Calliope 2017

front cover

P R

E P

CALLIOPE

Calliope is the annual student literary arts magazine presenting creative writing, poetry, two-dimensional, and three-dimensional works of art. This edition features works created over the course of the 2016-2017 academic year.

A special thank you to:

A special thank you to: Robin Stanley, Rachel Rogers, Sue Andersen, Kellie Ryan, Elizabeth Edwards, Dylan-Ernst Schäfer, Kendra Sumner, Joshua Smith, John Abigana, Monika Chojnacki, Mary Atwood, Stephen Poirot, Karen Tata, David DiCicco, and Joe Hanrahan.

Cover Art by Delia Hannon ’17

Calliope

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

Photo by Myles Wagner ’18

Photo by Jacob Rice ’19

Editors: Erin Miller ’17, Editor-in-Chief Delia Hannon ’17, Senior Editor Ana Cristina Rabines ’19, Writing Editor Art & Writing Selection Committee: Lily Alessandro ’20 Madison Birmingham ’19 Alyssa Caputo ’18 Alayna Cashman ’19 Olivia Duncan ’19 Sabrina Godin ’18 Kathryn Hauver ’18 Emily Maguire ’18 Bridget O’Leary ’18 Jillian Ormerod ’19 Emma Sarantopoulos ’18 Johanna Sullivan ’19 Peyton Surprenant ’19 Gabrielle Wood ’19 Advisor: Caitlin Sundby

A game-winning shot, immortalized in a photograph. Countless hours of studying, encapsulated in poetry. Memories of school dances, summer nights, and days with friends flash by in paintings and drawings.

Our lives inspire our art.

We like to place things into neat and organized boxes with clear-cut labels. Athletics go here, social activities go there, and academics go here.

Anyone who excels in one box is instantly confined to it, simply because we expect that they won’t be interested in anything else.

Despite our insistence on keeping strict classifications, art opens these boxes and allow their contents to blend. The straight A student can be an amazing photographer. The varsity athlete can have a passion for poetry.

Art does not limit or classify.

Here at Marianapolis and in Calliope, we do not limit or classify.

Everyone is free to express themselves in any and every outlet they choose.

So as you look through Calliope, pay attention to the creators, and see how people break free of their boxes.

Erin Miller ’17

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More Than Flesh & Bone

By Bridget O’Leary ’18

don’t tell me I’m pretty. tell me that I’m fierce, powerful, strong, inspiring. tell me that my words move mountains, my dreams flood oceans, my beliefs burn brighter than stars. tell me that I look like I can work wonders not yet imagined, can transform the impossible into reality. tell the world how unprepared it is for my existential infinity. but don’t dare to diminish my worth by telling me I’m pretty.

- I am more than a prison of flesh and bone

(Left) Erin Miller ’17

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You Are A Garden

By Jillian Ormerod ’19 You are a garden.

Your flowers are beautiful And strong.

They resist rain And wind And even full storms, So never Ever Let one person Trample your garden.

(Left) Myles Wagner ’18

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Galaxies In Her Eyes

By Colin Hourihan ’18

I quite often find myself lost in vast, beautiful galaxies shimmering and shining with a warm, radiant glow.

I do not own a telescope and I am not too fond of staring into the night sky filled with stars much too distant.

It makes me feel small.

These galaxies do not exist outside of our own Nor are they unfathomably far away distant and unreachable.

On the contrary I visit them all the time.

There are galaxies in her eyes shining brighter and more beautiful than all of the stars in the sky and all of the brightest lights out together.

I quite often find myself lost in the galaxies in her eyes and I am quite certain that I never wish to be found.

Photo by Sabrina Godin ’18

drowning i stand next to the water, looking down at what’s underneath i barely dip my toe in. you take my hand and smile at me, your deep blue eyes shine brighter than the ocean. you lead me into the murky lake below, careful not to let me go oh, please don’t let me go. the only way i know how to dive in is with you and we take a breath and go under. sometimes i wish i wasn’t so invisible there’s no features of mine that are very outstanding but when i swim next to you i feel more outstanding than the rest. and when i drown in your beautiful soul i never want to come up for air again.

