The Muse: Fall Edition 2022

THE MUSE

muse| myōōz |

an artist’s source of inspiration

Basking - Malia Martin ‘26

dear reader,

We proudly present to you the first issue of The Muse published in the 2022-2023 school year. This first semester has marked a new era for Archbishop Mitty. Masks are no longer mandatory, assemblies and liturgies are being held inside for the first time in years – a new sense of normalcy has been bestowed upon our community. This inspired us to create a theme for our artists that would reflect our new era: togetherness. After all, our Mitty community is feeling a newfound sense of unity.

The concept of togetherness, found through being on a team or in a club or on a retreat, means something different to each person. As you scroll through the pages of our magazine, you will see each artist’s unique interpretation of the submission theme. We have simplified our design elements and diminished our color palette so as not to take away from any of the creations on which our artists worked so hard.

In the following pages, you will see presented here the work and dedication our fellow students poured into the artwork, poems, and stories. They are tales of being together and apart, of love and loss, of light and dark. We now humbly invite you to dive into the wonders of The Muse, to explore the true power that togetherness brings. As the politician Sonia Gandhi writes, “Together we can face any challenges as deep as the ocean and as high as the sky.”

our mission statement

The Muse: AMHS Student Literary Magazine is a collection of original, creative content produced 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.

52 better than being boring, Maya Ortega

57 A Memorial Together by the Ocean, Kate O’Leary

59 Ode to the Macaroon, Danika Contreras

62 The Door, Ilinca Pandelea

63 Winter, Taylene Leigh

63 Elegy for Summer, Bridget Juul

64 Long Walk in the City, Taylor Cabrieto

65 Grandma’s Dreads, Malia Martin

67 Aditya Nagaputi

69 Untied Shoelaces, Sofia Katsioulas

70 I hate, Thi Nguyen

71 Togetherness Haiku, Anthony Ratchkov

72 The Victim of Our Vanity, Vir Bhutani

74 To You, Who is an Artist, Caylee Correia

75|76 October, Maya Ortega

78 Brighter the Deeper I Sink, Ethan Rao

80 Like an Infant Longing for Attention, Jacob Park

83 A Distant Memory, Claire Gluzman

85 Out on the Field, Luke Giovanetti

86 Together, Madison Tada

SHORT STORIES

89|90|91|92 Dethroned, Jack Hull

93|94 These Dim Yellow Street Lights

95|96 In My Dreams, Melanie Estrada

97|98|99|100 At the Crossroads, Raaghav

Chakravarthy

101|102 Paula’s Home, Paula Lee Pascual

Enya Liu ‘23

Night

Vanessa Chang ‘25

Before the Night has consumed us fully, The sunset paints an exquisite drawing. The soft clouds that drift on by are wooly, And the fleeting brightness is withdrawing.

The night has finally draped over us, Pitch black as far as the eye can perceive. There is a shivering feeling but thus; The darkness will finally take its leave.

The sun rose gently, melting the darkness As Nature yawns in a wakening stance. And yet there is a feeling of starkness, As the Sun’s rays take on a tiny dance.

Fleeting Moment

Emma Pham ‘23

When asked about how their work relates to togetherness, Emma responded, “This collection of watercolor paintings depicting the gorgeous beauty of autumn serve as a reminder to appreciate the present moment. While creating these paintings during live painting sessions in nature, I was surrounded by family and those I care about. Because my loved ones were alongside me during the creative process, these paintings embody the notion of togetherness. Although the colors of autumn may be fleeting, the bond to one’s dearest friends and family remains eternal."

Best Friends

Kira Rupnow ‘26

The other family that is your best friends

The family you choose

The other part of you

The people that will face your fears with you

The people you want to spend holidays with

The people you create fun dances with Having a group Instagram account to post those dances

The people you take silly pictures with Group FaceTime calls that last for hours on end

Our Life Barrett Deng ‘25

Life is sometimes so hard. Where it sometimes feels impossible, To where the path is barred Yet, I still persevere. Like alone on a rock.

Together, we can Embrace through hardships

Being together is not an easy task But all it takes is a little bit of effort And a little bit of teamwork.

When asked about how his work relates to togetherness, Barrett responded, “My poem is about being together and helping each other out, especially when we don’t feel our best selves.”

Having matching teddy bears with matching names

The people that will laugh endlessly with you

The people that will become your lifelong buddies

These friends are your best friends.

There are so many things to be thankful For and one of them is you

Every time we are together I know that You have my back and I have yours

Thankful for You

Mattea Petroff ‘26

I always feel safe when we Are together and I am so lucky to have people who can make me smile

But you will always be the someone I call when things are Difficult and I know you will always be there for me

Cheering for me here

In my corner supporting everything I do

I’m so thankful that we are in this life together

Chloe Kang ‘25

Smiles are less, tears are more, You might just need to knock on a neighbor’s door, A quick relief, a faint chuckle, They say knock next time you run into trouble, Someone to lean on, that’s what we all need in times of need, Someone to lean on, someone to take away from your greed, Someone to lean on, you might just find someone to love but not guaranteed, Someone to lean on, someone to patch you up when you bleed.

The Sun

Atharav Moudgil ‘25

I saw a yellow canary Bright, as it rose in the day Into the blue sky it sweeps so swift So light-hearted and gay

Gliding through the air

So much brightness flying

I could not bear

To see it die

At last it went flying back Back to its shining nest

I have to say, I was impressed

But now I think I too should get some rest

Chloe Kang ‘25

Hills of Hawaii

Dhwani Kharidia ‘23

all-consuming

Anika Bhutani ‘25

it starts as a seed, which unravels into a festering sore. an inkblot, except it’s not a blot. because the ink keeps spilling, down, down, off the page, into your arms gripping the pen, your heart. it’s an envelope that envelops all of the distrust. emotions you hide, but they’re not hidden. since you’re coated with rust a metal who loses its shine, a diamond stuck in the mud, a soldier, hardened. tired.

but in this darkness comes a light, a gleam of a smile. sun, moon, stars, a friend. a hand pulling you closer to the brightness. it’s blinding, but so is hope. so is a laugh, happiness, memories, so is living, so is home. and you will never need to be alone again.

Don’t let the light go out Jonathan Lin ‘23

Dark light

Enya Liu ‘23

Madison Lin ‘25

Ryan Barnes ‘26

Musical Emotions

Vincent Kwan ‘25

Music trembles my inner emotional notes, Shifting my mood through endless tidal waves Burdens the heart with the past anecdotes. Remembering the aged, but also the new raves... Countless sonatinas stir my heart without cost Its melodic tempo is distinct and well-known, Yet floods with nostalgia of love long lost, Journeys through past, present, and destination unknown, Music sets my heart aflame with grace, From darkness to light, its refined chords resonate. Music even calms death’s chilling embrace. In songs, lives change at simple twists of fate Even as despair inhales me like a knife Musical notes will surely protect my life

Madison Lin ‘25

Blue Bird

Water Drop

Amelia Spink ‘23

Lost

Amaia Thompson ‘25

I felt lost

Always being tossed around

I feel I can't be found

I don't know why

Why do they all lie--

To me, I'm lost

To them I'm gone

I can't be found

It's like I've been drowned

I'm sinking

I can't stop thinking

I hope you see my shadow

To you, I'm shallow

I forget you believe I'm recovering

Recovering from being lost is tough

Without you my life feels rough

Until we are together I’ll still be the shadow, hovering

Katrina McCay ‘24

One team, one family. Our pride lost a member, and no one seemed to notice. Am I the only one who remembers her? My sister is gone. Well, not gone, just far away. But is that really so different? I weep for her all the same. My family, they haven’t seen my pain. They don’t understand the bone-chilling sorrow I feel. I see her shadows everywhere, memories of what I once had.

