Calliope 2023

CALLIOPE

THE SKY HAS NO LIMITS LUISA

OUR STAFF & CONTRIBUTORS

THE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Abbie O'Brien

THE TEAM

Klara Elezaj

Lauren Gingo

Luisa Henao

Kiera MacKenzie

Luciana Najjar

Aurora Voas

Violeta Torres

THE FACULTY ADVISORS

Ms. Lydia Tourtellotte

Ms. Katherine Welch

Ms. Madison Newman

THE

CONTRIBUTING ARTISTS

Carlota Azar Sanchez

Giacomo Bertone

Campbell Braun

Joseph DiPietro

Klara Elezaj

Lauren Gingo

Bao Quyen Ha

Luisa Henao

Donovan Hendrick

Avery Kurzontkowski

Rebecca Lamarche

Kate Landis

Luciana Najjar

Elena Polsky

Emma Russell

Hannah Watson

CONTRIBUTING WRITERS

Tiana Chahine

Lauren Gingo

Bao Quyen Ha

Luisa Henao

Sophie Hendrick

Franklyn Herasme

Violeta Torres

Stephen Willard

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Think back to 2019.

A year just like any other, we had no idea what was in store for our immediate futures. We had no idea how our community would have to adapt to face unprecedented challenges, nor the manner in which our connections would evolve under new pressures.

At this point, I had only a vague conception of what the student organization, Calliope, encompassed. I had heard a few announcements, recognized the editorial leadership team, and thought that it would be interesting to engage in such an activity. Even so, I had not joined the club, nor sought out additional information.

EVERLASTING RUINS KLARA ELEZAJ '23

“Why?”

one may ask.

No response can fully answer this, as the person I have become differs dramatically from my 2019 freshman self. The simple explanation is that I did not believe I had the qualifications. How could I, someone with limited artistic ability and only the start of a 9th-grade English education, judge the work of others? How could I adequately analyze the poetry of other students, recognizing differences between stylistic choices and grammatical errors? How could I possibly decide which visual art piece is “better” than another?

Not understanding the hidden purpose of the club, I decided that while I thought it would be incredible to eventually assume a leadership position within Calliope, I did not have the merits to take part.

Now what is this so-called “hidden purpose”?

Calliope is not only intended to edit and compile students’ artistic works into a cumulative magazine, but also to give members the opportunity to expand their knowledge in relevant skills. No prerequisites are required to take part. The only requirement is a foundational interest in the arts. Those without significant experience in the creation of, or in the editing and selection of pieces, are able to learn from the more senior members of the group, as well as the faculty involved. Calliope, thus, is an opportunity for growth and learning within an environment of creativity.

Moving forward to this year, I have achieved that which I had initially deemed impossible. I am not only on the editing staff but am also the Editor-in-Chief of the Calliope magazine. Being able to take on this role, at this point in time, has been an incredible opportunity, largely due to the manner in which I have been able to assist in some of the most transformative stages of the club’s lifetime. This was the first year in which Calliope has accepted more than prose, poetry, and visual arts. With creativity in Calliope’s form, I have assisted in the expansion of the magazine into realms of performance arts, and other individual creative pursuits, in addition to these previous categories. The structure of the club is still undergoing change, as well, with adaptations to the styles of editing work and team distributions and assignments.

As this artistic community has grown and changed, from collaborating virtually in the evenings of 2021, to involving a more diverse array of arts, to expanding roles of leadership, it has been an honor to be involved. I would like to thank everyone who has contributed to this year’s edition; our faculty advisors, leaders on the editorial team, Calliope club members, and all those who have submitted their work. I look forward to watching the continued growth of the student organization in the years to come.

WINNIE THE POOH LAUREN GINGO '25

LOVING AN IMPERFECT PERSON

BAO QUYEN HA '23

Han has a strong personality, so sometimes the ordinary person who has to give way in all arguments and anger is him. He is gentle, quiet, and to him, the most important thing in life is to be loved and to be with her.

They have been married for two years. It's not a long but meaningful journey with happiness and sadness, love and anger like newlyweds.

Billy likes literature, often spends his time composing. His works are posted on the net but do not attract many readers. He also has another passion for photography. He often takes wedding photos for young couples.

He loved her, loved so much.

So is she. Today, she returned home with a stormy day:

– Why don't you accept photos for my friend's wedding? She promised to pay.

– That day, I don't have time.

– Really?

– Yeah!

– There is no time. So you can take a break from writing that other novel and have as much time as you want.

