw her mistake and scribbled the answer triumphantly. Behind her, she

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heard the door to her room open with a loud creaking sound. Rachel turned around, her elation immediately crumbling into a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Cassie stood in her doorway, her face flushed with the same expression Mother had worn an hour earlier.

“So what was it?” she asked Cassie slowly, not really wanting to know but curious at the same time. Cassie still stood frozen in the doorway, apparently deaf to her words.

“Cass, what’s the matter? Please tell me!” She unfroze with a shudder and seemed to notice Rachel had been calling her name. “It’s....it’s not looking good Ray.” Rachel waited, trying to act patient. Prodding Cassie to tell somebody something had

never worked. She tended to become tongue-tied up and refused to talk. “Well...I was listening to the radio...just like--like you asked me to do...to see if there was

anything...unusual.” Her words were halting, as if just saying them used up all her energy. Her voice failed her and broke entirely on the last word, unusual. “Let me tell you Ray, this is unusual.”

Rachel wanted to shout, “Cassie, just tell me! Do you think I like being left in the dark?” But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Of course she couldn’t. This was Cassie, so Rachel had to wait her out.

“The world’s rotation is slowing down,” Cassie said, her words carrying an eerie calm. “They don’t know why, but they think it has something to do with global warming.”

Rachel’s heart seemed to stop. She could not believe the words, but she knew that Cassie always told the truth. In all the years Rachel had lived with her, she had never witnessed her tell a lie once. Rachel wiped her cold, clammy hands on her faded jeans and leaned back against the chair. She didn’t know exactly what would happen if the Earth’s rotation slowed, but she could guess. Earthquakes. Hurricanes. Devastation. Rachel felt a hundred years old and drained of energy. She felt old and brittle, weathered and worn down with knowledge. With a great effort that almost cost her her breath, she raised her head to look her younger sister in the eyes. Cassie’s face mirrored the same pain and weariness Rachel felt inside herself. Rachel remembered then that she had once been twelve, and she felt a sort of protectiveness towards Cassie. No twelve-year-old should have to live with anything as traumatic as this.

“What exactly did the radioman say?” Rachel asked, dreading the answer but feeling an odd sense of urgency.

“He said that the world has slowed about ten miles per hour and that they believe the rate may double by the end of the year. ‘It is such an insignificant rate that I wouldn’t start to worry about it yet,’ he said.”

In her mind, Rachel imagined the sort of people who wouldn’t care that this was happening. Even if the world was destroyed, there were some people who could find an excuse to disbelieve it. In Rachel’s family, they had always cared about the truth. Both Cassie and Rachel knew that it was in fact something to worry about. If the rate continued to double, ten miles per hours could quickly become one hundred miles per hour, or a thousand.

Then, with a shock like cold water down her spine, Rachel thought, the Earth could stop entirely. We may have to abandon our planet. It may just have been the influence of her overactive imagination, but this didn’t feel like an exaggeration. Rachel had no idea what would happen if the world’s rotation stopped. Inwardly, she smiled wryly. At school, she had practiced

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fire drills and earthquake drills, but never had she practiced evacuate-the-earth drills. It was a thing out of a science fiction movie, not the sort of thing that happened in real life. In the back of her mind, Rachel saw an image of her sixth grade science teacher telling the class that any science fiction ever thought up by a person is likely to come true at some point. Rachel shivered with foreboding. Cassie’s voice broke through her thoughts.

“Rachie?” her voice said tentatively. Cassie hadn’t called her that for a long time, not since she was a toddler and couldn’t say Rachel’s name properly. The use of the old name touched Rachel, and she felt a horrible pain in her chest thinking of what she would do if something ever happened to her little sister.

“Can I be alone for a while? Please?” Rachel asked, not even embarrassed at the pleading tone she heard in her own voice.

Cassie only nodded and left the room, shutting the door silently. Rachel knew she didn’t have to explain to her sister the need to be alone; she understood.

Rachel thought over the information Cassie had just given her. Maybe she was being dramatic. Maybe it really was her overactive imagination making her think these things. Maybe the world wasn’t going to end, and some scientist had just misread the data or something like that.

Or maybe the world was going to end, and Rachel wouldn’t die on her own planet, but on someone else’s. For some reason, that thought was much worse than the prospect of dying on Earth. Rachel’s own planet, where she had been born and lived fifteen years and where generations of people had lived together, and where her father...

