Calliope 2020

Emma McQuiston ’21 3

Michael Hanrahan ’20 4

Calliope

/ cal·​li·​ope / kə-ˈlī-ə-(ˌ)pē / noun

An annual student literary and visual arts magazine presenting creative writing, two-dimensional, and three-dimensional works of art created over the course of the 2019-2020 academic year.

Marianapolis Preparatory School Thompson, CT 2019-2020 5

Alyssa Leveille ’21 6

Editors Marielle Caparso ’20 – Editor-in-Chief Julia Crosby ’20 – Creative Writing Editor Chiara Faiola ’21 – Visual Art Editor Creative Writing Committee B Hannon ’23 Sophie Hendrick ’23 Maura Hoban ’21 Avery Kurzontkowski ’23 Eve Listerud ’20 Laurelyn Mayen ’21 Lily Mueller ’22 Visual Art Committee Lily Alessandro ’20 Leonie Krutina ’20 Alyssa Leveille ’21 Emma McQuiston ’21 Linh Pham ’21 Alison Tourtellotte ’21 Kyle Woodruff ’21 Special Thank You to our Anonymous Donor, Shelley Blair, Monika Chojnacki, David DiCicco, Rachel Rogers, Dylan-Ernst Schäfer, Robin Stanley, Karen Tata, and all students who submitted.

Faculty Advisors Patrick Riedy Kellie Ryan Front Cover Leonie Krutina ’20 Back Cover Donovan Hendrick ’23 7

8

Kaylynn Nolan ’20

“As you binge watch your tenth Netflix series or read a book or sleep to music, remember.

Remember that in the darkest days when everything stopped, you turned to artists.”

—Tal Shulam With fear from a pandemic, anxiety about our planet’s longevity, and oversaturation of media, art centers the self amidst this chaos. Running out of toilet paper. No longer using plastic straws. People in power say climate change is fake news. We insist there must be stillness within these statements. The following publication, I believe, locates the humanity still present during turbulence.

The backbone of our community is our diversity. Our differing backgrounds, nationalities, and identities exemplify how, despite every difference and every barrier, we remain as neighbors. Our home being our indispensable, irreplaceable planet.

Despite abuse, misuse, and tarnish, the planet persists. We, too, are persistent; attempting to communicate the ineffable. We allow ourselves to be seen past our outward appearance into our innermost selves, sharing the images, stories, and dreams we hold.

We have found a way to describe the indescribable without ever mentioning it, instead seeing, feeling, and understanding others.

When the news seems all too negative, circumstances suddenly change.

As people enter in and out of our lives, art allows for a connection to be made between the individual and the moment, a connection which cannot be broken, not from fear, not from panic, not from distress.

Art holds every emotion. In our most scared and at our most jubilant, art persists, humanity persists, life persists.

— Marielle Caparso ’20 9

10

Qianhui Lin ’21

11

Artemis

by Ivana Smyčková ’20 A young doe walks towards me like she knows what is about to happen pure and innocent, her body shines shines more and more as she approaches closer to me – as she knows what is about to happen A young doe – pure and innocent walking towards her destiny Golden arrow slides through the air ready to touch her softly – to caress her soft skin, her bones, her artery her whole body as she falls down Golden arrow took her light, took it without mercy Golden arrow in her bleeding heart Like a sign of victory, a sign of occupation A sign of a taken territory – mine, the victory of mine The crucial supreme of mine The highest I will ever be able to reach As her light disappeared to nowhere so did mine – I saw it going away My soul disappearing to nowhere The golden arrow took it away From both of us, but I am the killer without mercy Alone on the island – the island of my misery A young doe appears wherever I go Her light even stronger appearing to me In my dreams, in everything I do Wherever I go, she hunts me and what is left of me

12

Orion shines the brightest these days As a reminder of what I have done And the young doe joins him Every night she walks all the way to the sky Help the stars shine brighter A young doe and Orion shining together Looking down on me – disappointed in what they see Sending their light downwards – to me, to my eyes I will be here forever, staring at them - alone on the island, only me and the stars – disappointed in what we see

Abbie O’Brien ’23

13

Olivia Sczuroski ’22

14

Be a Tree, Be a Rock

by Doyoon Kim ’20 The tree in my backyard is a more trustworthy being than I am How could anyone trust a man who cannot plant their roots in the

ground and say no The tree never talks, moves, nor does anything when it is harmed So why trust a man when you have a tree The rock embedded in the earth is more trustworthy than I am Who else would have skin hard and solid That would keep whatever is kept inside So why trust a man when you have a rock

Marielle Caparso ’20 15

16

Our Poppy

by Daniel Twohig ’22 Look and behold, this kernel of brazen, brilliant youth I say, God bless this earth and God bless the truth Look at its amorphous petal, red as the River Nile, a righteousness in sanguine holds, a eulogy to past rank and file Yet great it is, I ask myself, whenever did it fall, for the poppy of the modern day is a bane to nearly all.