– I know you might think I'm wasting my time. But I believe that one day people will know.

– I don't care. Anyway, I want you to take her wedding photos!

– I'm sorry. I'm really busy.

– Just this once, okay?

– I can't.

Negotiation failed. She still refused to accept the signal and sent him a message, “You have 3 days to accept my offer, or else…”.

His stubbornness and attitude made her think that she had to do everything to make him submit.

On the first day, she did not go to the kitchen, did not prepare dinner, did not watch movies, did not speak to him even a single sentence to show him her objection. But she

still slept in the bed with him. He did not care much because there was still enough money in his wallet to "maintain" life for a few more days.

On the second day, she reacted more strongly to a "surprise attack" by freezing everything in her husband's wallet and warning, "If you seek help from outside, you will have to receive unexpected consequences, okay?".

He is worried and tired of his wife's reaction. That night, before he went to bed, he softly begs her to let it go and hopes everything would go back to the way it was. She is determined not to give up, unless he accepts her will.

Then came Tuesday night, the due date she set. Things are moving away from the original intention of just being stubborn with him. Both of them were lying on the bed, but each of them looked at each other in a different way. Not a word for when he spoke:

– We need to talk.

– Unless it's a matter of wedding photography. Otherwise I don't want to listen.

– This is more important.

She remained silent.

He continued:

- We should get a divorce

She couldn't believe her ears, couldn't believe what she had just heard.

– I met another girl.

She was really shocked and angry, and wanted to scream at him, but for a moment she held back her emotions, so that he could say all the words. But her eyes were blurred. He took out a photograph from his pocket. The photo was placed in her purse inside her coat, the only place she had left unchecked yesterday. She was careless.

- She is a wonderful woman

Tears wet the pillow, she silently cried.

– She is also a woman of personality and sympathy.

Her heart was hurt, broken because he had kept a picture of another girl closest to his heart.

– She said she will always be a gentle shore and support him to pursue his passion for literature

after they get married.

Those two people are still planning to marry each other. Her heart ached. She was jealous because she had said the same thing to him in the past.

– She truly loves him and loves him because he is who he is, for what he is.

She was angry, in pain, and just wanted to scream loudly at him, "So what about me?".

– I think she won't force me to do what I really don't want.

She thought quietly, but couldn't contain her anger.

– Do… do you want to see the pictures I took for her?

– …!

He showed that girl's picture in front of her. She was angry and in great pain. The only thing she could do was to push his hand away and in an instant she couldn't stand it and slapped him.

He sighed, sadly. She cried.

He put the photos into wallet. She pulled her hand back, clutching it so he wouldn't see her trembling hand.

The lamp was off, he slept in silence. She turned on the lights, sat up. He slept. She could not open her eyes. She regretted what she had done to him.

She cried and thought about many things between the two of them. She wanted to wake him up. She wanted to talk to him, and wanted to talk a lot. She wanted to say that she would not force him to do as she pleased. She watched him sleep and when she calmed down again she wanted to see pictures of that girl.

She gently took out his wallet and looked at the photo. She wanted to cry and also wanted to laugh. The photo was very beautiful. The picture he took of her the first day they met. She gently put the photo back where it was, the place closest to his heart, and kissed him lightly on the lips.

He smiled. He was just pretending to sleep.

"You learn to love not by finding the perfect person, but by loving the perfection of someone less than perfect."

LITTLE THINGS

KLARA ELEZAJ '23

RAISED UNDER A GODLESS SKY

SOPHIE HENDRICK '23

I whisper these begging prayers

Filled with tears and hope Into your closed ear

In one ear and out the other I spoke to the empty sky With no one there to hear me cry

Instead you fill those ears

With the prayers of others; The ones who will praise you for a miracle, The miracle you would never grant me No matter how many times I ask, No matter how many times I come back Every day I kept up the fight But you tuned me out during the night

And even your house feels unforgiving I can’t sit without a sort of cold sickness rising in me Discomfort like I am about to explode, Slowly seeping across the floor

I know now you never listened To the prayers of a kid who was never taught different

EIGHTEENTH GREEN CAMPBELL BRAUN '23

THE WEEPING WILLOW

VIOLETA TORRES '24

I.