Sculptures by Jixue “Eileen” Wu ’17

An Art to Lying

By Madison Birmingham ’19 My friend told me today That there’s an art to lying I guess she’s right But there’s an art in Forgiveness Too. To be forgiven is a beautiful thing But so is lying A tragedy And a beauty Because lying and forgiveness Go hand in hand I guess that’s what makes them Art

(Right) Sabrina Godin ’18

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Photo narrative by Julia DiNoia ’18

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Jiarui “Cherry” Zhang ’17

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Jiarui “Cherry” Zhang ’17

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Ke “Kathy” Li ’19

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18 Mary Wall ’20

Pin-Jung “Elisa” Chen ’17

The December Letters

By Delia Hannon ’17

Dearest, I read some quote recently- from some New York newspaper, I think-- and it made me think of you, or perhaps not so precisely of you, but of love, and therefore of you (One is not without the other, you see.)

The quotation is this-- “if we want the rewards of being loved, we have to submit ourselves to the mortifying ordeal of being known.” These are words I want to keep in my mouth, rolling under my tongue; these are words I want in my bones and my blood; these are words I want on my skin so that every stranger may see how we must be loved.

But darling, do I know you? I think surely I must, but still I want more-- I want to know you on the cold fall mornings while the world is still; I want to know you as you are on the summer nights too hot to sleep through. I would like, more than anything, to know you as completely as one possibly could. In some ways I already do- your secrets, your joys, your fears- but every time I pass a house for sale I think of us in it. I would like to know us in those houses.

So I suppose I ask such a thing of you, to let me know you in full, but I am not selfless, and I am not brave-- I ask the same of you, in return. I ask that you know me and love me because of it and despite it. Perhaps I am easy to love, or perhaps I am difficult- I don’t know, darling. I have not been loved in the ways I ask of you. I would not begrudge you, either way, but I am here, darling, I am here-would you know me? all my love, …………………..

Darling,

Some days it hurts to think of you. Most days, even-- I cannot look through our photographs without it sticking in my throat. Most days I keep busy,

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absorbed in work so that I don’t have to think of how much I miss you.

I keep all the papers you have given me in an envelope in the bottom drawer of my writing desk. Postcards, photographs-- the string of photobooth pictures from when we were teenagers. When I want to hurt, I look at them. Your handwriting slips across the pages, neat in its own peculiar way.

When it is quiet-- when I am alone in the kitchen, when I am alone in bed, when I can convince myself that you are here-- I cannot do anything but miss you, fierce and all-consuming. Without you I am in this eternal winter, this never ending December.

You are my spring, darling; without you, there are no birds, no flowers.

Without you, I am only the roots buried too deep in the ground to die. I do not bloom. I am static.

It is so peculiar, darling, that I think about you when I am at my coldest-or perhaps it is not, for when I think of you I think of your heat. It seems appropriate, then, that you in all your warmth live in the wild sun as I remain in the cold concrete city.

I am afraid, sometimes, that while you bloom in the heat, I will freeze slowly, alone. I fear that you need someone as warm as you, not a remnant of this eternal winter. I fear that you need more warmth than I could ever give you-- for, you see, you are the only warm thing about me. Yet I would not begrudge you that. I would never begrudge you that.

Darling, what if I forget you? What if I don’t remember why I love you?

I spend so much time not thinking about you, because if I want to breathe I must, that I fear losing the little pieces that form your whole picture. I have nothing of you to go by but stolen moments and postcards. Darling, darling, I mourn you; I grieve for you, for your absence, but I know who you are. What if I lose that?

What if? ………………...

I know you don’t much believe in God, darling, but I do. I think I see Him on the fringes of the crowds and in the corners of churches; I think I see Him in your smile. I think I might recognize God, were He to stop to talk to me. I wouldn’t know what to say, though-- what do you say to God?