She was my inspiration, my motivation. She made me laugh when I wanted to cry.

I persevered for her, but when it became too much, She was there To help lighten my load, to share the burden.

But now, when I’m fighting a losing battle, I look over to her for support, for relief, waiting for her to tag me out. But she’s not there. Not where she should be.

Without her, the waves come crashing down. I start to drown. No one sees my tears until I resurface. They think my devastation is because I was defeated in the fight, but it is because of the comrade I lost.

It is an odd pain.

I know she is one text away, yet it feels like she’s gone. I miss her, I mourn her. But people have little sympathy for those who grieve the living.

I still talk to her, barely. Neither of us have enough time; never enough time. We love each other, but I knew this would happen.

When she announced she was leaving, as the tears rolled down my face, she leaned her head against mine, and whispered, “You’ll always be my sister.”

I told her yes, but it won’t be the same.

I hate that I was right.

The Night

Atharav Moudgil ‘25

Night holds a lantern to the world

Do you see it?

As if trying to show us

The world that lays before us

Looking upon the world, so dormant

This dead of midnight is the noon of thought

“What world is this, I cannot describe?”

With its lantern, it relentlessly searches for an answer

Trying to hide in clandestine silence

Slipping softly through the dark sky

So the night, empty and unattached Does not know itself and us as different

Matthew Stivaletti ‘23

Smile on Masks

An-Po Chen ‘25

Smile on masks

Roam the desert

—Where only dust and stench of death linger.

Smile on masks

Roam the buildings

—With black burns and shards of broken windows.

Smile on masks

To protect first— Second to lie, to hide myself from you.

Smile on masks

To keep alive

The togetherness— A symbol of why it’s already dead.

As the World Burns Jay Lee ‘25

In a glittering castle, far, far away

A child runs down a hall, full of odd tapestries and statues, Rapidly running away from a dark flame, tears rushing down and onto the blood red carpet

The brooding, burning fire, turns walls, pillars, and ceiling to ash

The paintings of the world: save, change, redemption

all burnt to the black dirt, gone without a trace

The lord and lady of the house have already gone

The child abandoned

Only the maids and butlers have remained

To die with the world, to stand by and watch

The child runs past them, not even a glance

Only staring at the scarlet stained lands; without hope

As the world burns

A snowy abyss: A white Christmas is what I dream of Warm winter days that soothe the skin

And while they’re fun

With no frostbite in sight

Yet I still dream of one covered in snow

No snowmen or snowflakes in the air

No slipping on ice or beanies to wear

A ski week…What's that?

Drive hours and hours just to be graced by The white magic that soothes all as the world races by I dream of a white Christmas

Untitled Sarah Chavez ‘25

California Winter

Laurel Willis ‘26

What is winter? I wonder to myself

It happens when the earth’s axis turns about

What if winter creates a new ice shelf

Not in California where there’s a yearly drought

It doesn’t snow nearby, so somewhere far away

There’s ice at SAP Center where the Sharks play their game

You could drive to Lake Tahoe for the holiday Winter season outside CA where snowfall is rarely tame

But is it truly winter without a glimpse of snow

With breezy warm days and no sign of cold

A true winter in California is 100% faux This global warming stuff is starting to get old

This poem is about something only one can guess Made up nonsense about a California winter distress

Winter Nights & Northern Lights

Laurel Willis ‘26

Streetlight

Corina Gaska ‘25

Street light

Blink on the road

Is this just my mind slowly diminished?

I am just a dying light a flickering flame

Someone stops below my frame

They lean.

So this is me: dying light, to which they lean rusted frame on dirty street no more oil but they come to me for light

A useless street light but they stand by A hundred brighter bulbs block down the road but they chose me. Why?

A struggling sound am I A mumbling siren miles from a town in need but see Do they hear a symphony? My wails should die in the emptiness of night but they listen Am I still broken Am I no longer alone?

in the Endless void which I heard was sad

a siren plagued to silence but yet they open their ears

When I crumble down

To a person barely seen yet they still ask for me

is this community?

sing to me community for I found a place diminished light, flickering flame standing steady in rusted frame Simply Being. Resting upon a symphony of voices for even soundless they listened

pouring down a song

I once knew

Little tiny notes breaking on a tin roof

Together carrying the melody of the moment

Together holding fast to the streetlights in the storm.

Madison Lin ’25

Who Am I Really Julia Baust ‘23

Who am I really, Am I pretty, Witty, Skinny.

Am I good enough?

I ask myself day after day

What do others say?

Do they say look at her beautiful face

Or do they want to use me as a brace

To boost themselves up

Am I first choice

Or am I last

Or would you rather pass

I can't help the thoughts and feelings

That pass through my head even when people say Count your blessings

Because when I look in mirror all I see is a disappointment, I see baggy eyes, tear stains and calls for help never sent.

Why am I so awful

Why can’t I be helpful, Beautiful, Grateful.

While others are being killed and tortured I sit at home feeling sad

What do I have to be sad about?

Maybe I don’t have friends

But others are meeting their ends

Besides it is my fault,

I’m annoying, clingy, and won’t quit complaining

Can’t blame them for not staying

Who wants a person like me?

Popular wannabee

Can’t figure out sexuality.

I’m complicated

Someone so easily hated

So who am I really?

Abby Rosendo ‘24

Gazing Headlong into the Sun

Suyog Vibhuti ‘25

The sky, hints of blue interspersed in a haze of gray Its crown jewel, the yolk of its egg

Casting out vines, threads, and all manner of specks They pierce the lens with an overindulgence of light

See how no method to look away or disavow Shall dredge up its dark shadow from the sights of the eye

The Persimmon Season

Mary Pham ‘26

A Reaching Hand

Eva Sullivan ‘26

My Person

Matthew Werthman ‘25

My person is the one who keeps me sane and happy. My person keeps me calm when my ocean has a storm.

My person is mine and only mine, so call me selfish and leave me in the dust for I’ll always have my person.

