The Calliope 2020, Volume 10 by Geneva Quarterly

BOLD The Calliope Vo l u m e Te n

2020 1

Editor’s Note Editor’s Note Editor’s Note Editor’s Note Editor’s Note 2

Something I have struggled with my whole life was the ability to look past myself and be creative–no matter what the cost.

understand the passion that is needed to create. The design is minimalistic because the works speak for themselves; the art is bold.

Sometimes that means being vulnerable and being open to new ideas and criticism. Artistic inspiration comes without warning, and you must be ready to use it and fully let yourself go.

“This was in accordance with the eternal purpose which He carried out in Christ Jesus our Lord, in whom we have boldness and confident access through faith in Him.” Ephesians 3: 11-12

The inspiration for the theme of “BOLD” came one day in thinking of a single word that Sydney Dennis and I wanted to leave for the school. The word “bold” plays in my head always as a reminder to live my life without regrets and do things even if it means it will bring consequences. I hope from reading and seeing all the fantastic art, you will take with you a sense and awareness of of the boldness happening all around us.

Go with confidence and create,

Every day, people take risks and reap great rewards. Geneva School of Boerne has been blessed by so many talented risk-takers, who

Gillian Loflin The Calliope Editor-in-Chief Becky Ryden Adviser Christina Hammock Adviser Sydney Dennis Assistant Editor

Cover Photo by Royal Petrie 3

Contents

Table of 4

Part One: Rebirth

Part Two: Molding

Part Three: Free

REBIRT H 6

Photo by Gwyn Lewellyn

Finding and arriving to the point of wanting to break from the average 7

Photo by Royal Petrie

Photo by Jill Daniels

Drowned Out, song lyrics by Amber Bormann Pitter patter of the pouring rain

Everyday I’m looking for

Just the thought of you is driving

Something perfect and

me insane

something more

And I was wondering

Everyday I’m drowning out Sick of worry, sick of doubt

If you ever think of me When the world seems

Pitter patter of my beating heart

upside down

Thoughts of you are now beginning

And I am drowned out

to depart And I stop wondering

Thinking ‘bout brighter days ahead And of all the things that we have

If you ever think of me

left unsaid

When the world seems

But I’m still wondering

upside down And I am drowned out

If you ever think of me

When the world seems

upside down

And I am drowned out

And I am drowned out And I am drowned out

Art by Nathan Zuniga

Everyday I’m looking for Something perfect and something more Everyday I’m drowning out Sick of worry, sick of doubt 11

12 Photo by Jill Daniels

Photo by Quincie Hartman

Photo by Royal Petrie

A PRAYER by Kira Drawe

Art by Carissa Georgelos

Anxiety. He comes when I’m tired. When my bones are heavy. When my mind is at a standstill. He creeps in. Silently, without warning. I’m tired of him coming when I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired of him. I need rest. I need Your rest. I can’t do this alone. Will You make him leave me alone? Give me Your rest, let me sleep. Free me from anxiety.

Photo by Gwyn Lewellyn

FREE FALL

Photo by Hannah Gray

a poem by Annie Ramsey Here I stand at the edge of a ravine Somewhere near the end of me A vital decision I must make. Do I turn round and let the dark of the ravine be? Or do I leap and explore the darkest parts of myself? I take a deep breath as time stands still I teeter on the edge of the ravine. I turn around my decision made I fall into the gorge As I free fall somewhere near the end of myself I can’t help but cry As I fall what I once thought was darkness has now turned into light.

T HROUGH A VISION DARKLY a short story by Jake Allen The scents of bacon and sausage wafted through the house and into my nose. It was a good smell and a happy smell. I knew I was going to eat and I knew someone cared enough to come and make me food. It’s a step up from the horrid microwave meals I make all the time.

– Mrs. W?

I was sitting in the dining room at the place that I’ve sat at for the past couple decades. I know it well. It was close enough to the kitchen so I could smell and hear the bacon. Kat knew how to cook it quick. Good for her. Good for you, Kat. Thank you for taking care of a blind old widow in your free time. Makes me feel better knowing someone cares.

– I’ll start with two.

– How close are you to finishing? I called out.

– I don’t have any right now. I’ll have to brew some.

– Should only be a few more minutes, Mrs. Wohryzek; she answered. – Thank you.

Photo by Emma Russell

I closed my eyes and opened them again. Still dark as usual. The smell got stronger. I leaned my head against the back of my large wooden dining chair and smiled. Wood didn’t feel great but the cushion I put on the sitting part or whatever you called it made it feel so much better. It was my mother’s chair and I wanted to put it to use but it didn’t feel so good. I love cushions. I need to get one for the back of my chair. I’ll tell Kat to find one. Or Michael. I’ll ask him to get me one. That would make putting my head against the back of the chair not feel so bad. I took in a deep breath. The bacon smelled wonderful. I listened. The bacon sounded delicious and aggressive like a thousand tiny grenades snapping and popping in the frying pan. The popping sound and the air filter and the television were the sounds of my house. The bacon and air filter and television and rustling outside. Probably cats or dogs. Some animal from next door. Or kids.

– Yes? – Dinner’s ready. How many pieces of bacon do you want?

– How many eggs? – Just one. – Alright. What do you want to drink? – Coffee.

– Alright. Thank you. The sounds of bacon popped on. Lovely. I love it. I love Kat. My daughter has good friends. Kat doesn’t have to take care of me but she does. Think of all the old folks at those God-forsaken retirement homes. Retirement homes my ass. They were death camps. People put their old folks in there so they didn’t have to mess with them. No visits. Then right before they die their kids and grandkids and great grandkids come crawling out of the woodwork to show how much they love grandma. Do they love grandma? Probably not. No. Not at all. Thank God and my family and friends. They’re loving people. Good thing I raised my children that way. You need to raise your kids to love you because they’ll be the only ones willing to wipe the drool from your chin when you’re at heaven’s door. Kat’s an exception. She’s not family but she might as well be. My daughter has good friends. Footsteps came from the kitchen and into the dining room next to my chair and the smell followed. 23

– Here’s your dinner, Mrs. W. – Thank you, Kat. There was a small clink in front of me. I held out my hands and felt two cold pieces of metal being placed in each. Knife and fork fork and knife. Knife in left and fork in right. I inched the fork down. I felt resistance but it was softer. So it wasn’t the table or the plate. I had felt the edge of the table near my chair before and it was dented all over. I can’t count all the times I missed the plate. I lifted the fork to my open mouth and bit off a little. Egg. Cooked well. Not too runny not too tough. It’s so easy to ruin eggs. And if you do that sulfurus smell will fill your kitchen and your house. – How does it taste Mrs. W? – Good, very good. You cook eggs very well. – That’s one thing I can do right; Kat said laughing. – They’re not too hard and not too soft. I used to cook my eggs too much back in the day. They wouldn’t taste too good and the whole kitchen would stink. – But you learned eventually, right? – Of course I did. I laughed and Kat laughed a second later. Did she think I was funny or was she just being nice? The laughter died and I heard the rustling again. It was closer. Maybe at a window. The kitchen window or the dining room window?

