calliope 2015-2016
Table Of Contents Artwork by Phoebe Mills............................................................................Front cover A Letter From the Editor.............................................................................................3 The Depths by Avery Faires.........................................................................................4 Artwork by Emilie Krysa.............................................................................................4 Sewanee Summer by Phoebe Mills..........................................................................5-6 Artwork by Haley Mull...............................................................................................5 Artwork by Katie Brown..............................................................................................6 Nature's Unknown Importance by Kendall McKoon.................................................7 Artwork by Kelli Lewis................................................................................................7 A Violin's Journey by Olivia Combs............................................................................8 Artwork by Emilie Krysa.............................................................................................9 Homo Sapiens by Annsleigh Jones............................................................................10 Artwork by Callie Nevans..........................................................................................11 The Degradation of Imagination by Jen Andrews...............................................12-14 Artwork by Haley Mulls............................................................................................13 Artwork by Rebecca Guhde......................................................................................14 Hostage by Olivia Fannon.........................................................................................15 Artwork by Larkin Brown..........................................................................................15 Learning to Laugh in the Rain by Kate Schedel.......................................................16 Artwork by Larkin Brown..........................................................................................16 The Melody of the Sun by Meg Marshall...........................................................17-18 Winter's Tears by Reagan Sanborn...........................................................................19 Artwork by Phoebe Mills............................................................................................20 brontide by Nikki Goldbach.......................................................................................21 Tell Me a Tale by Clare Hamn.................................................................................22 Artwork by Molly Sims.............................................................................................22 Artwork by CeCe Turner...........................................................................................23 Untitled by Anonymous.............................................................................................24 Artwork by Sophie Caughman....................................................................Back cover
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A Letter From the Editor Dear Readers, I am absolutely ecstatic to introduce you to the 2015-2016 Girls Preparatory School literary magazine, Calliope. In Greek mythology, the nine muses, all daughters of Zeus, ruled over the arts and sciences and offered inspiration in those subjects. Calliope was the muse of epic poetry, and her name means “beautifully voiced.� The editors and I hope this magazine, like the muses, serves as inspiration to those who read it. The talented hands and minds of your peers have created each piece, and I applaud every single person that submitted her work to the magazine this year. The editors and I have big plans for Calliope, and we hope you enjoy it as much as we do. Editor in Chief, Avery Faires
Editorial Staff
Editor in Chief:
Assistant Editors:
Avery Faires
Annsleigh Jones Meg Marshall Kate Schlegel Delaney Swann
Layout Editors: Olivia Fannon CeCe Turner
Faculty Advisor: Corrie White
Assistant Faculty Advisor: Lee Wright
A special thanks to Anne Exum and Amy Walters! 3
The Depths
Avery Faires, ‘18 I am confined by the maze I have made in my head. Each problem I am faced with Leads to another path I could take In this eternal struggle to find my way out. If there is a solution, the likeliness of me finding it is small, but that won’t stop me from wandering down each arm of the maze I have decided to enchant myself with. I like to think that I am a hard worker. It pleases me to believe I will give each task I am faced with my all and stop at nothing until I have completed what I started. This mindset, though, does not apply to the troubles I face in the most ominous of nights where my thoughts dance around the fire I am too afraid to put out. Fear has stopped me from being unstoppable. The future, the unknown, God, death. Without these trepidations hiding behind the towering walls that trap me, I think I would be able to defeat the dancing troubles and put out the fire. I think I would be able to work my way through my problems and eventually get myself out of the mess I placed myself in. But no. They still hide. Waiting for me to turn the corner And face them on my own.