No. She couldn’t go there. Rachel hadn’t touched that part of herself for nearly two years. She couldn’t bear it.

Rachel tried to shove all her thoughts to the back of her mind as she collapsed into the mound of tousled comforters on her bed. As she lay there on her back she thought about the word comforter. A comforter was exactly what she needed at this moment. Someone to tell her that everything was going to be all right. Someone to hold her and tell her that she would be safe. But some innate part of her told her that this was not a small thing that would vanish behind a cloud with a few sweet words. This was the harsh reality. And if this was reality, assuming Rachel wasn’t dreaming, then life on earth would never look the same again.

to be continued…

[Joke 6] Congratulations! You found a Sachin Vallamkonda joke. - Q: Which Disney princess is the funniest? A: Ra-pun-zel (Rapunzel)

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Push Through By Savannah Sherard From my Grandmother, intelligence was a given plants, flowers, art, nature school all of interest she needed someone to brag about was I the only one? with each look I saw through her eyes, her perspective Being good is not good enough From my Mom, beautiful sweet colorless skin strong like a pillar of wood keeps the house together the stem, the root, the heart of the family greatness is expected, not given From my Father, his dark chocolate skin creates a new persona with each wrinkle, a story is told he throws footballs as fast as he lives life I just have to catch the fast balls God shines a light on his life so radiant it goes through mine. From my Grandfather whom I admire so much his benevolent character, too kindhearted for words all he wants is for me to be me his personality screams compassion and love I never look down, but always look up to him. From my family, so beautiful, yet so hard I grow stronger every day, it is a family I call my own a place I call home a life I want to live.

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The Wind's Betrayal By Ali Bell

Praise to the wind breathing its great, long sigh. It can travel anywhere, but returns nigh. Its warm, brazen chill does not hurt me, But comforts me beside the willow tree.

Though the passive ground beats at my weak soles,

Wind only whispers voices of the old. Refreshed am I after wind's quiet breeze,

But soon the pure wind's face has creased.

Foreign havoc disrupts my mellow mind, And the leaves of the willow leave me blind.

Lost wood and metal soar onto my skin, But what hurts most is the wind's foul sin.

Wind has betrayed me and the plants that grow,

With a beastly, viperous tornado.

Indigo Tomorrows By Amy Baylis Quicksand droplets Weighing heavy on my eyelids Hanging like glass petals With the sweet rattled nectar of wind chimes Captured in prisms of the honeydew spectrum That lingers on the golden fringe of my eyelashes And brushes upon the pale moons of my cheeks As desire envelops the midnight of speckled stars That rides the waves Of wandering lust round Crimson tendrils And as they roll Down into the roots of renewal They dry like flowers in the sun And return to rust colored dust Drifting away Towards indigo tomorrows

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A Surplus of Courage

By Nichole Lim ‘18

With wings of mind I sail eternal blue. From unseen depths and dreams undreamt I fly.

A realm of untapped danger to pursue, I’ll not be mocked by dragons in the sky.

Through silky clouds encased in golden sun, Deep in the frosty saga of the night,

When earth-bound hours are wasted, worn, and done, I wander west in still and silent flight.

I’ve thrown myself from earth’s material ledge, And soared beyond what life before had seemed. I’ve searched along the heavens’ changing edge,

And done a thousand things you have not dreamed. My soul has found release from worldly things,

In time to watch as moonbeams wash my wings.

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Land of Gold By Elizabeth Tan

They tell of this land of gold With shimmering skies and dazzling daydreams

Endless joy and not a worry in sight

He had packed his bags early For this glorious place

Taking flight in the night For he could no longer stay

She, on the other hand Had no clue of this land

She was taken in a breeze Early age of seventeen

Too soon, they say Too soon

They have gone to the land of gold

With shimmering skies and dazzling daydreams How glamorous How charming

How flawless must it be To never

Ever Come back?

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To a Place By Alexis Rambac To a place I traveled. I had nothing else to do. Nothing longed for me to stay As my footsteps took me far. I had nothing else to do. I left no memory behind As my footsteps took me far. Many a limit I broke. I left no memory behind. I took my dreams, my hope. Many a limit I broke As I ran past the margins. I took my dreams, my hope. I followed where passion lay As I ran past the margins. I forgot the borders set around me. I followed where passion lay. Nothing longed for me to stay. I forgot the borders set around me To a place I traveled.