I came upon it past Old Stone Creek, where the Earth curved upward, and the stone path abruptly stopped. It stood tranquil and burned with warmth, a home for those who were willing to find it. The sun peaked out just above its canopy, shrouding the greenery with aurelian light and blinding my eyes for the second time that morning. I stepped forward across the grass, careful to avoid newly budding flowers. Spring had just begun, and the whole town smelled of dew and prosperity. However, the forest kept its lush, verdant scent just as its annual flourishing time began. As I approached the willow, I lightly grazed my fingertips along the wood, memorizing the ridges and their maze-like structure. Stones were placed on the ground, like steps to the base of its trunk, where its roots haphazardly expressed their presence and knotted themselves with the earth.

These steps of the willow tree became my sanctuary. Countless weeks I spent beneath its shadows, listening for the whispered secrets from the mouths of the morning birds. When the sun quietly rose, I would sprint down the path, past the creek and through the trees. That prairie breathed life into my soul and raised me to understand the complexities of living. The willow tree towered over me, like a mountain I was desperate to climb, but there was no frigid ambiance, just warmth, and approval. This is where my laughter was born, where I grew up. This is where I learned how to sew myself together after I was torn apart, where I was healed. The willow left a mark on me that could not be erased nor covered.

II.

Yet, I left. I tell myself it was not my choice. I say that I would never, but I know I did, and I know I could have changed my mind. There were things chasing me faster than the willow could reel me in. I was scared of disapproval, and so I went, hoping that the world was similar to my home. Sometimes I wish that I had never left, staying was easier than starting over. However, it seems that starting over was universal and constant.

I would never run away fast enough. The earth broke beneath my feet each time I did.

I came back one winter morning after life threw me away. When the true struggles in life devoured my sanity and tanked my self-worth. I lived a romanticized life as a curious teenager, a life I neither regret nor pity. Although, I do not wish to return, for that life had its struggles that are not worthy of reliving. However, my sanctuary, my home, which I left in pursuit of such a disparaging reality I was unaware would hit me, could perhaps remedy my soul and salvage my morality. Perhaps I knew as I passed the oily remnants of Old Stone Creek and the abundance of stumps where my childhood forest once stood, that life had been just as harsh to my dear old friend.

To my surprise, as I stumbled past a lining of trees that fortunately survived the massacre, my eyes fell upon my former oasis. The exhale of my breath fogged my view, a sigh of relief that came painfully too soon, all too ill-considered and wretched. I could see the willow, in its wintery form. Ice densely hugged its drooping branches, a painful reflective surface for the sun. The snow hardly broke the tree’s circle, but the fine powder was here and there. From afar, it was home, but alas, my judgment was fooled. It may have escaped the axes, but the poison, far more stealthy and noxious, ravaged its life. Decay burned my nostrils, as I peered upon the ruins. Rotten wood lay menacingly across the prairie ground, and discolored sap oozed like venom from spores in fractured branches. The cryptic clanking of bone-like shards replaced the chirping birds at dawn. The sparrow and thrush are sprawled in their graves amongst the moldered bark; their song lies forgotten in their throats forevermore.

As I feared, life was not merciful. It came like a storm and hollowed us out, for the willow is like me, a casualty of others’ successes. My balance staggered. Pain erupted through my knees as they crashed on the stone. My head hung in despair, I practically begged to be dreaming. But life could not be a dream, it was too harsh to be a fantasy, too evil for my mind to conjure, too corrupted by the hands of men. The hanging branches clashed together in a chorus of laughter; my ears bled. And beneath that old willow tree, I wept.

AS LONG AS YOU NEED

A boy is a boy

And a man is a man

But a girl is a woman by the time she can stand

Taught from a young age to never walk alone

To never speak her mind

To never look a man in the eye

A girl is a woman before she’s of age

Noticed by men

Provoked by them

“It’s your fault, Don’t you know?”

Don’t dress that way and they’ll let you go

A girl is a woman when the boys are just boys

They’re just joking

They don’t know

They’ve never had to walk alone

With a man around the corner

When you can’t say no

A girl is a woman

The first time she cries

Not over a boy or girl she likes

But because a man made her feel worthless and dirty

Used for her body and thrown to the side

A girl is a woman before she wants to be

But a boy is a boy for as long as he needs.

A GIRL IN THE ROSE KAILYARD BAO QUYEN HA '23

SOPHIE HENDRICK '23

THE GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE ON FILM KATE LANDIS '23

I FEEL LONELY, TOO.