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I suppose there’s not much point in wondering what I would say to Him, because He’s God, after all-- He already knows. I probably ought to confess my sins, but darling, you are half of them and I will not ask forgiveness for that.

Perhaps my cardinal sin is the faith I have built around us, but I imagine neither God nor I would much care about mincing words, because we both know I am not sorry.

Perhaps this is maudlin, darling; forgive me, I am drunk and Catholic, a dangerous combination.

I believe in God like I believe in you, because I could not believe in just one. I know what you would say-- you cannot touch God. But I cannot touch you, either; I cannot see you or touch you or taste you, and if that in God means He isn’t real, then what does that mean for you? I have to have faith, darling; there must be things that are no less real because I cannot prove them. I have built a life on these suppositions-- there is love; there is God; there is you. No scientist can prove them, not in the way you want, but I must assume they are true.

All my love, …………….

This letter is likely my cruelest, but also my most honest-- a horrid combination, but I can never be anything but myself with you. Forgive me, darling.

But you see, where I am a broken edge I am smoothed by your presence.

I am the sharp shards of a bottle, yet I am seaglass in your hands, worn away by the tide of your heartbeat. Darling, I am not soft, but with you I forget that I am an angry person.

Here is a secret, darling: I have loved you for so, so long that I fear I don’t know how not to. Here is another one: I am angry at you, for doing what I asked of you: I am angry at you for going so far even when it is what I told you to do.

But I am angry, in passing: in moments when my lips are chapped and I cannot remember the taste of yours; when I remember your sweaters but not your touch. I am angry at you for letting me love you for so long, with no end in sight.

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Even now, I cannot say what will happen to you, to me, to us. It has been years, darling, but we are still young and I am a coward.

You left me behind, but I never stopped: even now I would not. I expected you to do what I myself am doing- planning a future without the other in it.

Here is the truth: I have loved you for so, so long that I don’t know how not to love you. I love you, and I am angry at myself for not allowing myself to do it properly. I will never risk planning a future with you in it. I could never risk it.

When I was a child I did not dream of love, or even quite expect it, as some do; I bumped into it, too young to understand precisely what it meant, and now I am caught in it. I don’t know what to do about that.

Here are some more truths: I don’t know how to be in love. I don’t think I’m very good at it.

I could understand you no longer loving me, as we drift apart on opposite ends of a continent. I could bear it. But I could not bear you looking me in the eye and telling me that you do not love me in the midst of a life we built together.

I cannot take such a leap of faith, not for me, not for you, not for anyone. I am young, and I am a fool, and I am a hundred other things that you love despite it all, and I cannot ask you to come home, and you know better than to ask me. At my core, I have my pride, and my anger, and little else. I love you, I love you, but darling, is it enough for us? ………………..

Darling,

It is snowing today. ………………..

I learned to love you around the same time I learned to love used paperbacks with torn covers and notes in the margins. I learned to love you when it was cold, in the mornings before the world had any right to be awake; I learned to love you in the smudged sunlight under mountains of blankets. I learned to love you while I annotated the dead poets’ declarations, and I do not regret it.

Darling, I have never regretted you.

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You are my best mistake, you see; loving you is a complication on the path I planned for myself. I wanted, more than anything, to be a great. I wanted to learn. I wanted to give myself up to academia and textbooks and late nights because that is what makes me happiest.

And I know that in many ways you are the same, that you read as many books as I do and write as many papers and spend so many nights sleepless, but I think somehow you must manage it better than I can. I am never content with what I can do and I am never content with what I have done and so I float, driftless, never able to anchor myself like you do.

I think you make me happier than a publisher ever could, but I can’t let go of this. This ambition burns me and it burns you, but it is the only flame I have ever made on my own, and I cannot let go of that.

I want to be the best I can be. And it’s still true that I will put my future before you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry to hurt you. I’m sorry that we didn’t meet at a time when I wasn’t so unsettled by the endless stretch of the future. I’m sorry that I devote myself to dead paper rather than breathing life. But darling, I am not sorry that I love you.