– I know I heard something. I know I did. – It was probably just a cat, Mrs. W. Or maybe a squirrel. Some small neighborhood animal. – Fine then. I brought my fork down and it landed in something soft. I brought it up to my mouth. Sausage. It took a little longer to chew. – Mrs. W?

– Did you hear that? I asked.

I swallowed.

– Hear what?

– Yes?

– There was a rustling noise at the window.

– If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am, but how long have you been blind?

Kat went silent for a minute. – I don’t hear anything; she said. 24

Photo by Abigail Dees

I set my fork and knife down on the table, feeling for the edge of the plate so they were symmetrical.

– Well, Kat, the accident happened about, oh, ten years ago. – What kind of accident was it? – Auto. It was a very nasty situation. I was driving along and a young man driving in the opposite lane suddenly swerved into mine. To make a very long story short I was the lucky one. – How so? Kat asked. – I was brought out on a stretcher. He was brought out in a body bag. Silence. The rustling was there again but now it was faint. – I don’t like being blind. But it was better than the alternative. Kat didn’t say anything so I took another bite of sausage. I finished off most of my meal and coffee before she spoke again. – Are you finished, Mrs. W? – Almost. Just be patient; I said smiling. Once again Kat didn’t say anything. Did she smile? I hope so. A laugh even a fake one would be nice. I hate it when I make a joke and no one laughs. It’s awkward and makes me feel embarrassed. One bad joke can undo the work of ten good jokes. They won’t remember the good ones only the bad ones. Why is that or is it just me? Is it?

– Mrs. Wohryzek? – Yes Kat? – Didn’t you say you heard a rustling sound a couple minutes ago? – Yes; I said nodding. Why are you asking? There was the sound of Kat’s chair squeaking against the dining room tile. – I thought I heard something. Like rustling of leaves. I bit my lower lip in thought. Was it a cat? Probably a cat. Or kids. – Kat? Could you do something for me? – Of course. What is it? – First, take my plate and coffee cup and put them in the sink. Second, grab a flashlight and go outside. Check on the yard. See what’s going on. I don’t think it’s anything of concern, but it would make me feel better to know what’s going on. - Do you think it could just be the wind? Kat asked. – It’s possible, of course. But has it been a windy day? – No. – Then it’s probably a small animal of some kind. Go ahead and check, will you?

Photo by Emma Russell 25

– Alright. Don’t take too long. – Yes ma’am. Her footsteps faded again but this time towards the front door. Click click click and the door opened and shut. Faintly the sound of Kat crossing my front lawn reached my ears. Then it was gone. Silence. Alone in a silent dark world. Thank God I still have my other senses. I can’t imagine losing my hearing or touch or smell. Oh God forbid me becoming nose-blind ha ha. Hellen Keller. She was blind and deaf. I can’t even think about how that would feel. Is this what it would feel like? Pitch black and silent. Nearly impossible to communicate. Such a dark, silent world. Is that Hell? Hell isn’t Dante’s Inferno of fire and demons. It’s a silent dark world like this. Complete isolation. That’s Hell. Footsteps rushing through grass. Bump bump on the porch. Click she unlocked the front door and a slam followed. – Kat? I called out. She was panting. – Kat? The panting stopped. It steadied out into slow breathing. – Kat? Are you alright? Nothing. – Kat? Nothing. Then her slow footsteps started down the hall. They sounded heavier than usual. I sat in silence. Photo by Katie-Grace Styles

– Yes ma’am. There was a series of clinks and Kat’s footsteps fading into the kitchen. More clinks. Rushing water from the sink. Then it was off. Kat’s footsteps came back into the dining room. – I’m going outside, Mrs. W. 26

The heavy footsteps passed by the doorway where I was sitting. They stopped. My skin began to crawl. I gripped the sides of my chair and gritted my teeth. I felt my useless eyes water. The footsteps continued down the hall, growing faint. My skin ceased to crawl but I still held on to the armrests. I couldn’t hear anything else. Where did the footsteps go? Silence. Rustling noises and more silence. Something being moved in the other room. I wanted to call out but no

that wouldn’t be right because it’s not Kat. She would’ve answered. Someone else there’s someone else in my house and it’s not Kat. What do they want and when will they go and what happened to Kat? Is she dead? No she can’t be dead but why didn’t she answer? She’s dead it’s all over. She came here to do the right thing and she was killed by some stranger who’s now in my house ransacking my living room going through my things. He’ll steal from me. Why hasn’t he killed me? Is he still here? Is he even a he? Yes or no I don’t care I want him out of my house I want Kat to come in and fix my dinner no she already did that I just want things to be alright again. The rustling stopped. More footsteps but they’re getting farther and farther away. Quieter. Quieter. Gone. No footsteps. Where’d they go? Out the back door? But it’s locked. But if he got through the front door he could get through the back. Is he gone I hope he’s gone. Gone gone gone. Silence the house is silent. Kat where’s Kat? Is she still outside? I should call for her but is he gone? I don’t want to bring him back he’ll come back and kill me and take everything assuming he hasn’t already taken everything. Kat where’s Kat?

– Who the hell are you? Kat asked. She’s scared her voice is trembling. Why doesn’t she run? Run! The deep footsteps resumed getting closer to me getting closer to Kat oh Kat just run don’t worry about me save yourself just save yourself please you’re young you have so much life left to live please oh please Kat just run! – I-I-I’m calling the cops! Kat cried. The footsteps sped up and Kat screamed she screamed so loud what did he do what did he do to her I can’t bear to think of what he’d do to her the poor girl what what what will he do leave her alone my head my head feels so light I hurt leave her alone please please please good sir you’re a good man oh God my head leave her aloPhoto by Kira Drawe

Something creaking on the porch it’s loud. More footsteps. It’s loud not like the other ones. Is someone else trying to rob me or is this person helping the other man? No no don’t come into my house leave me alone. Leave me alone! I want to scream at you but I don’t know what you’ll do to me. Get out of my house! Who’s in my house? Get out! – Mrs. Wohryzek? Kat she’s here but oh God what about the man? – Mrs. Wohryzek? – Kat! Get out! Get out and call the police! Kat’s footsteps came closer. – Get out! Get out! The footsteps became jumbled and deeper and louder. Oh no oh God the Man’s coming now he’s heard me. – Mrs. Wohryzek? What’s going on? – Kat! Get out! All the footsteps stopped. Silence. Then: 27

Graphic by Gracie Janse

Sculpture by Nathan Zuniga 29

SONG LYRICS by Anson Eggerss You’ve been living in your brain, Trying to work through the process. Cleaning out old pain, And building wins out of losses. You always turn right On every single street, Seeing all the same things, And walking on the same two feet. You’re taking steps up stairs That lead upwards forever. But take a look around, Cause I know there’s something better. So take a break from your brain. It’s easier said than done. I know it won’t be the same, But you’re not the only one.

