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Calliope 2018 VOL. XXXII St. Agnes Academy 4830 Walnut Grove Rd Memphis, Tennessee 38117 Phone: 901.767.1377 calliope@saa-sds.org


PENCIL | AMELIA HANCOCK | BIGFEET i


Dedication The staff is excited to dedicate this year’s edition of Calliope to a teacher who possesses an admirable passion for teaching and evident love for both writing and literature. Dr. Jennifer Lovelace inspires her students to want to learn through her commitment to helping them grow as writers and her enthusiasm for English. She encourages her students to exceed their potential and pushes them to produce their best work. Her influence also extends beyond the classroom, specifically through the Writer’s Room, where she assists students of every grade refine their writing, and the Leadership Lab, where she conducts weekly meetings to enrich students’ leadership skills. She always welcomes the opportunity to talk, listen, and give advice to students and willingly helps her students in any way possible. For these reasons, we are pleased to dedicate the 2018 edition of Calliope to Dr. Jennifer Lovelace.

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ACCOLA Poetry

Divorce Papers Denise Geronimo

Essay

Scout Ellen Lemm

Short Stories

Dear Lady Denise Geronimo

Photography Outside the Bottle Ruth Ellen Berry

Poetry

Contrast Amelia Hancock

Short Stories

Larger Than Life Itself Sarah Grace Price

Photography Red Walk Gracie Rech


ADES

Poetry

Raging Fires Amelia Hancock

Short Stories

In Every Tear and Raindrop Sarah Grace Price

Photography Run Riley Scull

Poetry Potions Talia Shadroui

Poetry

Do Not Open Talia Shadroui

Photography Smooth as Glass Olivia Berntson


O Writing

Raging Fires ................................................................13 Amelia Hancock Contrast ..................................................................14 Amelia Hancock Larger Than Life Itself..........................................................16 Sarah Grace Price Potions .................................................................23 Talia Shadroui Star Spangled Canvas..........................................................27 Grace Gage Dear Lady ............................................................28 Denise Geronimo Divorce Papers ............................................................33 Denise Geronimo Not Just for Instagram........................................................35 Ruth Ellen Berry River of Memories.................................................................38 Grace Gage In Every Tear and Raindrop..............................................40 Sarah Grace Price Do Not Open ..............................................................46 Talia Shadroui To Burn ...............................................................49 Meghan Fleming Scout ........................................................................50 Ellen Lemm v

art

Big Feet ..................................................................i Amelia Hancock Shadows ........................................................................15 Riley Bartlett Sip .............................................................22 Amelia Hancock Timeless Beauty ..........................................................28 Lauren Capocaccia Forbidden Fruit ..........................................34 Mary Elizabeth Whitmire Don’t Drain on My Parade................................................36 Amelia Mancock Buckle Up ..............................................................47 Amelia Hancock Angel Dog ........................................................................50 Ellen Lemm


Photography

Hawaiian Sunset ............................................................12 Ashley Sanderson SHHH .................................................................17 Ruth Ellen Berry Pool Meeting ................................................................21 Ruth Ellen Berry Run ..............................................................................24 Riley Scull Outside the Bottle ...............................................................24 Ruth Ellen Berry

Red Walk .......................................................................25 Gracie Rech Carolyn ............................................................................27 Angel Lay Shan ...........................................32 Mary Elizabeth Whitmire Smooth as Glass ................................................................37 Olivia Berntson Corvette ............................................................................37 Riley Scull Reaching ..............................................................38 Ruth Ellen Berry Green Roof, Yellow Light .........................................40 Mary Elizabeth Whitmire Cotton Drive ..........................................45 Mary Elizabeth Whitmire Chandler ........................................................................48 Grace Gage

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PHOTOGRAPHY | ASHLEY SANDERSON | HAWAIIAN SUNSET


AMELIA HANCOCK

you knew there was only one way for this to end, ice boy: in flames.

you soaked me in kerosene and tossed me a match

and i lit up like something holy

and while i began to writhe in agony i expected you to watch from afar,

amused by the flames dancing in your eyes, but you held me.

you held me the whole damn time. warmth seeped into your throat, your stomach, your veins,

until i began to singe your skin, to leave marks, until i made you leave. that night

we both learned that

it takes a raging wildfire to thaw a frozen heart.