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She By Camille Daszynski They think that She lives on the cusp of Maybe’s and Should Have’s But little do they know that She sits comfortably in her woolen socks, drinking her usual cup of cooled Earl Grey Tea, and reading her favorite verses from Silverstein She keeps quiet and listens to the delicate pitter-patter of squirrels on the tile roof and gentle song of the Sunbirds on her unperturbed Sunday afternoons As her mind drifts and her thoughts change, memories of the past inscribe onto the page and prompt her to remember the sun-kissed patterns of sunlight that slowly sneaked through the shades They call her Wendy Mitty—a clever spin-off from Walter; But She considers herself more so as Pollyanna, looking forward to tomorrow and finding wonders in the basic simplicity of nature She enjoys travelling and living freely, unshackled from worry and regrets But She also takes delight in listening to Him and to Her—hearing the voices of her best friends brings her inspiration and forces her dimples to curl up and her eyes to sparkle Passion encircles her endeavors and patience serves as her virtue; She loves to listen to others rather than speaking herself (which is why She is labeled as such) She hungers for knowledge and dreams for love, But remembers that her friends are love themselves and the books on her shelf hold knowledge within

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Tomorrow holds a new chapter to her life, a beginning unbeknownst to her For in her mailbox lays the Letter that will change her future forever No more will they mistakenly think of her-- Those relaxing Sunday afternoons when she would reminisce on sunsets and laughter passed Enlivened her soul as the tails of her lips twirled like the stem of a growing pea plant Her friends that laughed with her through the narrow, cream-colored hallways would too receive that Letter in the mail All Their lives were slowly beginning to change-- But those unperturbed Sunday afternoons and lifetime of smiles finally allowed all Three paths to converge into One

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We All Know A Place By Sachin Vallamkonda

Down the street, right of the hill, around the block, I know a place, fast and up-pace, with a red clock. One story high, forty rooms big, yellow brick walls, With tiled restrooms, carpeted floors, and long narrow halls. Tall men in slacks, old women in garbs, drinking cranberry juice, You know a place, less room and little space, with a lot to lose. Ugly smart men, foolish short youth, boys who are short, With pretty women, sassy tall teens, and girls who don’t fart. Light bulbs white, dark corners black, old gum pink, We know a place, cheating and disgrace, with a strong stink. Tedious hard work, painful metal stress, strange mixed feelings, With innocent souls, changing bodies, and aloof weird beings. Pencils, erasers; papers, small rulers; scissors and glue; These are tools, Which all children use, With disgust and refuse, At places called schools. [Joke 7] Congratulations! You found the last Sachin Vallamkonda joke. - Q: Which sport is the most Catholic? A: La-cross (Lacrosse)

You’re a winner! Ice cream, trophy, and a bouquet of flowers for you!

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A Brief History of Chickadee Avenue By Nini Bhat I. When I was seven, my parents decided to move into the house on Chickadee Avenue. I mention the name of the street because that’s all my parents told me about our new home— that it would be on Chickadee Avenue. I imagined a tiny swarm of birds that would be constantly present in the house, perched delicately on the arm of a chair, or perhaps peering behind a curtain, beady black eyes all-knowing and all-seeing. We would tend to our chickadees lovingly, stroking their black-capped heads and marveling at the tiny tightness of their perfect wings. Our neighbors would come to our house every night to see the Marvelous Chickadee Show, and our little birds would circle and flurry about in our living room, bottled tightly by the dusty rose wallpaper that my mother would be sure to paste on our walls, chirruping and chirping until they had danced their fill. Our neighbors would sigh in amazement and congratulate my parents on raising such fine chickadees. My parents would nod and say, yes, they are fine birds indeed, so small and lively! We do our best! But I would stand next to the chintz armchair and glower silently at them. Chickadees live in birch or alder forests, feeding off of the red jewels of berries that furnish their winter homes, not stuffy rose living rooms with lamps and mahogany laminate flooring. Chickadees don’t even like mahogany, I would want to yell at the departing neighbors. Don’t you know anything at all about chickadees? It turned out that the house on Chickadee Avenue would not, in fact, have any chickadees whatsoever. Not even a single solitary Chestnut-backed Chickadee, or even the common Black-capped Chickadee. It did have, however, a lot of spiders, and with the knife-wound of betrayal still throbbing in my back, I devoted many of my summer evenings to capturing the eight-legged tap dancers that scurried through the pipes of our bathroom and releasing them in my parent’s bedroom. II. I soon realized that I was re-capturing many of the same spiders over and over again, and we established a friendly rapport. Sending them into the master bedroom became a sort of badge of courage for some of the littler spiders, and they would wait silently next to the hot water tap in the upstairs bathroom to be chosen