A PASSING GLANCE a poem by Piper Hoke An open sea of golden, and grey-green grass. Dull, wooden ruins atop a hill of the freshly cut blades. An old tire trail worn into the ground. A girl of dark brown and ivy hair, And pale, milky skin upon bone thin limbs. A dress like soft, pink rose petals Traced with a waistline of thin, black ribbon She wore with faded, grey shoes, Laced all this with dirt now. A stance of bewilderment and eagerness She bore as she gazed upon the hilltop scene …Might it be her home? …or a place she once held dear? She, a woman of earth, With hair like silken vines, Face to the soft winds that paid only her any mind? A thin veil of clouds present over the blue sky I tore through as I flew by. Photo by Royal Petrie 31

Photo by Cody Lane George

Photo by Jax Knox

Photo by Royal Petrie 34

NEPT UNE, a short story by C. Eden Kidd The old man wore a tattered, yellow raincoat—the hood balanced precariously over his hunched left shoulder. He smelled of salt and cigarettes, and raindrops fell with uncertainty from his unwashed clothing onto a dark wooden floor in desperate need of sweeping. He supported himself on the bar, which was much cleaner than the floor, his arms crossed at the wrists and worn with decades of their own strength. An empty glass sat in front of him, and he sat in front of it brooding, looking into it the way a castaway stares from a rocky beach at an ignorant ship on the horizon. The bartender’s shadow washed over the glass in a low tide, and the old man looked up. Yellow lights and their fuzzy haloes like a million lighthouses through thick fog made him dizzy. The bartender’s practiced benevolence glowed softly from his otherwise exhausted face. It was almost time for last call, and he felt cheated that even bartenders weren’t allowed to drink on the job. He’d been working for ten hours, and all he could think about was the mattress on the floor of his studio apartment and the leftover pizza in his fridge. At least he didn’t have to help close the restaurant tonight. Nevertheless, he was observant, and not all of his benevolence was mere practice. He noticed something swirling behind the old man’s eyes that would continue swirling indefinitely unless something intercepted it. His voice rolled like

a gentle wave toward the old man, the kind of wave with no intension of crashing. It rose and fell and settled on the old man’s shoulder next to the hood of his coat. “Still doin’ alright?” The old man scratched his barely groomed white beard, a fistful of sea foam stuck to his chin. Drops of rain and whiskey jumped into the musty atmosphere. “Just one more glass, I think.” “Crown Royal?” “Yep.” The bartender turned to face the shelves of half-empty bottles, followed reluctantly by his shadow slipping over the edge of the bar like a leaf over a waterfall. The old man saw amber liquid being poured into his glass before he saw the bartender again. “Remind me o’ your name, kid.” “It’s David. You’re Robert, right?” “That’s right, David.” Robert raised his glass in silent gratitude with a manly half-smile and a slightly diagonal nod and drank twothirds of the whiskey in one gulp. He paused and squinted slightly at what was left in the glass before downing that too.

“I see you’ve decided to savor this one,” David smiled, placing the bottle on the bar. Robert was the only customer left, and David had a feeling this would not in fact be the old man’s last glass. Robert half placed, half dropped his glass on the counter. “I’ll savor the next one.” David sighed a little and poured another glass. This time he turned and placed the bottle back on its shelf. When he turned back toward the old man, he was met with a surprisingly full glass and a suspicious stare. “How’d you know my name, kid?” “Well, you’ve been here for at least six hours, Robert. And you’ve been drunk for five and a half. This isn’t the first time we’ve met tonight. Frankly, I’m impressed you’re upright.” Robert sipped his whiskey slowly this time, “What else d’ya know about me, David?” “You’ve told me a few stories.” “D’you know about my family? My wife?” “I know a bit.” “Did I tell ya how she died?” “Boating accident, right? About fifteen years ago?” “Yeah, that’s it,” Robert took another

sip, “We went out on my boat for a day. Left the boy at home. He’s about twelve, he could handle ‘imself for a day. Big storm came outta nowhere, I swear I never seen a storm like that before and I never seen one like it since. She was there ‘n’ then,” he paused, “well, she wa’n’t.” He took a longer sip and held the glass in front of his chapped lips. His eyes were no

professional friendliness. He spoke now with a softer tone and a bit of trepidation, “You know…you don’t need to finish that glass, Robert.”

David glanced at the clock staring back at him from its perch over the door. 2:04 AM. He looked back at the drunk old man struggling to sit up.

“I can if I want,” slurred Robert, startled out of the daze. His eyes started swirling again.

“Let me walk you home, Robert. My shift’s done now anyway.”

“Can you get home alright? Know

Robert set his glass down, “That’s awful’ kind, kid, but –“ “Let me walk you home,” David interjected with more authority. “Alright! Twist my arm.” Robert got up and began to stumble toward the door. As David walked around the bar to get his own coat, he smiled bitterly at the mostly-full glass Robert had left behind. When David caught up with Robert on the sidewalk outside, he pulled one of his stiff arms over his shoulder. He started leading Robert up the street slowly, measuring his own footsteps against those of the drunk. “Where’re we goin’, kid?” “I’m taking you home, Robert.” “That’s the other way, I thought.” “It’s just up here on the left, you’ll see.”

Photo by Abigail Dees longer swirling; they were still, focused motionlessly on a memory. A small bead of water formed at one of their corners. David’s genuine concern was starting to show through the curtain of 36

where you’re going?” “Sure I can! I live just three blocks that way,” Robert pointed past the bar in front of him, then over his shoulder, then back toward the bar.