Look now at the epicenter, deceptively benign, For sweet nectar which it births grants virulent decline However could it come about, that Flanders field should switch, from bedrock of our freedom to tempest of a broken fix?

Surely there is hope, yet I find worry in the fact, that a poppy lost is one life gained, but a poppy lost is country maimed; this I fear yet do not state, for surely end shall be its fate Silent fields are peaceful not, when deadly strand ties fast the knot, and though reserve may wrap its twine, I’ll stand steadfast to state my mind Behold the symbol of our roots, God bless this planet, and the truth

Marielle Caparso ’20 17

Alyssa Leveille ’21 18

Moon Light

by Yaxuan Xu ’20 Close your eyes and lying on the bed, Do you still remember what he said?

Looking up the bright light moon, Listening to the flowing stream, The words started coming back to me.

Let go of your hand saying I will come back soon, Having that same old dream, Those are the words that you guarantee.

Tears falling to the ground, Like the crystal beads remit to the sea.

Flute and singing interweaved sound, Eventually it’s different than what I see.

A flash of bright light shining through my eyes, I am not surprised.

Emma McQuiston ’21 19

The Composition of Decay

by Elizabeth Schoemer ’20 It was forenoon, mist tinged rose-gold, there were throngs of people and hanging sentences, drifting, and imponderous, a capped girl clutching a sodden gown, standing solitaire, a contorted frown and sagging cap with a tassel fraying from the nervous clawing of impatient nails, impatient for the past to once again consume her— this was a girl cowering from the future, a friend whisked another to the plastic folding chairs, dancing between the schools of whites and blacks, ecstasy in heels. My mother was crying, bittersweet tears she kept referring to them as, I was her eldest, shrouded in first trials and first errors. The girl was pursing her lips, glazed in the early morning mist, a fog of body and mind.

The cantor’s tune began crying for the flock, the sheep racing to the pasture, dresses, and ties.

The girl was in agony, knees bent inward with her insides, but I wasn’t her trepidation nor my mother’s.

I was my own decaying past, forsaken memories coated in rose-gold, a sapling in May gripping to its morning dew.

20

Alison Tourtellotte ’21 21

Alison Tourtellotte ’21 22

Untitled

by Ethan Watson ’20 Let’s dance and final time and rest, For my illness you witness; (How you reek of booze, Though I’ve been told I reek, So I suppose it’s no matter.)

The song of pretty and homely doctors Bellows an echo of blues in the halls.

A fatal ballad of fleeting Footsteps, bleeding (Your thorns pierce my heart) Even after my lower half is numbed, (I am no nightingale mon amour, I refuse such lies Written across your wilting petals.)

Perhaps we will meet again, (An apparition, I fade, Marching below my skin) As I know you must bid me adieu, Fading into the droning rhythm of time, (Stripping my husk, and traveling riverside) I witness you violently melt; No illness is as cold and unseen as mine, But with your touch I could see you hear what I felt.

(My lips are gone, my dreams are gone, Meet me here.)

23

from Glenroy

by Patrick Sabourin ’20 The next day, Roy woke up excited. It was his new start. A school that felt like home to him. Roy scurried out of bed, threw his favorite hoodie on, and grabbed a hat and rested it on his head with the brim sideways. He made sure his jeans were sagging and rushed outside for the bus.

As he neared the bus stop he saw his friend, Dom standing there.

“Ayo Dom!” He shouted and picked up a light jog towards the stop.

Dom looked up and a huge grin began growing on his face.

“Doughboy!” He exclaimed. “The hell you doing here?”

“I transferred in. Today.”

“Nah that’s cap. On God?” Dom questioned.

“Yeah. On God.” Glenroy said panting, hands on his knees.

“Word. ‘White Boy Roy’ at Greenmount. Who woulda thought?”

The bus appeared in the distance.

“Here she comes. Time to make some money.”

The bus pulled up and the boys got in. Dom walked down the aisle and would stop, hold out his hand and the kids would give him money. He did this until he got to the back. Dom took the one seater. Glenroy sat across from him.

“How much you make?” Glenroy asked. “$82.” Dom answered.

“What’s it for?” said Glenroy, still curious.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Aight.”

The bus ride was short. Everyone emptied the bus and Glenroy assimilated with the others into the halls. They weren’t as clean as the ones at Lakeview Prep. The bell rang. Glenroy reached into his pocket for his schedule. He pulled out the crumpled paper admissions had

24

given him. It read: First Period History Room 103 Mr. Washington He looked up. Room 103. Just down the hall.

“Showtime,” he mumbled to himself as he strolled down the hall into room 103.

Glenroy was met with pairs of staring eyes as he stepped through the door, into his first class. He turned towards the front of the room where he saw a man writing “Glenroy Thompson, Jr.” on the chalkboard.

