MYTH 2014

Myth Literary Magazine

2014

Editor-in-Chief: Mia Rolph

Visual Arts Editor: Maddie Stratton

Staff:

Mila Dorji

Deelany Grant

Sara Sparks

Katie Clark

Gaby Penvenne

Lauren Goodell

Leah Maier

Sarah Pihl

Faculty Advisor: Ivan Simon

EDITORS ’ NOTE

Poetry sucks. But not always; for you see, we students of San Luis Obispo High School are in the presence of some ridiculously talented individuals. Their combined writing skills are showcased in this newly resurrected literary magazine. Whether you have never considered poetry as an “actual art” or you love to stretch your literary muscles from time to time, consider Myth a worthy investment of your time. Enjoy it, just as we enjoyed compiling it, and our contributors enjoyed writing for it.

Sincerely, Mia and Maddie

Table of Contents

Deelany Grant Dear “power” of the houses 9

Poetry

Art/Photography

Mila Dorji 3

Sarah Nicohls 12

Leah Maier 8

Mia Rolph 14,15

Alexander Rolph (to the right)

Michael Grasseschi Roanoke 2 Concrete 18-19

Maddie Stratton Waking Up to Smell the Roses 13 Untitled 16

Gaby Penvenne A Question of Size 1 So Very, Very Far 10

Mia Rolph Imagination 4 Déjà vu 11

Sara Sparks Do I Dare Be Myself? 5-7

Prose

A boy sat on the corner, Across from the grocery store. He was holding a cardboard sign.

It read, “Bike out of gas,” “Just need enough to get to LA.” He sure looked hungry.

While I waited across the street, I asked him where he came from. He said he was from Ohio.

Who knows how he got all the way here Only to be stopped so close. He looked a little discouraged.

“I’m looking for my sister,” he told me, “She came out west last year.” He showed me a picture in his wallet.

I didn’t tell him I’d known his sister, She went back home last month. He had probably passed her on the road.

But he might not have turned back anyways, Even if I had told him.

He had already come so far.

So Very, Very Far Gaby Penvenne

1~POETRY

Are you cement Because I was there when you broke And I can testify that your father cried more than you Even with your scars, like bad tattoos. Are you ethereal Because you are thin, a whisper In the ocean current And your mother made you eat For the family to see. Are you celestial Because your head is full of stars And supernovas, how they burst In your brilliant and colorful words And yet your sister denies you. Are you driftwood Because you’re tossed until smooth And small, your size falling away slowly Until you will fade away And how will your memories remain?

Roanoke Michael Grasseschi

2~POETRY

3~PHOTOGRAPHY

Take me out tonight To gravel shuffles and a scarlet moon, Where secrets spill like starlight And crickets keenly croon.

Wander with my artist mind, In my adventurer shoes Let’s make up lives for things we find And worship whom we choose.

Oh, this night is all we have! And morning light is fatally bright To dreams dark dares to grab. Of stars and quiet cars, I’ll write; Of you, and how our love began.

And do not fear the dark, my dear; It’s where stars align to poetry.

Imagination Mia ROlph

4~POETRY

There is a rare kind of beauty that truth re-veals, as a pure blend of honesty and fact— concepts most children are taught to recognize and practice. But, as we grow older, its importance begins to fade. We find it more valuable to pretend and lie, perhaps even cheat, if it means we will be accepted and appreciated, to some extent. A fake smile here, a forced laugh there, a plastic mask to hide the pain, it becomes simple really. With time we metamorphose into little Pinocchios, deceit pre-venting us from being our true selves. Instead we choose to let our parents, friends, and the media dictate who we must be. Their words, ideas, and thoughts become a part of us, part of our identity. It isn’t bad per se, heeding a mother’s advice, or quoting a friend, or even copying people on television. Its just that a line becomes blurred between “this is really me” and “this is who everyone ex-pects and has taught me to be.” Who are we really, a product of the world or an original individual? Ultimate-ly, it is our choice. We must accept that part of our iden-tity comes from our past; however we have the power to determine, whether or not we live to please others, or dare to be ourselves.

As children we are little copycats, finding fulfill-ment in replicating the actions of our relatives and peers. It appears to be simple logic: do what everyone else is doing and you will fit right in. Today we more commonly refer to it as “peer pressure.” After a while, it’s no longer “what do I want to do”, but “if I do it, will I still fit in?” We are desperate for the approval of others, for our identity is not ours alone, but one in which oth-ers may have their say. Being controlled by the will of others doesn’t seem so demeaning as long as you belong, right? Author Zora Neal Hurston put it as, “…I was their Zora nevertheless. I belonged to them, to the nearby ho-

Do I Dare Be Myself? Sara Sparks

5~PROSE

tels, to the county- everybody’s Zora”. Secure in the knowledge that we are accepted, sacrificing our individ-uality seems like a small price to pay. A mask of fear prevents us from being truthful, truthful with ourselves as to who we are and who we have the potential to be. It seems that we spend much of our lives living to please others, because we are scared to fabricate an identity of our own.

Untainted by the world’s influence, I knew with-out a doubt who I was as a little girl. Of course, I could pretend to be Cinderella, or Santa’s elf, but at the end of the day I was still me. I remember I used to tell my mom when she tried to dress me up or tell me what do, “Momma I just gotta be me!” But as I grew older, I de-veloped her quietness, my grandma’s sassiness, my aunt’s tone of voice, and my dad’s determination. It continued and I realized that my dad’s words would slip out from time to time; I would find myself involuntarily adding my grandma’s snap to the end of my sentences, giving them a bit of flare. It became a confusing game of charades. I could never quite guess who I was. “Oh, you are just like your daddy and mommy” the women at church would whisper in my ear as I gave them hugs on Sunday mornings. How could I not be? They had raised me, taught me how to act, how to think. I was theirs. Loved and belonging to a wonderful home, who was I to dare be any different?

