Calliope 2016

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CALLIOPE 2015-2016

Calliope is an annual visual arts and literary journal presenting creative writing, poetry, two-dimensional, and three-dimensional works of art created over the course of the 2015-2016 academic year.

A special thank you to: Robin Cassella, Brian Jacobson, Elizabeth Edwards, Michelle Murphy, Sue Andersen, Dylan-Ernst Schäfer, Heather Pratt, and Department Chair Kellie Ryan.

Faculty Advisor: Caitlin Sundby

Calliope The Visual Arts and Literary Journal of Marianapolis Preparatory School Thompson, Connecticut

Elisabeth Villa ’18

Clues

1. Hannah Listerud 2. Delia Hannon 3. Erin Miller 4. Sarah Cavar 5. Jocelyn Vitale 6. Jiarui “Cherry” Zhang 7. Ana Cristina Rabines 8. Zhen “Francis” Chen 9. Xiaohua “Edward” Li 10. Alyssa Harvey 11. Elizabeth Acquaah- Harrison 12. Kathryn Hauver 13. Kaitlyn Dodos

1. Senior Editor 2. Senior Editor 3. Senior Editor 4. Creative Writing Editor 5. Art Selection Committee 6. Art Selection Committee 7. Art Selection Committee 8. Art Selection Committee 9. Art Selection Committee 10. Art Selection Committee 11. Art Selection Committee 12. Art Selection Committee 13. Art Selection Committee

Key

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Cover Photograph: Christopher Lundt ’16

Some things are quietly memorable, and some things are loudly memorable. Some things take up space while others seem to go largely unnoticed.

And so too with art and literature. Stop and think about just how many works of art there are in the world, not just those that hang in galleries, but those held to the refrigerator by only a magnet and a dream; those which adorn the walls of cheery first-grade classrooms and those which take up space in desk drawers and sketchbooks. Think about how many words and stories have been written, scrawled, typed and thrown out and passed in and marked up. It’s overwhelming. We protect ourselves from the overwhelming amount of creative content in our grasp by binding certain stories and hanging certain pieces, lauding them because they are in some way, to us, more worth looking at.

We are young. We are high school students with limited ways to tell the world, “Look at my art, look at my writing, look at these things I have taken from my mind and relocated onto paper!” But we do have a way to tell you. We have Calliope.

Calliope was once hand-bound, love curled into every inch of binding that covered its pages. There is something so special, so intimate about it. Although Calliope is no longer hand-bound, its status as a space designed to amplify the voices of Marianapolis students remains intact. In the midst of constant pressure to be bigger and better, the pleasure of possessing such a finite, humble set of works is a rare one.

Calliope is published annually by a small, dedicated group of students and teachers who want to give our young creators a voice. If you have the time, and feel compelled to share in the creations that these students have worked so hard on, by all means: flip the page. Look at something new.

Art is everywhere, and art is certainly here at Marianapolis.

Sarah Cavar ’16

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Lydia Tourtellotte ’16

Magnifique

By Megan Romprey ’16 I begin to walk in a lackadaisical manner unknowing of what adventure I want to experience first. To stare into Mona Lisa’s enigmatic smile? To attempt to validate that there are six million skulls in the Catacombs?

Hunger and jetlag strike as I turn a corner onto a narrow street defined by uneven cobblestones that will surely make me stumble if I neglect to watch my step. A woman defining the essence of couture runs down the same cobblestones as I, only with red heels longer than butchers’ knives and an ebony dress so tight fitting around her waist that I question how her lungs could possibly fill with air. I want to ask if there is a trick to running on these uneven stones.

I find a little café, no larger than a household dining room, tucked between an art gallery and a jewelry shop. In front is a man, whispering into a clearly worn flute. The notes that flow from the instrument dance their way over to me, touching each of my senses. I can see the B flats and A minors pirouetting before me. I can taste the passionate performance. As I lean forward to throw a few Euros into his flute case, I see his face is detailed with a dark shadow; the black bags that hang from his eyes suggest exhaustion. I wonder if this is his only source of income.