“Woah, woah!” He said, jolting to the front of the room. “It’s Roy man.

Forget the junior too, I don’t talk to my pops no more.”

“Well, I am very sorry for doing so,” the old man said in a raspy, but gentle voice. “I was told that was your name by admissions. Here, Roy, have a seat in the back next to Juliano.”

“Aight boomer,” scoffed Glenroy.

“Mr. Washington is my name, son.”

“Never asked,” said Glenroy, still grinning.

“You’re being extremely disrespectful to me right now young man. I suggest you fix your attitude seeing it’s your first day here son.”

“Aight my b,” Glenroy’s grin disappeared. He took a seat next to Juliano. He put his bag down and adjusted his hat. He turned to Juliano to introduce himself.

“Holá Juliano. What’s good mi hermano?”

“Basura blanca ignorante,” mumbled Juliano angrily.

“Ay, imma keep it real witchu esé, I don’t know what that means, but I like you cuz.”

A whisper came from behind Glenroy. “Psst.”

Glenroy turned around to see a girl looking right at him.

“I’d shut it if I were you. He don’t speak a lick of English. He fresh 25

outta juvenile,” she said.

“For real? That’s crazy bruh. What he do?”

“He assaulted his teacher when he was 13. She lost vision in her left eye and needs a hearing aid for her left ear.”

Glenroy looked down at his feet, startled. He took off his hat, rubbed his forehead and put it back on.

“H-How old you say he was?”

“You heard me. Thir-teen! Besides, half the kids in here have seen death, caused death, raped or assaulted. It’s a violent world Roy.” “H-How’d you know my name?”

“Mr. W wrote it on the board stupid.”

“Oh.” *** “Don’t do it. It’s bad news,” said Monique, now looking over Glenroy at his phone.

“Why not? It’s gonna be dumb lit tonight,” he answered.

“Someone’s gonna get hurt. That’s why they’re asking you to go.”

“They’re asking me because they trust me.”

“No, Roy. They’re asking you because they know you’ll go. They know you want to. And they don’t care if you get hurt or killed.”

“They know I know what’s up. You just trippin.”

“They know you wanna prove yourself.”

“I don’t gotta prove nothing.”

“Just because you have weapons and cornrows doesn’t mean you’re hard. These kids grew up in this life. Born into it. They don’t know anything else. You left a perfectly fine life to try and be one of them. I don’t get it.”

Roy turned to face Monique completely. He rose his voice. “I am one of them. You’ll understand after tonight. You’ll hear the stories.”

26

Chiara Faiola ’21

Julia Crosby ’20 27

from The Audacity of Undoing

by Marielle Caparso ’20 I was raised in a small Roman Catholic Italian school.

It is the epitome of old-school Italian, complete with a set of governing nuns with eagle-eyes and hawk-ears inhabiting old brick buildings.

They terrified me.

Crimson hallways stretched for miles, whispers got shared that it was intended to represent the blood of Christ, 28

Yaxuan Xu ’20 Morbid, I thought, but that’s besides the point.

I think back to how young girls are brought up, Boys wore pants and ties to school, the reasoning behind such is that they will go on to wear that in the workplace, Girls wore skirts and knee socks to school, what was the reasoning behind that?

These imbedded messages line the linens of our realities.

Impracticality was our language, we became unquestioningly bilingual before we learnt cursive.

29

Night rest

by Mingyou Xu ’20 They know you would sleep well tonight, Kissed by warm blankets, Thinking of the precious one out there, May it be.

The spirit quietly comes down on you, approaching, Animals crowed around, A dozen of monkeys dancing along the horizon, Like a secret sacrifice Symbolizing endless power and vitality The weightily moon sleeps over the sea Slivers the swarm, tickles your heart, Blessed the precious one The single, flickering orange light Wake the young train station up, People walking home, People taking the last route Talking in and out The old train is singing Where is its destination The journey is not ready for its judgment Let the detention be short It sees all right, Whatever may come, Don’t you forget It is New Year’s Eve.

Donovan Hendrick ’23 30

Linh Nguyen ’23

Sara Powers ’20 31

32

Dún an Doras

by Sophie Hendrick ’23 Dún an doras A phrase my grandmother would say To any who were close enough to hear I never heard the phrase And now she wouldn’t even remember saying it She hated the cold air And the wind that blew When the door would be left open By careless children Running and laughing in the afternoon So she’d yell after them Dún an doras To get one of them To run back and shut the door My grandmother Is where many stories Have originated from Stories about Ireland And Catholic schools Long hair and mutton stew And now I don’t know if she’d remember telling them So I’ll always try to remember Dún an doras Because it’s the only phrase I’ll ever remember her saying

Alison Tourtellotte ’21 33

Shoes

by Sophie Hendrick ’23 How long has it been Since you looked at the sky You never look up Or around Just down at the ground Your eyes on your shoes As if they show you the world Those brown shoes With scratches and spots Disfigured by time Maybe you see something in them That we don’t But you look down At those brown, scratched shoes What could you possibly see in them?