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again to venture into that strange land of shag carpeting. There was one in particular that was especially lively, and its small brown legs would waggle in an amusing fashion every time I pounced upon it with my glass and slip of cardboard in hand. I had spent a lot of time learning about chickadees to prepare for our life on Chickadee Lane, so I knew very little about spiders. I endeavored to find out as much as I could about my small friend, and after a few weeks of intense study on Araneae at the local library, I was soon able to identify it as a member of Parasteatoda tepidariorum, or, in layman’s terms, a common American House Spider. I put it in an empty shoebox, leaving open plenty of holes for it to go out and feed and then return when it felt ready. I didn’t want to presume upon the intimacy of our relationship by addressing the house spider by name, but I confess that in my head, it became known as George. The lifespan of house spiders is little over a year after maturity, and as I had no way of examining how old George was, I spent each day with he wondering if it would be his last. Every time I peeked into the shoebox, however, George was complacently curled up in one of the cardboard corners, a leg wiggling here and there to assure me he was doing just fine. Although one can argue that spiders can very quickly become boring playmates, George’s silence and complete indifference to my presence endeared it to me. Here was a creature that demanded nothing of me, that had no expectations of my behavior or actions around it! In whom else would I find such an utter lack of presumption? III. However, I believe my parents began to worry about my “obsession” with George, fearing that my “disdain” towards the unruly tribe of neighborhood children that frequented the driveway opposite our house would eventually lead to “anti-social tendencies”. My mother finally sat me down one day to have a serious conversation about the friendship between me and George. [MOTHER sits across from me at the dining table, her hands folded and firm. I am shifting in the wooden chair, perhaps because the edge is digging into my thigh. She is dressed in her work clothes, a silk blouse and a black blazer that hangs perfectly on her narrow shoulders. The face of her watch reads 3:10, and I see her sneak a glance at it before turning her gaze to me. The sun is streaming in through the window right above the kitchen sink, and the afternoon air is light and fresh.]

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MOTHER: [pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear] So. Your father and I have already talked to you about this, but obviously you haven’t been listening. What have we said about carrying around that…that spider box around all the time? ME: [in a tone that may be perceived by an uneducated reader as sullen] Not to. MOTHER: Why do you carry it around anyways? It’s just a spider. ME: [shrugging, silent and sulkily uncommunicative] MOTHER: [sighs] Look, I know that this move may have been a little hard on you. I don’t want to push you, but I’m sure that if you gave some of the neighborhood kids a chance, you’d like them. They’re nice kids, really. ME: [still silent, now absorbed in the pattern of whorls on the print of my thumb] MOTHER: [impatiently] Can you please look at me when I’m talking to you? ME: Sorry. MOTHER: [reaching her hand over to mine] It’s okay. [She bites her lip.] Hey, how about we start with letting that spider go? I’m sure it’s not fun for him to stay cooped up in that shoebox all the time. [smiling] We’ll do it when your dad gets home, okay? ME: [woebegone] But— MOTHER: No buts. He’ll be back in an hour, so say your goodbyes. [scraping the chair as she gets up] And don’t stomp on the stairs on your way up, I’m going to take a quick nap.

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My mother was usually quite a nice person, but at that moment she was an insufferable, horrid tyrant, a modern Caligula sweeping a toga-clad arm across my world and extinguishing the beautiful light of friendship with a crushing Royal Decree. I wanted to throw a temper tantrum and smash a lamp, or maybe break one of the china plates that was locked with our silver, but I knew that would achieve nothing but a long tirade from my mother about bad behavior. So, tearfully, I retreated softly to the bathroom where I had first met George, and peered gently into the box that he had treated as a home for the past three weeks. There it was, immobile and tranquil in a corner, its legs bunched tightly together. I gazed at it, the tears drying on my cheeks. We spent a few minutes together in our usual companionable silence, until suddenly I realized that something was terribly, horribly wrong. George never bunched its legs, not ever— spiders move their legs through a strange sort of hydraulic system, where the fluid is sent to the extremities to extend them through liquid pressure. Curled legs meant no fluid, which meant that pressure that been lost, which meant something too awful to think about. I shook the box, hoping that George was simply dehydrated or resting, which could have been another cause of the fluidless legs, but his tight, balled-up body simply fell to the base of the shoebox. I opened the cardboard lid, my hands trembling, and stared at George’s tiny brown figure laying lifeless on the bottom of the box. I think I had known, in some part of my yet unformed soul, that this day would eventually come, but I had always imagined it in the far-off future, when I was sophisticated and mature enough to deal gracefully with the death of a close friend. I felt numb and empty, and I sat with a soft thud on the lid of the toilet. George was gone. Perhaps it was best, I dully reasoned. Perhaps, after such a lengthy period of association with humankind, George would have been unable to assimilate back into arachnid culture and would have been shunned by the rest of the spiders in the house. I shook my head. That was nonsense, I knew, and it would do me no good to indulge in saccharine fantasies about George perched on the bathroom tap, waiting for me to once again watch him sit stoically for hours upon end. And in a sense, George’s death filled me with equal parts sorrow and relief. Now, I would never have to release him, not knowing if he would remember our time together—