The espresso is like a thunderstorm, strong and heavy. The caffeine jolts through my veins, and the heat burns my tongue, but it is the one thing that will keep me awake until nightfall. I finish the espresso and order another before I even touch the confection on the plate in front of me, a religieuse. It is two pastries on top of each other, one smaller than the other, conjoined by buttercream, garnished and filled with a chocolaty custard. The smooth custard coats my throat.

The pastry, though moistened by the creaminess of the sweet buttercream and decadent custard, is still flaky. The buttery dough hits my tongue and practically melts.

Day is turning into night. Swirls of pinks and oranges, layers of violets and lavenders, and blues that can only be described as coming from the deepest point of the ocean, cover the once pale blue empyrean. I know I’ll miss it if I wait.

I scurry down the streets to reach the sacred edifice just as darkness

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consumes the sunset. The Eiffel Tower lights up. The bulbs spread a light more magnificent than the stars. I wonder how you never saw such lights back home with how bright they seem. Each little metal detail on the tower seems to be illuminated; every nut and bolt must have its own light bulb. My breath slows and my heart flutters. I almost want to fall to my knees and pray to Gustave Eiffel as if he were a god. I rummage through my belongings, searching for a camera, but attempting to take a picture of something so precious would be futile. Even when I close my eyes, I can see the lights sailing around on the back of my eyelid. I sink to the ground to watch as the stars appear and are dulled by the luminescence of Eiffel’s creation. Only when sleep weighs my eyelids do I get up to rest.

Did you feel it? Did you feel as though you personally were walking the streets of Paris? If there is one thing I know I possess it is an imagination as vivid as the Eiffel Tower during twilight. You want to know something? I’ve never been to Paris. But I hope that someday, when I am fortunate enough to step out into the Parisian air, that this fantasy I created for you here is the same as what I hope to experience there.

Sara Darman ’16

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Victoria Ferrara ’16

Xiaohua “Edward” Li ’16

AP Studio Art: Xiaohua “Edward” Li ’16, Lydia Tourtellotte ’16, Kathryn Fontaine ’16, Camile Harvanek ’16, Pin-Jung “Elisa” Chen ’17, Jixue “Eileen” Wu ’17, Jocelyn Vitale ’17

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Julia DiNoia Julia DiNoia ‘17 ’18

Chenxin “Claire” Hu ’18

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The Citadel

By Reed Hopkins ’16 The right man in the wrong place, can make all the difference in the world.

From soldier to civilian, martyr to messiah, In this brave new world, titles rarely matter.

It is what you do that defines you.

So wake up.

Witness this field of wreaths.

Wake up, And smell the ashes.

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Xiaohua “Edward” Li ’16

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Xiaohua “Edward” Li ’16

Love is a River

By Marie Thibodeau ’16 it can flow fast intense and deep it has a destination where it is meant to be it can flow slowly quiet and calming, no assured place to go it can drag on, it can mean anything it can be loud, roaring or hushed and soft it can be murky leaving questions behind it can be clear and easily understood it can go on for miles or just a few feet however long it must be to show what it means it is naturally beautiful leaves one feeling inspired Love is a river

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Christopher Lundt ’16

I. quiet in bed i think of you the void beside (inside) perhaps so easily filled by the greatness which you hold that completes each emptiness

Untitled

By Sarah Cavar ’16

II. i swear, i see you every night hanging in the sky above the way you flush emptiness cherry red not in the shade of a gushing wound but the shade of a beating heart.

III. i thought you were everything (to me) but i was so very wrong. “everything” is determinate it can be fathomed and quantified emboldened with meaning until raw with exhaustion (your brilliance is beyond comprehension) IV. i could traverse universes galaxies foreign and unknown and still gaze with awe at the boundless wonders behind your eyelids (i don’t know where the universe ends but i know that you are infinite)

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Delia Hannon ’17

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Francesca Lupini ‘16

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Francesca Lupini ’16

numbers Ana Cristina Rabines ’19 By one devotion to you and only you. two halves of one heart. three words you have to say to make me melt. four letters in love. five fingers that i wish would intertwine with mine. and now i’m writing this in numbers but those digits mean so much more if only i had the courage to tell you.