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Contrast AMELIA HANCOCK

living solely in the night

amidst forgiven lines and forgotten shrines the why, tried and yet undisclosed,

was left to my mind, and never settled. the dark took his own time, tethered me to my home in his heart

until my heart

untied itself from the why, which was within him, and began to roam.

restlessness brought the dawn

and the dawn brought a glimpse of that which the night hid color, life, senses foreign to a heart whose love was limited

not by its own disposition

but by the why and how it hindered my veins

most barriers i have to break by mistakes, the ache of behavior unsolicited, but still imprinted in my psyche.

the light forgives,

generous with its time and the why reduces

to a tiny sliver of my mind we are forced to divorce

as color, life, senses precede an

entrance never to be forgotten: 14

the how.


SCRATCHBOARD | RILEY BARTLETT | SHADOWS 15


SARAH GRACE PRICE

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PHOTOGRAPHY | RUTH ELLEN BERRY | SHHH


I close my eyes and plug my nose as I plunge into the frigid water of the lake that was

so familiar. A broken gasp escapes my mouth as I break the surface and fill my lungs with

the warm air of late summer. My fragile hands reach for the cuff of my fluorescent life jacket as I bob in the wake of the pontoon, like one of the little plastic fishing rigs my dad kept in

his tackle box. I watch with admiration as the older kids leap from the stern of the boat with precision.

A front flip. A cartwheel. All I had done was a cannonball.

“Come on! Let’s go!” My attention is diverted to the cause of the excitement. As I spin

around, I have to remove the wet strands of hair from my eyes to behold the looming cliffs

that had terrified me ever since I first witnessed their grandeur when I was two. Every nook,

every crevice, every arch and divot: I had etched the image into my brain. “Go! It’s your year! I

feel it!” I hear my mom call to me as she perches herself on the damp leather seat of the rented pontoon. iPhone in hand, ready to capture the action.

As I glance back at the staggering height of the cliffs, I feel my heart pound against my

rib cage. Oh no. In reality they were no more than twenty feet tall, but I feel as if I am staring

death in the face. My greatest fear. One that made my stomach churn and my palms sweat for as long as I could remember.

I am broken out of my trance by a piercing scream. My head snaps back to watch as one

of the oldest kids leaps with so much confidence you’d think she could actually fly. Her hair

whips violently in the air as her arms flail in circles. She collides with the water in a triumphant splash, and all around the homely cheers and whoops of family fill the air as she reappears at the surface.

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A strange sensation replaces my fear once churning within. Now. It’s my time.

Slowly, I paddle my way to the steep edge of the cliff. Gazing up, I spy splotches of

every hue as anxious kids, clad in their various lime green and neon orange life vests, frantically scramble to reach the peak. Jagged edges, speckled with slipperygreen algae from decades of erosion. I begin to climb. Up and up and up. I carefully focus on the wet footprints of the kids who had gone before—the brave souls who dared to jump. I occasionally slip, but still make gradual progress as my

pruned hands maneuver about the wall of ancient rock.

Finally, I reach the top.

I walk. Carefully. Putting one dripping foot in front of the other. As I approach the edge,

I look beyond, at the mystical scene before me. I don’t think you could ever fully appreciate the sheer magic of the cliffs until you’ve stood on top of them. The reflection of the setting sun on

the smooth dark emerald water creates a sort of awe inspiring effect—like that of untempered crystal. The distant trees become a bold outline of black, painted against the backdrop of the

evening sky. Distant boats appear as minuscule waterbugs darting across the water’s surface,

constructing a highway of wakes and waves. Before, I had felt so small. Now, however, standing with two feet planted and looking out, I am larger than life itself. I close my eyes and breathe in the air as a warm breeze ripples through my damp lifejacket and against my wet skin. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. I concentrate on every breath. I am ready. I feel it with an aching in my bones. I am aware of every bead of sweat, every drop of water, and every beat of my shaking heart.