Rest

Santiago Hardesty ‘25

I walk

But never reach the location I search

But never find what I am searching for I ask but I am never answered I rest and what I desire comes to me

Alone

Kayla Marinez ‘25

Have you ever felt like the world is just not on your side? maybe you feel like you just need to hide

Away in a space where the world can be filled with grace And all your worries dissipate, like sugar dissolving into a warm cup of tea

But then you think hey! maybe it's just me Who feels like this, an empty cup stuck in an abyss

Well truth be told, it's not just you, who feels so cold

You're not on your own and you certainly are not alone

Haze On Water

Yohan Mehdizadeh ‘24

Haze Over Water

Yohan Mehdizadeh ‘24

My passion is the moonlight nightfall

On that day my soul grew dawning

I awoke to the life that reunites us all In the precious moments in mourning

I heard a silent, happy lifting

Spoils of Victory

Madhav Lopez ‘23

Family

Ryan Yun ‘26

The most beautiful thing given to me

It is so great, you cannot see

The most beautiful thing given to me

Is the love from my family that lasts for eternity

Introspection

Nathan Nguyen ‘23

“My best friend Pranay and I are opposites. Reserved, a lot more book-smart than me, and not the most fashionable, he does not push norms like I do.”

“Despite our differences, Pranay has always been there for me—he was the first person with whom I shared my desire to pursue fashion Design, so when I started one of my first major projects, I really wanted him to be my first model.”

“Although he initially agreed, he changed his mind after seeing that the look contained a skirt and told me that he one hundred percent would model the skirt for me, but his parents would kill him. I titled this photo “Introspection” since in order to design a look that Pranay would be comfortable wearing and putting himself out to the world in, I had to look inwards into my perspective and compare it with his.”

“The pants feature a flared silhouette with purposely torn and punctured fabric layered on top. Pranay wanted to model for me but feared judgment from his friends and family, so I designed these pants specifically for him. He has always made me feel this feeling of togetherness—Pranay’s unconditional love and undying support inspires me, with my art, to carry on the feeling of togetherness.”

Monday November 21

Ella Mee ‘25

Ahh Thanksgiving break

The air is crisp the leaves do fall

I could bake cakes and cookies and have my family try them all

I could sleep all day or lie awake

Or plans with friends I could make

I’ll save my homework for Sunday

When all my free time has gone away

At least for now I have no school

I can mess around and act a fool

Drawing or painting or reading maybe

Or I could just curl up right by the tv

I could sit and catch up on all of my shows

Or maybe go shopping for new fall clothes

I could go for a run or maybe a hike

Or to my friends house riding my bike

No school for me, not today

Not even a thought until Sunday

Wait, my dad wakes me up and what does he say?

Thanksgiving break

Why, it doesn’t start until Wednesday?!?!

Pumpkin Medley

Taylor Cabrieto ‘25

Jonathan Lin ‘23

Pages

Jonathan Lin ‘23

I pull out a page

Wondering where I should stay

Another day

Wondering if I was even okay

I question

For I should have this memorized by heart

My mother told me that

A blank page

I don’t even know where to start

An actor with an empty script

It’s colder than crypts

Frigid

Am I even doing my part?

I ask myself

As that’s what I’m supposed to do,

Yet maybe I’m nothing more than a pied piper

Without a tune

A father’s rage

And I was told that that was how it was supposed to be

No life, no living

They said I wouldn’t make it past twenty-three

Living life alone in a world like ours

Talk about jail bars

We’re left with nothing but scars

Talk about fast fashion, life living, and cars

Sometimes even I got to go out and look at the stars

As they fade to black and the night’s awake

Reflecting on life

Did I make a mistake?

To have failed all those who came against, before me

Maybe just maybe there was something there for me

Staring at the signs

On enemy lines

Meeting where we once met Meeting for nothing more than to forget The past we had and our memories together All those days are probably now caught up in tethers And that’s facts

But I can’t distinguish fact from fiction They keep telling me “take a second to realize who this is dissin”

Meeting where the fence meets Separation between lines of a once-meant family And its growing fines Who can we even call our own When I’m left out in the wild Alone without a phone Like heaven sent me

Even fights between siblings

We’re left with nothing but envy

Sometimes I pray to God

Like why the hell don’t he end me For all those whom I have hurt Wondering who would come send me As I lay my head to sleep, Restlessly Beneath the stars Forget the cars I forget the envy

I begin to wonder What was in me

fallin into u

Sabrina Anaya ‘25

it’s that time of year again. the cold breeze and changing leaves the sound of rain on your window pane it gets hard to breathe, i wipe my nose on my sleeve

it’s that time of year again. i can’t help but complain with love on the brain

but i think it’s different this time at least i hope it is. it’s different this time i know it is.

autumn reminds me of you cozy and calm with nothing to lose. so i’ll let myself fall through fallin into u.

Sugar Sunset

Haley Hernandez ‘23

Icarus

My love, You are filled up with light that burns me, And I am a wretched thing, undeserving of a miracle, such as you.

You are Gaia’s most intense creation, beautiful forever, A startling brightness of life that will never dim.

I reach out to touch you, the brightest star in my sky. Before I remember— I am Icarus.

Stela Abasta ‘23

When asked about how her work relates to togetherness, Brooke responded, “This photo captures the moon and stars scattered among the sky. Although they are hundreds of thousands of miles away from each other, they still dwell in the same universe, relating back to the theme of togetherness.”

“Fall”ing into Autumn

Andrew Park ‘25

Watching fall baseball

Harvesting bright ripe apples While we’re together

The Cabin

Madison Lin 25’

There’s a little cabin In the woods

Where nobody ever goes.

There’s a man In that cabin As lonely as can be.

Every day passes by Sunrise to sunset But to him

Each day is the same: Lonely.

He never leaves his cabin. Choosing to stay, Hoping that someone will come his way.

The world, Society, Just a mile away. Yet he never leaves.

Companionship, love, Just minutes away. Yet he never leaves.

So here he’ll stay In this very cabin

As he stares through the glass That separates him from others Wondering what his life could be on the other side.

better than being boring Maya Ortega ’25

i’ve always known i was different, not in the sense that i’m not normal, but more so that i can’t grasp the feeling of this life. everyone around me will disappear at one point & the tears i’ve shed will never matter when the population is whipped. my mind is wired uniquely because today i’m a new person, today i’m confused. i’m torn between the reality of it all and what’s just the figments of my imagination. yesterday i was livid, i was ashamed of the person i used to be and even more so that i haven’t actually changed at all. i still do things i’m not fond of in order to please people. i put on a smile and spend hours rehearsing how to act in front of random people i’ll never speak to again. and i’m angry, because i have to pretend as though i’m interested in their boring conversations. i’ve always known i was different because everyone seems to know how the world works, but i feel as though this world is so pointless and materialistic. i don’t care about your judgment, i don’t want to hear your every thought, every word you say is meaningless to me because i know you just talk to talk. and although i can’t tell what’s real and fake, i never will be able to figure that out, i will say that tomorrow i’ll be intrigued.

i’ll realize something new and i’ll force myself to act like everything’s okay. i’ve always known i was different because i’m not plain. every morning i wake up as a brand new person, and it’s not conveniently normal, but at least it’s better than being boring.

Varini Kadakia ‘23

“My name is Erin Chung, and I am a wildlife photographer. Being in nature has been my biggest inspiration. Yellowstone, Wyoming has taught me to look for little stories in large landscapes and big stories in tiny animal interactions.”