The pair stopped at the door of a modest apartment building. David fumbled in his pocket with one hand, still supporting Robert with the other arm. He found his key, unlocked the door, and led the old man upstairs to number 249. They walked into a hardly furnished studio apartment with two blanketed mattresses with one pillow each on opposite sides and a fridge against the wall between them. On

top of the fridge were a few framed pictures, and a small table quilted by newspapers and magazines in the center of the room. “This is mine?” “This is you, Robert.” “Thanks, kid. What’s your name again?” “Anytime. It’s David.” “Thanks, David.” David didn’t bother turning on a light. He hobbled with Robert over to one of the mattresses and helped him lie down. He pulled the blanket over him carefully. Robert was asleep within a minute. David walked over to the fridge and opened it to find his longawaited leftover pizza waiting just as patiently for him. He looked at the pictures sitting atop the fridge. His Star Wars-themed eighth birthday party. His mother made a fairly convincing Princess Leia. And Robert suited the

Han Solo costume. The first day of kindergarten holding both of their hands on the way to school. Their wedding day, the only picture David wasn’t in. The day he was born, the two of them leaning in and smiling over his tiny body. That new father’s face was so young, so completely in love with life; he looked nothing like the tattered old drunk lying in the mattress just a few steps away, tossed through life like driftwood in a hurricane. David finished his pizza and collapsed in the mattress opposite his father. “It’s alright, dad,” he said quietly, “You don’t have to remember. I’ll always walk you home.”

Art by Paul Williams 37

When I can never do anything right I sit down and turn out the lights I’m just waiting for another day And I have all these thoughts inside my head And they’re illusions that I seem to dread Would someone please show me the way At the tick of the clock the clock the earth shakes And the mountains crumble down When the days turn to night and the mountains seem to hide The truth is left with the light When all boundaries subside and the world slips away I’m left at the edge of a divide Just waiting for life

When all around is negativity But I’m told to have positivity Things don’t really add up And I try to do everything I can And I try to have them understand But all my obligations interrupt When the days turn to night and the mountains seem to hide The truth is left with the light When all boundaries subside and the world slips away I’m left at the edge of a divide Just waiting for life When the night turns to day and im learning what to say It’s time to try and find my way Although I wish I could stay I’m not justified and all I can do is run and hide As I’m waiting for life

WAIT ING FOR LIFE, song lyrics by Amber Bormann

Art by Gracie Janse 39

Photos by Sam Tippetts

MOLDING 42

Photo by Royal Petrie

Building, growing, discovering and becoming a variant

UNT IT LED, a poem by Annie Ramsey Darkness engulfs me as I wander off the trail But I am not afraid as hand grabs mine I beckon him forward my faith in him frail But my shadow friend joins me, falling in line The darkness surrounds me, cloaking me in an embrace But the trail comes to a close, the light draws near As the shadows run away my heart begins to race For the first time in a while I begin to feel fear Darkness is sometimes more comforting than light And as the day carries on I long for the night.

AT MOSPHERE, anonymous Your words Pierce through my atmosphere Stream flaming and fast Until at last Cold and hard they land With a small but heavy weight Like meteors And dent the pliable surface of My heart My words Push through the atmosphere Fueled and combustible Until at last Weary and unable to sustain They deteriorate and crumble Like dust And powder the unforgiving surface of My heart

Photo by Royal Petrie 45

Photo by Hannah Rose Tong 47

Photo by Abigail Dees

Photo by Charlotte Walker

You spend years breaking her Shattering her in pieces So she changes her reflection for you She looks into the mirror And sees her clothes aren’t enough She sees every flaw you do She enters the building And you tell her she’s not enough That she’s only worthy with you She isn’t ready for you For a boyfriend and for dates But she does it to please you and reflect happiness that’s fake But even with her clothes, boys, and looks, She still isn’t enough Her confidence continues to drain Now she compares herself To mage zones and media She thinks she’ll never be enough The girl who used to live Just to please herself Wonders what strangers passing by think So you should feel accomplished because In your selfish mannerisms You broke the girl, now broken

A POEM by Ashlynn Lavezarri 50

Graphic Art by Sophia Baldwin 51

Photo by Margaret Viña

Photo by Aisling Ayers

Photo by Abigail Dees

Photo by Emma Russell

Photo by Abby Bower

Photo by Gwyn Lewellyn

Art by Alexa Georgelos

Photo by Emma Russell

Photo by Abigail Dees

Photo by Ava Ayers

Photo by Royal Petrie

Photo by Aisling Ayers

Art by Paul Williams 57

Art by Nathan Zuniga

INEVITABLE INVISIBILIT Y, song lyrics by Amber Bormann Faded smiles and worn out feelings Just waiting for tomorrow I’m pushing forth but I’m stranded in a broken field of sorrow I speak but no one seems to listen I scream but never make a sound Inevitable invisibility Less a super power and more a curse I try to walk a path that’s straight and narrow But I don’t know where it goes Empty hearts and hopeless dreams Nothing left to lose Should I take the chance and make the leap Still it might all be a ruse I try to fight the fight but I’m never really winning If I make the jump how hard can I fall

Inevitable invisibility Less a super power and more a curse I try to walk a path that’s straight and narrow But I don’t know where it goes Where do I go from here? How do I turn this around? I have so much left to say But I can only whisper a few sounds Inevitable invisibility Less as super power and more a curse I try to walk a path that’s straight and narrow But I don’t know where it goes Is it inevitable? Am I really invisible? Where will this path go?

FREE 60

Photo by Natalie Perez

Leaving behind conformity and being reformed

Photo by Royal Petrie

Photo by Gwyn Lewellyn 62

GARDEN, song lyrics by Cass Egli There is a garden that’s gone so bare beneath the ocean in a crooked sphere. There is a garden with narrow stairs; in seven weeks, we’ll make it there. There she saw you dressed in white, and snowflakes falling sang lullabies. She doesn’t know you you haven’t been introduced. She doesn’t know you no, she doesn’t know you. There is a garden where she walks in fire blooming without a cause. When she saw you, you felt her love. You couldn’t tell her it was not her fault.

She doesn’t know you but as she counts her steps, she won’t forget you as she walks alone she says, “Let the fire come again. Let the ashes coat my hands, if I see you again. Will I see you again?” And through the vines, you touched her hand. Your face uplifted, you gently said, “There is a garden outside of time, where newborn angels get their first cry. There is a garden where children play; they tell their stories. They know they’re safe. There is a garden…”

There is a garden… She doesn’t know you yet for your name she wept. In silence, she held you precious as her breath.

A POEM by Emmy Hamilton From your very first breath, That you used to speak to them, Until the last second of your death. They’ll stick in your mind like a hymn, That you heard a long time ago, Lost but not gone, Just like the first time they said I love you so, The hurt seems to continue on.

It’s something that creeps up on you, When you’re least expecting it, There’s nothing you can do, It feels like you’ve lost your wit. It keeps you up at night, As you toss and turn in your sleep, No change in position makes it right, Because of wounds that have been cut too deep.