I think that I have made these things much harder for both of us. I know, now, what it’s like to build a home in another person, and it is dangerous. I know I will drift for a long time after we end.

I asked you, before, to know me, but I think already do. You have never asked me for something I could not give, and there is so much I cannot give.

All my love. …………….

Darling,

I have not written you in a long time, not for weeks; it is almost spring here now.

I did not write you because you came home to me, weeks ago, and all the rage and longing and fear was not quite put to bed, but soothed, because you were with me. It is easier to be happy when you are with me.

These letters are as much yours as they are mine, though I must confess

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that I am not brave enough to let you see them quite yet.

It has been years, and you will call me at eight o’clock on Friday nights when we are both worn down to our bones. It has been years, and when I remember the way it feels to press my forehead into your neck, it is enough.

When I was a child I did not dream of love, or even quite expect it, as some do; I bumped into it, too young to understand precisely what it meant, and now I am caught in

I love you. I loved you then, and I love you now, and I am only just beginning to learn what that means. I loved you in December and you kissed me in April, and weren’t we foolish then? Aren’t we foolish still?

It seems appropriate, then, that I write the bulk of these letters in December. The winter is for my secrets and the spring is for your gifts, and the months after are for us, until the cycle begins again. Our years are always numbered, but they carry on.

It is April again, darling.

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Lydia Tourtellotte ‘16

By Sabrina Godin ’18 There is a constant drip, from a faucet with an unknown source.

Though it is not flooding, it seeps into your clothes.

At first, you do not notice it.

Then it begins to weigh you down.

You try to change your routine or your clothes to avoid the dripping.

Its silent though.

There is no sound of a drip drip drip Instead it follows until You yourself are flooded.

Photo by Erin Miller ’17

Thomas Nurse ’18

Pin-Jung “Elisa” Chen ’17

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Ugly World We live in an ugly world.

We live in an awful world.

We live in world run by fear.

We live in a world ruled by hate.

We don’t ask questions.

We don’t check facts.

We just pull the trigger.

We are selfish.

We are greedy.

We are shallow.

We’d rather go to war than stay at peace.

We’d rather kill our Earth than find another way.

We’d rather bury our heads in the sand than seek change.

We don’t care about others.

We only care for ourselves.

We only care for our money.

We don’t hold the door for others.

We slam it in their face.

We aren’t welcoming.

We are cold.

We are wicked.

We are lost and we cannot be saved.

All of this is true.

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Beautiful World We live in a beautiful world.

We live in a world run by love.

We live in a world ruled by peace.

We ask questions.

We check facts.

We put the gun down.

We are selfless.

We are generous.

We are profound.

We’d rather stay at peace than go to war.

We’d rather find another way than kill our Earth.

We’d rather seek change than bury our heads in the sand.

We care about others.

We don’t care for ourself.

We don’t care for money.

We hold the door for others.

We don’t slam it in their face.

We are welcoming.

We aren’t cold.

We aren’t wicked.

We aren’t lost and we can be saved.

All of this is true.

By Johanna Sullivan ’19

Nicole Marrufo ’18

(Left) Myles Wagner ’18

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Nicholas Niemiec ’18

Samantha Depatie ’17

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Xiaohua “Edward” Li ‘16

Drowning

By Ana Cristina Rabines ’19 i stand next to the water, looking down at what’s underneath i barely dip my toe in. you take my hand and smile at me, your deep blue eyes shine brighter than the ocean. you lead me into the murky lake below, careful not to let me go oh, please don’t let me go. the only way i know how to dive in is with you and we take a breath and go under. sometimes i wish i wasn’t so invisible there’s no features of mine that are very outstanding but when i swim next to you i feel more outstanding than the rest. and when i drown in your beautiful soul i never want to come up for air again.

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By Gabrielle Wood ’19 I watched the world go by And I stood there.

The smiling faces And magnificent places.