Maybe memories The last time you saw your brother Before he went to a different place You wore those shoes to say goodbye And you wore those shoes On your first date Maybe as you sat in the hospital Saying one last goodbye to an old friend You wore those shoes because he gave them to you But now you only look to the ground As if the world has pushed your head down You look at the shoes To remember what you wish to forget Maybe some memories Are best left alone To be forgotten over time Like the color of your shoes when you first bought them Maybe it’s time for new shoes

34

Sara Powers ’20

35

Caroline Gardiner ’20

36

Sunflowers

by Maura Hoban ’21 Sunflowers remind me of my best friend.

Pointing towards the sun, Towards the positive side of every situation.

Growing tall up into the open air Where she stands strong enough to weather the moodiest storms.

Yellow bright as always, Shining petals that are colored with the first rays of sunlight.

Green stem that anchors her to the ground, And helps her grow even taller and higher into the clouds

37

from Hitchhikers

by Syhyoung Lee ’20

Maya had a habit of flipping her nose ring in and out and she did it nervously with her tongue and it disappeared every other minute.

She asked me to pull over, so I took the exit ramp and avoided running over a pair of ducks and pulled into a lonely rest station — its lonely vending machine glowed in the middle of the parking lot.

We had stopped at the last three rest stations. One of the rest stations sold red licorice and we sat on the curb eating it after she cried in the backseat of the car. We watched the Americans on their way east over the Cascades. The tan lines like jagged puzzles on the tops of her feet rippled over tendons as she squeezed the broken rocks in the parking lot with her toes. My thighs were sticky against my pants as I stood up again, and we were back on the road again, just like that.

We watched the patchwork of gray Oregon factories subside for Washington trees. Smokestacks receded. She loved driving which was a big relief. I put my feet on the dashboard and she spoke.

“I need to run tomorrow morning,” she said.

“How far are you going to run?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I don’t really set distances. I just go until I feel tired.”

After a long pause she added:

“It doesn’t take that long these days.”

She was a perfectionist and she had insisted on waking up early in the mornings to run. She had always been faster than me and I hate to see her slowing down these days, her body changing slowly.

I no longer recognized the countryside. We were getting farther from home and it was getting cloudy. I could hear the words of my mother ringing in my head though: she said Maya and I had made some very poor decisions and she resolved to not support me emotionally or financially. My mom could be so dogmatic about certain things — she got it in her head that one was wrong, and then everything you do after that must be wrong too. Maya and I had both been stained.

We lay on the crisp inhuman comforter of a motel room and then we looked at the hairy canvas of several cheap paintings of wild horses on the peach-colored walls. If you looked long enough the horses seemed to move, muscled out of the speckled background.

38

***

I was feeling pretty sad at night. I have always had issues with anxiety at bedtime. For whatever reason, all my worries seem to hustle together in dark rooms and gang up on me. I hardly slept anymore.

We got our coffee the next morning at the lobby and we stole bundles of the frosted danishes from the complimentary breakfast and giggled on our way to the car. We held hands and smoked with the free hands. She could drive with her knees.

We picked up a hitchhiker in a town called Princeton, WA, which is nothing like Princeton, NJ. I was surprised she wanted to stop but she put her hand on my knee and smiled and said “Can we keep him?”

He was a tall man with close hair and big blue eyes. He had one bag with him and it was bulging. It looked like the kind of bag that had been pared down from the rest of his entire life. He spoke with a strange accent.

“Where you headed to?” Maya said “Going home,” he said.

“Back to Spokane.” “We can’t take you all the way, but we can get you to a highway.” “Oh don’t worry about taking me all the way. I’d be surprised if I found anyone that could take me all the way.” “Where you coming from?” she asked. “I been visiting my lady friend. We don’t see each other but once a month.” “That’s sweet,” she said.

“Why don’t you see each other more often?” “She’s a computer science professor at University of Oregon. She travels around a lot for conferences and such.” “You don’t get to travel with her?” Maya asked. “A country boy like me?” he laughed. “Please.”

“How did you two meet?”

“Online.”

“Sometimes I wish you did computer science too,” Maya said to me. “Maybe then we wouldn’t be living off peanut butter.”

“Maya was a lifeguard this summer,” I tell our hitchhiker. “So she doesn’t really know what work is.”

“That’s not an easy job,” he said.

“Thank you,” Maya said.

“It is when you’re working at a shallow lagoon,” I said.

No one spoke. We watched the fall colors of Washington come to us and I could hear the tiny picking noise as our hitchhiker picked his nails. *** 39

Our trip was drawing to a close. We went inside the clinic together. She was shivering and I walked her as far as I could go. The doctor was a friend of a friend and he shook my hand. I noticed his gold college ring, which clanked against his clipboard.