Photo by Charlotte Walker 65

Graphic Art by Sophia Baldwin 66

POEMS by Annie Ramsey Flowers I

Flowers II

Bound by water bound by blood Flowers can’t survive in a flood Love is lorn, love is lost I kept growing but at what cost

Flowers grow, flowers wilt But you’ll never find me in a tilt In a tea cup spinning ‘round Laughing hard without a sound At first joy may be hard to find But it may be found by being kind

Graphic Art by Summer Stolle 67

VS T HE PERSON OF MARYLAND, a song by Jack Cupit Verse 1: All rise, all rise. Now sit back down and fantasize Of whatever conversation might come next. You can see it in his eyes That his deposition’s lies,

But now the pen’s hit the floor. Chorus: I’m afraid you’ve made a mockery of this whole practice,

And there’s no truth in whatever nonsense he objects.

But at least we got a show.

Chorus: I’m afraid you’ve made a mockery of this whole practice,

But she’s still got one witness to go.

But at least we got a show.

Outro: It’s all about the where and not the why.

The victim sits down as he starts to sweat, But she’s still got one witness to go. Verse 2: All rise, all see That her deposition is the key, And it’s all about the where and not the why. You can see it in his cheeks That he’s looking forward to the next few weeks, And he’d be totally okay with a 10 to life.

Pre-Chorus: His racing heart beats more and more and more,

The victim sits down as he starts to sweat,

It’s all about the win and not the tie. It’s all about the wear and not the why. It’s all about the when and not the tie.

Photo by Christina Hammock

Graphic Art by Jayne Goodman

Photo by Abigail Dees

Photos by Abigail Dees

Photo by Will Bower

Photo by Abby Bower

Photo by Jax Knox

Art by Abigail Dees

78 Photo by Natalie Perez

POET RY 2/2020 by Lily Shrode It’s a thief It comes on quickly Like an anchor being dropped Filling your whole body adamantly Butterflies not to be stopped Chest heavy suddenly No relief Seeing dazedly Constantly hunched Hands wringing nervously Head and jaw pained Breath sparingly Never brief

Photo by Royal Petrie 81

82 Photo by Kira Drawe

ANXIET Y, by C. Eden Kidd Salty sweat traces his jawline, hanging to his chin for dear life. A jagged line of thousands—all alike. Trudging with the crowd, he is kissed by the cruel vibrance of a tangerine mist, focused on the dizzying distance to icy hell above. As biting wind sweeps through the clementine north, the mountains lean over him to smirk. “And anyway,” he thought, “it has no worth.” He wakes to an emaciated fear. In somber light of day, he thought it better to drink like a nihilist – he cheers the absence of the stoic dove.

Photo by Aisling Ayers

Art by Hillary Short

YOU‘RE A T HIEF by Hope Cordes I stood in the middle of the lawn breathing in the warm California air. I could smell the rosemary that grew in a mass to my left, along with the faint smell of the American River. The breeze picked up and pulled at my ponytail, making my springy grey hairs fly wildly. The redwoods swayed precariously, tipping the birds’ nests and sending disgruntled mamma birds fluttering loudly into the world. I had started to feel like I was becoming one with the yard, when a confused voice called out to me. “Naomi?” I took one more fortifying breath, then turned around. “Yes, Mom?” I answered with a smile plastered on my face. “I was just coming out to take the flags out of the pots.” 86

“No, Mamma. We are leaving those up for the Fourth of July. There’s a note on the sliding glass door to remind you.” “Oh we are? That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll remember that now,” she smiled at me and shuffled back into the house. She seemed so small, like she shrank since the last time I saw her. Her oversized flower dress made her appear as if she were drowning in garishly colored lilies. I followed her back in. She was shifting through papers on the kitchen table without actually sorting them. The wall of glass doors filled the kitchen with dazzling light. It gave a false cheeriness to the silently hostile kitchen. My sister, Elise, was sitting at the counter frowning at her laptop, irritated at some email or another. She would type furiously for a

minute then run her hand over her faded blonde ponytail as a nervous habit. I walked over to her and pointed at Mom. She held up a hand, and I glanced again at Mom who was continuing to shuffle the papers. “Yes?” Elise had finally looked up. “The notes aren’t working anymore. I thought you said they helped,” I whispered to Elise knowing mom couldn’t hear well, but still wanting to be safe. Elise sighed and rubbed her face, “I think the notes have become just a part of the house now so she’s started to ignore them.” “Well then we need to come up with a new system.” “I know that, Naomi, I’m the one that actually lives here,

remember?” She snapped. I was about to retort that I basically lived here too, but Mom unintentionally interrupted. “Do you girls want lunch? I can make us sandwiches,” Mom’s voice rang out right behind me. I hadn’t even heard her move. She was like a little ninja in fuzzy slippers. Elise immediately switched from snapping at me to laughing, “Mom you’re so quiet when you walk we need to get you a bell!” Mom starting laughing too, and even I cracked a smile. Then the memory of Mom cooking soupy eggs this morning hit my stomach and I immediately said, “how about I make us some sandwiches?” “Oh! Is it lunch time already?” Mom asked. “Time flies by when I’m out working in my yard. Did you know this yard was what made me fall

in love with this house? Dad and I looked at other houses when we first moved here, but I saw that yard and immediately said to him, ‘make an offer.’ To this day I still love working in that yard.” She started to slide open the door and grabbed her stained white gardening hat off a hook next to it, then announced, “I’m going out to take the flags out of the pots.” I glanced at Elise, who sprang up to remind Mom to leave the flags. I sighed and walked to grab the bread rolls out of the drawer. Elise walked over to the fridge and began pilling on the granite island the abundance of sandwich choices we had bought at the grocery store yesterday. Mom had walked over to the sliding glass door and was staring wistfully at her yard. “Did I ever tell you girls about the time I had 400 people over for a 87

fundraiser? It was huge!” Mom threw up her hands to show just how large the party was. “We had so much food, and I had to coordinate so much.” I remembered how fabulous that party was, I was there. Not that I would ever remind Mom of that. “Ciabatta roll, Mamma?” I asked and she merely nodded, still transfixed by the sprawling, bright green yard. In fact, I had been to every event Mom had ever planned, she was the queen of social events. I grabbed a ciabatta role and started sawing away at it. I remembered the first event I was allowed to attend. It was mid-June and the California weather was at its finest. I saw her standing in the yard under a glossy white tent. She wore a classic black dress with a thin strand of pearls and was warmly greeting every person who trickled into the event. Little me was in awe of the way my mother commanded the event. She had an answer to everything and no detail was left untouched. I was standing next to the doorway when a waiter with both hands full of garnished appetizers didn’t realize there was a step down from the kitchen to the patio. Pink fish and crackers splayed across the red brick. The waiter looked horrified and for a second I thought he might try to blame me. My mom quickly walked to the opposite end 88