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Emilie Krysa, Emilie Krysa, ‘16 ‘16
Sewanee Summer Phoebe Mills, '18
Nothing could give me peace--I guess that’s mainly because there’s so much going on around me. And inside of me too, I suppose, but that’s all just a result of the external issues. Nothing seemed to be able to calm me when I was at home with everything--I had tried singing so loud that I could hear nothing else, drawing everything inside that couldn’t find its way out, and dancing until my head spun. But nothing gave me peace. Everything weighed on me--the need to hold it together, the need to continue to be productive, and the need to act like things were okay to the outside world. Pressure piled on my head and I felt like a newborn baby screaming with the new weight of the world on his tiny, little, fragile skull. Except I couldn’t scream. I needed to get out. There was always something beckoning about a chilly, drizzly day, and with my mama and brother away, I thought I should act on this sudden, unusually accessible free will and free time. With the thoughts of the morning flitting around my head like a caged bird, I set off into the expanse of mountain foliage. I held the wooden handle of my black umbrella lightly, thoroughly enjoying the portable cocoon of safety and protection that it provided. I tilted my chin up, watching the afternoon sunlight glancing off the glittering leaves, and allowed myself to bathe in the freshness of the light. Leafy trees were laden with water, succumbing to its weight and culminating in a little arbor over the dirt path that lead onto the Sewanee campus. Everything behind my eyes felt burdened and heavy, like the leaves, but a small smile crept past my lips. I bought a small drink at a local coffee shop called Stirlings and with the heat of the paper cup warming my fingertips, I wandered anywhere I wanted. I had nowhere to be, nowhere to go, no curfew, an umbrella, and a happy little cup with raindrops on the lid. The smell of coffee from the safe umbrella air mingled with the damp and leafy aroma of the earth on which I trod. Giddy with freedom, I contemplated my options; I could get more food at the bookstore; I could sit and draw; I could meet up with a friend. I decided to wander around, making it my goal that if I felt even the slightest inclination to do something, I would do it. Haley Mull, '16 The first thing I thought of soundlessly tugged on the chords of my mind like a bell ringer in his tower. Although it wasn’t bells that I was hearing, here was actually sound dimly filling the air around me. A huge gothic monument of a building loomed before me, reverberating with interior sound waves; the organ player who I thought only came on Sundays was inside practicing. My mama would always tell me stories of going to church to listen to the music. She’d have this enormous revelation while listening to the beauty of it and as someone in need of such an experience, I thought I might as well give it a shot. I placed my hand on the jagged stone of the wall, vaguely feeling the music from the outside, wondering with eyes closed what it would be like to be inside. Whether it was beautiful or terrible, I wanted so badly to internalize those chords that were within that huge church.I struggled to heave the door open. It was thick, weighted, and intimidating, but as soon as the first centimeter of a crack had been opened, I could finally hear the music. Deep bellows and high notes echoed and swirled around my fragile and timid body. As I slowly 5
crept in, something deep within me was welling up and I felt a tugging urge to burst out and dance until I was sore, but I couldn’t. Soft candles illuminated hundreds of red velvet pews, colorful stained glass windows turned the floor into a jeweled mosaic, and the notes of the organs soared. But my smile reminded me of something, something that I was missing. What was I missing? Why did I not feel complete? Why was I standing in that place hearing that, and how could I feel so much? Churches are for holy and righteous people, people like my mama who understand God and fully appreciate everything they have been given. Nothing made sense. I couldn’t be there; I didn’t belong there. In my mind the holy water tipped, the chips of glass were shards in my eyes, and the faces of the prophets taunted me for thinking I could come in there. My feet pounded hard on the cold stone floor. I shoved the door open, much easier this time, and after passing through it I calmly walked away.
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Katie Brown, '16
Nature’s Unknown Importance Kendall McKoon, ‘18
Feet trampling over me, pounding, Pounding like a headache that won’t go away. It won’t stop, and then more come. Thump, thump, thump go their shoes. Thump, thump, thump goes my raging migraine. Soon enough they all settle in, And once they’re seated Around the warm, crackling fire, My headache dulls, and I relax. The fire is so alive, Flames dancing everywhere, Chasing the stars. I’m stuck where I am. Underneath the laughing people With their clumping boots And loud, youthful laughs. I’m just an old place, Once I was so young and alive, But now I have dulled down into nothing Like the headache I had moments ago, Faded into something that is barely noticed. But now I know that one girl above me has taken notice of my struggle To be noticed and not be so lonely. She has paid attention and sympathized. She has taken me in with her eyes. And now she will go on and share her story Of how one time she noticed that the ground their pounding boots walked on Is not something to take for granted. Because this surface that you are walking on Is me. And I am so old. I’m just an old place. That’s what you think, but I really know everything That happens on top of this grass and under those stars, In the crisp air and out of the house. For I am what you walk all over. I’ve been with you since the start. I know every beat of your heart. Thump, thump, thump go their shoes. Tap, tap, tap goes the girl’s pencil against the paper to share The story of nature’s unknown importance.