FRANKLYN HERASME '23

I Love Flying

In the sky I feel free. They say the sky's the limit, but I would love to rise above it. The clouds around me make me feel accompanied. Below me you can only see the shapes. The squared fields, the rectangular of the streets, the zig zags of the rivers. Everything is simpler. Up here I free myself from everything. I free myself from what people expect me to be. I don't have to be that strong man who is only there to provide for his family. I can strip myself of every standard that society expects me to meet. Up here there are no standards. It is a moment for me and no one else. It's just me and my plane. I would love to live here.

Party Night

Typical plastic city. Fake smiles. Fake love. Fake friendships. Fake life. Do I want to go to the party? No. Am I going anyway? Yeah. I'm going because I'm already too involved in this world to get out of it. I put on one of those dresses which you see in the windows of expensive stores. I didn't buy it. I got it from one of the many men who seek to satisfy me. They send me flowers, gifts, and they invite me to parties. They give me all the attention they think will make me happy. But it's not like that. I was invited to the party by one of my friends who really isn't. She doesn't know anything about me and I don't know anything about her. We just appear together in each photo since being seen together helps both of us. Here, who you hang out with has more value than who you are. The party was on the roof of one of those luxurious skyscrapers.

DISGUST CARLOTA AZAR-SANCHEZ '23

Typical building from which you can see the whole city. The music bouncing off the walls of the place. Important men at every table. Women fighting over who is going to approach each of those important men. Several of these men approach me. They complement me.

"You look beautiful" "You stand out from the rest" "You have something different" After seeing that I'm not interested, they all close with the same sentence. “You should smile more. Nobody wants a woman with an attitude.” Then they leave in search of another lonely woman. And so am I. I feel like I have no one, despite all the attention.

Day of the Accident

I have had a bad feeling since I left the hangar. However, I decided to continue since what I was going to do, I had already done a thousand times. Once my altimeter showed 8,000 feet I thought everything would be fine. A rather naive thought for a person with my experience. The flight started like any other, yet that little voice in my head was screaming at me in the silence that I was making a big mistake. After a while everything changed around me. The clouds went from opening my way to blocking my vision of the outside. As beautiful as the sky can be, it can feel like total hell.

The beeping of alarms rumbles in my eardrums making my concern grow. I don't know where I am or where I'm going. It's impossible for me to communicate with the control tower. It seems to be some kind of electrical storm. I can feel the sweat gliding across my face and back. I don't know how I am able to think about so much and so little at the same time. I think of my family, my daughters, my wife, my friends. All the people who mean something to me. At the same time, I think about nothing. I think about where I am and where I am going and there is nothing. I think about so many things at the same time that I am not able to concentrate and really think about something, much less what to do. The clouds look like cargo trucks pushing my little plane from side to side like a little car. A Mini Cooper or something like that. My blood pressure rises more and more every time I check the only thing that works in this crap, my altimeter, indicating how the altitude decreases. In a second everything changed again.

Plummeting, I break free of the cargo trucks that were playing with me to find myself on my way to an island in the middle of the ocean. I had read about Japanese pilots crashing into enemy ships during wartime. I never thought I would end up in a similar situation. I feel like a meteor falling to Earth about to explode. My control panel and its alarms playing the most out of tune and horrific piece of music in history while tearfully trying to pray what little I remember of the Lord's Prayer. As quick as blinking, once

again, I find myself with nothingness. Total darkness.

In My House

I am rarely alone. I always have company. It's strange to feel the same when I have a lot of people around me and when I'm alone. I can be at one of those lavish parties on the yachts of important men. Yachts that they only use a couple of times a year. I can be there, surrounded by people. People who ask me how I'm doing without really wanting to know. People who give me hugs with a pat on the back and nothing else. Fake laughs that muffle unfunny jokes. I could be cornered in my room and feel the same. Crying uncontrollably and feeling the same. I feel like I have no one.

Every real connection I ever had fell victim to my desire to fit in. My desire to be someone important to important men. I never realized that I stopped being someone important to me. My cell phone seems to come to life when it vibrates for all the messages I receive. I feel bad about myself. I'm sorry I failed, but I don't know why. I always did what I had to do to have everything I ever wanted. I have it, but it doesn't satisfy me. Now I have no one to tell all this that happens to me. I think of so many things at once that I am not able to think of anything. I have tried to tell my problems to my fake friends. But they believe that the cure is to go out and meet more fake people, more important men.