Hours later I had read exactly three sentences from an old glossy magazine. Over and over. She came out looking tired and pale. I held her in the car and rubbed the space between her ribs. We retraced the highway, back to places from whence we came. She laced her fingers in mine and we held hands long enough that I began sweating.

This time I was driving.

“You know it really wasn’t a bad weekend,” she said. “I love you too.” And then she burst out laughing, still crying.

It really had been a good summer, and I wanted to cry too, thinking of her on the lifeguard chair, smiling through a constellation of freckles. Then we saw a hitchhiker on the edge of the road and she asked me to stop.

I swerved to the gravely shoulder. He got in the back of the car. He had an enormous pack and both his legs. “Where you going?”

Maya asked. “As far as you can take me.” “We can take you as far as Ashland,” she said. “We already had one on the way up here.” “What?” he said. “A hitchhiker,” she said. “He was a very nice guy too. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see him again someday.”

When her fingers laced inside of mine I could almost imagine the ring tattoo on her ring fingers as a real thing. It felt like an actual ring against my finger. But then I looked down and realized that I was thinking of her other hand. The hand inside mine was plain.

40

Yaxuan Xu ’20

41

Invisible Bones

by Niamh Raftery ’20 She looks in the mirror and doesn’t notice her bones peeking through her skin, the sun is up so, she goes for her run on the treadmill so no one can see her massive thighs and red puffy face moving around as she jogs down the road.

One mile done and she can no longer breathe as her body has no energy to give, so, frustrated, she skips her coffee, and breakfast just to be safe. Her legs shake all the way to school The bus is colder than usual, even with the massive sweater that hides her skeletal body with a ribcage that breaks through her skin so far out that she could grab underneath it, as she did every morning to be sure it stayed that way.

Her children sized 7 jeans fall down as she walks the halls, thankfully her massive sweater, that barely touches her skin, falls down to her knees, so no one can see.

Her notebook, filled with numbers and calculations Instead of notes, and apps that track every

42

calorie fills her phone instead of social media.

First entry of the day: 10 calories for the two pieces of gum as breakfast She knows she will have 7 more pieces that day 5 times 7, that’s 35, plus the 10 already was 45, but, let’s make it 50 just in case. Lunch was a salad with iceberg lettuce, 3 cucumbers, 5 almonds, she guesses. 100 calories, it’s probably right, It’s better to be safe than sorry. 500 calories at dinner with a grilled cheese. 650 calories.

Add 100 more, you brushed your teeth, and had vitamins so they probably added up She stares at the 750 calories written as tears roll on to the page She looks up images, bones and thigh gaps, the images of who she wants to be. She looks in the mirror, grabs the stomach that is only visible to herself and holds so tightly until it bruises; she wants to cut it off.

She stares back into the mirror, and can’t see her frail body behind her weighted glass eye, as if her sight is altered.

Her stomach screaming with pain as her organs begin to shut down. she brushes it off as hunger and eats another piece of gum, her weight dropping where she can’t see.

Qianhui Lin ’21 43

A Memory

by Maura Hoban ’21 And in between the purple of the lavender, The bright yellow of the sunflower, And the glaring pink of the zinnia was a memory A memory of dancing in the moonlight A memory of staring at the stars while laying down in the middle

of the street at midnight A memory of the scent of lilacs and milkshakes A memory of the feeling of wet soil A memory of dancing around in the pouring rain in my favorite

yellow rain boots

Linh Pham ’21 44

Coffee and Baguettes

by Sophie Hendrick ’23 She said she’d write me a story One with a happy ending And the prologue spoke of things I’d never told her But must have been noticed How my feelings were too much And I wasn’t able to choose my own destiny She said she’d write me a story One that made me laugh And the prologue made me cry instead Because it spoke of how I was lost Even though those words were never said out loud She said she’d write me a story One to show me my life And the prologue never mentioned this But we would end with coffee and baguettes Laughter in Paris as the sun went down

45

The Things You Do Not Know

by Shuyi Han ’20 You said: please wait for me.

I saw you go away at the station at dawn.

You said: the noon sun is dazzling. l embraced it for you.

You say: the full moon is too rare.

But the stars blinked that day.

You say: autumn will not come back.

The fallen leaves fall slowly in the palm of my hand.

The leaf is so upset that it can’t talk with another leaf.

Use the vein, the color, and the wind So that it can pour its emotions.

Colorful clouds and stars.

How to get through the vastness of the sky?

Hover, cross and call to find the moon.

The station is disappearing, Just like what you do.

I don’t know why you left me.

Your tears are like pouring rain.

It’s melting me.

What do you say about love?

Maybe, there are a lot of things, The things I don’t know about.

46

Maya Summiel ’22 47

Queen of the Night

by Olivia Sczuroski ’22 In the very dead of night: You grasped the moon just barely, stroking stardust with the edges of

your worn-down fingernails You wrapped your mind around it all, entangling your fingers and your

thoughts around the curves and caverns of light.

