Minnetonka High School Issue #9: Spring 2023
MUSE Magazine 2023 Edited by Ming Wei Yeoh and Mahdi Khamseh Advised by Stuart Pease All works featured are original contributions from Minnetonka High School students. Powered by Marq
Writing
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34-35 36-38 39 40-41 42-43 44
Table of Contents
Aishah Adam Naomi Berg Sasha Cox Hudson Craft Ava Heffernan Chloe Heffernan Ellen Ingham Elliot Jones Christense Nielsen Silas Srnec
Music
45
Ruby Martin
Aishah Adam Savanna Larson Christense Nielsen Julia Srnec Ming Wei Yeoh Mahdi Khamseh
Art
9th
Aishah Adam
Naomi Berg
11th
Sasha Cox
Hudson Craft
10th
Ava Heffernan
Chloe Heffernan
Ellen Ingham
Elliot Jones
Christense Nielson
Silas Srnec
Muser You are, well my muse But you don't even need to pose for me My bad focus is an inconvenience But you might be this natural feeling Soaking in the breeze Even in this chilly winter And looking at that sun You are my light, shadow, and blister Shadow from my pencil As I wonder what to write But looking at my muse My future looks well, bright.
Textbook The textbook definition is the basic, most truthful meaning. But I find that one meaning is not another meaning to a person of another. One definition of you is you, one definition of you is me. But you are not me, and i am not you. So why am I me? Why can I not be her, or him, or them, or she? Why can't it be can, why should it be should? Why would anyone be everyone? But that's textbook, and I am not textbook, and you are not textbook. I am a person, and you are another person, You and I should not be shackled by textbook definition. It doesn't define me as another person, my own person, Because we are all persons, a person wrote the textbook. That person shouldnt define my person, and my person shouldnt define another person Because subjection is just a broad subject, And i think my subject is me.
Savanna Larson
Ignis Fatuus Ignis Fatuus, A grey marsh that reminds you of rainy days in your old class, With the Fibonacci sequence painted on the small, frosted, glass windows, Red, white, and blue uniforms, matching the American flag, On the students that sit at attention, listening to American history or classical music, As the rain pounds outside, relentless like the drone of our teacher's voice. Excitement rings around the room as the sun is put out by the clouds, total darkness, And thunder rumbles underneath. I remember the lessons on Pollyanna, And cliches, And I remember the small amount of Latin we had learned. Ignis Fatuus, It sounds like the bell in the bell tower where Paul Revere signaled Once by land, And two if by sea… Only it is over the marsh, By one and by two, The darkness matching in, Bells ringing, False hope.
Sand By Savanna Larson Sitting by the gold of the sky, And the crystal blue, but tainted with fire, waves Writing poetry in the sand, Words that will be washed away in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1… Whoosh! The waves move the tiny sand crystals away to the depths of the ocean And the words are gone. A smile, Voices talking happily. Our footsteps leave a trail that wanders around the edge of the water, Soon to be washed away just like the poetry. Sailboats in the middle of the water - a gentle breeze pushing them forward. On board the friends smile as they squint into the sun, Going somewhere and nowhere. The water’s lonely splash against the sides of the hull distract from the sunset In a gentle way, Reminding us of time, Reminding us that darkness is coming soon.
Pines The dark pines exist stately in a consuming darkness at this hour, 4:38, The clouds hide the sun and the memories of any color other than dark green, black, grey, and white. A snapshot from an old camera taken by the clouds, Except the grey shutters seem to close forever and never open. The grey shutters weep too, But only for the audience that is the pines, Me, And maybe you. If you or I look forever, We may be freed from the harsh outlines of sharp pines, And instead find a monochromatic blur of dark greens, Speckled by the dull grey raindrops, Only for the watchful eye to see against the dark trees. The smell of melting snow, New beginnings too early, Not yet time for hope… This smell reminds me of fantasies in old libraries, Dreaming, What if… If only…
An excerpt from Christense's short story Absolute Power: The rhythm of her feet pounding the pavement as she ran along the Potomac River released the tension in her limbs the same way the rhythm of her fingers typing out code released the creativity that she needed to solve her hardest cases. Paige Wagner, only 38 years old, was one of the youngest to be the Head of the FBI’s Cyber Crime Division. She didn’t code quite as often since her promotion, but she loved it as much as she loved to run because, as with everything in her life, it was the rhythm of things that kept her going, especially during the most difficult times of her career. And it cleared her mind so she could focus. Life wasn’t as challenging now as it had been two years ago before she transferred to her current division, but neither had it been a walk in the park. The last agent she handled had discovered from an NSA officer, who turned spy, that her current boss, whose deadly sin was greed, was moving money illegally between hidden foreign bank accounts to fund some off-book black ops. As was her duty, Paige went to her boss’s direct superior, the President of the United States, but supposedly there was a small matter of national security at stake, so she was forbidden, for reasons she still doesn’t understand, to go to the Justice Department and report a potential crime. The system wasn’t built for her, but she was clever and could hold her own. She was safe for now. But how long would that last?