I saw news of an airplane pilot who was missing. Some say that he was stranded on an island, others say that he died. I imagine myself in his situation. If he's alive, he'll be alone. He will not feel alone, he will be alone. That makes me appreciate the fake company I have. Although I wonder, is it so different? What difference is there between feeling alone and really being alone? You don't know what to do, you don't have anyone to open up to. Pain eats you through like some kind of disease. It's like playing hot potato as a kid, but you don't have anyone to pass it to. And it burns you, but you don't have anyone to ask for help either. Obviously, I'm in a better position than that plane pilot, but I understand how he feels. I feel lonely, too. Although I will never really know what he feels.

And It Burns

The saltwater destroys my throat. But that's all I have. My plane went down about 300 feet from this island. Incredible the way in which the heavy iron sank into the water like paper. More incredible how I swam here since I only know how to swim well enough

not to drown. I don't know anything about surviving in an extreme situation. I slept on the sand, not because I wanted to but because I couldn't take it anymore. I've been eating anything that doesn't look poisonous. But my criteria for choosing is based on how much it looks like what is served on the salad bars that I pass without glancing on my way to the meats at the buffets. It's been a couple of days.

I have no way of knowing anything, everything sank. I only have the watch on my wrist that shows 14:34 pm. Surprisingly the most difficult thing is not surviving. It is assimilating the present. I am alone, I don't feel alone, I am alone. The typical question of: What would you take to a deserted island? A friend. I haven't been here that long but the fact of knowing that it will be like this until they find me or until the worst happens, eats my head. It is true that humans need other humans. A voice, a photo, something. Any kind of proof that we are not the only ones on earth is enough to fill that void. Total loneliness is different from feeling lonely. It is one thing not to have a trustworthy person, someone who is always there for us. Another totally different thing is to feel like the only human on earth. I feel forgotten. I think of my wife, my daughters. I miss them. I never had so much nostalgia for simple moments with my friends. I regret not appreciating simple things like the friendliness of a waitress or small talk in an elevator.

DEMON CHILD.

Trigger Warning: Assault/Abuse

FRANKLYN HERASME '23

Master Thorley

His wrinkled and rough hands walked all over my body. Between desperate movements trying to free myself, I saw his yellowish-crooked smile, the only thing that stood out in total darkness. His breathless and raspy voice saying the most horrendous things possible. His words felt like dry blows in my chest. With each word, the less desire to fight I had. This was what I experienced yesterday night. Why? Because I look different? Others have told me how people like me can roam free up north. I want to be there. I want to be free. I am not the only one who experiences the abuses of Master Thorley. But something happened to me that had never happened before. He is inside of me. I carry the demon child of Master Thorley.

"What are you going to do?" Said Betty worried when I told her my situation. "He's going to kill you!" She added.

I looked at Betty with tears in my eyes. "I do not know. Master Thorley will not want anyone to find out. He's going to kill me."

"You'll know what to do, Jane," Betty said as she hugged me. "Do you want to have it?"

"Of course not!" I exclaimed. "I feel disgusted by that man. I could never take care of a child who carries the same blood as him."

“Then sell the baby. See, if you do not want to take care of him, you should sell your future baby to one of those important white men. Then you can pay for your freedom and move to the north with no baby,” said Betty while combing my hair with her fingers.

“But Betty I-”

“Shhh... do not say anything sweetly. Just think about it, please. It’s your best option.”

I’ve really been thinking about what Betty said to me. Is it an option? Well, this is the only one. I do not know how long it will take until Master Thorley notices the changes in me. I notice them already. Constant puking and dizziness. Starting to hate myself and my body. I wish I could pull it out myself and let the river take it away. I wish I could do so many things I can’t.

Mr. Warwick

I decided to do what Betty advised me. It hurts so bad. I had envisioned what my first birth would be like. I had envisioned having a nice house in the woods. Watch the sunrise, revealing the shapes of mountains and tall trees. See the stars illuminate the sky above

ANGER CARLOTA AZAR-SANCHEZ '23

us. I envisioned holding her in my hands, my beautiful child. My baby who drew blood from me and my dream husband. I envisioned many things. I guess people like me aren’t allowed to have those things. Now I carry a demon child which could kill me.

The man buying the baby is named Aster Warwick. Mr. Warwick would come from time to time and make deals with Master Thorley. Mr. Warwick always showed great interest in me. From asking me how I'm doing to trying to buy me from Master Thorley. He would always say no. Either way, I knew he could help me. I managed to slip a note in his coat before he left. This note explained my situation and my plan. The note said:

I will forever be grateful for the amount of kindness you have always shown towards me. This is why I feel confident in begging for your help in moments of desperation. See, I am pregnant with the seed of Master Thorley. I do not want to be the mother of this child. If you buy my liberty, you can have my child. According to the wise old women, my child will be a girl of my resemblance, a girl that can be yours in exchange for my liberty.”