Although with these graces, There exist many fazes

Where finding a happy ending means changes.

I watched the world go by And I sat there.

Friends and kin, understanding And impeccable harmony.

Is there such thing, truly?

Or is it just an enduring plea For those who are in need.

I watched the world go by And I laid there.

Happiness and sadness Human instincts, too childish.

The dark and brightness Contrasting in the slightest And the line between, terribly slim.

I watched the world go by And I stayed there.

Trying to find Why I was ever so blind.

Photo by Erica Rumsey ’18

Courtney Cryan ’18

Namgyeong Kim ’18

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The Flight of Icarus

By John Griffin ’17

The leap of faith so lo n g You are my sun so bright Warm, but oh so severe I am just a candle to your light

I knew it was dangerous for me To be so clever, young and foolish But your beauty was unparalleled My common sense was useless

“I won’t get too close” “I won’t go so high” Reflecting on my regrets I never learned how to fly

After I fell for you.

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Tempus *By Emily Maguire ’18 I am not physically eternal, Nothing is.

Waiting patiently for the impending, wishing every moment away.

Some frightened to open their eyes, for they know not how many minutes have passed, how many seconds closer to the moment when their life changes forever And in an instant, they realize that is just how long it takes for it to happen.

For being cautious does not protect from the inevitable, it only increases the dread of the inescapable.

It robs the chance of a life lived to the fullest, full of worrying and regret.

A life consisting of looks over shoulders and second thoughts and glances, concerned about saving their own skin.

And though I know I cannot live forever, in order to be at peace with my own existence, and eventual demise, I must know I have not taken a second for granted, and have used my duration on Earth for the better.

For the ones who live completely, their spirits never truly die. *In the printed version of Calliope, “Tempus” was incorrectly attributed to Bridget O’Leary.

(Right) Olivia Duncan ’19

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Rose

By Ana Cristina Rabines ’19

if you only knew how much i miss you it feels like you were just here you were the kind of flower that bloomed from adversity and your beauty was unrivaled your roots were strong and tough and you blew your pollen of wisdom on me when i was a little sprout but someone as beautiful as you would never stay in the garden for long the gardener wanted you back and you left me to finish growing without you entirely too soon.

In memory of my beautiful grandmother. Unlike a flower, you will never wilt.

(Right) Sabrina Godin ’18

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Wing Yin “Theo” Li ’18

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Elisabeth Villa ’18

Jixue “Eileen” Wu ’17

Celina Stansky ’17

Bob Hess, Faculty

(Right) Connor Pickett ’17

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Samantha Gisleson ’18

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The Siren’s Call

By Bridget O’Leary ’18

The first thing I heard was screaming.

I do not know why I had not heard the tempestuous wind or the drumming

rain, or why it was not the horrendous creaking of wood or the violent tossing of the ship that alerted me to the storm. It was the screaming.

I heard the terrified shouts of sailors as they attempted to keep our small

vessel afloat. I did not believe that there was much we could do to protect ourselves this time. We had survived many storms since our departure two months ago, but this one felt different. This one felt angry.

I lurched from my hammock, crashing to the floor. The ship groaned beneath

me, and I swayed as I tried to stand up. I carefully made my way to the door; the distance was not long but the trip was treacherous, littered as the room was with loose nails and sharp pieces of wood. I stepped into a hall filled with panicked men running frantically from bow to stern and back again. What they hoped to accomplish by this was a mystery to me, but then again I never fully understood the workings of a ship.

I avoided crossing paths with the sailors as I stumbled towards the stairs

leading to the other decks. There were a few moments when I thought I was going to fall, but I caught myself each time. The stairs were slick with water and climbing them was a greater challenge than I expected. I opened the hatch at the top of them and was immediately drenched.

The rain was more horrendous than I could have imagined. It fell in thick

gray sheets, making it impossible to see anything that wasn’t directly in front of me.

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It lashed against my skin with a ferocity I had never felt before, fast and hard and cold and piercing.