of the yard and directed everyone’s attention to a special speaker. As their gaze was elsewhere, the staff quickly cleaned up the mess. The only recognition of the mishap was my mother winking at me as I scurried to change dresses. Something warm roused my attention back to the present. I glanced down at my hand and muttered a word my Mother would have never used. My hand was split open down the center, gushing because it was long but not too deep. The bread had begun soaking up my blood like a sponge. I held out my hand and ran to put it under cold water. Blood spots dotted my path. Elise quickly closed the fridge to grab paper towels and cleaned up my mess. “I’m so sorry, Mom, I’ll get a new roll once I wrap my hand,” I said, now holding a rag to my injured hand. “That’s okay Naomi, I’m not hungry,” she didn’t even turn to see why I was apologizing. Elise and I looked at each other. “But Mom, you said just a minute ago you wanted a sandwich,” Elise calmly reminded her. “Did I? Well, I guess I will eat it then,” Mom reluctantly sat at the table, purposefully placing herself to see out the window. Elise scurried around the kitchen whipping together a sandwich and

sliding it in front of mom before she could change her mind. “Did I ever tell you girls about how we got this fabulous yard?” Mom said in between her petite bites of her sandwich. “No Mamma, you didn’t,” Elise responded with a smile as she sat down next to mom with her own plate of food. “I ate already so I’m going to run upstairs and,” I held up my hand. Elise nodded in acknowledgement as Mom continued her yard story. I used my hip to slide open the heavy oak door and went straight to the back staircase, the deep green carpet looked like freshly mowed grass against the dark stained wood. My tennis shoes left dents, proof of my earlier vacuuming, as I jogged up the stairs. I slid open another oak door and walked through the bathroom, decidedly ignoring my reflection as I grabbed a bandage. When you haven’t showered in two days and have been wearing your husband’s Star Wars shirt for both those days, you too will avoid looking at your reflection. I walked into the yellow guest room. The once glaringly bright walls had lost their shine about a decade ago and the room had piles of Christmas boxes that had yet to be packed away, but it was still my favorite room in the whole house. I unceremoniously plopped onto

the yellow rose sheeted bed and just let myself sink for a second. The current crater that threatened to swallow me whole had to have been created by my husband. I felt a sharp pang thinking about him home alone with the dog. I hadn’t seen him in weeks since I had been so busy with Mom. I lifted up my cut hand and peeled off the rag. The cut looked fine and as I tightly wrapped it I thought about how there was a time when I would have asked mom to bandage it for me, not hide it from her. I tried to call my daughter and when she didn’t pick up, I tried my husband, who also failed to answer. I got an automatic reply from him that simply said, “In meeting, can’t talk.” A second later I got a quick text from Amber saying, “Studying for a big test. Roomies sick, yuck! Praying that I don’t get it too.” This was followed by a barf face and a sparkle heart which was our symbol for I love you. I typed out a long reply explaining what had been happening here, but then deleted it and opted for a quick response saying I was praying for her and loved her. Why should my kid bear my burdens? The question only slightly pertained to my own mother downstairs. The weight that had slowly started to release, resettled in my chest. I turned as if simply moving away 89

could dissipate the heaviness that was now deep within me. I saw the chair covered in clothes with the ironing board leaning precariously against it. I thought back to when Henry and I were first married. Mom had flown out to us to help us move into our new house. Henry and Mom had been out at Target as I was unpacking boxes in our master bedroom. Henry walked back in first, carrying cheetah print lamps. I started laughing, “Nice taste, honey.” He grinned back at me, “I knew you liked this print. It’s cheesy, but they were cheap and we can make our first place as cheesy as we want.” Trailing behind him came my tiny Italian mother carrying a giant brand new ironing board. I glared at Henry who threw up his hands in defense, “She insisted since it was from her, she should be the one to carry it in to you.” “Mom, let me help,” I insisted.

“No, no, no,” she swatted me off as she placed the board in the corner. “You are working on making me a grandchild, you will lift nothing.” Henry turned bright red at the mention of kids. “I’m not even pregnant mom,” I said while trying not to giggle at my husband’s face. “You will be soon though, trust me. All good Catholic girls get pregnant as soon as they are married. That’s what I did,” she said with a wink at me. My poor husband now looked

like he was really going to explode from embarrassment so I quickly said, “Henry why don’t you open up the ironing board and iron out the shirts in that box by the side table. That way I can finally hang them in the closet and put away that box.” Henry practically tripped he moved so fast in relief that the topic had changed. Mom dug through a box then walked over and handed him my iron from college. “You know I’m the one who does all the ironing in my household, I find it relaxing. Dave even set up a TV in our bathroom so I can watch shows while I iron,” Mom announced proudly. Henry had finished setting up the board and was now beginning to iron his first shirt on the large end of the board. “I’ve never seen anyone iron on that side,” Mom stated intrigued. “It’s so you get more of the fabric covered at a time,” Henry responded. “Well I’ll be,” Mom looked surprised. “I’ve never done it like that.” “It’s super easy, I’ll show you,” Henry took out the next shirt and explained it to mom then handed her the iron and let her try. Mom smiled up at Henry and they laughed about something. I had heard the story of Henry teaching Mom to iron every time she walked

into her bathroom and saw her ironing board. It didn’t annoy me so much as it made me sad to think back on when she had been fully Mom still.

For what is the body without a soul?

A sharp pain hit my stomach. I missed my Mom. The woman sitting downstairs was no longer my mother. She was a shadow of the former powerhouse that had been Caroline Moretti. “You’re a thief,” whispered a voice inside me. I wanted to scream, yell, rip apart the disease that had stolen my mother from me. But you can’t reverse dementia. Completely ignorant of my frustrations, my brain still kept whispering that same phrase over and over. I slid off the bed, went over to the scratched up wooden desk and riffled through drawers. There were so many legal pads, but I finally found a crisp white notepad. Trashing several lifeless pens, I found one that could actually write. Words flowed straight onto the page as my brain quieted down, comforted that I had taken the phrase “you’re a thief” and made it into an entire poem.

The culprit will not be contained.

“The soul slowly fades. Draining out of the body Minute by minute. Hour by hour. Day by day. Until there’s nothing left.