A Memorial Together by the Ocean Kate

O’Leary

By the ocean we play a memorial piece, On the very day World War I came to cease. The spectators flock in as one, And I know the time to play has nearly come.

Gripping my instrument while looking into the crowd, I feel excited and incredibly proud. Meeting the eyes of my fellow peers, We begin to play, the music coursing in and out of our ears.

We all have some nerves prior to the performance. However, when we all come together, our confidence is enormous. The veterans, old and weary, Close their eyes to listen together, their eyes becoming teary.

From such far away lives we come. Our band is together to play as one. Everyone can tell through the music in the air, For the veterans, we truly care.

The music of fellowship and honor, Heard by everyone near the water. On the day that we played for the veterans, A memorial piece, together by the ocean.

A Dark Hallway

Live on; don't close your eyes.

Eleanor Crema ‘23

Jonathan Lin ‘23

Danika

The soft but crunchy Shell of a macaron

Sits there on a beautiful Tray

With all the colors of the rainbow

The soft creamy center Oozes out of every bite

All with different designs and flavors

Surrounded by so many Lovely desserts

Nobody wants to buy

The sweet, crunchy and creamy Macaron

A kind woman walks by She sees only the colorful Macarons that everyone is passing by She looks to the right

Then to the left

But no one not even one

Seems to be even taking a glance at These yummy desserts

The woman so kind as she is Decides to buy the crunchy creamy macarons

She buys all the different colors and flavors

She never will regret getting these Crunchy but creamy macarons

Ode to the Macaron

Contreras ‘25

44456

Alice Shen ‘23

The Door

Ilinca Pandelea ‘24

The door beyond would not open

Though the world yearned for its breath

Waking up to the soft melody of the ocean

Unconscious craving for purpose, for emotion

Destruction of the soul loomed on the wooden porch of a cottage

Like a killer plagued by repetition and gray memories

Mean fathers and dull violin lessons

He was never truly alive

His shallow steps on the lush carpet gave him away

The murder never fulfilled the aching pit in his chest

He did what they told him was best

An obedience rooted in every essence of his being

He didn’t stand a chance

Robbed completely of imagination

A slave of his own existence

He was depleted of thoughts; rotting

The soft tulips in his mind withered

The roses stripped of meaning, merely thorns

The trees drained of their wisdom

The dancing rivers slipped away past the eastern giants

The piano keys like autumn leaves

Spinning out of control

The world like a candle exhausted of a flame

An internal desire for a familiar path towards a cabin

An old friend who makes tea

The world lacked a dreamy night

An indescribable feeling of wonder

Not to be alive, but to live fully

Open the door beyond, let the awe of life seep into your soul

Let it rearrange every fiber in your body

Live and breathe, for you are one with the earth.

Abyss

Alleah Cayetano ‘26

Winter

Taylene Leigh ‘25

The snow expands

Everywhere is covered with a layer

Everyone holds a shiver

We send our prayers

Everywhere is covered with a layer

We sit near the fire

We send our prayers

The flame of the fire rises higher

We sit near the fire

As days pass by, the flare of the fire rises higher

A layer of white covers the sky

As days pass by, Everyone holds a shiver

A layer of white covers the sky

The snow expands bigger

Elegy for Summer

Bridget Juul ‘25

Summer, you are gone it’s winter now I do not belong

The other hemisphere will boast while I am as pale as a ghost

The darkness comes too quickly for me to bear it is as if you do not care

At this time I should see sunlight in the sky instead I see stars flying by I feel sleepy, sad, and salty This poem is extremely faulty

Let me rephrase I’m in a daze

Wake me up I crave to roast in the sun's rays on the California coast

Oh, summer, please come back

There is something the other seasons lack

Long Walk in the City

Taylor Cabrieto ‘25

The cold breeze of the city traveled through my hair, It made me feel free as I strided on the sidewalk. The night was young but I was getting older, but the city made me feel that there was less on my shoulders.

Couldn’t get enough of walking alone, there was nobody to disturb me and my music. The journey was endless that lasted blocks and blocks, No time for me to suddenly stop and drop.

When this is over, I will reside to my apartment, Go to sleep and rest. Then I will go to work with a sense of pity, But that will all end when I take my long walk in the city.

Grandma’s Dreads

Malia Martin ‘26

A perfect example of natural pulchritude and elegance: Marion Martin’s dreads. You won’t find that in a dictionary or on a website, because she’s my grandma. But you would find it– feel it–if you were lucky enough to lay eyes on her. Tightly wound like ropes, strong and durable just like her. Those beautiful honey brown– light brown– cocoa brown locks had not a speckle of gray. And although those dreads were wise and experienced they framed a face and mind that wrinkles had not infiltrated. Laying down her back like armor made of steel, as she sits in meetings with people who secretly judge and underestimate her. Grandma was always able to keep her composure, because she and her dreads knew those people’s negative thoughts were stemmed by jealousy. Perhaps her energy or her embrace triggered the envy.

Grandma may not be walking the Earth today, but a lock is still in my home. It is locked in a box, safe and sound, letting her energy radiate off of it. Sometimes I feel a little sorrow, though deep down in my heart where you can’t see in, I know. I know she is wearing her lucious crown up above. Where the golden gates opened widely for her.

Chloe Kang

‘25

Fish Dreams

El Yang ‘23

Love is essential Communicate with others

Remain together

He wouldn’t share the oysters. Shellfish.

Untied Shoelaces

Sofia Katsioulas ‘25

She keeps her shoelaces untied

She thinks it gives her some flair

Never minded their opinions

She walks by as they all stare

She doesn’t bother to tie them

As you see, she’s hardly aware

Caught up in her own emotions

Bliss and bitter despair

At times she wishes to tie them

Hopes for a glance, not a glare

But the truth is clear as day

Unless you fall, they won’t care

Contemplation and Reality

Jonathan Chen ‘26

I hate

Thi Nguyen ‘23

I hate that I’m enslaved to your existence my thoughts words feelings decisions all governed by your insistence I hate that I can’t be free but what’s even more stupid is that I’m the one with the key

Katelyn Nguyen ‘23

Togetherness Haiku Anthony Ratchkov ‘25

Times last forever because we are together life’s an adventure

‘23

Emma Brown

The Victim of Our Vanity

Vir Bhutani 25’

Look upon her waters, her soulful serenity; Tween predator and prey, she masks all strike, For she’s peaceful, but not immune to calamity.

So vast, so wide, she stretches endlessly; So empty, so hollow, yet full of life. Look upon her waters, her soulful serenity.

Soulful serenity soon turns deadly

As horrors beneath, they surface in time, For she’s peaceful, but not immune to calamity.

As kids we play on her shores; merry In turn, her children die from plastic knives. Look upon her water, her soulful serenity.

She brings destruction on humanity

They chastise her, ignoring their own crime. For she’s peaceful, but not immune to calamity.

The Sea lives victim of our vanity

She deserves our respect; we’re in denial. Look upon her waters, her soulful serenity, For she’s peaceful, but not immune to calamity.

Alternative Masculinity

Nathan Nguyen ‘23

To You, Who is an Artist

Caylee Correia ‘25

Tie such epiphanies together

Breaking through, breaking down. Rewrite the words of the stars

Oh, how I’ve come so far.