You twisted and twirled it to your desire, ordaining yourself with the

light of the night, the moon molded into peaks and dips of a

cosmic instrument crafted only for you I look into your eyes, your irises that of another world; beaming

brightly, reflecting fragments of shimmer, refracting facets of

your glory Your head feels not the weight, you tell me in a luminous haze, for the

universe was yours all along.

Queen of the Night and it’s amorphous existence, Suppressor of the Sun Giver and Taker of Time.

Crowned in careful moonlight, surrounded in a star filled midnight.

You melted the stars from the sky and pressed them gingerly,

cosmically, into a faint, dainty chain that danced along your

collarbones and clasped at the loose wisps of your hair And though the sky was darker than it’s ever been, admittedly

enchanting but entrapped in an intangible, bottomless midnight God Just how you dazzled.

And, God. Wasn’t that all that mattered.

There you were.

Queen of the Night and it’s amorphous existence, Suppressor of the Sun Giver and Taker of Time.

48

Crowned in careful moonlight, surrounded in a star filled midnight.

An iridescent, enchanting, restless storm of creation ~you are all that’s ever mattered~

Leonie Krutina ’20 49

B Hannon ’23 50

from Wanderers

by Mingyou Xu ’20 “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming. As many of you may not know, today is my son, Vincent’s, eighteenth birthday; he is officially an adult now! I am getting old, and, you know, he is my only son.” His words were calm, but his expressions revealed his uncontrollable excitements.

“And, today, I gather all of you at my house, my dear friends. And I would like to announce that,” he cleared his throat, “My son, Vincent Wu, is now officially my successor and possesses all my properties.”

The tranquility suddenly turned into an uproar. Everyone was happy, especially Mr. Wu. However, Vincent was not happy at all. He did not like what he had been offered. Being a farmer’s child means that it is his mission to successfully inherit, protect, and make the best use of his family land, which he strongly hated. He saw his father contribute all of his wonderful years into the endless work of farming, and yet they were still farmers, nothing changed in their lives in the end. He did not want his life to be limited by any form. He loves his father and his family, but he does not accept his destiny. Because of this, when people approached and gave him celebration and praise, he felt burdened and guilty. People dancing around him made it hard to breathe. The comfy chair and the delicious food made him uneasy.

A loud noise drags Vincent back into reality. A man falls down on the ground. No one helps him getting up or is even willing to give their attention to the poor man. He struggles but eventually gets up. He curses. From his accent Vincent can tell that he is not native to the area.

The man looks down at his shoes. The holes on them seem to mock at him for his tumble. For a second, Vincent can hear him whimper.

Fireworks start again; the man looks up. Light from the city brightens his face under his long hair. He looks fairly young, probably around 18 years old. Following the young man’s view, Vincent stares at the firework, and falls into memory again.

At that time, internet had just been introduced to the village. On it, young Vincent discovered a new world. There were thousands of jobs out there. People could choose to do what they like. The thing that he 51

51

considered as most attractive, however, was the sky skyscraper. He was amazed that people could live inside those “metal giants,” have automatic toilets and large TVs, and be able to see fireworks. On hot summer days, instead of working and sweating on the rice field, they could simply enjoy the air conditioners. Food would be delivered to their apartment.

At the dinner feast, Mr. Yang’s son, Peter, who just came back from the city a week ago, understood his worries. When everyone got drunk and fell asleep on the floor, he found Vincent. Peter handed Vincent a job poster he tore off from a telephone pole in the city.

“Men are wearing fancy shirts and jackets. Women are wearing fascinating dresses.” Whether on purpose or mindless, Peter talked about all kinds of interesting things he saw, which further encouraged Vincent’s desire to explore the world.

Vincent quickly packed his suitcase, took all the money he saved in life so far, and left without waking anyone. He wrote a letter to his father: “A bird needs to explore the beauty of the world, that is why it has wings. Flowers need experiences in order to tell those amazing tales to grass around it because it is taller. When fish jump into the lake, it can finally see that there are so many others that are like him.”

52

Brianne Rett ’21 53

Alex Stawiecki ’20 54

The Invisible Happening

by Daniel Moors ’20 There was a loud knocking noise. Coming from outside I saw a woodpecker destroying a perfectly good tree I approached the bird.

He was unhappy and horrific looking.

I asked him why did he have to destroy that tree it is innocent and has done no wrong.

He looked me in the eye and all I could see was black.

I wish that I could do something.

But all I could do is sit back and watch.

This has happened to me before and there was nothing I could do.

The result was death.

I blocked my eyes from seeing the reality of what was going to happen.