There were sailors on this deck as well. I could hear their screams, and

though I was certain they were calling to each other with the full force of their voices I could hear them only faintly over the shrieking of the wind.

The screaming suddenly intensified and became more panicked. It was

perhaps because the sailors were moving closer to me, or I to them. An odd feeling had come over me; despite the chaos of the storm, I was calm. The steps I took were steady. My breath was even, and my eyes were fixed on some invisible point in the distance. The noise around me faded to a dull hum at the back of my mind.

The body hit me before I realized what was happening. Suddenly, I was

laying flat on the deck and gasping in an effort to recover the breath that had been knocked out of me. It was only a few moments before I felt rough and calloused hands clutching at my waist. I could not see the man’s face nor could I guess his intentions, but I tried desperately to escape his grasp. I screamed and kicked and bit and punched with all my might, but it was to no avail. The man lifted my squirming body and began to drag me across the deck.

“Found the girl!� he called, and several angry shouts answered him, as well

as some...other noise. It was faint at first, and I thought that perhaps I was imagining it. My doubts were dispelled when the noise grew loud enough to drown out the other sounds: the wind, the rain, the sailors, the frantic beating of my heart.

I knew not where it came from, but I did not care. It was more beautiful

than anything I had ever heard. It was a song, or at least it sounded like a song.

Its melody was strung with such raw emotion that the song rendered the listener speechless; it was haunting, unearthly, a lament for a hundred thousand lives. I momentarily forgot my predicament, entranced as I was with the music. A smile

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tugged at my lips and my muscles loosened. I wanted nothing more than to join in the singing and never stop.

I was forced back to reality by a sharp pain in my forearm. The sailor

who had grabbed me was gripping my arm so fiercely that his sharp and uneven nails pierced my skin. The sailors were shouting to each other, and I could now understand what they were saying:

“What should we do wif ‘er?”

“Well, we can’t keep ‘er on board, can we?”

“You reckon the storm’s ‘cause o’ ‘er?”

“What else could o’ caused it?”

The singing started again, even louder this time. The lull of the voices

calmed me, but the opposite seemed true for the sailors. They flinched and cowered and looked at each other with eyes full of terror. Several of them clapped their hands over their ears.

“She’s bad luck! I’m telling ya, we’ve got to throw ‘er over!”

“Ay, the seas won’t calm down until we do.”

“Isn’t that murder?” This voice was quieter and filled with sharp concern.

“Yes! It is! And you’ll rot in ‘ell for tossing me—” This couldn’t be

happening. This wasn’t happening. How could this be happening?

“What could a girl such as yourself know about ‘ell and the Devil? I’m

telling you, mates, she’s a witch—”

“I am not!”

“Like we can trust you! Killin’ a witch ain’t a sin, if anything it’s damn

heroic—”

“I’m not a witch! I’m not a w—”

“Runnin’ away ‘cos you don’t want to marry, posing as a boy to sneak on

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a ship—sounds like somefink a witch would do, dunnit?” An angry cheer erupted from the sailors, and the one holding me covered my mouth so I was unable to speak. His hand tasted of seawater and alcohol, and it caused me to gag. My muffled screams were drowned out by the raging storm as I bit his hand hard enough to draw blood.

“Oi! She bit me! The little b—”

The song crescendoed until it was all I could hear. The sailors halted their

bickering, and a few of them dropped to their knees, screaming with agony. I could see dark red blood dribbling from their ears and noses.

“Toss ‘er! Toss ‘er ‘fore it gets worse!” There was a roar of agreement as

I was dragged to the edge of the ship, kicking and shrieking as tears rolled down my cheeks. I felt nauseated and my vision began to tunnel; the man’s hand over my mouth was making it difficult to breathe.

A few other sailors grabbed my legs and I was hoisted into the air. The song

was deafening and I was no longer calmed by it. It was furious and jarring, and I could feel it vibrating in my bones. The sailors noticed the difference as well, and a few moments later I was dangling precariously over the edge of the vessel.