Taking each step down, As though I’ve got a clue of my actions. Its consequences shall be the latter And my current desires shall be the former Just to wait a little longer, for my time may come To cast along my worries and travail towards my true desires. Every single one of them.

Even if the responsibilities of life try to stop me. No more excuses. It is time to contrive what I love. I do not care about the pay

Nor the opinions of others. The world would be dead without art

And I am simply creating life.

Maya Ortega ‘25

for the entirety of my existence, i’ve been compared to that of warmth and sunshine, goldie sunny smiley, that my dirty blonde hair reminded my parents of the sand and my eyes, reflections of the ocean. but october was my favorite month.

i liked the leaves and the colors and the way my slight tan started to fade.

i liked the way the air was never too cold and the sun warmed my skin but didn’t make me sweat. and when you became october, i fell in love with it. i played in your leaves, carved all your pumpkins, went costume shopping in your closet, and kept the porch light on so everyone knew we were home.

october became a constant month, autumn became every season, and our anniversary became my favorite holiday. but winter came eventually as it always does. your leaves blew away, your pumpkins began to rot. we grew out of our costumes and the porch light burnt out. maybe it was me.

maybe there is a part of me that is not always 85 degrees and sunny. maybe there’s a part of me that welcomed winter and the frosting of your green grass. maybe there was a part of me that longed for the quiet of a world draped in white powder.

whatever it was. whatever made winter come earlier than i ever thought it could have, brought out the deadly storm that you were hiding. show me the roads of your mind that were stained with black ice and the fallen branches that caused the blackout that we so quickly became.

i’ve always been so scared of the dark so when you threw me into it spiraling, i was left begging for answers when i could not even see my own hands. what was i supposed to do besides call out for you? winter was never ending. i was so cold in the spring, and june, july, and august all flew below freezing. but in january, in january i drove past my old spot, the one i played in before the autumn months I even knew your name, & the porch light was on. so i carved a new pumpkin, i made my own costume, and i’ve never felt the winter be so warm. the ice began to melt, the ground began to thaw, and when all of the lights turned on again, when i was able to see you so clearly, when i was able to touch your face and pull the bits of leaves out of your hair, i felt the sun wore my skin. i heard the waves crash onto the dirty blonde sand and october, suddenly, was no longer my favorite.

Jacqueline Ruan ‘25

Ethan Rao ‘25

i fall into the strangest lake a pool of deep endless everything a sky full of stars and moons as i drift through the layers every inch i fall it brightens until the very water is shining a pale white glow bright as a star subtle as the wind warm as the sun cool as steel i sink farther. until there is no more to go but where to now?

i stand up and look around the water is clear yet misty full yet endlessly lonely i take a step then another then i keep on going. sometime along the way i lost myself among the stars among the moons among the planets.

sometime along the way the planets lost themselves among the moons sometime along the way the moons lost themselves among the stars sometime along the way the stars lost their way among the waves we followed the path so clearly marked with nothing we joined into a crowd of one the stars and moons and planets and me in this strange lake that shined brighter the deeper i fell we followed until the road stopped. the water continued yet we knew the path stopped here. i turned to look behind. a deep lonely glow gazed back at me the sparkle of all the stars, moons, and planets gathered together watched me as i stood at the edge of the road. where will i go? what will i become? nowhere. everywhere. nothing. everything. i smiled i turned around and stepped off the path the glow faded, yet i felt at home. at peace. alone yet so loved in the dark.

goodnight

Spring Tulips

Aarya Srinivasan ‘25

Madison Lin ‘25

Like an Infant Longing for Attention Jacob

Park ‘26

Like an infant longing for attention, She cries, waiting for someone to come. She sits alone on her crummy bench, Wondering if she’d be forever glum.

Like a sunflower looking only at the sun, He looks only at one soul. For years and years, he has longed for love, Only to lose control.

Like a lover waiting for the one, They are blind, oblivious. Their needs aren’t satisfied, Their rationales are gone.

Like an oblivious infant longing for attention, Like a needy sunflower looking only at the sun, Like a blind lover, waiting for the one, We are all in need of love.

A Distant Memory

Claire Gluzman ‘25

It will never be the same. I wait and hope for a tug on the rope, but everything goes back to blame. Our memories seem so far away.

When you start speaking, my screams just start leaking, for me to be led astray.

How could I tell how you feel when all our calls are shallow, to the point where I can’t swallow.

My heart will never heal.

I constantly backtrack and think, do you miss me since I left in a spree, as you sit down and pour a drink.

Out on the Field

Luke Giovannetti ‘25

When you're out on the field and can feel the warmth of the turf, As soon as you see the ball you immediately feel alert.

When you’re out on the field and feel nothing but confidence, As soon as you interpret, you assert your dominance.

As you’re in your ready position, Run towards the competition.

As you see the ball coming towards you, make sure you wrap up and drive through.

When you hear the crowd yelling your name, That's when you know it's a real ballgame.

When you feel the cold air on your skin, All you can hear is WIN, WIN, WIN!!!

As you trot off the field into the night, Then you tell yourself, “We put up a fight.” You look up at the sky as dark as space, Then you run into the locker room to see what awaits.

Ryan Barnes ‘26

Together

Madison Tada ‘25

Like ketchup and mustard

Or two peas in a pod

Without each other

Is some kinda odd

Like being a Monarch

And getting involved in games

Without this community

It could be kinda lame

I’m proud to be a Monarch

And looking for years to come

Sharing our dreams and memories

And getting to be together as one

The following pages are a

Collection of Short Stories

Jack Hull ‘23

“Well, I’m happy to hear you're feeling better about school, Hunter,” Dad told me in the car. We were on the way back from one of our afternoon hikes to his new house. When living in his apartment after the divorce, we tried to go on these hikes more often. The nature, the drive, talking to him about music; I was happy. He’d made an effort to make up for the time lost to business trips and family arguments. Hikes were just another rewarding instance of Dad’s newfound consistency in my life.

“The movers are all done, by the way. So, your bed and everything should be all set,” he told me as we neared the house.

“Sick,” I replied monotonically, hiding my apprehension. As nice as it’d been to reconnect with my dad, I was hesitant about the new house. The moment I walked in I was instantly discomforted by the faces of my future step-mom, Sharon, and her son, Jason.

“Hunter, we’re gonna have dinner in about five minutes, okay?”

“Mhm. Sounds good,” I said uncomfortably. I went to my room to drop my backpack off before dinner.

When I arrived at my room, I dropped my backpack on my side. On Jason’s side, I saw a Michael Phelps poster, a desk, and several figurines he collected. My side was blank, elegantly decorated by worthless, empty space. My nightstand had a single nightlight my grandma got me when I was eight. There was nothing. My ad decorated his soon-to-be stepson's side with everything. My 70/30 custody split suddenly became the best thing about my room.

My dad yelled from the other room, “Hunter, dinner’s ready!”