Kelli Lewis, ‘19
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A Violin’s Journey Olivia Combs, ‘19
Calloused fingers tighten around my neck. A held breath is released as I am shifted then lifted. The knobs are twisted and the strings stretch and loosen until the perfect pitch is reached, Making harmony in beautiful fifths. The strings snap, tugged from the fingerboard in a rough pizzicato. Pluck. Pluck. Pluck. Creating spots of sound suspended in the air. A soft and tender caressing descends upon me as the bow begins to glide. The gentle timbres of the low strings vibrate throughout my delicate frame. The notes slide through the air as a tranquil waltz is teased out of me, Transporting the audience to a lakeside picnic with children carelessly laughing. The summer sun fills them up with gentle warmth, But then the notes become vigorous, faster, stronger, louder. Sound is ripped out of me and the music becomes a chaotic frenzy, A fiery explosion of passionate resonations. The melody slows once more to a somber, melancholy tone, Rich with vibrato and thick with emotion, As fingers dance heavily along my spine. A world of grey skies, rain, sadness, and destruction, And the last notes are painstakingly drawn out of me. A thick, heavy blanket made of silence engulfs the room for eternity. I can practically feel the audience sitting in a moment of catharsis, holding their breath, My music still reverberating throughout their bones. I feel content as I am packed up again, Because I know that I have touched them, Forced them to feel something. I release a sigh, as I am strapped back in. The lid closing, enveloping me in a blackish nothing, And I wait‌ For light to shine anew.
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Emilie Krysa, ‘16 9
Homo Sapiens Annsleigh Jones, ‘18 When I was little I never understood why I couldn’t feel the earth spinning. I liked to lie down in my bed and be as still as I could, down to my diaphragm, down to my marrow, eyes closed until I felt like I was on a merry-go-round. I guess that was the lack of oxygen, but it felt a whole lot like the cosmos and I were rotating. Once I bit through my tongue. I was seven years old, and someone knocked me off the jungle gym. My chin hit the bar below and my teeth banged together with my tongue in the middle. Blood filled my mouth in an instant, as quickly as the universe expanding in the first moments after its birth. I cried and ran to the teacher, blood running down my chin. The nurse didn’t know what to do, so she had me keep spitting blood in the sink until my mother got there. The other day the orthodontist made my mouth bleed more than usual. It tasted primordial, warm and organic. I thought about April of first grade and how I hadn’t lost a tooth in years and the feel of a root soft between my tongue and gum. Teeth are part of your skeleton. On some level I guess we all know that, but it’s weird, isn’t it? Those are bones. Those are small bones, the first step in your metabolic process, the grievances of new mothers since fur-covered creatures started walking on two legs. There’s a theory that the webbing between our fingers and toes is because we used to be aquatic, fleeing to the quiet, dark safety of the ocean when fire and melted rock at excesses of two thousand degrees spewed into the sky and covered the sun. That explains mermaids, at least. Look at those footprints running straight into the waves—see them getting washed away, see the roiling surface of the water covered in ash like an oil spill, see whales dying of military sonar testing. Pretty outlandish. There’s another theory that the moon landing was faked, but have you ever been to Arizona? All conspiracies have some basis in truth. Manatees become mermaids, ape becomes man, and magma becomes lava, at that same time that my baby teeth are growing in. 10
Callie Nevans, ‘17
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The Degradation of Imagination Jen Andrews, ‘16
I want to warn you all that every time it rains, there is a spot in my driveway that turns into a lake. Yes, a lake. It is ten feet wide and eight feet deep and there are fish that live in there, so I used to tie a string to a stick and go fishing. I never caught a thing, but all the cars looked like badgers, and I swore that from my car seat, some badgers drove themselves. And I played with my hands, righty and lefty. Righty’s name was Robert and Lefty was Twixle, and they loved each other very much because Love Does Exist. But the boys on the playground, they never married me. Actually they were my puppies. They would wag their tails and bark three times, and I would say, “good boy,” because they were the best things in the world. Well, it was that and my dog. I loved my dog. He was a cream-colored mutt that blended right in with the snow, and