I was falling before I realized they had let go. I caught one last look at the ship’s name, The Odyssey, carved into the dark wood of the hull before I plunged into the icy water below.

I gasped as I broke the surface. Seawater filled my lungs and throat, burning my eyes and clogging my ears. I had lost my sweater in the fall, and my pale arms floated limply around me. I drew in another breath, only to swallow more water. I had never felt more helpless in my life, nor had I been more certain of death. I was choking. I was drowning. I was dying.

I could still hear the singing. It was low, very low, and its tempo had

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decreased dramatically. The water around me began to glow green and blue and brightly. Was this a part of dying? Was this what everyone saw before the end?

My skin itched. I looked down. I wanted to see my body one last time. I was shocked to see that the glowing seemed to be emanating from...me. My flesh was, impossibly, aflame. I spread my hands out in front of me and saw webs forming between my fingers. Something resembling scales began to appear on my arms. My fingernails elongated.

I found myself suddenly able to breathe again. I took large, gasping breaths— or rather gulps, because I was somehow breathing water. My vision cleared. The burning in my eyes and throat subsided. I glanced around, unsure of what was happening but relieved to be alive. I saw the dark, hulking mass of the ship above me. It was eerily quiet down here.

I wondered why the singing had stopped. I looked to the surface, hoping to find the answer there. I was greeted only by weak light filtering through the waves and the occasional piece of debris crashing through the water after it was ripped from the ship.

The glow of my body began to fade, and the water became steadily darker.

It was blue, green, black, and purple all at once. Grey light shone on the wreckage floating near me. I had never felt so terribly, utterly alone.

I do not know how long I stayed there before the others came. They emerged from the darkness silently, scales shimmering and hair flowing wildly around them.

Their eyes shone different colors and they carried with them small silver spears and what appeared to be human bones.

They approached me slowly, but I was not afraid. One by one, they began to sing. I recognized their song. It was they who had been singing during the storm.

Now, I understood their lament.

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They were sisters in death, saved by the sea after being thrown from their own vessels. They were sirens. We were sirens. I was now one of them. It was not a shock, really. It just was.

The Odyssey never made it to shore. I watched as it sank, dragging the sailors down with it. I saw them gasp and flail and ultimately fall still. I watched as their eyes widened when they saw the sirens. I watched as their faces filled with guilt and terror when they spotted me in the midst of the strange creatures. I watched with neither remorse nor sadness. They had brought this upon themselves.

I would watch the same scene unfold many times in the centuries to come.

We would hear the cries of girls from far across the sea, and it would sometimes take us weeks to find them. It is the gift—and the curse—of the sirens to sense pain from great distances. We could feel their anguish in our bones, and we could not ignore it. The vessels would be different, but each time a new girl, or sometimes multiple girls, would join us. They would watch the men of their ships die. They would listen to our song. They would eventually learn it.

There were, on occasion, blessed times when we encountered a ship whose women were treated with care and respect. We would guide these ships safely to shore, singing lowly so as to not reveal our presence. I was happiest then, with the sirens who had become my family and the women who did not know we were there and the men who gave us all hope for the future. For centuries, we had given the world’s women our protection. We longed for the day when they would no longer need it. With each ship we led to safety, we believed we were closer to that day then we had been before.

It has been many years since the last time we sunk a vessel. Ships are now larger and faster. I am not sure what purposes they serve, but they do not seem to be so dangerous. Mostly, the women on board do not face such violent abuse as they

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once did. Perhaps the men have learned that it is only a danger to have a woman on board if she is treated poorly.

Still, we are waiting in the deep. We have not forgotten the horrors we have faced. Our voices husky from salt and our hearts heavy from the lives that were taken from us, we roam the darkest corners of the ocean. If nothing else, we have a song to sing and a story to tell.

Our voices will not be lost to the deafening silence of history.

Jonathan Vicario ’19

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Drawing by Ke “Kathy” Li ’19

Emma Sarantopoulos ’18

Title By_______________--

So for a quiet moment While i was drinking my hot chocolate, i took off my blue shirt and put on his white one with the black lettering that read,

GEORGETOWN and below it was the picture of a bulldog.