Christense Nielsen
Widow's Walk The wind whips my hair around, above my head and across my eyes, wiping away the salt of my tears, yet unable to smother my cries. This was the lace of my white gown, once yours to admire in its stride, but the long walk down charred streets has blacked it to a dress of mourning, no longer that of your bride. Into the looming white caps I glare, the gulls know better than to trust the wind at these heights, yet I stand with little left to hold me, reaching with chilled hands and soul into the night.
Julia Srnec
12th
Old Planet The night eclipses, the same as a night many years ago, the same floor and music. The mirror doesn't work. The ceiling is spinning, and I want to let go but my hands won't listen, grappling for what little chance of love they can reach, only to be cut open and apart by the rocks and the waves, torn until the tears and the yelling drown out the choking hope I found strength in. The galaxy is big but the constellations are familiar, and if I move to another planet, the sky will seem a stranger. I will stand on the barren earth, with no ceiling to stop me from falling up into the ocean of swirling stars.
Apple pie, made with hawthorn berries i. If I’m ever annoying, you know exactly what to say. “At least I’m not ashamed of being Chinese” like it’s something you can clap onto my wrists like handcuffs and hold me accountable for. You half-disguise it as a joke, but the joke is always peeling at the edges, curling like your lips; and you let it show because you know I’ll dry up afterwards like a hawthorn berry, flattened into your favorite New Year candy. ii. Do you have at least one trusted adult you can confide in? I used to color in the tiny circle next to Yes, so that when you’d left the room, Dr. Sherry wouldn’t look at me with puppy-dog eyes and ask if there was anything I’d like to open up about; but I started choosing Yes like I meant it, like all I needed to do was act like it was true. iii. The Asian girls at school have names that taste like dessert. Annabelle is French pastries with cream, Kaitlyn is strawberry sorbet; Jenny tastes like apple pie, buttery and inviting. Some of the girls have Asian names, a rare two or three: bitter mouthfuls, all vowels and unwieldy consonants pushed and tangled together. They’re shortened to something that’s sweeter on the palate: Min, Kei, Lee. And those are okay, too. iv. The name you gave me is separate and hard-sounding. Qing Lan. A knot that trips up classmates, substitute teachers, dentists, piano teachers, swim coaches. The space you added—“In Chinese, it’s two characters, not one”— means I’m usually Qing: Ching. Chink. Not cute-and-unique foreign. Foreign like hawthorn candy, tart and only tolerable to the Chinese tongue. v. I expect you to smile to show you understand, maybe even hug me. Your eyes never leave mine. “I named you for what you are. You’re Chinese. You’re not a Rebecca or a Stephanie. Why are you embarrassed by your heritage? Is it that shameful to be Chinese? Do you want to be white?” Your mouth curls downwards, bobbing up and down as it grinds hawthorn candies to dust.
Ming Wei Yeoh
Some of the girls have Asian names, a rare two or three: bitter mouthfuls, all vowels and unwieldy consonants pushed and tangled together. They’re shortened to something that’s sweeter on the palate: Min, Kei, Lee. And those are okay, too. iv. The name you gave me is separate and hard-sounding. Qing Lan. A knot that trips up classmates, substitute teachers, dentists, piano teachers, swim coaches. The space you added—“In Chinese, it’s two characters, not one”— means I’m usually Qing: Ching. Chink. Not cute-and-unique foreign. Foreign like hawthorn candy, tart and only tolerable to the Chinese tongue. v. I expect you to smile to show you understand, maybe even hug me. Your eyes never leave mine. “I named you for what you are. You’re Chinese. You’re not a Rebecca or a Stephanie. Why are you embarrassed by your heritage? Is it that shameful to be Chinese? Do you want to be white?” Your mouth curls downwards, bobbing up and down as it grinds hawthorn candies to dust.
Mahdi Khamseh
Reflections A long cigarette, crates full of smoke, drifting, towards your pale cheeks: a penumbral silence, carried horseback (stoic in its pastoral mannerisms). *** The char of oak trees, like soggy candles limping on a never-ending expedition to a dim and forsaken mouth, dipping their ashes against the scalp of my ashtray. *** TwopolitelyreturnedglassesofbourbonatopthekitchencounterafterMargarethad categorizedlifeasa“stagetwodepressant”: I’velosttrackofhowmanystagestherehastobe.
12TH
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RUBY MARTIN