111111111111 1111 1111 1111 11111111111 1111 1111 1111 1111 1111 1111111111 ove 11111 11111 11111 11111 11111 11111 11111 11111 11111111 11111 11111 11111

11111 ou.

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Jiarui “Cherry” Zhang ’17

Catherine Villa ’16

Untitled

By Peyton Suprenant ’19 I look to the right and I see a tree, That seems so ruffled and tranquil and bright, And dense unlike the portrayals of me.

My seemingly shape doesn’t match my sight.

And I ponder the tree’s abundant thoughts.

Then I do wonder if I am so sane, Filled with vacancy and churning with lots But rather consumed by meaningless pain.

I sit with my hand cradling my head, Wondering, will I ever touch others?

My surface outshines my voice to be said, When my shield will bury it in covers.

A tree just stands with no movement at all, But inside a brain that sprouts, pure and small.

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A Letter from Planet Earth Samantha Gisleson ’18 I’m crying but no one seems to know why, I’m dying but no one will admit to killing that fly.

Someone please help me, Can’t you see what you’re doing to me?

Oh please love me, And please don’t cut down another tree.

I can’t breathe anymore, Can we go back to how it was before?

I know right now you don’t really care, But remember, I’m your supply of air.

Can’t you see you’re hurting yourselves too?

I’m not the only one who should be so blue.

I know you all want success, But all I want is a little rest.

Don’t forget that I am your home, So if I fall, where will you go?

So if I go down, you see, You’ll be going down with me.

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Lydia Tourtellotte ’16

Lydia Tourtellotte ’16

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Addison Jacoboski ’17

An Ode to Mr. Whiskers

By Deanna Rapp ’16 Oh filthy vermin with a love of cheese, I wish you’d stop breaking into my house please.

At that kid’s arcade, you were my friend.

Now our relationship must come to an end.

I placed, for you, the nice trap that didn’t kill, but you didn’t enter in time, which made you shrill.

I am a bit glad you are dead, for I no longer have to worry about you keeping your family fed.

Those Oreos you once loved are now safe with you above.

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Delia Hannon ’17

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JocelynVitale Vitale’17 ‘17 Jocelyn

Incomplete

By Elizabeth Acquaah-Harrison ’18 We’re always searching for someone to complete us.

And that’s the problem with our perception of love.

Because needing someone to make us feel complete implies that we’re incomplete as we are.

That’s where we’re wrong.

We are not incomplete.

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Samantha Gisleson ’18

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Kathryn Fontaine ’16

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Standing at attention Zhen “Francis” Chen ’17 Every chinese student surely has experienced this, before the beginning of their seventh and tenth grade, you attend military training, The first training subject is standing at attention.

You stand on the mottled ground of the military base embraced by dense singing ginkgoes, facing comrades’ heads, and in the distance is your strongest competitorthe flagpole.

Then you stand straight up, Under the heat of the late summer sun, It evaporates all your gut.

After a quarter, You surrender.

In my training of the seventh grade, Once I asked an officer about the trick of doing it he said it’s leaning your body forward, shifting weight to the balls of your feet so that you won’t feel woozy.

The day my grandma passed away, My father was called, we drove back to his hometown, The closer we got to the destination, The harder my tear glands were poked by the silence inside the car.

Eventually, mom’s sob scratched the silence from the front seat, however I felt relieved, then I cast a glance at my father, he did nothing.

Then mom stopped, when she stepped out the car, she wept.

In my mind, I pictured how he will gush into tears once he sees the coffin.

He entrusted my mom to someone to take care of, and then he went directly to the coffin.

He stood there, back to me, he was like standing at attention for a minute.

Then I saw him walk away, and whisper with a group of people at the house.