Opening my eyes and taking two mighty steps forward... I jump.

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I DON’T THINK YOU COULD EVER FULLY APPRECIATE THE SHEER MAGIC THE CLIFFS UNTIL STOOD ON TOP OF 20


OF YOU’VE THEM. PHOTOGRAPHY | RUTH ELLEN BERRY | POOL MEETING


PENCIL | AMELIA HANCOCK | SIP

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POTIONS

TALIA SHADROUI

imagine me taking a drink of poisoned water. but before you diagnosed me you must understand: this elixir was the prettiest color i had ever seen like silk on my tongue wandering into my throat so pleasingly and it passed right next to my heart, and oh, how kindly those puddles of black syrup hid the pain.

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PHOTOGRAPHY | RILEY SCULL | RUN

PHOTOGRAPHY | RUTH ELLEN BERRY | OUTSIDE THE BOTTLE 24


PHOTOGRAPHY | GRACIE RECH | RED WALK 25


GRACE GAGE

emerald eyes lacerate the soul

while her screaming scarlet hair gently curls around each finger.

Like a fluttering brush across her face, her tears paint the beautiful canvas of her cheeks and lips.

The same brush graciously colors a vast universe

brimming with glittering, shimmering constellations. Each constellation connects to the next,

peppering her face with tiny glowing stars. The tears stain her skin with black ink,

a stark contrast to the beautiful cosmic jewels.

Each star holds pain, but from each beautiful twinkling mark of pain comes an inexplicable facet of shining beauty.

Her smooth, enticing voice sounds like music to the ears as she carefully and meticulously articulates each of her thoughts to those beyond the thick walls of her mind. But no one concentrates on her words, only her star spangled face.

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PHOTOGRAPHY | ANGEL LAY | CAROLYN


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SCRATCHBOARD | LAUREN CAPPOCACCIA | TIMELESS BEAUTY

Dear Lady DENISE GERONIMO


I couldn’t distinguish my mother’s tears from the rain. 6. 12. 12.

laying on that couch. Being an upcoming woman,

A little house in a little town with a little name

“proper dress makes a proper lady.”

I, an almost eighteen year old, laid

6:49 P.M.

that has little significance.

horizontally proper as a lady should. My feet were

propped up on the right arm of the couch, allowing my head to sink into the opposite crevice. I stared

blankly at the ceiling, thinking about purely nothing, and everything. My feet faced upwards and my

hands rested on my stomach in a porcelain manner. I beamed with the notion that I looked very proper

I made sure my dress was wrinkle-free because a

That snippet was from a magazine that I read

The grocery was a 15 minute bike ride from

at the grocery.

where we lived, but one day Mother wanted to drive me over there. Entering the store, I slowly selected a snack and ambled towards the checkout. A bag

of peanuts in hand, I approached the cashier. I was about to reach for my dollar, but then I saw this

gorgeous, porcelain woman on the newsstand. She 29


was the epitome of a lady. So naturally, I had to

Now, please note that nothing was sacred

offered for the customer behind me to go first.

My mother, still wearing what she had

see her—be her. I apologized to the cashier and I placed my peanuts on the counter nearby, not

caring if someone else took them. I stumbled in the direction of the news rack, dashing past grocery carts and workers. At last, I grasped the glossy

magazine and flipped to the model’s photoshoot page: page 17. I could feel the smoothness of the pages while I glided my finger over the pictures.

about this process. She just did it to soothe herself. on the day before, stood in front of the sink

mesmerized by the overflow of water sashaying down, which she would eventually have to pay

for later. In hand, she held a white, clean plate and casually placed it beneath the water. She and I

both watched as the water quickly, as if resiliently,

ricocheted off the silverware. But before I thought

The title screamed: How to be as BEAUTIFUL as HER. the show was over, water sparks bathed my mother I was ecstatic. It was the guideline for an aspiring

for the day, and as a favor to the clean up crew, me,

mother—a fine lady too—barged through the

away.

lady—me. I only got to read one paragraph. My

entrance of the grocery store with a distinct face

of distaste. I made her wait outside too long. I was foolish to make a lady wait. I never did get to read the rest of page 17—and I never did buy those peanuts.