I spent the next few days waiting for Mr. Warwick, the man who had my life in his hands. I was losing hope each day. Each day I accepted more and more my fate. One day he came, he saved me. He told me to wait for the night and to sit by the rich apple tree next to the canal and so I did. That night, he took me with him.

He took me closer to freedom; he gave me a room at his house, and we waited nine months until the baby was born. I was amazed at the pain there is for a woman surrounding giving birth. When you are a mother, you do it for the love of your baby. Me? I did it for self-love. The wise old women were right, the demon baby was a she. She looked just like me, as if I had been impregnated by myself. Her curly hair, her big round eyes, dark as morning coffee. Her cinnamon skin, soft as the wool of a sheep. Once it was all set and done, I parted away. Without ever saying goodbye to the demon child.

“Dear Mr, Warwick,

I am Demon Woman

It’s been two months since I got my freedom. I live free now. But I am not happy. I wake up in cold sweats every night seeing the faces of crying babies. Millions. “Why did you leave me?” They ask. “Demon Woman!” They scream. Headaches, vomiting, weakness, anxiety. I still suffer the symptoms of a pregnancy, but this time, I am pregnant with pain and regret. That little cabin in the woods is for myself. No perfect husband for me. Alone. I am alone. I deserve to be alone; I am a demon woman, they are right. Why did I

sell my child? How could I? I am no different from Master Thorley. I am a monster. It was my child and I sold it. I treated her the same way I was treated.

Now

I am where I started. Even worse. I am a demon woman, a lonely woman. I deal with the loss of my baby, a baby that I did not lose, but that I sold to the hands of another white man. I am not free, and my baby is not with me. The pain stabs my chest like daggers. Harder than the dry punches coming from Master Thorley’s words. Now I sit in the night looking at the stars from a small window thinking about everything I have; thinking about everything I ever wanted. I sat and thought about what I had and, above all, what I could have had.

FEAR

CARLOTA AZAR-SANCHEZ '23

THE WATERS OF DUBROVNIK JOSEPH DIPIETRO '23

UNTITLED REBECCA LAMARCHE '24

A QUEEN'S GAME

TIANA CHAHINE '26

I’ve killed a man. I have no clue how else to say it; I’ve killed a man. Looking down at his slumped body, I feel a hint of laughter coming on, a laugh bubbling out from my mouth. Don’t start thinking that I’m “insensitive.” This wouldn’t be funny if he wasn’t head first in food. On top of that, the man fell face down into a plate of fish. Personally, I believe it looks like a good meal. I did make it, after all.

Looking at him looks like I’m looking through an artist’s eyes, and frankly I would buy this painting. His Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon 1992 wine has been knocked over, spilled all over his hands, clothes and tablecloth. It’s a red, crimson color. With a sigh, I lift his head up by the oily strands of his hair, grabbing a towel to wipe away the fish grease that coats his eyebrow. His strong jaw has suddenly gone slack. His lips, still slightly pink despite how pale the rest of him has gone.

I will admit he’s a rather handsome man — well, a corpse now. He’s tall and sweet. He does have a soft spot for children, especially the ones he’s dreamed of having with me. They would have curly blonde hair like me, but with eyes a dark stormy gray. Another smile makes its way onto my face, crueler this time. Oh how he used to be so wonderful to me, I thought. I thought about the times he would take me for strolls along the estate, picking roses for me so delicately, pinning them in my hair.

I will admit he’s a rather handsome man — well, a corpse now. He’s tall and sweet. He does have a soft spot for children, especially the ones he’s dreamed of having with me. They would have curly blonde hair like me, but with eyes a dark stormy gray. Another smile makes its way onto my face, crueler this time. Oh how he used to be so wonderful to me, I thought. I thought about the times he would take me for strolls along the estate, picking roses for me so delicately, pinning them in my hair.

He would always compliment me, whisk me to my room when it was time for bed. It was like a game, one that I loved playing, hoping it would never end. We used to ride the horses together, we would read in the November winds or watching the snowfall in December. Every Valentine’s day was a day to remember, one that brought gifts and chocolate. The necklaces, rings, the dresses and the candy.

