MUSE
PRIORY 2025
Welcome to the 2025 edition of MUSE, Woodside Priory’s literary and arts magazine!
We invite you to experience Dreamscapes, this year’s theme. Dreams are universal—after all, everyone has dreams. But in that universality, there is specification and uniqueness.
Our four sections—Daydreams, Nightmares, Prophecies, and Lucid Dreams— capture the vast scope of dreaming. Daydreams are not always sweet; they can hold excitement, longing, or sadness in having moved on from good times. Likewise, nightmares elicit more than fear—they serve as warnings and can reveal true feelings. One might find prophetic meanings in the stories that unfold as we sleep. Some of us even recognize when we are in a dream and control the world our mind creates.
Then come the questions: Why did I dream about that? What could it mean? The mix of emotions and interpretations that a dream brings is what this edition of MUSE seeks to explore.
Every year, our staff selects the pieces we believe best represent our theme. We are happy to announce Richard Cheng’s photograph, “When the Sun Hits,” as our visual winner! His photograph captures a living dreamscape. Ethereal light shining through a cathedral stained glass window reflects off of passersby. His art invites us to contemplate how dreamscapes occur in everyday life.
We are also proud to present Madeline Frank’s poem, “Once Upon a Time,” as this year’s literary winner! Madeline masterfully juxtaposes the harsh medical reality of experiencing childhood illness with the creative escape of a nostalgic book. The raw vulnerability and emotion imbued in her words sends chills down one’s spine. Her message: Believing in dreams can offer comfort, strength, and resilience when facing our darkest moments.
We offer a special thanks to the MUSE staff, an integral part of the creative process and production of this magazine: Ava Johnson, Avery Jackson, Athena Li, Beckett Song, Cara Lee, Conrad Brousseau, Elisa Casentini, Ellie Wong, Jane Zhou, Katie Zheng, Lucia Barea, Tianyou Sell, Tobey Chou, and Yuqi Zhang. A particular shoutout to Cara Lee, for her amazing artwork featured on the cover!
Lastly, we hold great gratitude for our moderator, Ms. Lanctot, for her guidance, dedication to the magazine, and for always keeping us on track!
Morgan Dobrenski and Jacqueline Biscay MUSE Co-Editors
Daydreams Nightmares
Richard Cheng
Once Upon a Time
Madeline Frank
I used to read Peter Pan every day in the hospital. It was something safe, something familiar. The hum of the IV faded into the magical sound of pages turning. Chemo radiated through my veins, but in my mind, it was fairy dust. I was flying. I closed my eyes and pretended the machines didn’t beep, the needles didn’t sting, and the world didn’t feel so heavy.
Then one day, the doctors came in, smiling like they never had before. And the words “You’re cured,” slipped from their mouths.
I smiled back, but still… it didn’t feel real.
Fairy dust.
DAYDREAMS
Thought of a Memory
Matilda Brodt
Dandelions lowered from the sky, landing
As a seed, vulnerable.
Becoming by the wind, water, soil,
A sprout, unpredictable. Doing all it knows for all it knows, without protest.
Lilies are given thorns to flowers, susceptible.
Swaying with the wind
Bending by the water
Gripped in the dirt
They poke their neighbours
Who are they to protest?
They are not blind to see waters crest low now
The Gardner and his Pesticide
Fedor Grachev
Olivia Rosenthal
Owen Lee
Potstickers
Ashlyn Chan
It was never too salty for us: Grandmother, cook it longer, so it’s crispy on its edges, remind us how its crunch piles memories in every little bite, how it’ll bring me comfort everytime.
Sitting at the rounded table, she would teach us one-two folds, how to wrap them. Fill the dough pocket. Close the space between. I sat next to the cousins I hadn’t seen in a while and yet it felt as no time had passed. The discussion of school stresses, the cold isolation of a never-ending lockdown, and who we missed most layered under smiles of the present, and panned out at the table, near the half-gone wrapper pile. And it seemed as we had spent every hour together, we knew each other again. When Grandma carried the steaming plate to the table, chins and noses tilted upwards, it was an invitation to reminisce, to continue sharing, keep catching up with one another. The potstickers were the seeds of reunion. Like the aroma particles in the air saying this can forever bring you back together, a faith in us. There is this and there is more.