Bang. My head snapped to hear the back

Anticipating the cold, I adjusted my torso

door open in the kitchen.

to look at the couch cushion. Shoot, I thought, I

wrinkled my dress. I was snapped back to reality

by the stench of the couch. It was putrid, I swear.

Disgusted, I sat up, grabbed a blanket, and hobbled to the kitchen.

My mother had once again opened the

outside door. She was doing it again: her ritual. I

peered into the direction of noise and found that my mother’s performance had already begun.

The kitchen faucet was running streams of water,

and I forced myself to witness the redundancy of my mother’s ceremony.

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they also bathed the kitchen floor. Then I turned

I went back to the living room and sat on

the couch once more. My minutes of relaxation,

however, were interrupted as soon as I sat down. My couch was being showered, not by water,

but by my dog. I winked at him, imagining that

he understood that I approved his unruly ways.

Trickles of hair peppered the couch one by one,

each claiming a spot for its own. I envied my dog’s boldness. Cowardly, however, I scampered off so I

wouldn’t be caught in the crossfire of my mother’s beloved wrath. Unfortunately, being an accessory to my dog made me collateral damage.

“He better not be on the couch.”

Her single sentence demanded my

obedience. Man, she could command the heavens

while simultaneously defying nature just by batting her eyelashes.

She had the face for it.

Mother had an unusual face, and I say

unusual because it did not compare to the


Southern beauty norms, though sometimes I

of celebration. Every month he wasn’t home, she

exotic— no, rare. The type of face that could

in the sink. It was her personal rebellion. She would

wish it did. I guess you could say she was thought create instant passion from dull air. So, naturally,

you would understand that I disappointed her by taking after my father’s face. I could only imagine

the devastation her womb went through as it held

something so foreign for nine months. But, mother was humble about her looks. Conservative? No,

more like oppressive to her own host. She itched

and pulled at her skin like it was a dress that needed to be tailored. She pretended not to understand the language of her wrinkles. And when she was forced to look into the mirror, she grudgingly stared at the alien standing before her, as if she were looking at her own daughter.

She was right to resent me. I was a constant

reminder of her husband—her burden. Father was a scotch enthusiast. That’s what he called himself. I barely knew him. He came in every two years or

so when he ran out of money. My mother, too frail,

would always wither in his presence and allow him to come back in the house. Each time he came

home, we would have to shut down all the utilities because the bills would start to pile up. Father had a daily routine: hunt during the day, rant during

the evening, and drink during the night. He was

able to have a reasonable living at the expense of my mother. But once they got into a fight or one of his buddies came along, he would leave us. I

never heard him say thank you. Anyway, after he

left, we would be able to turn everything back on.

would allow herself the luxury of running the water then place a clean dish over the drain to see the

stream for a longer time. Out of guilt, I would always let her rest when she finished by cleaning it up.

“Oh, no, she is going to be furious about the

I sprinted to the kitchen, prepared to grovel.

dog,” I mumbled.

Instead, I was welcomed by the arms of a mediocre excuse of a kitchen. The plate, alone by itself, was

inside the sink with the water still running. I moved to turn it off, but I got distracted by the noise

coming from outside. It was raining, and each drop was claiming a spot of its own. I envied the rain’s

boldness. I began to grab the screen door to close it, but then I saw this gorgeous, porcelain woman, my mother. She was standing on the porch step, unshielded from the storm. Dying to see her, I

creeped out in curiosity to hide behind the rocking chair. Mother extended her right foot and stepped barefoot onto the grass. Her foot brushed the

ground beneath her, and she began to sob. With her frailty, her figure started to twirl around our

lawn. She twisted around and around. Her dress

began to rise and fall while the air danced beneath her, and I watched as she became a blurred vision

of my mother. The faucet ran from the sky and my mother caught each drop. Dancing there, with an unwrinkled dress, she was the epitome of a lady. I was ecstatic.