I grip his hair and toss it back so his body flings against the chair. His head hit the wood with a bang. So, I’ve never committed murder before. Never. I’m the definition of the perfect lady, I like to keep things clean. Blood is rather the opposite. So is cleaning up a murder. It’s like playing a game and killing him was just the first level.

It wasn’t very hard if you’re wondering. My husband is quite naive, and me being the genius I am made killing him a piece of cake. I’m up there in this world, so if I want poison I can get it from wherever I want. That’s what I did, although cliche, but it was worth it. I laced his wine and his meal, which I admit may have been a tad overdramatic. Regardless, they won’t be able to trace it back to me.

The poison has been disposed of, and it’s off of my hands. Besides, I’m me. I’m the lady of the court, I could never be a suspect. I’m going to play this smart. I’m going to start a new game, my game. One that I’ll beat everyone at. It’s my world, they’re just living in it.

I have to clean this mess up, dispose of the body, and just do something. I clean up the plates, setting his plate on the ground for my dog, Poppy, to eat. Halfway through, I pick the plate back up. I can't have it look as though a dog ate it. I pet her smooth golden head as she whimpers. Poppy is the most loyal mammal in this Abrine estate.

I decided that it would be much better if I made it look like someone attacked him. I make sure to have it seem as though he —I mean, we —were caught unawares, forcing tears out of my eyes to drag down my mascara and ruin my makeup. I frizz up my hair, leaving strands curling in front of my eyes. I tug an earring out of my ear, tossing the diamond studded piece on the carpet. Women in distress don't look pristine, you know. It's a classic 'my life is falling apart, please help me' look. All the best women have mastered it.

I never thought I would go this far for power, but life always goes where you never expect. This will be everything I've ever wanted. No one would kill the innocent lady, she is of no use and already claimed by their enemy, and taking her would result in having her father come after them. I'm not a natural born killer, I just have intent. I have a reason for doing this. My handsome, stupid fiancé, made of sweet promises and nice intentions, was cheating on me with some rosy-cheeked summer girl who picks apples for a living.

He would always slip away from the palace, claiming he had things to do outside of the castle. I noticed. I realized how he smelled when he came back, I noticed the bits of hair on him that weren't mine. Despite my already confirmed status, this infuriated me. He chose her, with her cotton dresses and apple pies and copper coins. Which is just stupid because, well, I am me.

I was planning from the start. I've been putting up with it for months, getting all my evidence in order, organizing my framing methods. I had to get it right. I'm an artist. I have made a beautiful setting, and the characters, both bathed in red, from all of it. When the door to my parlor opens, the maids' mortified expressions do much more justice than their words. I hide my smirk as they all scream and rush over.

I know what they see: A lady, bent over her future husband with despair that he is gone. Her dress is bloody, her hands the same sticky crimson shade. Her eyes painted wild with fear, her hair with frizzy strands stroked by a fine brush in the most steady hand. Her soon to be husband laid on the chair, his head lolled back, death in his face, death scribbled on his body with a sloppy ink. It's horrifying.

"Someone's killed the King! The King is dead!"

I let them drag me to my bed, dropping my head in my red hands. It's all I can do to contain my joy. What a wonderful sentence to hear.

"We--We were j-just having dinner!" I stammer, keeping my voice thick and wobbly. "And h-he just got in, somehow! He- he killed-" I layer on the sobs, drawing sympathy and a slow resolve to my maids.

"He's really dead." The King's advisor murmurs. But even better than that?

"...You're the Queen now, Miss." One gasps. "We've got to get you ready!"

"The-- The first ever sole Queen?" I gasp. "O-oh, no I can't do that. I--"

"But you must!"

I shrug along with insistence, for what simple court lady would want to take over the kingdom on her own? What selfish woman would kill her own king out of spite to earn his power?

This one.

Oh, have I changed the game? They're all going to wish they never wronged me.

PHOTO SPOTLIGHT:

GIACOMO BERTONE '23

"AND THE MOON ROSE OVER AN OPEN FIELD"

"LET US BE LOVERS"

"I’M LOST… I’M EMPTY AND ACHING AND I DON’T KNOW WHY"

"ALL COME TO LOOK FOR AMERICA"

FROSTBITE CAMPBELL BRAUN '23

A COLD WINTER'S NIGHT

LAUREN GINGO '25

I walked through flames on this cold winter night, so you weren’t alone when you put up a fight. I watched you battle for the air in your lungs. I watched you grow pale thinking.

“oh you're so young.”