when we would go on walks, he would walk me (not me walk him). But in the hallways, I was special. Because I hoverboarded over other students’ heads, or I jumped from blue square to blue square, because every other tile was made of lava. And during recess, my BFF’s (best friends forever, since forever is a LONG time) and I became wolves and dragons. Our children consisted of tennis balls and stuffed animals. Then, we would go to each other’s houses to build two story forts made of blankets and pillows, toys and trampolines. Then I became a superhero, because I put underwear on my head. I was no A-student, but an artist, because I’d whisper to the blank sheets of papers all my thoughts and ideas, because I lived in my own little world, where I was original, while my sticky little fingers were filled with Candy. Not chocolate, but candy, because candy is sweet and sugar is the key to happiness. And let’s see, my favorite pieces of candy were Sour Patch Kids and Swedish Fish, but let’s not forget that I was the runt of the pack, the smallest and the weakest, 12
But anything was possible. I could be a singer, a dancer, an artist, an athlete, even a financial advisor, Because the world was wide and time was slow. Too slow. But just slow enough that I could gather up my toys to make clean little messes in all the drawers and cupboards of my home because the best place to build houses is in the bathroom, but not under the bed (because that was where the spiders crawled out). But don’t worry, mama and daddy kept me safe, because I looked Just Like Them, and they would read me these large text stories full of simple plot lines of what was good and what was bad.
Until.
Haley Mull, ‘16
Until the words got smaller, and they were replaced by those that were purposeful and complicated, and I scratched my head and looked to my parents. I looked at my mother and father to only realized that I Was Different. But change is normal, and time was constant -ly changing, so I had to schedule and prioritize my time until anything turned into a fine line of something, And that something had to be strong and tough. 13
So I had to cut the sugar and become absolutely perfect, because I wasn’t original. Nothing is original, but I had to apply my skills and talents to become a scientist, not an artist, because science is way more useful than art. Therefore, energy can neither be created nor destroyed, because energy can go on forever, but friends are not forever, But finite. And I am just one of the crowd of the loss of things I love that slip from my grip Like my dog, who now blends in with the dirt. And the puppies who have grown into men, and I a woman and the “good boy” replaced by their names in my head until they become clichés under my breath, and I don’t know if I should be mad or sad or happy by this, but things change, we grow up, we learn new things, we meet new people, we become new people, and only to realize that in this world, Love Doesn’t Exist. From the inequality of the rich and poor, the pain, the poverty, the hunger, the sexism, terrorism, racism, competition, disease, laziness To the berated thoughts in my mind that berate me every night, of my faults, my failures, and imperfections, to what lies in the future for myself, my friends, and everyone else around me. And now I am driving home. My hands are on the wheel. I am the driver, and the car is just a car. I park my car in the driveway, open up my door and step out onto a lake, now just a dried slab of concrete. But, I forgot to mention something—that in the corner of my driveway there is this small drainpipe. And if I walk over, and look straight down into it, I can still see the fish, waiting for the next rain to come.
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Rebecca Guhde, '19 15
Hostage
Olivia Fannon, ‘19 She stares at me, not even taking her eyes off me to blink. Her hair lies around her face, encasing it. No, not encasing— swallowing. Shadows creep in from her hair to her cheek bones and up her small nose. The shadows overpower her eyes, leaving them only to surrender. I hear the eyes scream for help. I feel this sudden urge to help her, but I lose the stare game by forcing my eyes to turn away from the ones pleading in selfish fear of what would happen to me if I help. When the guilt grabs me, I look back. But I don’t hear the cries, the screams. I hear nothing. I see empty eyes. Immediately, I regret looking back, but I can’t look away. She holds my stare in a tight grip. The shadows no longer rest on her face. They bury into her sockets, darkening her eyes, dropping my stomach. My gut wraps around itself, and the air disappears in my lungs. I am petrified of the eyes, the shadows, the face. I am scared of her. The grip on my eyes loosens, and I break free, turning away from the mirror.