The house would be watered back to life. After the third time he left, my mom created her own form

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PHOTOGRAPHY | MARY ELIZABETH WHITMIRE | SHAN


Divorce Papers DENISE GERONIMO

You are not obligated to be with me But I can’t stop You We are not bound to each other blood is not that thick but your ego is so maybe that’s why You won’t go You have already slacked on the job no one expects more. You will always have your promotion because of your contribution to my making You can advertise my appearance around town You can sell me off to the highest bidder But you did not log in hours: you did not layer each brick with cement I did you did not choose the type of lights to install I did you paid for all of it, sure, you funded it. But I did something with it. So don’t come around and cut that ribbon as if you put some effort into My architecture Give me money for the furniture and leave.

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ACRYLIC | MARY ELIZABETH WHITMIRE | FORBIDDEN FRUIT


Not Just For

Instagram RUTH ELLEN BERRY

look. like. comment. repeat. look—at the body of a woman, violated look—into the eyes of a starving child look—at the family torn apart because they do not fit into the mold of an “American family” Look. like. comment. repeat. like—the powerful presence of a woman, empowered like—the idea of a world without hunger like—the family allowed to live under one roof without fear Look. Like. comment. repeat. comment—that the notion of “boys will be boys” is unacceptable and that women are not just “asking for it” comment—for the 12.9% of people suffering from hunger in a world able to feed 100% comment—on the reality that 1,000 people are deported and stolen from their families each day Look. Like. Comment. repeat. repeat—until a woman makes a dollar for every dollar a man makes repeat—until every person is allowed their basic right to nourishment repeat—until every family is able to live in a safe environment, happily Look. Like. Comment. Repeat. 35


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ACRYLIC | AMELIA HANCOCK | DON’T DRAIN ON MY PARADE


PHOTOGRAPHY | OLIVIA BERNTSON | SMOOTH AS GLASS

PHOTOGRAPHY | RILEY SCULL | CORVETTE

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Seemingly invisible droplets envelop each and every emotion

that blossoms across her fair skin, while dampening her pink,

cracked lips.

Her ice blue eyes stare at her little pinky.

The weakest finger holds the strongest promises. Oxymoronic, if you ask her.

To no avail, she steals warm moments, from the icy river of memories.


PHOTOGRAPHY | RUTH ELLEN BERRY | REACHING

She slowly draws back away from the banks, skin burning from the freezing winds.

Mississippi ivy creeps up the walls of her mind and entangles her most personal thoughts.

Storms scream her name, and lightning scribbles it with every flash.

Her promise finger hangs limp in the cold air, her heart weakly

pumps blood throughout her body, and her tired feet sink in the dreary gray mud.

GRACE GAGE

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In Every and Ra 40 PHOTOGRAPHY | MARY ELIZABETH WHITMIRE | GREEN ROOF, YELLOW LIGHT


ry tear indrop SARAH GRACE PRICE

SARAH GRACE PRICE

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I peer over the rim of my baby-blue cup as

I sip the last drops of my milk. I glance over at my

grandma, resting on one of the worn wooden bar

stools with her wrinkled hands placed on her knees. Her embroidered sweater rests neatly on the seat adjacent to her. As I begin to study the beaded pattern on my grandmother’s cardigan, I am

snapped back into reality as the splitting noise of an electric guitar penetrates the quiet.

Within moments, my tranquil kitchen is

Apparently I hadn’t noticed my dad rise from

transformed into a heavy rock concert.

his chair to fidget with the old speaker resting in the corner of our living room. After a few notes, I instantly recognize the all-familiar tune of the

song--“The Final Countdown.” Probably to signify the last few days of my grandmother’s working

career before she finally got to “live it up” in Florida with my grandfather. I observe my three younger brothers as they rise from their seats and begin

their performance on the tile floor. A symphony of air-guitars, each trying to outshine the other. My

grandmother radiates sheer joy as a cheery smile

spreads across her cracked cheeks, deepening the wrinkles that encircle her blue eyes from years

of laughter. She begins to clap with the beat of

the song, tapping her fragile foot to the rhythm accordingly.