And yet, the cause cannot be caught,

It hungers on, eating away at all you love and cherish. But I see you. And I name you. You. Are. A. Thief.” My daughter used to say since I’m left handed words flow not from my brain but straight from my heart. I sat back and smiled at the poem finally feeling some relief from the mountain of emotions inside. I texted Elise to play some Speed Scrabble with Mom so she wouldn’t try to come up and I could throw away the expired makeup that mom hoards in the bathroom. Her response was, “I took the day off from my full time job to catch up on important work. Not here to babysit a grown woman. How long does it take to wrap a hand? Glad to see you’re not bleeding to death up there.” I ignored the jab and replied, “Decluttering will help Mom and I can’t do that if she sees me throwing away her things. Just give me fifteen minutes?” I could feel her resentment seeping into the second floor, and she finally 91

responded that she could play about two rounds but then had to make some calls so I had better come down soon. I quickly ran into Mom’s bathroom, avoiding the always popped-out iron. I threw away some bottles of foundation that had congealed when I was probably still teasing my hair and wearing sweat bands. I tried not to make anything look too neat, since she would get suspicious that things were missing if it looked too organized. I went back downstairs as Elise sighed with relief, grabbed her phone and ran outside. Mom was cleaning up scrabble tiles and looked up and said, “Oh, Naomi, I was just getting out Scrabble to see if you wanted to play a round with me.” “Sure mom, but then can we go through your closet when we’re done? You did great and got rid of so many things yesterday,” I begged. “Well, after this I will probably need a nap, but maybe after that,” she sighed. I recognized this as code for she would lie down then hide in the yard so she wouldn’t have to get rid of anything else. Mom dispensed out tiles, then flipped hers over and exclaimed, “Oh, I have so many vowels, but drat I have a ‘z.’ I never know what to do with z’s. Did I ever tell you the story of how Dave was doing this 92

personality test and his group went late and he looked at the clock and exclaimed that they should order pizza. Everyone was so surprised but he told them to not worry because the event started at seven and Caroline will have dinner on the table by seven.” I smiled but I recognized about a dozen sentences missing from that story. Mom placed down the word ‘paralyzing’ and I decided to not correct her. From the nonmissing “a” I spelled out ‘devastation.’ Mom exclaimed that we both had such incredible words this round. “How is Amber doing?” She inquired while we grabbed new tiles. “She’s good. Her roommates are sick though and since she has a test next week, she really can’t afford to get sick too.” “That’s a shame.” Elise came back in looking annoyed. “What happened?” I asked. She shrugged, “Work stuff, you wouldn’t get it though, since you don’t actually work.” I chose to once again ignore her. Mom was focusing on a new word and clearly didn’t hear us, but looked up to see Elise. She quickly said, “Elise dear, did you know Amber is sick? I hope it’s nothing

serious, you know the flu is going around right now.” “No, Mamma, Amber isn’t sick, just her roommates are,” I quickly interjected. “Well that’s a relief, I know you told me she was sick last week, so I’m glad she’s better.” “No Mom, she was never,” “Why don’t you go take a nap, Mom?” Elise interrupted. “That’s a great idea, I think I will go lie down. I’m always so tired nowadays,” Mom shuffled to the front stairs and as soon as she was out of sight, Elise whipped her gaze to me. “Naomi, you can’t tell Mom anything remotely bad, she always manages to hold on to the negative things,” Elise snapped. “It was just an update on Amber! I was being honest,” I answered. “Well don’t. Think more about what you say before you tell Mom, okay?” “I just don’t like having to filter what I say to her,” I replied. She glared at me for a moment then seemed to soften a little. Taking the opening, I tentatively brought up, “I don’t really want to get into this with you right now, but I think we should talk about

getting a care giver to help with Mom. Both you and Dad work so much and I think you need full time help. Dad agrees with me.” She stared at me for a moment before replying, “You’re right, we do need full time help, but it shouldn’t be a stranger it should be you,” and just like that, any chance of empathy she had been forming towards me vanished.

your sight?”

I tried to reply but her phone rang again and she slid back out the door. An hour later, Mom was up from her nap and I wrangled her into going through a small section of her over-filled walk-in closet. Most people would walk into a closet that large and wonder how anyone could ever fill it, but Mom had somehow managed to overflow it with piles of clothes blocking the entire back row.

The front door was wide open eliminating the possibility of Mom just wandering the back yard. As we ran out the front, I countered, “Is that seriously what you think Elise? That Mom is ruining your life and I’m just here to help you? Because if that’s what you think, then maybe you shouldn’t have lived at home all these years. If Mom is such a burden to you, then you could leave and be a real grown up for once.”

We had sorted into three piles, definitely keep, maybe, and can go. After half an hour Mom got antsy and I told her that we could take a break and she could go downstairs. I grabbed a trash bag and quickly stuffed the ‘can go’ items before she could come back and change her mind. I was just stuffing a sparkling blue scarf into the bag when I heard pounding on the stairs. The pounding was quickly followed by a flushed Elise appearing in the doorway and yelling, “Mom’s gone! Why did you let her out of

“Me?” I shouted back as we both shot down the stairs. “To quote you, “I’m not here to babysit a grown woman.” Elise groaned, “I watch her all the time. I am so behind on work. That is literally the only reason you come here. So you can watch Mom and I can get back to my life.”

“How dare you! You left us and I had to stay here and help.” “That’s what people do, Elise! They grow up, leave home, make their own homes.” “I couldn’t leave home, Mom needed me!” “No, Elise you needed Mom,” I replied. “I could have left. I don’t need her. I don’t even need you,” I would have believed her if her voice hadn’t cracked on the last 93

sentence. I forced myself to calmly reply, “Elise, I know this is hard. I understand that you have always relied on Mom to take care of you and now you can’t anymore. But I am literally the only person in the world who knows how you feel right now about Mom, so please stop blaming me and pushing me away. Let’s not pretend me staying here would have changed what is happening. Neither of us knew this was coming. We can’t change that but we can change how we face this now.” Elise’s face crumpled into relief and I was shocked at my impact of my speech until she pushed past me and yelled, “Mom!” Mom was standing at the end of the cul-desac. She turned and her face was contorted in pure rage. “Where is my car?” She demanded. “I know you girls hid my keys from me this morning, but hiding my car? This is a new low girls.” “Mom, no one hid your car. This isn’t even our house,” I explained. “How dare you speak to me like that young lady. I am not a toddler and I think I would know my own house. I’ve lived here for over fifty years.” She turned to walk up the nearest driveway. She hesitated and I could tell her brain was battling itself. I slowly walked up to her and gently 94

wrapped her in a hug. For a second I could feel her. She was there, present, all of her. The moment was fleeting though, she pulled away confused and asked if I was mad at her for losing her keys. I calmly told her that Elise had found them (they were in a pot next to a flag). Then Elise and I slowly guided her back to the house. Once she was inside I started to go upstairs, but Elise grabbed my arm. “I’m sorry I lashed out at you. It’s so hard being here, Naomi. I know you see her declining, but I see her every day; slowly, but steadily slipping away. And I just really want my Mom back,” Elise sniffled, holding back tears. “It’s not fair to take it out on you though, I know you’re helping as much as you can.” I pulled her into a tight hug, “I know it’s hard, but we have to do this together.” She nodded and hugged me back. … A month later I approached the house. I texted Elise that I was there, then let myself in. I opened the door and heard Mom bustling about in the kitchen. I walked in and as she turned around, she smiled and said, “Hello! Have you ever been to my house before?”