Katie Zheng
Tianyou Sell
Serene Saturday
Dorottya Horváth
The bright green blanket on the grass makes us hide
Only the color of pear under the willow trees
Only the scent of hummus in the breeze
Give us away to the people walking on the side.
We fill our bellies with brie and fruit that’s dried
And suddenly, my heart is the melted goat cheese
Held together by our loud laughter, making me freeze
The moment in my mind, so our hearts remain tied.
We keep switching between snacks and chats
While the sleepy afternoon unfolds,
While the clouds dull the shine of the sun,
We lie there, unbothered and cozy like cats.
The value of my friend is as clear as golds, I see the essence of our friendship: comfort and fun.
Rainbow Julian Nicolls
Down comes the rain, from a cloud in the sky
I run outside, I cannot stay dry
I play in the puddles, it won’t rain for long
I dance in the rain, while singing a song
The rain is a waterfall, it sparkles through the air
I admire its beauty, but it gets in my hair
I’m covered in water, for the rain is a shower
It drenches everything, even a flower
I love the rain, it brightens the day
For when the rain is over, the sky won’t be gray
The rain brings rainbows, that magically shine
There’s a pot of gold, the rainbows a sign
So follow the rainbow into the sky
And always keep going, and you’ll learn to fly
Different Ways to Play
Bennett Huang
There was a method of sports, a fine method, if you were well-off enough to afford equipment. The children dreamed wistfully of turf fields, grass sanctuaries brightened by lights. Their games were battered, bare feet, laughter muffled by shortness of breath, as if chasing a ball could somehow change them for the better.
There were the boys who had been gaming so long they were captive like prisoners. Atop the bed, they raised their arms— Hear us!
We have pain! We have so much pain yet we keep playing! But the keyboard whispered quietly next to fragrant bags of Cheetos and Lays. At times the boys laughed heartily, victory royales and dubs, and were happy in spite of the pain, because there was also happiness.
Some coveted the crowd, Wrapping themselves in worn jerseys and concert tees to pile into miles of roaring bleachers. When they arrived at SoFi and Levi’s they would sit and watch, beer in hand, many times, they would jump to cheer and return, their ecstatic faces housing pride.
While for certain brothers and sisters the pilgrimage occurred daily, collecting specific lego pieces or washing bowls of grapes. These were the ones present at birth, attempting to hold their new siblings. The ones constructing towers of magnet-tiles, forgetting how easily toddlers destroy the masterpieces they asked you for.
There were those who didn’t care about playing. The studious ones. The ones engrossed in school. They told the “slackers,” you are wasting your time. Time?—
The “slackers” played, ignoring the studious ones. They wished for someone to mend their brains, for the desk lamp, the number 2 pencil, to speak suddenly in a commanding tone.
And occasionally there would be one who did none of this, the little boy Lowzi, for example, Lowzi the lameo, who read for hours on end, insisted he was learning decades of knowledge, and was famous for reading in all places.
Jaliyah Minor Sanchez
Owen Phun
Spencer Zadesky
NIGHTMARES
Lemonade Making
Levi Strohman
Cut the ninth lemon right down the middle, quickly, precisely.
Swipe your too-long bangs out of your face again. Hear the wind swirling from the open back door behind you and down the hallway.
Keep cutting the lemons, eighth and seventh, the flowing juice stinging your fingers where your hangnails stay rampant. Suck your pointer finger on your cutting hand because it hurts the most.
His footsteps echo through the bare hallway going away from you. The lemon halves are piling up in the bowl. Hear the doorknob jingling as the chair is gingerly removed, the unlocking and unbolting of the back door.
Slice the sixth lemon, unmoving. “If you’re not going to tell me what’s out there, then I’m going to check,” says Randy. Think about warning him, but find once again that you don’t understand how to speak anymore. Trace the wood pattern of the cutting board with your eyes. It’s similar.
Randy says your name again. You don’t know what your name is, or what name means. Score the skin of the fifth lemon under the fluorescent light of the pristine white kitchen cabinets before pushing the knife down.
Cut the next lemon. This one is the fourth and it’s smaller and more golden than the others. Randy has stopped juicing the lemon halves you gave him.