At dinner, he sat between Sharon and Jason. I sat opposite him, looking as happy as Ryan Gosling in Drive. Disgusted by the idea of eating, I watched the three finish their food as my dad asked me, “Hunter, you heard that Jason was first in a 500-meter charity swim competition?”

I looked over at Jason and gave a nod of acknowledgment, “Cool.”

Dad nudged me to engage as he sternly asked, “What did you do this week, Hunter?”

“Nothing. I just…went to school. I uhh… I listened to some new songs you might like.”

Dad paused and looked at me plainly, “Cool.”

He began talking to Jason about a math test he got a ninety on. I looked down and stayed quiet. Tears welled in my eyes; I felt transparent, empty, cold. Composure finally returned to me as the dinner ended.

“Hunter, come help me with the dishes,” my dad ordered. Jason retreated to what was really his room while Sharon went to her office.

“Dad, can I just go to my room?” I despondently responded.

“Do you need to study for a test or something?”

“No…”

“Then help me with the dishes.”

My dad washed. I dried. My hands dashed through wet, empty china. I wasn’t slamming dishes in their cabinets but “gentle” wasn’t exactly my adjective of choice either.

“Jesus, Hunter, it’s not a race,” he said, playfully.

I responded in a voice with as much flavor as flour, “Alright, Dad,”

Quiet hung over us for a moment, until my dad doltishly asked, “Do you want to watch a family movie tonight?”

“Dad, I just want to be alone.”

“Look, I know it’s not comfortable yet, but you should spend time with your family if you plan on living here.”

The word “family” burned like acid in my mind, “I don’t want to watch a movie, Dad,” my voice was cracking. I was cracking.

“Fine. Then just go to your room.”

I put the dishes down and felt my displeasure seep through: “That’s not even my room!”

Dishes, I could deal with, but another invitation to feeling worthless was my tipping point. I pulled the cord to my proverbial parachute. I took out my phone and texted my mom to get me away from this house, “I need you to pick me up. Right now.”

He inhaled as if to compile what he should say, “I’m sorry you’re not satisfied with the whole new house I got you.”

I gave up any semblance of a dreary facade, “Oh my God. I never wanted to live here in the first place!” His eyes widened. “I was happy at the apartment!”

My dad’s face dropped as I told him, “I already asked Mom to pick me up.”

“You can’t just go back, Hunter. You're here for the weekend. We agreed on custody.”

“WELL, THEN I’M CHANGING CUSTODY!”

In that second, he realized I was something to lose. He paused, “Hunter, what did I do--?”

“You made me feel worthless!” His face finally cracked as I continued, “You knew I was uncomfortable moving into the same room as Jason. Then, you treat him like my replacement.”

My Dad said punily, “Hunter. I asked Sharon to marry me because she makes me happy, and Jason is part of that.”

“Dad, I met Jason two times before you decided we would live together. Now, you just compare me to your awesome new son. You didn’t even consider how that would affect me.”

He stuttered. I left the dining room to retrieve my backpack. My mom was hopefully en route. As I took my bag off my bed, I saw Dad in the doorway.

He weakly asked, “Hunter, when have I compared you?”

“Dad, look at this room. Where are my things?”

We stood awkwardly in his shrine of favoritism as I asked, “Look. Can you check in with Mom? I think she’s on her way.”

While he moved out of the doorway to check his phone, I walked outside and sat on his porch in the dark. Eventually, he came out into the cold to tell me, “Hey, Mom’s on her way.”

I sat coldly and began to shiver. My Dad watched me for a moment before he went inside to grab something for me. He said, “I brought you a jacket.”

I thought of bitterly saying, “You sure it’s not Jason’s?” I wanted to hurt him, but I just decided to decline politely. Soon after that, my Mom arrived. As I stepped out onto the driveway, I looked back at him.

“I know it’s hard to say sometimes, but you know I love you. Right, Hunter?”

I inhaled and decided to ask a question I’d wanted to ask him for so long, “Then what’s my favorite band of all time?”

“What? What does that have to do with anything?” he asked, dodging the question.

“Every time we go on a hike, I talk about music because that’s what makes me happy. So tell me right now, Dad: What’s my favorite band of all time?”

His silence spoke too loudly until he finally retaliated, “Look, if you’re going to be like that, then just leave. It’s not worth it to have you here.”

It stung, but I just looked back and questioned, “Then why are you outside?”

I got into my Mom’s car, and the ride was quiet. We said nothing and spent the drive listening to music. Listening to King Krule: My favorite band of all time.

These Dim Yellow Street Lights

DJ Manta ‘23

A night drive or a nocturnal stroll is perfect in order to see the unexposed art of the dark. The mixture of the deep blue and violet-midnight sky goes on display as the moonlight creates jet-black silhouettes of the buildings and roads that we once knew. The pale moon covers the land in a thin, dark-gray veil, and thus the lines of what we can see and can’t become blurred at night; everything becomes an abstract painting of melancholic colors. What once was a tree, is now a shadow, an obscure shape that becomes property of the darkness. At night, nothing is as we know, and sometimes because we can’t differentiate reality, we become uncertain, dreadful, and uncomfortable; there are reasons why children fear the dark, after all. But as we grow older, we begin to notice that sometimes the night is perfect. This is because there are dim, yellow street lights. There’s something about them. Maybe it’s their antique, nostalgic design paired against the harsh, modern streetlights that spew monotone white all over the pavement; the contrast of the two creates a warming sense of security. Maybe it's the way they subtly coat the quiet and isolated streets in shades of muted gold, or maybe the way they create depth in the darkness. Regardless, they’re intangible, yet so real, and therefore, nobody can truly describe them; rather, they wouldn’t need to be described anyway. They’re constantly fluttering between a state of sorrow and serenity, yet they are also neither. They’re just street lights, and their only purpose is to serve their creators and illuminate the streets and houses they keep watch over. They simply stand motionless and shine for passersby in the night, and turn on and off just how they’re programmed to, yet they mean and become so much more.

The nature of these dim, yellow street lights is like pastels. As their soft and flickering light mixes with the pale, moonlit surroundings, they slowly swirl, they inch forward and backward, and combine, embracing the color of the darkness and becoming one with it. When their dim, yellow light mixes with the faded darkness, the night becomes defined and beautiful, and someone who might gaze upon its mysterious beauty would be filled with all sorts of feelings: sorrowful comfort and lonely serenity. The night scenery then becomes all the more pleasant to gaze upon.

The tree that was once a silhouette of darkness is now a gold-leafed oak surrounded by rich shadows. The darkness puts us at ease, and we can understand it; we even feel safe in an environment that we once were afraid of. The night isn’t abstract anymore; it turns into a definitive painting, a painting of oils and dim pastels, which are held together by the deep blonde color of the street lights. This painting reaches into our souls and taps into our bottled-up feelings. The more we look into the gloomy lights and the surrounding shade, the more we appreciate the oddly beautiful scenery we find ourselves in.