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or even care. In death, George could be immortalized as my loving friend, and his release could have soiled that precious image of our relationship. The very indifference that had bonded me so closely to it could have destroyed me upon my forced release of George. What if, after I had let it go, George had simply disappeared into the drainage system; or even worse, appeared again and acted as if it had never known me? What if I had blown up our friendship into something bigger than it was? Or what if George, in the bulging center of nervous cells that scientists have classified as the primitive brain of the house spider, had viewed me as a monstrous jailkeeper, a dangerous, tedious despot who had ruled over his life and prevented him from reaching some spider-like form of emotional fulfillment? I had never felt so guilty, so tiny and cruel, in my whole life, and my aching, mucus-nestled sobs worked their way through my entire body until I felt as if I were about to explode from all the hurt inside me. My father came home sometime later, and found me sitting on the toilet, cupping my small body around a Nike shoebox with a dead spider named George inside. [FATHER kneels in front of me, his knees planted deep into the soft green vanity rug at the base of the toilet. He gently touches my elbow.] FATHER: [softly] Hey, kiddo. [He pauses, tilting his head so that his eyes hold mine] It’s going to be okay. ME: [looks up, my eyes filled with hot tears] I— [I am unable to finish my sentence and collapse, heartbroken, onto my father’s chest. He removes the shoebox from my clenched fingers and places it near the sink, causing me to sob even harder.] My mother asked me after I came downstairs if I wanted a funeral for George. Overcome with a ballooning sense of love for my parents, I nodded hard and sat on our sofa. My parents had a hushed conference in the kitchen, wherein they most likely discussed the best send-off for George, and came to the consensus that a burial would cause his memory too linger too long, and that a funeral pyre would be far too much work and lack the emotional punch that George’s passing deserved. Eventually, they decided that a Norse funeral would be the best method to commemorate its memory.

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IV. We drove to the park, which lay along the banks of a small, artificial lake. It was getting close to evening, and the sky was ripening into a hushed dark as my mother directed our non-compact vehicle into a compact parking spot. I was too sad to comment. We made our way to the lake shore, taking care not to let the gentle lap of the waves reach our shoes. My father pulled out of his pocket the hollowed walnut shell of a Viking dragonship that he had prepared before we left home, and my mother reached into the shoebox and tipped George’s body into the empty nut. She held the walnut containing George’s body in her palm and turned to me. MOTHER: Would you like to say some words, honey? ME: [sniffling and elegantly heartbroken] No. MOTHER: Okay, then. [She turns towards the lake.] George, you were a good friend and spider. May your soul be at peace. I watched, sniffling, as my mother lit a match and let the flame dance into the shell. She leaned down and let the shell bob off into the lake, the tiny flame burning bright. We watched it for a few minutes, my father’s warm hand holding my small shoulders close, and then we all silently walked back to the car. It was a satisfying, noble funeral, and the raw edges of the wound that George’s death had left in me began to smooth out. MOTHER: [looking at me carefully in the rearview mirror] Do you want to get some ice cream on our way back? ME and FATHER: [at the same time] Yes! V. After we laid George to rest, I was no longer consumed by a fascination with the arachnid world. I halted my practice of releasing the house spiders into my parents’ bedroom, and I passed my old friends like strangers, gazing at them coolly while