Cassandra Belsito ’22 55

Alyssa Leveille ’21 56

56

from No Sugar for the Unkind

by Leonie Krutina ’20 My view gazed over to the opulently decorated living room table, with the golden vase that your mother admired so much centered right in the middle of it, the last rays of sunshine in playful little movements caressing it’s en bas relief. It stands there, almost mocking my sheer existence with its brassy, glimmering details, interesting enough to be found in the new modern shabby chic interior design magazines, obnoxiously punishing enough to be categorized as borderline trailer home chic. I never liked it. No that is wrong, not liking it would be an understatement, if I am being completely honest I always despised it.

The way it was standing there, provocatively with its crunchy chunky ornaments, forcing everyone to provide their undivided attention, like a bratty child trying to show off the wonky tunes on its first record player, nearly giving his aunt a migraine attack. If I was a bitter woman, I would dare claim it is a perfect representation of your mother, but I was raised a god fearing woman, a loved child, back from the time when proper infantry and manners were still enforced with an almighty hand.

I ought not to put shame on the name of my family, but god, he is really providing me a challenge by asking me to speak nicely of this narcissistic waste of human skin. Blessed be her wicked heart.

The content of this atrocity that dares to call itself a decorative element of design is a bundle of roses, white and yellow. The color neither bright nor particularly beautiful. I am aware I was never the one to be red rose material, my head sometimes foggy like dawn on a November morning, a never-ending melody of dusk and gloom, but this realization- it is clear as day. At least for you.

The leaves are looking tired and aged, the tiny heads slouched over each other almost in a hopeless and grieving position, petals wrinkled like crumpled up laundry of a lazy housewife. Long gone is their once revitalizing fragrance making hearts around the world skip higher when received by an individual of a benevolence and pure affection, replaced by the smell of decomposition and demise, giving me cold shivers along with making my skin crawl at the plain sight of this display of misery.

Next to this depressing display of lost romance, the dark brown picture frames went to sleep with their faces facing the table. I pick one of them up and slowly turn it around, my eyes tightly shut as if it’s frontal side

57

would have some sort of ill willed effect on me. It is just a photograph.

Nothing to be afraid of, I remind myself. Just a harmless picture, nothing more. But the longer I think about it, the more it becomes certain my fear was more than justified. Cautiously I slowly open one of my squinted eyes revealing a worn photograph of a man and a woman, her in a long silky red dress and him in an elegant suit of dark hues, both sitting at a restaurant smiling, holding hands, displaying their love openly, just a candle and a vase decorated with three roses between them. Red roses.

Three red roses. Who would have expected this sort of foreshadowing, it is almost like the mighty Lord is experiencing pleasure by punishing and mocking his own child so much. I wallow in my self-pity, as my stare intensifies on the woman’s smile, brighter than I would have ever trusted my own abilities. She looked content. Like the movies. Maybe not an old hollywood motion picture masterpiece with an acting icon like Sharon Tate, but enough for their less handsome cousin, maybe kitschy romantic comedy B movie. I try to not lay my eyes on you, but my attempts stay unsuccessful, too big the urge, too magnetic your aura. I know I should not give in. I know it would just tear open the freshly encrusted wounds on my soul, slowly trying to heal itself, but what can I say, I am the one throwing all of it away just to feel something, even if the pain is unbearable. I really am a true masochist after all.

I remember that night, the way you laughed, how it exposed your peculiar, yet lovable dimples at the side of your mouth, reminiscing about how handsome you looked in that suit. Everybody at the restaurant staring at us, wishing they could trade lives with us, the women wishing they could trade in their average nine-to-five working father of two, just for a night with you. Even I would trade anyone for you. Always have, always will.

58

Julia Crosby ’20

59

60

Yaxuan Xu ’20 61

Chiara Faiola ’21

Itsy Bitsy

by Niamh Raftery ’20 The glare, bright red, had struck a hole in everyone passing Terror filled their body, his poison froze them solid.

Why did they stop?

Fear was all they felt and he didn’t know why Why did they run?

He had just wanted to lay in the sun The glare, bright red, had struck a hole in everyone passing For he wanted to see the world with all eyes, soaking in its beauty.

62

Marielle Caparso ’20 63

The Aftereffect

by Doyoon Kim ’20 When the wind blows into his face she turns back and asks in courtesy, Does it still hurt?

The boy has three responses. One: It’ll always hurt no matter who was responsible.

Two: The cause became unclear at the moment of conflict.

It had already become clouded by rage, and a sense of shame...

Three: Maybe I’ll dispose of the last bit of bread and the sip of wine I had been keeping in my heart.

And let the flame consume the “unburning” bush, crackling every last twig...

Is this what He had intended?

When The World turns to the boy and asks, in our Father’s voice, HAVE YOU PRAYED? He remembers three things.

One: Thou shalt not take the LORD’S name in vain For He is holy in His existence, which brings in prohibition of blasphemy and profanity.

He tears the message apart into pieces and throws it into the flames.

And suffering? That’s the test that he must pass to prove his love for the world he lives in.

And wisdom? That comes with the suffering.

When the storm Demands, Are you done?