Go back to the cutting board and pick up the paring knife with the green handle. It needs to be sharpened soon. Blink hard at the window in front of the sink to see the planted tulips outside shaking, swaying.
As you trudge across the shiny black and white tile, Randy asks “What was out there?” Find that the gasps you took earlier were the last of your voice, and you no longer know what it means to speak.
Come back to Randy. He’s still squeezing the lemons you cut before you left.
He took the pieces you abandoned on the cutting board and put them into the bowl while you were gone.
Use the walk across the polished wood floors of the hallway and the living room back to the kitchen to steady yourself. Think about throwing up but feel sicker at the thought of opening your mouth.
Go to your room halfway down the hallway and get the wooden chair from your desk. Slide it under the doorknob for good measure. Stare at it while you collect yourself as much as you can, which isn’t much.
Pry your hands out from your hair and onto the lock. Lock and deadbolt the door and tug on it to make sure it’s actually secure. Take in the burgundy glory because it was painted just last week.
Lean your full body weight backward against the door, wheezing, exhaling in case you breathed any of it in. Think about pulling your eyes out of their sockets and severing the optic nerve cords but grasp at your spindly blonde hair instead.
Slam the door shut.
Find a being, a beast, an immortal taking its first breath. It swirls, bringing along wind and parts of your fence like the texture lines in a sliver of wood. In the swirls are soft, raw tentacles that carry pearls of clams that hoped to see venus. It has the eyes of your mother and the laugh of your father, but when it finally sees you its face morphs into yours like a mirror of the future. You are connected somehow. It contains songs past of rotting clementines and green bananas, a dull paring knife used to cut through nostalgia. The melody carries on the anguish of unshelled hermit crabs and the excitement of shell collectors, it gets in your nose like sour lemonade, cries for you like a child picked last for a recess game. It puts salt in your eyes which means you can finally close them. You want to call it the Beast, but inside you know that its name is yours.
Open the door.
Second Bed
Violet Ross
The room around me is neon white, all glaring voices and the harsh scratch of pencils. I walk closer to the glossy canvas and the wood beneath my feet deepens, scuffs.
Dust and trails appear. Slow steps keep my echo silent until I’m circling the bed in that darkened theater. Cool sheets mussed again, pillow choosing the only shape it knows as I lie back to look at the unseeable ceiling.
Beside me, an open matchbox of a window tucks me in, kisses me goodnight, and quietly leaves the room, letting gold pour through the door.
As I close my eyes, the dark sofa becomes familiar, and my father sits there to read me a story.
Warmth turns the narrow wall a gritty brick red, bold brushstrokes against the blues of the bed.
To peer closer at the flaking paint or the shadow of a forgotten decision would be to lose the warmth of the sheets and the darkness.
Instead, I inhale and the scene settles in my lungs, heavy night and shining floor preserved in my circadian rhythm.
This still frame envelops me on late nights, when deep-set chills bring hopelessness. On that silent stage, the glow pulls at the dust, promising a new beginning soon enough.
Avery Jackson
I’m in the Rain Now
Michaela Grudin
I wake up in the middle of the night, As I open my eyes, lightning fills my sight. While I wait for the clouds to go away, I like the rain, just not today. I look out my window as the droplets race down, Looking at the big puddles, thinking I could drown. The sound of thunder reaches my ears, I think about all my frightening fears. I slowly get up and reach for the window, I feel cold and numb, I feel tomorrow. But I’m in the moment now, which can only mean, I’m in the rain now.
Untitled
Violet Ross
These days, you wake up. You go to school, or try to, every day, because it’s what you’re supposed to do. This doesn’t feel like life, but you don’t have another choice. Monotonous days sprint past you, all tripping over each other and blending together into one dreary cloud, and then there is a knock on your door, and you blindly open it. When you do, you look into your eyes. You are standing there, the same but different and not quite you at all– more like an “it.” It says it will just be here for a little bit. You accept that without question, because you’ve been accepting everything that comes your way without question recently. You don’t think you’d mind if it stayed forever. You’ve been battered by waves over and over. You are just lying in the surf, and here it is offering you respite. So you brush its hair, and you hand it your backpack, and it goes out into the world, and you fold yourself back into bed. Your room splits off from your life, and you wander the borders of this safe haven, wrapped in the fluffy brown blanket you took from your grandpa’s house when you were twelve. It is the only thing that enters or leaves.