Then I saw him patiently console with those who were weeping but coming to offer their condolences.

Then I saw him scrupulously wipe off the coming tears around grandpa’s closing eyes.

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I saw him stand fixed, and he systematically dealt with various people with grief, with funeral service, with trifling matters.

Through the whole funeral, I never saw him shed a tear. Instead, he stood at attention to fill the vacuum of grief.

In my training of the tenth grade, I asked a different officer about the secret of standing at attention.

He said, it’s leaning your body forward, shifting weight to the balls of your feet so that you can avoid the pressure on your vein and nerve endings on your heel, and then you won’t feel woozy.

Then I glanced at his badges, and I said: “what’s really the secret of standing at attention?”

He repeated himself again.

Then I asked again.

He pondered for a minute, then spat on the ground, and said: “It’s the sense of responsibility.”

All of a sudden, I understood there are moments in human life with unbearable heaviness. but you know there’s something more important than crying and wanting to escape.

It is responsibility.

So you twist and tie your heart like a sack with all your misery inside of it.

Then you stand at attention, ready to take responsibility, ready to act like a being.

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Xiaohua “Edward” Li ’16

Alex Iamartino ’17

Camile Harvanek ’16

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Doreen Reagan ’16

Sabrina Godin ’18

Game of War

By Cory Pacheco ’16 The pellets cut through the air, Whizzing and waving past our six young faces, At a never-ending pace because of our Hand’s inability to leave the trigger of Our toy M-16 guns Tip-toeing through the woods Carefully dodging leaves and branches Waiting for an enemy to approach An enemy that would never come Because war to us was just a game And when our game was over, We went home.

Retreated to our mothers and were given safety, treats, and baths in preparation for the next mission.

But war is not a game.

Our six young faces have blossomed into those of peach-fuzz covered men, Studying politics, engineering, economics and girls.

But in every group there’s one brave soul.

One who musters up the courage to make war his life.

The one who will sacrifice his treats and safety to preserve ours.

His M-16 is real, and while we dodged branches and leaves He hopes his next step into the foreign world doesn’t leave him in pieces I hope he will come home to the welcome we once had, But instead he may be faced with criticism, poverty, and a mental illness.

For a man who’s decided that he would come home as nothing but a box and a flag, with nothing to identify him but a single tag why should his sacrifice be met with such oppression?

This war is not the game we once knew.

So for the valiant few who’ve taken rest up above, And those who are dug into the trenches down below, I salute you.

I thank you.

And for my friend who’s stepped into the real wilderness with unknown enemies I pray for you and hope to see you soon.

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Knights of Color

By Ciara Wells ’18 My skin is my armor, my voice is my sword, my mind is my shield The bond of brothers versus the blue man A family’s armor, cracked and shattered A pale present, a dark past My skin is my armor, my voice is my sword, my mind is my shield The procession of swords like a wave to the soundtrack of a choir New brothers, new sisters, new men and women and all kinds in between and above Shades, a colorful ocean of swords, clanging to the score of an injustice My skin is my armor, my voice is my sword, my mind is my shield “No justice, no peace”, the rusted steel screams The pale steals our steel and takes our armor for themselves My skin is my armor, my voice is my sword, my mind is my shield The white hooded versus the boy in the hoodie The blue man providing a ghost in the place of a son, a brother, a father “Blood in the streets, no justice, no peace.”

My skin is my armor, my voice is my sword, my mind is my shield A colorful future, a path lined with hope An end to this hatred, a beginning to justice My skin is my armor, my voice is my sword, my mind is my shield My armor will be gold, my sword will be strong, my shield will shine

Jocelyn Vitale ’17

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Eggs

By Deanna Rapp ’16 She would make eggs.

Scrambled, fried, omelette-ed, sunny-side-up-ed, but not hard-boiled. He hated hard-boiled.

Truly a dreadful non-edible side dish to any entree.

Bacon, chicken, mac & cheese, peanut butter & jelly or ice-cream She would always make eggs for me. I could not help but say thank you, as it was her way to cope.