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Larkin Brown, '19
Larkin Brown '19
Learning to Laugh in the Rain
Larkin Brown, '19
Kate Schlegel, ‘18
I am learning to laugh in the rain. At 5, I knew that rain brought dead worms. Worms need rescuing, too. At 5, rainstorms were a synonym for work. At 10, rainstorms meant that I couldn't swim. I didn't want to miss any practices, But when the rain rolled in, We had to get out. At 10, rainstorms meant staying home. At 12, rainstorms meant dark skies Through the windows of the pool, Making me feel sluggish. At 12, rainstorms put me to sleep. Now, At fifteen, I am learning to laugh in the rain. Rain means a washing clean of allergies, An excuse for three cups of tea, A day darker than the blinding of normality, A day for rest and comfort. Rain has always been something for me to dance in, But I am still learning to laugh in the rain. 17
Melody of the Sun Meg Marshall, ‘18
Blank eyes stared at peeling floral wallpaper. Soft light filtered into the window, and Sarah Milford noticed each speck of dust the sunlight revealed. She sat rigidly in the aged brown recliner, and tried her best to think of nothing. She longed for nothing more than a blank mind, without a single melody permeating her concentration. Silence shrouded her home like a dense fog. In the corner of her eye, she could see her mother diligently scrubbing at the kitchen tile without a single whistled tune escaping her lips. Sarah knew her father was working within his office, driven to work harder by the persistent quiet. Books waiting to be read incessantly called for her attention, but faint outside noises kept her from keeping any focus. Footsteps, car horns, and chatter combined to create an addictive rhythm. Part of her yearned for more of this delectable tune, but she quickly scolded herself for having such disgraceful thoughts. If someone found out she kept having these thoughts… she shuddered, unable to even contemplate the consequences. The law is right; the law is good; there is no sense in breaking the law, she reminded herself. Her eyebrows furrowed as she tried harder to force the remnants of music out of her cluttered mind. Music was a distraction in the past. It kept society from achieving its goals and restrained people from working to their full potential. Sarah knew this – she knew that her world was much better without music. Still, she couldn’t help but notice the emptiness of a television program without a backing track and her mind was continuously creating new rhythms out of mundane noises. Usually Sarah had little trouble muffling her rebellious desires. She participated in conversation at dinner about how glad she was that music was gone. She cried at the movies even without the momentous crescendos that once accompanied the most emotional moments. She joined her friends in scoffing at the protesters who played their “instruments,” composed of cardboard and string, in front of the capitol building. Recently, however, the melodies in her mind had become almost impossible to ignore. Schoolwork was hopeless without total silence, and even then Sarah was somehow able to create her own tune. A few days earlier, her mother had caught her tapping her fingers on the table, but Sarah dismissed it as a “finger cramp.” Surely there had to be some way to stop this, Sarah thought, but she had no idea how.
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The wall continued to hold Sarah’s gaze until a throbbing headache interrupted her stream of thoughts. Her eyes closed in the hope of maintaining a fraction of peace. A distant memory called to her, seducing her with a vision of smiling faces and glaringly beautiful sunlight. Sarah saw her father, significantly younger, holding a vaguely familiar object. Colorful keys stretched across its body and her father began to hit them with a small stick. She could feel the lush grass beneath her feet, and the sunshine lovingly warmed her face. Her hands clung to the course fabric of her chair, as she desperately tried to stay in the dreamy world of her memory. A song floated through the air cheerfully. The melody crept out of the recesses of Sarah’s mind. Her mother’s voice echoed the words into her ears. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy…” As her mother sang, a grin stretched across Sarah’s face and the sweet taste of harmony filled her mouth. Uncontainable bliss filled her every thought. The law meant nothing in this dream world. It was devoid of anything but song. She reached towards her mother and she saw the familiar face beaming down at her. Sarah’s heart ached with joy. The voice of her mother and the instrument her father played filled her with an intoxicating cocktail of peacefulness and contentment. The lyrics of the song flooded into her mind so suddenly that she didn’t hear herself begin to sing the final line. “Please don’t take my sunshine away.” Sarah was jolted out of her daydream by the sound of her door being roughly opened. Before she could begin to process