After a week, you can crochet quietly on your window seat again. Another few days go by and you stop thinking in disastrous ocean metaphors– you can’t even swim very well, and never liked the water. You don’t do much thinking at all, in fact. When you curl up in bed it is calm, and easy, and you can now fall asleep without forcing yourself to stay awake beyond the point of exhaustion. You’ve never liked having to sit with yourself in the darkness.
It checks in occasionally, always knocking first, and sharing things like its grade on your History test or Matilda’s invitation to the movies on Saturday. You remind it that it has work on Saturday. It says that, technically, you have work on Saturday. You ignore that, smiling slightly at the thought of your friends. Your texts to them disappear into some sort of ghost void, and you shrugged upon realizing this and then went back to scrolling on your phone, vowing to send them that random video of the two cats with the accompanying message “this is so us” later.
A month goes by, and it starts to get antsy. You are under your desk thinking about earthquakes when it knocks, and you let it in. It is wearing your favorite jeans, with star-shaped barrettes in its hair. It tells you that you need to come back, that people miss you. You remark that people can’t miss what they have, and gesture to it. It shakes its head, frustrated. It remarks that it’s not you, not quite, because it’s just going through the motions, not living. And people notice, and people still ask what is wrong like they did before, when it was you just going through the motions. When you weren’t really living. You say you’re still not ready. It puts a star barrette in your hair and leaves.
Two months. It knocks on the bedroom door. You let it in, and you both are wearing the same outfit. Must be a Friday, because otherwise it wouldn’t be allowed to wear pajama pants to school. It slips you a giant Milky Way bar, saying that Esha has taken to bringing it, or rather, you, candy again. She hasn’t done this since freshman year, and you smile slightly, tossing the candy gently between your hands before you fumble and it falls to the ground. You crouch quickly to grab it, mumbling that if your friends didn’t notice when you were actually struggling, you don’t think they really mind that you’re not quite what you used to be. Besides, you say, whatever it is is a massive improvement to whatever you were before it arrived.
It sits on the bed, taking the Milky Way from you. Explains that your friends were happy at first, because it is perfect. But perfection is the definition of going through the motions, and going through the motions isn’t living, and it isn’t you, because you are not perfect, and because you have the ability to live, not just go through the motions. You try to argue that it, perfection, is so much better than you have ever been. It reminds you that perfection isn’t real, because it is perfect and that is fake and that isn’t living. Your friends did notice something was wrong even when you thought you were hiding it, waving them ahead without you. But you kept assuring them that you were fine, throwing out every excuse in the book. You were just tired, stressed, hungry. Excuse after excuse. Everyone tried to reach out but you didn’t think you deserved it. You kept thinking you had to be perfect to deserve help when you stumbled.
You take the Milky Way, plucking at the shining corner of the wrapper, and repeat that you’re still not ready. It tells you you’re never going to be ready.
You wouldn’t say that. You’d say “You’re never going to be freaking ready, bro.” with a joking smile or you’d say “Yes, you are, don’t say that.” or you’d say “That’s okay! Let’s just see what happens.” That’s what you’d say.
You haven’t thought about what you, you yourself, would say in a long time. It is right, no one’s ready for the sublime experience that is living a life. So, that doesn’t make you any less ready. If anything, it makes you a little more ready, because you’ve stepped away from living, and you’re choosing to come back—but that still leaves you far from perfect. You go to sleep.
There is a knock on your bedroom door the next morning. It must be persistent, you think, to come back so soon. You wonder what it will be wearing this time. But when you open the door, instead your mom is standing there, and she seems surprised to see you out of bed. You realize you’ve missed her as she wishes you good morning and tells you that she’d like you to be on time today. Sunlight peeks through from under your curtains and your phone buzzes with a notification. Your room is messy and you’re not sure if your homework is correct, but no matter, you’ll catch up. No use going through the motions. No use striving for an unreachable ideal. You have one life, and you need to live it.