My thinking began to change when my best friend, Alex Maier, passed away due to car crash last year. As I re-flected on our time together I realized he was the only person I have ever dared to be truly genuine with be-cause he never had any expectations of me, no words of persuasion to try to commandeer me. He simply asked me to be Sara, whoever she was. He taught me the im-portance of embracing my family, but also to recognize

6~PROSE

that I have the power to control who I want to be; I just have to be brave enough to do it. Without realizing it, he became a part of my identity too. Every person we interact with, every experience we go through, contrib-utes to who we are. I had to accept that my parents’ in-fluences contribute to who I am, while simultaneously acknowledging that they are not me. We mold our iden-tities so that they will be accepted; but the most im-portant person who needs to accept us is ourselves.

Daring to be yourself doesn’t mean being rebel-lious or not valuing others. A dare in itself is a chal-lenge, a challenge in which you are given the opportuni-ty to prove yourself. What we must prove to ourselves is the truth, as to who we are and what we desire to be. We can choose to hide behind masks our whole life, as if the world were one never-ending masquerade, or we can redefine ourselves as individuals with a simple goal; being true. Take a small bit of courage, add in a bit of risk, and apply it to a large dose of self-acceptance, and you will discover that the greatest beauty truth has to reveal is you. ◊

7~PROSE

8~ART

Dear "power" of the houses:

When reached to a certain age doesn’t mean you can lose your morals, your heart or your feelings. This age doesn’t call you to be fraudulent or disregardful. You are as absent minded and clumsy as adolescent children.

You are not immune to this world, just numb.

Dear "power" of the houses

Deelany Grant

9~POETRY

Really, it’s a question of size:

Are you enough to fill the caterpillar sky with your dead skeleton shoulders? Or does your mask change; The small blanket-feather world shatters and you can’t grow back your down for anything.

I’ll miss that down and that mask most of all but really, what do you care? Because now you’ll grow wings the sky won’t be big enough to hold you and the question won’t be one of size any longer.

A Question of Size Gaby Penvenne

10~POETRY

It’ll be the days when we stared At the sun haze, instead of the trees That swipe at it with trembling leaves, That come back to us in wistful dreams on days the haze is smog or fog, Not heaven’s mist. (They were just jealous, and I can see why, The golden wind o’ershadows the most sapphire sky)

It’ll be an image, burned into closed eyes, Of musical laughter and radiant smiles Or the brush of a finger on the small of my back, That I’ll see in my head just evading my grasp. (Again, just jealousy, this soot-stained me of the present Clawing at energy and agility I lack from the past.)

And there’s a crick in my neck from twisting so fast, Eyes clinging to the mirage of you rushing past The rocking swish of your tailwind, deadly, like a train. And my heart breaks too often as it’s seared in my brain— That image, the blur before the sun,

And then it’s all gone, It was just déjà vu.

Déjà vu Mia Rolph

11~POETRY

12~ART

Daytime dulls my sense of smell-- It cannot keep up with all the arresting stimuli of one day Just one day! That's all it was It only took twenty four hours...or maybe it was a week? For my sinuses to launch into full allergic reaction Pores oozing histamine Increasing my pain, not helping it I went to bed with a stuffy nose. NyQuil taste on the back of the tongue A chalky reminder of toss-turned sheets and mucus dreams And all this fuss over by the time morning comes Awaken sun! Bless the muddled five senses! Pray keep the pathogenic barbarians at bay, oh morn-ing, till I exhaust my brave lymph warriors with the expira-tion date Twenty four hours Leave the days for battle And the nights are a recovery They are war, they are cruel. But morning, oh morning See that you never smell of ashes.

Waking Up to Smell the Roses

Maddie Stratton

13~POETRY

14~PHOTOGRAPHY

15 ~ PHOTOGRAPHY

Tell me snail is it the weight of your corkscrew shell, or the limitations of a having one foot, no legs, that keeps you sliming along at such a pace? Maybe it's when you look on your brethren that you see you have no choices -the slug remains sluggish even without the limitation of a calcium chassis- So clearly we are the ones especially predisposed to failure. And so there was failure: Nights of nothing and Days of unflinching self-evaluation. Carrying all that weight all that time And all for what purpose? In a word, humble traveler, because you must there is no other way; there is noth-ing but movement Forward Inch by inch, with only one foot.

[Untitled] Maddie Stratton

16~POETRY

I like him

So naturally I care

He doesn’t

So naturally he’ll stare

Naturally Sarah Pihl

17~POETRY

18~POETRY

When I was naïve I thought only God could break rocks

until I saw my father in his anger smash the concrete on the

porch.

And I thought the phone ringing could only mean friends,

until I saw my father weeping, clutching the black device in

his lap,

and I realized that the world was evil.

So I smashed the concrete too, and the walls,

until my fists bled, but the crimson was a friend.

Something that flowed as readily as my anger

and the pain shot up my veins, yelling "It is finished!"

But I kept on.

And I tried calling a savior on that black phone,

even though I knew my knees would smash

into the cold carpet floor of my wide and empty bedroom.

I embraced the freezing fugue state

and drank in the icy Pacific so I could be warm.

And my mother wondered what had happened,

and I told her truthfully that it was nothing.

You have heard that too much can destroy, but I say that too little will decimate.

Concrete Michael Grasseschi

You hear that tragedy leads to greater pain,

but remember that silence leads to deafness.

So when I broke the windows and tore the stolid

carpet from the ground they should have known

they gave me too little of what I needed.

19~POETRY

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