The smell of eggs reminds me of my youth; I can remember running through the front door to be greeted with a plate; my favorite would always be the viscous inside of a poached egg.

She would force me to eat them as she asked me about my day.

She was my alarm clock, waking me up with “Do you want any eggs?”

My mother would greet my friends and boy friends: “Do you want any eggs?”

My mother would travel to the grocery store when we had a whole carton left.

“We ran out of eggs.”

One would think that I learned.

Now they both push daisies together instead of cooking And I am forced to savor burnt eggs alone.

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Alex Iamartino ’17

Kathryn Fontaine ’16

False Peaks

By Reed Hopkins ’16 It has been so long since I started the climb, That I hardly remember when I began.

Was it when I walked you to your car?

Or when we got coffee together?

It meant nothing to you, but to me it was a mountain.

On our fifth date I took you to the movies.

You always loved the scary ones.

I still remember you hiding in my arms.

It meant nothing to you, but to me it was a mountain.

I remember taking you to dinner.

I remember the modest grey dress you wore, while I was in jeans and a cheap collared shirt.

As we walked hand in hand, I was on top of the world.

It meant nothing to you, but to me it was a mountain.

As I climb higher and higher, My hopes plummet lower and lower.

All I find are false peaks.

I might as well go it alone.

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Jiarui “Cherry” Zhang ’17

Mingjia “Sally” Xi ’18

Erin Miller ’17

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52 Kathryn Fontaine ’16

Mortal Enemies

By Erin Miller ’17 Hundreds of years ago, war broke out between two powerful forces. One held the power to create entire worlds, the other the power to wipe them from existence. They were meant to work together. The first would bring their ideas to life. The second would polish the final product, ensuring that it was clean and well put together. But doubt infected the mind of the second. Some of the first’s ideas were too outlandish, too idiotic, just not perfect enough. So the second did what he knew: he destroyed. Many creations of the first had to be revised multiple times before the second would deem it acceptable, some never allowed to come into existence at all.

After multiple failed attempts, the first became irate. Why could the second not just let him try a few without immediately erasing them? So the first came up with a plan: he created a clone of himself, but with the ability of making creations that could not be destroyed by the second. For a while, the first thought he had defeated the second. His clone was unstoppable. That was, until the second invented a tool that could counteract him. With it, the second could hide the clone’s creations enough to create more over it.

The first, angry at being thwarted again, gave one final attempt. He transported himself to a digital universe, in which he could create freely, quickly, and clearly.

But the second followed him again, finding a mechanism to destroy these creations almost instantly.

These two have been fighting since the beginning. They still achieve their original purpose but cannot agree on many issues. The first can create too recklessly, and the second can be too harsh a critic. The pencil and the eraser, a battle that can never be won.

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Jixue “Eileen” Wu ’17

Delia Hannon ’17

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makeup

By Ana Cristina Rabines ’19 put your makeup on in the mirror and hide yourself behind the mask. do not let your true self come through conceal it with your many brushes and powders never reveal your originality. oh no! the world will bite you back and pop you like a zit. this is our society our ideals involve an aesthetic human those who cut and paste who suck in their stomachs until they choke they are the pretty ones. unless you are perfect you are ugly. so use your makeup and save yourself from yourself.

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Lydia Tourtellotte ’16

A Open Letter to a Younger Generation

By Myles Wagner ’18 We created a home We evolved and prospered Our progress never seemed to falter We ruled the world We could do anything There was no way we were failing That is until... We did As our accomplishments grew Our lifeline diminished We had become blind to the facts we had been given Our demise was imminent But who cares about that...

Have you heard about the new iPhone app?

We built cities and factories That polluted the air With millions of gallons of who the hell cares!