the mistake she had made, she saw them. The badges and blue uniforms confirmed her fear. “We’ve come to take you to a youth correctional facility, ma’am,” an officer with graying hair gruffly barked at her. Sarah shot a panicky glance at her mother. Her palms dampened with sweat and her breathing became erratic. Please, she silently begged, tell them I don’t need to go; I’m innocent. Her mother looked back at her with an eerily calm gaze, as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring. “I don’t understand,” Sarah cried frantically. “I haven’t done anything wrong!” The officer handed her a pink slip. Sarah scanned it quickly and saw her crime: Unauthorized exposure to music. Her eyes widened as she began to digest what she had done. Fear overwhelmed every fiber of her being. It had happened so quickly–who could have turned her in? Then she knew. Her mother clutched the telephone in her hand with an iron grip. Sarah made eye contact with her and she gave her a pitying look. “I was concerned about you. You’ve become so…distracted. Some time away will help you to understand the atrocity that music is. I’m doing this because I love you very much.” Sarah’s eyes widened while tears welled in them. The mother she saw before her could not be the same one as the memory. The law had blackened the sunshine that accompanied the music she recalled so vividly. She wanted to reassure herself that the law was right; the law was good, but instead she longed for the tune in her memory. Dread settled over her tense body–there was no way to avoid her crime. With that, the police handcuffed Sarah.
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WW
Winter’s Tears
Reagan Sanborn, ‘18 They say they aren’t the same with icy veins, Traveling in undetermined, intersecting paths. Not one of them is the other, but when they melt they are A puddle of see-through liquid, so clear you cannot separate a cloud from a star. When our frozen bodies thaw, we are spread so far, The banks of our lake grasp to contain us. All the identity we once pounded the Mother for Is now caught in the riptide of our wading waves. You and I say we not the same, but do I have red blood Like you have red blood, or is yours scarlet? Do I not have a muscle so swollen with the same air you breathe, I breathe? Yes, my eyes may be blue, but I see the same sky. We mix up our fingers and toes Until the frost comes again; in our woes, we drown.
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Phoebe Mills, ‘18
brontide Nikki Goldbach, ‘18
a storm approaches a person sits beneath a tree watching the clouds soaking up the shade listening to the fervent tremors there is a space of opportunity a moment in time where all harm could be avoided safety resides only a few yards away but this blinding flash of calm is not taken the person sits mutely waiting the storm is creeping nearer devouring pieces of the sky choking them down greedily and a heart begins to flutter and fingers begin tapping on their own accord and minuscule nerves begin to spasm in an uncontrollable frenzy the storm is closing in on the halo of the sky above the tree eyes blink frantically it reaches the tree in the center of the thunder there is a moment of calm the leaves stop falling a pulse slows to a heavy and resigned thud fingers finish their silent sonata muscles calm eyes are blinded by closed lids the moment of impending pandemonium lasts a second and then is gone 22
Molly Sims, ' 18
Tell Me a Tale Clare Hamn, ‘18
The heaviness with which the water sinks, As it carries the jagged edges to the shore With rolling waves and turning tides, For weeks, Concealing secrets mayhap lost before. For with each and every shard of polished glass A life is lost amidst the chaos, alas, Long-forgotten by Nature’s decree. But buried beneath all the dirt and grime That coats what is left of the fragment Lies the same brilliant soul, Untouched by time, Simply waiting for someone to find it. A constant reminder, when faced with doubt: The tale of the heart is inside—not out. 23
CeCe Turner, '18
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Untitled Anonymous I've lost my magic, That thing that made me myself, That tied me to the long line of those named similarly. It's different now. I've changed, So my power is lost. I have other powers, sure, But this was one I loved. The sentence that should have set me on edge Became my greatest pride, Led me to want to get away. I still want to get away. But I can't now. I've lost that power as well. The image in the mirror is no longer distorted, No pills needed. Instead, I see my bodily form, Isn't this the one that's distorted? I don't look like this. There's no interesting commentary on my life. I don’t seem important anymore. Though still, there are moments of magic— A song on the radio, A small whisper in my head That begs the question, Aren't I still the same? I'll continue to find myself. Maybe then I can find the magic, too.
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Sophie Caughman, ‘16