The night is no longer uncertain, and we feel relaxed, free, and comfortable. A night drive is all one might need to release the chaotic thoughts of their day, and a midnight stroll could remove all the festering tension someone may be clinging to. The street lights and gloomy darkness can understand these feelings and allow us to reflect the true state of our hearts. In a sense, we can see ourselves in a better light in the dark. The night doesn't judge when someone feels depressed, nor does it care if one cries, or screams, or feels nothing at all. Under these dim, yellow street lights, the night becomes the perfect environment to unveil how we truly want to act and feel.

Here, these dim, yellow street lights that stand outside of my home have witnessed my own true feelings countless times, and every time I stood outside, looking up into the empty night littered with stars, the darkness was so warm and comfortable, and many times I have released my emotions into the night, usually in the form of tears that the midnight breeze blows off my face. Every time I have felt lonely, my loneliness was accepted and justified, and every time I felt frustrated, I was able to vent as long and as hard as I wanted to.

These dim, yellow street lights are just lights, but then they're not. They reflect our souls, our true feelings, and the emotions we suppress, until we don't suppress them anymore. Under these lights, we are connected: to the night, to our true selves, and to our inner being. These lights illuminate not only the roads we drive on, the sidewalks we walk on, and the houses we live in, but also the side of ourselves that just doesn't show.

In My Dreams

Melanie Estrada ‘25

It all started in 1975, when Dr. Rubsomitch began working on project monam. This project could very well be the make or break moment in history where society will either be saved or destroyed. The project’s whole basis surrounds the idea that a wave of disease-curing radiation will be emitted to the whole planet, working somewhat as a chemotherapy for all known/unknown causes of despair and pain. Simultaneously, Grogger the hedgehog set up an elaborate plan in an attempt to stop Dr. Rubsomitch’s plan because as he had been observing, he’s noticed an error in the math. An error so immense, it could destroy the whole galaxy and every living organism in it.

“I’ve done it, Theodore. I’ve created the perfect machine to cure the world of all the evil diseases,” Dr. Rubsomitch announced.

“Perhaps we should work on cross checking all the work before we launch project monam. We cannot risk getting the world’s hopes up on a project that may fail. They may call us illusional and posers.”

“Relax, Theodore. We don’t have to tell the world, we’ll just launch it and see for ourselves.”

Dr. Rubsomitch began typing into his computer, his coding coming together. A timer was set in the corner of the room, counting off the days, hours, minutes, and seconds before the launch. It ought to be perfect. Grogger, however, scurried around. Knowing he was unable to communicate with the humans, his silent genius went to work. He began by attempting to cut off power to the machinery and factory in general. This plan ultimately failed as the generator started up.

“Power outage?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe the government is catching on to us. We mustn’t waste our time, Theodore. We must launch the project as room as possible. Get it all to begin working. My whole life depends on this.”

Grogger squealed in fear. He wasn’t much familiar with all the technology and innovations that the human race had been coming up with; however, he had observed the doctor enough to have a mild comprehension of the use of the computer. Perhaps, if he was able to get to the launch table unscathed and under the radar, he could fix the coding and its mathematical based errors.

“Did you hear a mouse?”

“Theodore, stop it with your ludicrous attempts at stalling. Get to work!”

Grogger jumped up by where Theodore was standing. Considering that perhaps the wires would be a safety hazard, shimmying his way up his work pants seemed like a safer option. He scurried his way up and onto the table that Theodore was leaning against. He already sensed the tension and uneasiness in the air. He had to get out of there. Time was running out. He bolted. Straight towards the launch table. Dr. Rubsomitch had noticed his colleagues discomfort, and as he scanned the room, his unwanted gaze landed on Grogger.

“Get that runt! He mustn’t be in the lab! He’s a hazard in here!”

Grogger bolted, twisting and turning around every corner, and as they attempted to capture him, he worked in a synchronized dance, typing into the coding template of the computer. He ran around the lab, checking his work before dipping into the vent of the factory.

“The timer is set, it’s time! Press launch before anything else comes between us and saving the world!” Dr. Rubsomitch hollered.

Theodore ran towards the button, but before he could get to it, Grogger jumped on it instead. A moment of silence--they waited to see if it worked. Dr. Rubsomitch then suddenly stood out of his wheelchair, a miracle. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills, looking at them, then throwing them across the room. Grogger turned to Theodore. He waited. Was his terminal illness cured? His severe depression gone? Theodore stopped, took in a deep breath, and held his arms out. They were still. He had been cured, or at least he hoped. They picked Grogger up and placed him in a cage before going through security tapes to ensure all was executed properly. As they ran through it all, they noticed the miracle the hedgehog performed. Could it be true? Or was this another one of Dr. Rubsomitch’s high fever dreams.

At the Crossroads

Raaghav Chakravarthy ‘26

“My work is about two conflicting roads and how they overcome their struggles to the benefit of everyone in their community. My work shows the conflict between independence and interdependence and how a community works together to benefit one another. “

The Highway 11 was always accompanied by the word scenic. It wove its way through dense jungles and wildflower beds. Travel magazines and local blogs always carried stories of 11 with flattering pictures of cliffs, oceans, hilltops, and thrilling routes. Highway 11 led to the peak of Mt. Hillsdale, the great mountain that overlooked the town of Santa Marina, the ultimate vacation village.

“I just have to be the best highway ever,” boasted 11 on a particularly warm day where the sunlight highlighted its various shades of green and brown. “The state will pour money on me every year, and l will be smooth and clear. I must single-handedly be the city’s tourism revenue. If I did not exist, so many tourists would miss glimpsing the mountain and the fabulous view of Santa Marina. Look at all these pointless roads and measly rocks and buildings who do nothing except ruin the view of the city.”

All the cliffs and boulders were hearing this boast glumly. The other highways and roads could only wonder what they had done to receive any lesser attention.

The Great Tour was going to happen in June. As always, Santa Marina would attract bikers from all over the country for the biking competition. This year, the race would start at Mt. Hillsdale and cover a huge expanse along the coast before the route left the city.

11 saw a newspaper sheet fly by. It read, “New Coastal Highway 23 May Soon Be the Public's New Favorite! 90% of People Say Yes to the Beach!” 11 had heard continuous rounds of trucks, gravel, and construction at the bottom of Mt. Hillsdale over the last few months.

He knew that when the new road was done, the visitors would rush to the beach. An irate 11 grumbled that the Pacific Ocean could not compare to the view from Mt. Hillsdale, and that his position as Number 1 may be coming to an end. The days grew into slow agony for 11 as he visualized imaginary scenarios of becoming unknown and forgotten one day.

He called sheepishly on Don, the leader of the boulders. The two had joined forces to arrange a rockslide. “We all rock and shake overnight and all your boulders should roll down the hill and land on 23. Then construction will be stalled and the focus will all be on me again,” said 11. Don had always fantasized the image of himself, sitting as the jewel of the crown of Santa Marina. He had always envied his neighbor for his status as a tourist attraction. This was his chance; he would become glorious too! After all, 11 was only looking after himself.

In the midst of the night, a thunderous noise shook the tranquil air. 11 looked down triumphantly at the crowd of boulders and debris rolling and rumbling down slowly to the foot of the mountain.