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brushing my teeth or washing my hands. It hurt, I admit, to relinquish my only other sources of companionship in the world, but I felt that it would desecrate George’s memory to take up with another spider. Now, dear reader, you may peer over your glasses and raise an eyebrow at my theatrics, but I assure you that at the time, this was the keenest pain I had ever felt. Being a child in a world of adults is the single most isolating experience of anyone’s life— there comes a moment where you know exactly what you are thinking, and you try and explain it to your patiently waiting mother, but she just doesn’t understand, no one really understands, and you are patted on the head and laughed gently at, and all of a sudden you want to cry, and there’s a splitting pain in your side and you just want someone to KNOW! You want someone to KNOW YOU UTTERLY! Spiders are wise. They know things, peer through them, and to a tired, bored child, a spider is the closest thing to self-actualization that exists. At the library, while I was still in the throes of researching chickadees, I read a brightly colored storybook about the Ashanti people of Ghana. The language of the book was simplistic, to say the least (Look at this map! Here is Ghana! Can you say Ghana? Good job!), but somewhere in between the bright headdresses and geographically incorrect palm trees flourishing on the pages, there was a story. The Ashanti people believed in Anansi, a spirit who bears the knowledge of all time and tales. This god— a powerful, all-seeing god— could have taken the form of any being in the African savannah. A fiercely maned lion, perhaps, for strength. A giraffe, for seeing into the future. A cheetah, for the swiftness of his tongue as he dances along the edges of stories. But Anansi, Anansi the Storyteller, Anansi the Leopard-Catcher, Anansi the World-Weaver chose to be… a spider. How confusing, how utterly strange is that? How comforting, to a child gazing with wide eyes on her bathroom sink, that the god of stories might be among the Parasteatoda tepidariorum hiding underneath peeling wallpaper. Here is a story about a lonely child, Anasi might breathe with wiggling legs, a child who created the world. I digress.

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Best Friend By Rahul Kumar

You were always there for me.

When I wanted to talk or Just hang out.

That's why you're my best friend. We were open like books to each other.

No secrets between us and

So many stories. That's why you're my true friend.

You enjoyed the same things I did.

Every time we had fun like Inseparable twins.

That's why you're my close friend. I can't believe you had to leave so soon.

We knew each other since

We were children. That's why you're my best friend.

Me and the Birds By Nichole Lim I run along uneven ground My kite behind me bouncing ‘round A flip! A blip! A catch of breeze It’s up! Into the air with ease At last it soars there high and proud Dancing with a lonely cloud

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Just a Dream By Leo Tong

Flying above all my troubles

Soaring through the clouds like an eagle I am an immortal

Not a single thought on my mind Carefree and elated Jubilant and excited

Waking up to find it too short Just a dream

Submerged in a sea of problems

I am crushed by the immense pressure I am vulnerable

Voices running through my mind Pain and misery

Grief and animosity Waking up drenched in sweat

Just a dream

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Us By Nathalie Co I was peanut butter You were jelly I was hugs You were kisses I was ketchup You were mustard I was Batman You were Robin We came together like a pair of shoes We played together like an orchestra group We worked together like a bee and a flower We stayed together like a pack of wolves But Something Happened I am water You are oil I am cat You are dog I am peace You are war I am Batman You are The Joker We come separately like the Ice Age and Global Warming We play separately like the nerds and the jocks We work separately like the lion and the mouse We stay separate like rival gangs I wonder What Happened

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Don’t Break the Train of Thought By Mary Celestin

Books and writing, much like the concept of string theory, bind the world together in tiny webs. Both help humankind understand itself at a fundamental level. But while string theory deals with elementary particles and their interactions with one another, writing explains human interactions on a deeper, emotional level. The practice of writing, in its most primal state, is just an extension of an individual’s thoughts. But when these loose thoughts are strung together in intricate patterns, they are transformed from vagabond ideas into magical works of art: books. Books can open up doors to unknown universes and dimensional spaces that vary from our personal day-to-day reality. They can shed light on the human condition—at least a portion of it—that was previously unseen. Just like string theory, writing and its byproducts make the world easier to comprehend. The process of writing allows jumbled thoughts to formulate, gravitating to a blank page. The books produced connect the writer with his/her audience, giving the readers an opportunity to alter their perspective on the world. Readers in turn can reflect upon their individual life in relationship to those around them. The great plagues of humankind: discrimination, prejudice, terrorism—the list goes on!—could all disappear if we simply read and wrote more. Similar to how quantum mechanics is the stepping stone to understanding subatomic particles, books and writing are the bricks and mortar to build an understanding of the human condition and work against the evils that often accompany it.

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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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