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It really is a beautiful sight.

After dinner, as everyone is beginning to

assist in the dreaded “Washing of the Dishes,” I

conveniently remember a piece of artwork I had

intended to show my grandmother before she left for Florida. As I sprint up the stairs and run into my room, I begin to shuffle through my checkered

backpack. A sound reaches my ears that I assume is

more laughter—maybe my brothers had put on an encore performance.

Except it isn’t laughter.

Racing downstairs, almost falling, I jump into

the kitchen that had only moments before been a

hub of celebration. Tripping as I reach the source of the haunting sound, I am exposed to a sight I wish

I could erase from my mind. My grandmother is on the ground clutching mascara-stained tissues and wailing. My mom rocks her, crying with a fervor of such anguish that her entire body shakes

with every broken breath and cough. Tears trace

trails down both of their once- joyous faces. My dad spies me, and slowly walks me into another room.

“Your grandfather has just had a heart attack.

All at once, I am in the eye of a hurricane,

They didn’t get to him in time. . . ”

Deaf to the rest of my dad’s words. Senses numb. A raging storm of sadness surrounds me. My siblings are all standing huddled in a corner, hugging

through tears. Their faces of innocence transformed into faces who have experienced something far


beyond their years. How could they understand

For stealing my grandpa too soon. But most of all,

anyone?

had been so excited, so eager to retire. To live out

death? How can I understand death? How does

My dad goes outside, burdened with

the responsibility of messenger. I watch from

the window as he delivers his news to all of my

unsuspecting relatives. Call after call. Reliving the

moment of helplessness over and over. Again and again.

Circling around, my eyes refocus on my

grandmother. I realize it is the first time I have ever seen a woman of such grace and optimism cry.

I yell at God for making my grandmother cry. She

the rest of her carefree days in happiness with her husband. A lifetime of happiness. Gone. Just like that.

Doubling over, I place my head in my hands.

I cry. I realize it is the first time I have cried all night. It feels good. Freeing. I let all of my sadness pour

out of me. I sob uncontrollably and tremble with

every breath. Raising my head back to the sky, eyes

closed, I begin to feel an all-familiar sensation on my

Now, consumed by her emotions as she sobs on the wet face. floor. My grandmother. My head spins, my thoughts

my mind. I need to get out.

soaked skin allowing them to mingle with the tears.

a raging stampede pounding against the front of

My mind screams to run.

Throwing open the old French doors that

overlook our back yard, I sprint into the wet grass. Barefoot. I can feel the damp dirt squish between

my toes as my knees buckle and my legs collapse beneath me. I am on the ground.

Looking up at the cloud-filled setting sky and

planting my fists into the wet earth, I begin to yell at God.

I don’t care if the neighbors can hear. Let

them hear. I shout. I scream at God for taking my

Rain.

I let every raindrop fall on my already tear-

There is something special about this rain. It has

power, and I can feel it. In every droplet is cleansing, in every bead of water healing. There, sitting in the damp grass of my backyard in my soaking clothes, I am filled with something other-worldy. The

rain doesn’t take away the pain, but replaces the

loneliness. The helplessness with something great. I can feel the presence of my grandfather. I know he is with me.

In every tear and in every raindrop.

grandfather away. For causing my family so much pain. I yell at God for never giving us a warning.

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Raising my head back to the sky, eye closed, I begin feel an all-fa sensation on m 44


PHOTOGRAPHY | MARY ELIZABETH WHITMIRE | COTTON DRIVE

s to miliar y wet face. 45


Do not open TALIA SHADROUI

I am bound by an invisible line a circle around my entity, my existence shoved into the attic with musty boxes that read Do not open. The air is still and silent as a corpse. It was not too long ago that I learned how to forget and forgot how to remember. I buried the pain, the ugly, kicked dirt over it and ran away, under the sun.