The next day, people were panicking and some were even leaving the town. H-11 looked in depression at the once eager hikers and tourists scrambling out of Santa Marina. Two destroyed roads sat around Mount Hillsdale. H-11 found himself a wreck but knew that he had achieved victory over the crooked mass of the road that was highway 23.

11 had certainly become famous overnight but not how he had envisioned. The news flashed with geologists’ reports on “the most dangerous road” and “landslide lane.” Construction of Highway 23 was stopped, and all working personnel were evacuated from the site. A government vehicle parked itself next to the gleaming sign that introduced 11 and added, “Closed until further notice.” An ominous edition of Santa Marina Gazette flew through the air, signifying the month-long isolation that 11 was going to undergo.

11 despaired in his loneliness. The once busy road had no visitors now. As the days progressed, the once clean, shiny, used highway was covered by the rusty bushes of neglect, and the glory of H-11 was absorbed into shrubbery. Over the other side of the fence, Don looked in sadness. He wondered how he had allowed himself to be pressured into creating destruction for innocent residents. Highway 23 was a sight. The newly constructed road had become a pothole of rubble.

An infuriated Don shouted at 11, “Was it really worth it ? Look at what your actions have done to everybody. You have become a forest and ruined 23 as well with your selfish thoughts! We are all one team, 11.”

The word team rang again and again in his ear. As he glanced down and stared at the blank faces around him, he knew that the trees, rocks and animals he had belittled a few months before were now his only hope. He may have been the road to scenic spots, but the views that he prided himself on were built by the same trees, shrubs, rocks, and animals that all depended on being well maintained for their livelihood and created the mountain on which he reigned.

“Don is right,” thought 11, “There is no I in team. We each have a part to play, and we are interdependent. I may be the name given on brochures to all the scenic spots but if the rest of the members on the hill did not do their part, I would not exist. With my arrogance now, I have ruined it all for everyone and the authorities are neglecting all of us. Only time can save us now.” For the first time, 11 experienced a sense of accountability and belonging in the ecosystem he had been in for years.

Soon enough, authorities slowly started operations to clean the beach of the debris. They had planned to clean up 11 next as it was harder to bring the trucks up the hills. The Great Tour cycling race was re-announced, but instead on Scenic 23, which became the home of a new crowd of eager bikers and visitors who stayed clear of the dangerous Mt. Hillsdale.

One month later, a confused cyclist was seen on a dark, moss covered trail. 11 brightened at the first company he had had in a month and tried to look as presentable as possible. As he crept to the crossroads which constantly reminded him of his egoistic pains, a fresh new sign greeted the nervous highway, reading “The Great Tour, Highways 11 and 23, open to all!” A warm smile from 23 was immediately followed by the rush of thousands of tourists.

11 was in tears. There was hope for Mt. Hillsdale and all its residents again. It had taken the situation he had caused many weeks to fix, but as the contagious smiles of people bounced from bird to bird, from rock to rock, from tree to shining tree, 11 knew that he would watch out for every team member of Mt. Hillsdale and spread the joy of tourists and fame that he had enjoyed in their name. He looked around once again at his friend--trees, rocks, shrubs, and 23--all beaming in newfound happiness that set a purring fire in his heart.

The Highway 11 once again was accompanied by the word scenic. It once again wove its smooth, clean self through the thickets of Mt. Hillsdale. Some travelers feasted their eyes on the flattering views of cliffs, oceans, and hilltops, while other travelers drove to the cliffs, swam in the oceans, and picnicked on the hilltops. Together, Highways 11 and 23 reigned from Mt. Hillsdale as the jewels of Santa Marina.

Paula Lae Pascual 23’

As I packed the last of my items from a room that my mom and I shared for the past few years, I looked around at it, empty, for the last time. The first few times I moved, it was difficult. But with every move, it became easier. Seeing my life packed into boxes became the norm for me.

My family and I have moved a total of six times. I’ve never had a place to call my “childhood home” since I have moved so frequently. As time went by, I stopped longing for these places to become a permanent home. They were temporary. When the prices got higher, we would just move again.

When I think of home, I think of comfort. Something I long for when I am far away. Something I can always come back to. Something that stays. The homes we moved into never met these criteria. I never even considered them my homes. For much of my life, “home” was a place I ate and slept. It was a place that felt like I could not get attached because if I did, I wouldn't want to ever leave. And I knew that regardless of how badly I wanted to stay, we would eventually leave anyway. Not being able to call my own living space home, I found other ways to incorporate home into my life.

Hannah So.

Hannah So is my “bestest” friend. Everything about her is home, from the warmth of her family to the barks of her dog. She and I have grown up together, from play dates to inviting myself over any time. Everything about her welcomes me into a state of comfort.

Whenever I have a problem, I always come to her. Through the many homes of my childhood that have faded in and out of memory, my never-ending friendship with Hannah has been the closest thing to a permanent home.

Paula’s Home

Dad’s Lugaw.

Lugaw is a delightfully steamy Filipino porridge. My dad cooks it when I am sick, fresh out of surgery, have a bad day, or when the weather starts to get chilly. There’s no feeling better than waking up to the fresh smell of porridge wafting in from the kitchen, jumping out of bed to sip the lugaw as it warms every inch of my stomach, distracting me from whatever predicaments are plaguing my mind and body. Lugaw is more than a comfort food that soothes the soul when I need it most—it’s home.

Mom’s hugs.

Whenever I feel sad, I long to feel my mother’s gentle embrace as she whispers, “Wag kang umiyak, anak ko.” Do not cry, my child. Whether in response to my tears as a child or my wailing on the first day of my senior year, thinking time was going by so fast, she always knows to hug me without asking any questions, and I immediately know I’m at home in her arms.

As I moved in and out of houses and apartments, I struggled to see kids growing up in their childhood homes, being able to design their own room the way they wanted and having something of their own. And for a long time I was jealous. But as I’ve lived through residence after residence, I've come to understand that it’s the people and the values they’ve taught me that matter. It’s the importance of friendship, the acts of kindness, and the comfort in my hour of need that have truly made a difference in my upbringing—something no permanent bedroom or house could do for me.

But I have always had the people who’ve shaped what my definition of “home” is. The impact my “homes” had on me will remain permanent and be with me for as long as I live. I will always long for Hannah’s company, my dad’s lugaw, and my mom’s hugs. That part will always be home.

Editors

Sophia Anderson

Jules Banucci

Eleonora Fasoli

Isabelle Garlepp

Madison Lin

Enya Liu

Chloe Lou

Anisha Maharjan

Abigail Nelson

Paige Pataky

Ria Sudhir

Gwenyth Tran

Aidan Vandalen

Maximilian Vrcelj

Katherine Wilcox

Kori Zacher

Moderator

Mr. Kevin Brazelton

Mrs. Janelle Kroenung

Administrator

Mr. Keith Mathews

Proofreader

Thanks for reading this issue of The Muse: AMHS Student Literary Magazine! Our creative ventures can have a profound impact on our understanding of the world around us. It is our sincere hope that the content within this issue has inspired you to think, write, and dream. Please be on the lookout for more issues in the future. We hope to see you again as we publish more fantastic work created by AMHS students.

– The Editors