where the lights don’t shine
Ava Johnson
that’s weird. the door’s not open. why isn’t the door open? it’s always open, no matter the cold. and… and where’s the little man? why isn’t he standing, waiting for us at his door? oh well. he must just be in the garage humming his way around the shelves. but… its too late for that. no, he should be sitting in his spot on that well-loved couch. and then he would have heard the chime of the motion sensor. and then he would be at the door waving waiting as we pulled up humming his tune standing on that creaky step. dada?
dada why are you crying? where is he? where did he go? why isn’t he here? dada? why is my face wet? where is he? where did he go? why isn’t he here? he’s just inside right?
he just forgot to turn on the sensors right? he’s sitting in his spot on that well-loved couch right? dada? where did the humming go? why is it so quiet? it’s never this quiet. what about the sound of his tv? why is it so quiet? it’s never this quiet. dada? why do you need keys? isn’t he here inside just waiting for a knock? where did he go? all of his cars are here. so why isn’t he? he doesn’t live close to the town or the store or his friends. so where did he go? dada? how come his house is dark? why aren’t the lights on? where’s the towel he kept on that well loved couch right in his spot? how come he wasn’t sitting there? dada?
your face is wet again. please don’t cry. i don’t like it when you cry. why are you crying? i’m sure he’s just outside working on his truck or plowing the roads. dada? why are there papers and photos and garbage everywhere? his house was never this dirty. dada? what happened to him? why can’t i find him? where is he? where did he go? why isn’t he here?
threshold of conciousness
Will Drogin
as i stare at the shady sky silver whispers on the edges i sit and think as memories appear when i was young i was a fireman with boots red and black i knew what i wanted i was happy
then i was an astronaut reaching for the dark ceiling to explore the world unknown to others i was satisfied
finally i was a basketball player with hopes to be the best i knew in my heart it wouldnt happen i was content now i am secure unsure of my future sure about my present i am indifferent
Yuqi Zhang
Stories
Caroline Buddin
A heart to hold
A life to live
Love to give
And stories untold
A heart so soft
A life so simple
Love so nimble
And stories forgot
A heart, meek
A life, shallow
Love, callow
And stories, stories, stories, repeating
Stories, forgotten and bleeding
PROPHECIES
Elisa Casentini
Dreams
Michaela Grudin
The dream of a tear, As it goes, you feel the past and how it is now clear.
The dream of a smile, Knowing how you can be free from your stress, just for a while.
The dream of a crack, While the lightning and thunder rolls by, leaving a black, ashy track.
The dream of a door, When you open it, it’ll show you life, and even more.
The dream of a friend, That will never ever end.
The dream of a home, Cause, you know, you’ll always have one here.
45 Silas Cuervo
My Mother and the Snow
Austin Yuan
My mother has always loved the snow. When we lived in Beijing she would always point at the huge mounds and say, “See that? I wish it would snow like this in Taiwan.”
Even though she grew up without it, Even though she never saw it until her 20’s. Every time it snowed she’d still sit down by the window, and talk about her wish for it back home:
We’d get lucky for it to even be cold this time of year there. Or, how cool it’d be to walk into ankle-deep snow there. Or, imagine trying to get to work and being late but you wouldn’t care because you had so much fun.
When I was a kid, by some miracle it started hailing in Taiwan. I shouted to my mom, “Look! Look! It’s hailing!”
She came over and said, “That’s now what I’m talking about! I’m talking about snow! Snow that crosses the streets and cover the roads!
I’m talking about the heaviest, thickest snowfall in the world and lying down in it.”
(She’d walk away, smiling and chuckling.)
Over the years, we’d move back and forth between the two countries.
We never saw any hint of snow in Taiwan again. Once in a while my mother would mention her longing for that, but it never came.
She’d look out the window time and time again, “What a dreamer,” we’d joke, “look at her waiting for something that will never come.”
The last time we celebrated Chinese New Year’s, we woke up to an astonishing sight.
I was still in bed, but I could hear my mother squeal with delight, “Quick! Look outside!”
There it lay, in the middle of one of the warmest Winter. Thick, heavy snow.
I was yet to walk to the window, but I asked, “What is it?”
She turned around, the biggest grin plastered on her face.
“It’s snow! There’s snow on the ground!”
She ran outside and lied on the cold, gushy ground, and I followed. It was a reminder that this world and what she did in it would always be her own.