But this didn’t matter to us It was someone else’s problem We had more important things to call on But now you see That was the problem We ignored the signs we should’ve counted on No one took a stand And when they did, it was too late Human extinction was now a probable fate So as the seas rose and we became older We looked back on life and saw we could have been bolder We could have protected the home We had built for ourselves Instead of letting climate change take its course So if this message ever reaches a younger generation One with the means to stop this devastation May they not hesitate to make a change To save the world in which we wish to remain

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Good Deeds Zhen “Francis” Chen ’17 “The hitchhiker is there so you can do your good deed for the day.”

— Max Neumegen

Mr. Black was just discharged from the blue-collar prison. On his way home, he met a hitchhiker.

In Mr. Black’s eyes, the hitchhiker walked on dreams and backed towards him with a gesture that awoke the dusted and unconscious memories. But Mr. Black couldn’t remember what exactly the memories were. He sounded the car horn when there were a dozen meters between them and slowed down the car. The man turned back with a cat-like instinct, and a look of ecstasy on his face.

Mr. Black rolled down the window. Outside, there was a juvenile face that was too unsophisticated to be an adventurer to gamble.

“How you doing? Want a ride? I’m heading home to Thompson, Connecticut.”

“Hell yeah, thank you, sir.”

“Get in.”

He stretched for the back door handle, but there was some of Mr. Black’s stuff back there. So he shrugged and curled himself up on the front seat, but even to this beat-up and compact car, he was still quite skinny.

“So, where’s the last place that you got picked up?” Mr. Black broke the silence.

“Cuba, it was.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding.”

“In Cuba, I could always get a ride whenever I wanted. You know, they have a law to enforce the drivers to pick up hitchhikers whenever there is a vacant seat in the car.”

“Sounds intriguing.”

“But I think that law is kinda gilding the lily, you know. Cuba is a poor country though, its people have an unarguably genuine way to treat foreigners the same way they treat their natives. One crisp morning, a car stopped for me in the suburb of Havana, the driver was a bookworm, and he told me and told me and told me that he loves Hemingway.”

“Man, that sounds like one hell of an experience. My only impression of Cuba was the Cuban Missile Crisis and its socialist identity,” Mr. Black cut in.

“Quite true; it was one hell of an experience. That guy offered me the best hitchhiking ride ever. He voluntarily offered me a tour around Havana; of course, out of being polite, I refused it. But the way I refused it really made my day.”

“What happened?”

“Instead of just saying sí or no, I tried to explain why I couldn’t accept his generous offer. I mean, like any new language to me, I can fully understand Spanish most of the time, but once asked to speak, man, I’m ungodly nervous.”

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“You’re absolutely right, it was the same thing for me when I learned Chinese. It’s hard to speak because you must speak it in rhythmic tones to make sense. And it’s not only about the accent, it’s about the complexity of structuring a sentence. For most of the time, if you change the tone of the word to any other three tones, it will completely change what you meant to say, but to be honest, I assert that it’s the most concise and pointed language in the world. Although it has all those complicated characters, and the most casual and wildest grammar, which almost doesn’t have rules at all, it’s really the invention of minimalism.

You know, how people always say “Less is more,” well, I think it perfectly explains why Chinese is really minimalist, there is no such thing as easy as making a thing complex, but there is everything to be beset as making a thing easy. To learn Chinese, you have to learn all those difficult, bothersome tips, but when one day, all your words flow in the air with the rhythm as same as an ancient Chinese poem, all your ink comes down the paper like carp jumping into the limpid green water with its tails splattering with drops, that makes it all worth it. If Hemingway ever cruised this minimalist language, I bet he would become an eager Chinese fan just the way he loved Spanish.

“Truly, anyway, I think that was the reason that he might have misunderstood me or he just ignored my refusal regardless. So he took me to La Bodeguita del Medio in Havana, and we ordered the mojito, then guess what? He took me to El Floridita for the Hemingway daiquiri! Good God, at that hour of the day!” he remonstrated.