REVERSE POEM by Hailey Hubenak Love is impossible And I will never accept the thought that True love exists It may seem shocking, but “Love never fails” Is just a lie that we tell ourselves. “Envy, greed, and lust always win” And all people will know that. What I say is true, Hatred Destroys all Love Graphic Art by Sophia Baldwin

It has happened before and it will happen again. Kindness, patience, love, and mercy used to flourish, But this is no longer true.

Death, hatred, and envy rule, It is said that All goodness is fading It can no longer be decided that The light of love still burns It is clear to see: The darkness of the world is closing in. We should not be so foolish as to believe that There is still hope Soon, everyone will know that The last evidence of goodness has been erased. Soon, no one will believe that There is a flame of love that still burns. Soon, all of this will be reality. Soon, all of this will come true. Unless we reverse it… 97

Photo by Gracyn Freiling

100

Photo by Will Bower

Photo by Emma Russell 101

102

PERSPECT IVE, a poem by Lydia duPerier To see an ocean in a puddle To see a boulder in the sand To see a tree in a seed To see a world in the land To see the heavens in a cloud To see a wish in a weed

Photo by Abigail Dees

To see the bigger in the lesser Is to be caged and then freed.

103

104 Photo by Lauren McDaniel

Jake Allen ‘20

23, 24, 25, 26, 27

Aisling Ayers ‘19 Ava Ayers (10)

52, 57, 84, 85 56

Sophia Baldwin (10)

50, 51, 66, 96, 97

Amber Bormann ‘19

11, 38, 59

Index

Bold denotes faculty, staff or alumni.

Cody Lane George (12)

Alexa Georgelos (12)

Royal Petrie ‘17 Cover, 5, 8, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 31, 34, 42, 43, 44, 45, 56, 62, 80, 81

Carissa Georgelos ‘18

Annie Ramsey (11)

Hannah Gray (11)

Jessica Gombert

109

Emma Russell (12) 22, 25, 53, 56, 101, 102, 103

Jayne Goodman ‘20

70, 71

Emmy Hamilton (11)

Christina Hammock

Hope Cordes ‘15 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94

Quincie Hartman (12)

Jack Cupit ‘20

Piper Hoke (11)

Abby Bower (10) Will Bower ‘20

54, 74 75, 100

Hailey Hubenak (11)

96, 97

18, 27, 82

Gracie Janse (12)

28, 39

Abigail Dees ‘20 24, 36, 48, 53, 56, 72, 73, 77, 104

C. Eden Kidd ‘20

35, 36, 37, 83

Jill Daniels Kira Drawe ‘18

9, 12

Ludia duPerier ‘20

105

Anson Eggerss ‘20

Cassidy Egli (11)

Gracyn Freiling ‘20

98, 99

Jax Knox ‘19

33, 76

Ashlynn Lavezzari (11) Gwyn Lewellyn (11) Lauren McDaniel (11) Natalie Perez ‘13

Hillary Short

21, 42, 67

86, 87, 89, 90, 91, 92, 94, 95

Lily Shrode (12)

Summer Stolle ‘16

Katie-Grace Styles (12)

Sam Tippets ‘14

40, 41

Hannah Rose Tong ‘19

46, 47

Charlotte Walker ‘20 Paul Williams

49, 64, 65 37, 57

Margaret Viña ‘20

Nathan Zuniga ‘19

10, 29, 58

5, 6, 19, 54, 62 106 5, 60, 78

105

Editorial Process

School Information

Magazine Specifications

All verbal and visual content is

The Geneva School of Boerne

This publication was created with

solicited and selected by The

exists to provide a classical

Adobe InDesign Creative Cloud

Calliope staff of Geneva School of

education from a Biblical

using Audrey and Lato fonts. This

Boerne. A panel of teachers across

worldview, to equip students

volume was released in digital

each discipline selects the finalists

for a lifetime of learning, service

format and limited run of print

who submit their work voluntarily

and leadership to the glory of

copies due to COVID-19. It was

outside of a formal class. All final

Jesus Christ.

originally due to be completed in

work is approved by the adviser

May of 2020 but was delayed due

and headmaster. Submissions are

to school closure. The work largely

accepted from students, alumni,

begun by Gillian Loflin and Becky

faculty and parents.

Ryden was completed during the 2020-2021 schoolyear by Sydney Dennis and Christina Hammock. The Calliope is distributed for free at the Geneva School of Boerne.

genevaschooltx.org 830.755.6101 Rhetoric School Population: 224 Rhetoric School Faculty: 31 106

Thank you to Rob Shelton (headmaster), Becky Ryder (former adviser), Christina Hammock (current adviser), Sydney Dennis (2021 Calliope

Credits

Acknowledgements

Editor) and Alexa Georgelos (Geneva Quarterly Executive

Photo by Jessica Gombert

Design Editor).

107

Contributors Gwyn Lewellyn

Emma Russell

Hillary Short

Charlotte Walker

Emmy Hamilton

Royal Petrie

Jake Allen

Hope Cordes

Ashlynn Lavezzari

Summer Stolle

Nathan Zuniga

Katie-Grace Styles

Piper Hoke

Sophia Baldwin

Jack Cupit

Amber Bormann

Gracie Janse

Cody Lane George

Margaret Viña

Jill Daniels

Anson Eggerss

Jax Knox

Quincie Hartman

Hailey Hubenak

C. Eden Kidd

Aisling Ayers

Christina Hammock

Carissa Georgelos

Gracyn Freiling

Abigail Dees

Abby Bower

Jayne Goodman

Kira Drawe

Will Bower

Paul Williams

Alexa Georgelos

Lauren McDaniel

Hannah Gray

Lydia duPerier

Sam Tippetts

Natalie Perez

Jessica Gombert

Annie Ramsey

Lily Shrode

Hannah Rose Tong

Cass Egli

113 Cascade Caverns Road Boerne, Texas 78015 GENEVASCHOOLTX.ORG 108