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PENCIL | AMELIA HANCOCK | BUCKLE UP 47


PHOTOGRAPHY | GRACE GAGE | CHANDLER

To Burn 48

MEGHAN FLEMING


Strike the match, there’s yellow & orange & red, with a subtle puff: grey & black, winding through the air, settling wherever it could. I didn’t strike matches for the fire but for the smoke: not to feel power or pain but see the effect it had after it ceased. It seemed so easy to put out the flame. Time and time again: a puff, and it’s gone. Something dangerous and fierce . . . contained. Only takes one slip: oops, the floor is burning. “Never play with fire.” I’ll be more careful, I swear. Each time, the smoke gathered in my lungs. Really, I never wanted the flame; I never encouraged a wildfire. Only when my house began to burn before my eyes did I see the danger that I held. Inferno: smothering me before I could extinguish it. My friend once told me, “Your body is your home . . . Don’t burn it down.” I buried my matches in the soil and stared at the burns, realizing that I hold the power to seek out new colors, hoping for something else that could set my soul on fire.

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SC OU T ELLEM LEMM

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SCATCHBOARD | ELLEN LEMM | DOGE

SCATCHBOARD | ELLEN LEMM | DOGE


SCRATCHBOARD | ELLEN LEMM | ANGEL DOG 51


I can still see myself at five years old, running as fast as I could.

Neither the worn out bicycle print

dress I donned nor the unevenly laid brick driveway could keep my stubby legs from

reaching my dad’s truck. I was told my dad had picked up a surprise for my sister and

me, and neither of us could endure waiting to see what it would be. I could only hope that it would be another stuffed animal

that could join the ever-growing zoo in my bedroom, but nothing I imagined could

compare to the joy that would soon follow.

My dad finally emerged, carrying something tiny and black that fidgeted in his arms. I

realized that the surprise was not a stuffed animal, but rather an animal that was very

much alive: a black lab named Scout. From then on, I sought to make Scout my best

friend by attempting to hold him although he rapidly outgrew my juvenile wingspan, bringing him along to Show and Tell to

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flaunt his ball-chasing skills, and even trying to style his ears with colorful scrunchies to match my own pigtails.

Three years later, I finally made a

best friend in school just like I had always wanted, but even then, no relationship

could compare to mine with my faithful sidekick, who awaited my return home every day. Every school day invited a

countdown for the weekends when I could

watch Scout take in all the new, mysterious sights and smells as he rode along in the

back my dad’s old, rusted camouflage Jeep, his ears and tongue streaming far behind, on the way to my less-than-competitive

soccer games. As I displayed my awkward (at best) abilities to kick the ball out of

bounds, he showed off his impeccable

abilities to sit, stay, and shake, and I’m sure begging for spare Cheez-Its and orange


slices along the way. After it grew far too

snow began to fall, my family and I broke

that first day I held him in my small arms,

cold for soccer game outings and the

out our trusty sleds and shot down our

street. The inability to sled, however, didn’t

disrupt Scout’s fun, but rather the opposite. He sprinted alongside us like a black

bolt of electricity tied up with a fresh red

bandana, simply ecstatic to enjoy his first

big snow day and to play freely with family unencumbered by school or work.

When seventh grade had officially

struck, things had never seemed more difficult at home or at school. I didn’t

feel as pretty or as popular as all the girls

around me, who were all daintily thin with silky, long hair, more desirable compared to my short and round body, crowned

with ear-length, frizzy locks. The struggle to be myself with my desire to fit in with

everyone around me got harder every day, and drama with friends weighed down my

thoughts. However, whenever these tween struggles squeezed a tear or two from my

watery eyes, Scout was always there to lick away them away before they could finish

dripping down my cheek to my chin. I could never help but laugh and smile, because who could worry about insignificant

troubles with a friend like him to pick up the

I might be 18 now, but Scout never

ceases to make me feel as young as I did

but as I had been growing up, so had he. White hairs sprouted to accentuate his

already expressive eyebrows and a beard

that framed his constant grin. His lightning quick speed soon turned into an unstable wobble that struggled to support his

aging hips. Our house was filled with his

consistently communicative and excited

panting as he huffed from room to room,

now unable to venture up the stairs to my room. Thirteen years may seem like an

extraordinary life for a pet to live, but Scout was no ordinary pet, and his time was cut

far too short. I’ll never forget the last time I laid alongside him in his dog bed in denial

of the loss that was soon to come. I’ll never

forget the last time he licked my tears away, comforting me once again as I tried to do the same for him. I’ll never forget the first time I came home without seeing him

waiting steadfastly for me at the backdoor. But most importantly, I’ll never forget the love, joy, friendship, and memories that

flooded into my life after that little, black puppy was placed into my arms thirteen years ago.

broken pieces?