Nicolyn
Life
Julian Nicolls
Life is a door
Opening to anything
Where everything is possible If you make it happen
Life is a star
Glowing brightly
Shimmering in the sky Giving light to all
Life is a train
Always moving forward
Taking the right track And continue its journey
Life is all these things And so much more
The Shell Reid
Kawaja
Even on a windy morning the sleek white hull with a bow ball would glide through the rippling dark water bodies parallel in the shell, and whatever strength we could muster in sync or not in sync, the shell would be spurred, we would row in silence, it was another way we spoke to each other, pulling on the oars, rowing in unison.
How to Remember
Lindsay Tsao
Go back in time, Past vacations and nightmares, Maybe even past, When you still went to daycare.
Think of memories from people, places, and things, Even as soon, As your favorite food from last spring.
Think of everything, From friendly faces and enemies, And most definitely your best friend, And all your similarities.
Remember all exciting trips and adventures, And only then will you truly know how to remember.
LUCID DREAMS
Avery Jackson
Works of Art
Anitra Jack
“I hate the sunset tonight,” I said. Yet, what I saw was so beautiful, It reminded me, that from the time it took for me to rise, And the time it took to make, such …a beautiful picture in the sky.
What have I done, other than dream of the picture I’ll create? All the supplies, these resources that I have been given. A mind with no limit, not even the sky. to create these ideas…
To mold my future and create work of art that is talked, To have a life of its own. To give life to others, like people have done For me.
How come I am so comfortable in my own mind, Instead of the world, I can create.
I no longer have to dream
Of a world where I am successful, I can simply just say I am, Because from the time the sun has risen and fallen I have not, I became the phoenix in the ashes, I have became the melody the wind, I have became the molder of the glass, And I have come to the strength that took me so long to find.
I cannot afford these, doubts, to creep into my mind, Which then hold me back from my dreams. They cannot creep where I have created light.
So instead of letting the hate inside my mind, I will let the spirit of creation, turn it, into motivation, for me to Shine, the way I was intended to. So while I have the time for the Earth
To create the works of art in the sky.
I have took the time, to create works of art
Within myself.
True Friends
Madeline Frank
I used to measure my summers in weeks: eight until school started again, seven until I could see my friends. but that was before I went to cosmos, before I met the people I grew with. we cried together, sang together, even fell asleep beneath the same stars. no one could measure our time together, the way we felt, with each other.
when I had true friends, I measured the seconds until I could see them again. they taught me that summers were truly immeasurable, when we were together.
but now we’re apart, and summer has folded back into being weeks. I find myself homesick for a place that doesn’t exist anymore— for the life we created, and for the version of me I left behind.
Ray Kay
Elena Kay
How To Sleep
Tess Donahue
Close your eyes, Don’t think too much,
Let all your worries disappear into the darkness, Let time freeze in place,
Let your brain make wishes come to life as you drift off into fantasy. Breath: In…..out. Slow your breath, Let all noises be silenced,
Think about the present and not the future, Lay you head on the pillow, soft as a cloud,
Let the warmth of your covers enter your body as you drift off, Fall asleep.
Forgotten Children
Simone Brown
I ache beneath angels. a sacred creature protecting his fellow spirits with the pure white sword of God as his brothers and sisters clutch to him. as I crumble under their divinity.
Snakes surround the celestials, lay dormant against God’s might. Yet the wrath of Gabriel wraps around me, stretching to my foes, a protector of my sin and partner in my pain.
They consume my space, slithering their cold rigid scales over my writhing dead skin, crushed by the angels overhead and my fragile mortality.
They judge the blessed beasts above, born from the Lord’s fallen foe. They plague frail minds, offer refuge to God’s failed children. A false savior, enemy of Eve.
In the angels’ shadow, I lay lost to the Lord’s heavenly light the angels consume his love, the perfect worshiper stealing his affection from mankind.
They center themselves in God’s glow, leaving humanity to crack stuck in the gray world of sin, no longer the holy messengers sent to guide us towards Christ.
And so I ache beneath angels clawing at God’s feet, grateful for the sinister snakes and their master’s welcoming hand as a member of Father’s forgotten souls.
The Last Dream
Jacob Levin
I wonder sometimes if I may never wake up from my dreams;
Dare I accept the friendly handshake of a too-tall stranger?