The boy is all alone To stand against the rain, the lightning, and hail 64

To withstand the cold, bitter punishment That Mother Earth has prepared for him through nature, as if it would make its justification any more natural.

It only spooked the boy. Further away from Him. Through the jeers of his fellow devotees, And the World around him, demanding, Are you ready to move on?

Can you be more happy?

A bitter end to love. And an even harsher outcome.

The wind moves on. While the boy finds him stagnant.

Julia Kilroy ’20 65

Buzzards

by Ethan Watson ’20 Onward onerous walketh westward, approaching The thickets seeken stand starketh, across Oft crossen riveting riverside. Undulating dutifully; Well roughed rocks along drift its underwater dunes.

Forestry falling whit warned winds, blowing hard Nay briskly blundering my bundled feet, for Snow heavy sets its sights on these stricken lands.

Untop the forest front, left Allruthful, buzzard bidding, Omitting ominous caws uncowardly, carnivorous.

Predator prompts the bending branches, a parting Neatly now seen low sunken sighing, a doe dying His master he pleads. Lo! Leave me, buzzard barking yelps!

None the listful of thine which is food firstly.

Swirling smoothly southward, thou slowly descends, Beating black bereft my once brazen view, blocked The trees tryeth to give way, wanly the prey’s life.

Afar from I, hence heaved a heavy sigh; Life lifted, what hath the buzzard becked on?

Adamantly admonished, into the sullen sulking, southward rivulet Roared backeth with thine freezing flows.

Thy wing-ed rose once more, atop acres of foresting, Across stream as others had I trek on, watching Wondrous, the force of those waving ywings.

Nay, seen not now, westbound he weathered way; Foot stood and stoppethed at the front lines, Disregard danger, forward force mine and I hath.

Pushing purposefully locks off mine forehead, onward now.

Dens danger resides here in this forsaken flowing weald, Wantonly wading my blade into barken bushels, Pristine path, plays on my backside, growing greatly with my furtherance.

Stricken with a soulful sad sigh of thine heart, the doe diced and picked pieces of now.

Guised glory; bountiful barbarism, nature’s nurturing brocade.

Feathering fruitful feast, musn’t mistake mine nature neither; Garrously groaning and growling, a feast’s filling I need, Pride powers over perilous pleas from my gut, None a nourishing fare, feasted from another’s All-spilling auspice, guide glorily great God. 66

Mackenzie Jutras ’22 67

The Welcome Rock The Welcome Rock is a special assignment given to our AP® Art and Design students. Each member of the class is tasked with designing and executing a piece of artwork that will adorn the 4’ x 12’ boulder which sits near our main entrance to campus. Now in its 7th year, this project is both exciting and daunting. Students are asked to create unique designs that will translate well to a large scale and represent Marianapolis, while also highlighting their personal artistic style.

When asked to reflect on the experience students said, “The Rock murals are an extraordinary and eye-opening project for us because it challenges us in unprecedented ways. First, the murals are community projects, not individual pieces. Therefore, we sketch ideas that embody the School’s spirit and mission. However, each of the murals still carries a hint of our personalities and styles. With such an expansive canvas, we learned to manage our time wisely, especially when the Rock has to be done in a week! Despite the harsh weather, unpredictable insects, and impossible brushes, the results are rewarding for all of us because the artworks inspire us to grow our vision and extend our boundaries. Most importantly, the murals are an important part of our community, and having the opportunity to paint the Rock is both our pride and joy.”

68

Qianhui Lin ’21

Alison Tourtellotte ’21

Michael Hanrahan ’20

Yaxuan Xu ’20

69

Scholastic Art Awards Every year the art department submits a small selection of works to a prestigious and competitive regional art competition. The Scholastic Art Awards are a professionally juried event in which working artists and university art educators look for pieces that best exemplify originality, technical skill, and evidence of personal artistic vision.

After reviewing thousands of submissions, the team of judges selected approximately 250 pieces to recognize as the best student art work in CT. There are three levels of awards. Honorable Mention, Silver Key, and Gold Key. This year Marianapolis had four students who received awards.

Alison Tourtellotte ’21 received a Gold Key for her mixed media piece “Dreaming of Memories.” This was a series of 18 pen and ink drawings that were tied together through color and line.

Michael Hanrahan ’20 received a Silver Key for his piece “Why Not?” Evan Lundt ’21 received a Honorable Mention for his photograph “Conflict Within.”

Lily Mueller ’22 recieved a Honorable Mention for her drawing “Euphoria.”

All four pieces were displayed in a public art show at the University of Hartford’s Silpe Gallery during the month of January.

70

Silver Key: Michael Hanrahan ’20

Gold Key: Alison Tourtellotte ’21

71

Honorable Mentions: Evan Lundt ’21 (above)

& Lily Mueller ’22 (below)

72

Students at Scholastic Art Exhibit

73

Maura Hoban ’21

Claire Kelleher ’22 74