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COLOPHON

The 2018 issue of Calliope is volume XXXII. The magazine was created using InDesign CC for all layout purposes, Photoshop CC for image editing, and Illustrator CC for creating graphics. Three different fonts were used: Kozuka Gothic Pr6N for body text and page numbers, Exodus Demo for titles, and AXIS for the accolades. St. Agnes Academy is a proud member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and the National Council of Teachers of English. We would like to thank Paulsen Printing Company for the printing and shipping of this year’s Calliope. 100lb. Athens Gloss Cover and soft touch coating with a spot high gloss varnish was used for the cover. 80lb. Silk Athens Text was used for the pages. 500 copies of Calliope were printed this year. Calliope is distributed to the student body and incoming students throughout the year.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The editors and staff of Calliope would like to extend our gratitude to all those who have contributed their time, knowledge, and support to the publication of this year’s Calliope. We are grateful to President Tom Hood, Dr. Joy Maness, and the administration of St. Agnes Academy for all their assistance and guidance. We also extend our appreciation to Dr. Jennifer Lovelace, Mrs. Sarah Phifer, Dr. Elizabeth McIngvale, Mrs. Heather Valdez, Dr. Kathy Zanone, and Ms. Ellie Connick of the English Department and Mrs. Janis McCarty of the Art Department for their wisdom and guidance in the literary and photography competitions. Additionally, we would like to thank Ms. Jennifer Gionfriddo and Ms. Angie Gould for their technological expertise. We owe our deepest thanks to the entire school community for the unceasing encouragement in art and literary education. Finally, the staff of Calliope wishes to thank the students of St. Agnes Academy for submitting their writing, photography, and art because without their artistic and literary talents, Calliope would not exist.

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PHILOSOPHY

Calliope refers to both the eloquence of the Greek muse Calliope, as well as the eighteenth-century pipe organs, called calliopes, found on the river boats that journeyed the Mississippi River in front of the Memphis port for many years. Calliope has been in existence at St. Agnes Academy since 1984, and it continues to be a student generated magazine, which combines creative literature, skilled artwork, and distinguished photography into one collection of sophistication and unity. Our award-winning collaboration of the most creative minds at St. Agnes is dedicated to preserving and promoting the arts. In the fall, we hold our Writing and Photography Contest, in which the students submit entries for possible publication. A panel of teachers judge the entries, and the winners are published in the magazine alongside other student works. Throughout the second semester, we carefully piece together all of the entries on the computer. The Calliope staff consists of a group of students who savor the mental forum of literature and art. The staff is chosen by application and recommendation from a faculty member. The publication requires many hours to complete. Therefore, the staff members meet during homeroom, lunch, after school, and occasionally on the weekends, tirelessly working together to craft the magazine from all the student works. The staff incorporates artwork and writings from students as well as award-winning student work from the Scholastic Art and Writing Competition. What is our objective? We strive to be a means of authentic expression and an inventive instrument for the students of St. Agnes Academy to reveal their passions and talents. Calliope promotes the flourishing of thought by giving these students the exciting opportunity to have their works published in a magazine format and read by a wide audience.

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staff EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Ellen Lemm

ART EDITOR

Mary Elizabeth Whitmire

LITERARY EDITOR Kendall stallings

SPONSOR

Janis McCarty 56


Lauren Bean Ruth Ellen Berry Lucy Brennan Kayla Cochran Grace Gage Denise Geronimo Amelia Hancock Gabi Nunnelee Sarah Grace Price Geneva Savage Talia Shadroui Emma Stark Brittain Ross Eliza White Natacha White 57


Calliope XXXII  
Calliope XXXII  
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