Funny thing was, he never went to

GEORGETOWN. and he never liked dogs much. and the other funny thing was, which i guess wasn’t so funny at all, was that, like an old boyfriend’s sweatshirt, i searched for any smell of him that might, just might, Emily Maguire ’18 still be lingering there.

But there was none.

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Painting by Jixue “Eileen” Wu ’17

The Artist

By Peyton Surprenant ‘19 As I stand inside the empty room filled with the same faces/ I ask myself/ What it’s like to be her/ It’s crazy ‘cause she’s just a girl/ Who roams around just as lost as me/ How does she compare to me right here/ Is it the smile, the hair, the way she stares/ Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s visible to you/ But I’m a ghost/ Though her eyes are dark/ And her heart is marked/ She has firing flames just like us all/ She’s tall and smart and great at art/ But her works shine no brighter than I do/ How she crafts and molds you together/ I now see why she convinces you/ But I will one day be visible to someone too/ They just need the right eyes to see through/ Though she’s painting for the people/ I could be the artist for you/

(Right) Delia Hannon ’17

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Millennial Gospel

By Bridget O’Leary ’18

Sometimes I find myself sitting on a train, though I can never recall how I got there.

I am always in the same carriage, with walls of deep mahogany and burgundy velvet seats embroidered with threads of silver silk.

I once decided to find the conductor and ask our destination.

I was not successful, but I did come across several people, cleverer than I, who insisted they knew where we were going.

One claimed we were going to paradise.

Another, to hell.

(Left) Suzanne Ellis ’17

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A few others believed the train was not real, we were not real, nothing was real.

A couple told me they had been on other trains before, each of which returned to the same station, where they boarded another.

Some declared the tracks ran into the void, and the passengers were destined for oblivion.

There were many arguments about who was right and who knew the truth.

But the truth?

No one knew. Their beliefs were nothing more than theories and conjectures.

I returned to my carriage, content to enjoy the journey and worry about the destination when we arrived.

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Emily Maguire ’18

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Hanna Scheffler ’19

(Right) Jake Mueller ’17

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AP® STUDIO ART ROCK PAINTINGS The rock is a special assignment given to AP® Studio Art students. Each member of the class is responsible for designing and executing a piece of artwork that will adorn the 4’ x 12’ boulder that sits at the main entrance of campus for all to see.

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Sabrina Godin ’18

Delia Hannon ’17

Sabrina Godin ’18

Jiarui “Cherry” Zhang ’17

Delia Hannon ’17

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Grace Rett ’18

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Scholastic Art & Writing Awards Erin Miller ’17, Photography, Honorable Mention Page 3 Jiarui “Cherry” Zhang ’17, Illustration, Honorable Mention Page 16 Pin-Jung “Elisa” Chen ’17, Mixed Media, Honorable Mention Page 19 & 20 Delia Hannon ’17, The December Letters, Honorable Mention Page 21 For All Your Novenas, Gold Key

Thompson Library Art Show Congratulations to the following students whose work was exhibited at the 2017 Thompson Library Art Show: Tyler Carlson Pin-Jung “Elisa” Chen Zhen “Francis” Chen Meghan Darigan Samantha Depatie Suzanne Ellis Samantha Gisleson Sabrina Godin Zachary Hall Tianheng “Linda” Han Delia Hannon Benjamin Heaney Nora Ilacqua Namgyeong Kim Ke “Kathy” Li Wing Yin “Theo” Li Linh Mai Kayla McGovern Nicholas Niemiec Thomas Nurse Emma Sarantopoulos Elizabeth Schoemer Myles Wagner Mary Wall Minghao “Jason” Wang Jixue “Eileen” Wu Jialu “Una” Xu Honghao “Peter” Zhang Jiarui “Cherry” Zhang YuJin “Lucy” Zhao

Emma Sarantopoulos ’18

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