Then he added, “Actually, speaking of Chinese and the mojito, it reminds me of something hilarious that I experienced in Seattle a few months ago, that it was the time that Chairman Xi visited Seattle, the local papers were all talking about that, and they even excerpted Xi’s policy speech, and there was something in his speech that intrigues me that he said he was so captivated by Hemingway’s The Old Man and The Sea that the first time when he visited Cuba, he paid a special visit to where Hemingway wrote the book, and in his second visit to Cuba, he dropped by the bar Hemingway frequented, La Bodeguita del Medio, and ordered Hemingway’s favorite rum with mint on the rocks. Gosh, can you believe that someone could describe a thing in such a vernacular way? Seriously, the mojito is merely rum with mint on the rocks? What a dweeb.”

“Whoa, man, your experiences gave me an itch in the heart, I wish I could be like you.” Mr. Black said.

“I curse the word “could”, you can be like me if you want to. I think it’s never too late to start. What would you say if you and I just left everything behind and drove across the country? Just like Forrest Gump. Oh, Oh, We can pay for gas using credit cards in rotation, and then after we maxed out the credit cards, we use all the cash we have right now and see how far we can go.”

Mr. Black routinely fixed his eyes on the road, the dark tarmac road, there’s no focal point to focus though. He suddenly awoke from a long, long walking corpse-like marathon which had horsewhipped himself to go further and further, through those milestones one by one: undergraduate, unemployment,

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underclass… then he remembered what those dusted and unconscious memories were: a poem he read while he was learning Chinese, it is a quite short poem by Bei Dao. It goes like:

Then we had dreams,

about literature,

about love,

about traveling the world,

now—— “What do you say?” he cut in.

“Screw the secular, let’s do it.” Mr. Black sighed.

“Fabulous, ok, the only question: Where shall we head to, do you know the route?”

Mr. Black looked puzzled and hit the brakes abruptly. The dirt on the ground arose and cocooned the existence of their spiritual tour and idealism from the world.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you are the first guy who picks me up, and I just ran away from home yesterday.”

—— we have late night drinks,

and the clinking of our glasses,

all the sound of shattered dreams.

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Bennet Sage ’16

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Kathryn Fontaine ’16

Tip Off

By Amani Chambe ’17 the continuous amount of chatter, the squeak from the rubber’s friction on the wood, sweaty palms and hearts racing, the sound of the net when the ball goes through, the creeks from the stands as people start to sit, and the time just keeps ticking away, tape on the ankles and wrists, gripping your shorts as you try not to show emotion, time has expired. warm ups come off and hands go in Tip Off

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KathrynFontaine Fontaine‘16 ’16 Kathryn

Lydia Tourtellotte ’16

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Nan “Nancy” Zhou ’16

Comfort

By Francesca Lupini ’16 rain pattering upon the roof, flames crackling in the stone fireplace, a knit blanket, thigh high socks, a dog eared copy of a novel, a steaming cup of chamomile, fingers intertwined in mine, your gentle laugh, a secret smile, us.

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Lam “Cathy” Chan ’16

Pin-Jung “Elisa” Chen ’17

Scholastic Art Awards Senior Xiaohua "Edward" Li received a Gold Key for his photograph "Saturday Morning Adventures." (see page 13) Senior Lam "Cathy" Chan achieved Gold Key status for her illustration "Snow Days." (see page 70) Junior Alex Iamartino achieved Gold Key status for his photograph "Light Streaks." (see pages 37 & 38) Senior Lydia Tourtellotte was awarded a Silver Key for her painting "Living in Your Mind" and another for her photograph "Pura Vida." (see pages 24 & 57) All accepted work from Marianapolis, along with thousands of other pieces from throughout the state, were displayed in the regional gallery show at the Silpe Gallery on the University of Hartford campus until February 5th, 2016.

Delia Hannon at the Scholastic Art Award Exhibit

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AP Studio Art: Kathryn Fontaine ’16, Camile Harvanek ’16, Delia Hannon ’17, Lydia Tourtellotte ’16, Jocelyn Vitale ’17, Xiaohua “Edward” Li ’16

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Celebrating twenty-five years of Calliope, with special thanks to its co-founder, Mr. Tom Perkins.

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