Oh, how the world has been so cruel to you. Oh, don’t you know the things I would do? I walked through flames on this cold winter night, just so I could say a final goodnight. I watched you lie still and not make a sound. I watched as your lungs finally gave out. I held up the match I had saved from my stroll and set your bedroom aflame not thinking at all. I walked through flames on this cold winter night you, see?

So, I could be the person to finally set you free.

NEW MOON

I do not feel whole Part of me has been torn apart You can see where they tore it Where the bones beneath my eyes are visible

And my ribs jut through my stomach

Creating craters upon my body

I am like a moonless sky You know where the moon should be But you do not know if it will ever come back

If all you are left with are stars

Thousands of miles away And destined to explode

The moon is not always whole It chooses to not show itself always To give part but not whole Maybe I am just choosing not to show myself But it feels lost Sucked into a black hole

Destined to suck the rest of me up with it

THE PUMKIN SPIRIT ELENA POLSKY '23

BEFORE THE STROBE DONOVAN HENDRICK '23

SEARCHING KLARA ELEZAJ '23

LOST IN LOVE

STEPHEN WILLAND '23

There is a better chance of a rainy day in the summer, than me feeling loved; I’m lonely like no other.

Everyday I dream of one day getting the chance to take my love out to dinner, finishing the night with a romantic dance. I see her rather often, the emotions are surreal, I’d never feel alone again, her love is enough to heal.

My day is lightened up when I see her smile, it’s everything about her beauty and style.

Everyone else sees her as just another girl at school, I see much more; everyone else are total fools.

Why doesn’t she love me? I’m the perfect guy! Someday she’ll realize, we’ll finally see eye to eye. I think about her so much that my precious time is robbed, time that could be spent focusing on my job.

I care about her more than my family and friends, all because I know she’ll be mine in the end.

They don’t understand the thoughts I express, of someday seeing her in a white dress. When I wake up my hairs a greasy mess, but one day, I’ll feel great, perfect hair and well-dressed.

From head-to-toe, dazzling and neat topped it off with a glaring smile and crystal teeth.

I decided that day was my best chance at taking her to that dinner and romantic dance.

Finally I approach her confessing my love, heart-beating, veins rushing with blood.

This girl who turned my whole world upside down, dropped her smile into a glum frown. Saying, “For the rest of my life, until my very end, I would never love such an awful friend. No good man will leave his friends sad and blue. How you treat them says a lot about you.”

My heart was broken, nothing left to say, I shouldn't have taken him for granted, my best friend, Ray.

I have to reflect, no one to blame but me, time to let go and let my heart be free. LASTING

TABLE FOR ONE

FRAGILE

A flower is always lovely And love is naught if not flowerlike; Fragile and easily broken

Petals as thin and soft as a baby’s face Are torn by nature And bruised by admiring fingers

Love is naught but flowerlike; Withering and dying If picked too soon

A stem as hollow as a broken heart Is ripped by those who only look to use and not to love

Love is naught but flowerlike; Shriveling up if the sun does not reciprocate A one sided love, A one sided need, Overshadowed by the surrounding trees

Love is naught but flowerlike; Too fragile for you And too unknown for me

SOPHIE HENDRICK '23

FLOWERS REBECCA LAMARCHE '24

ISN'T THAT THE PLACE?

LUISA HENAO '25

Isn’t that the place

Where there are those “beautiful” women?

Isn’t that the place

Where Americans know Pablo Escobar was from and lived?

Isn’t that the place

Where because of Netflix documentaries?

Americans stereotype it as a place to sell drugs

Isn’t that the place

Where you think there is violence?

Isn’t that the place

Where “Paisa” is the only accent?

Isn’t that the place

Where soccer is the only sport they are good at?

LUSH GROWTH AVERY KURZONTKOWSKI '23

This is what others think of Colombia

But what is it truly?

It’s that place

Where coffee is very known

It’s that place

Where there is so much to do

It’s that place

Where there’s so much spirit and pride

Within the people in the streets of Colombia

It’s that place

With the outstanding views of mountains, jungles, and cities

Stereotypes are real

It is something that we get sucked into like a vacuum

But I am proud to be part of Colombia and what it has to offer

And I am proud to be part American and what it has in store

Happy is the word

Happy to be born here and happy to have the blood of a Colombian.

BEAUTY ABOVE THE SURFACE AVERY KURZONTKOWSKI '23

A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN

BAO QUYEN HA

'23

In this life, who cannot grow up in their mother's arms, hear the sweet lullaby, who cannot fall into a dream in the cool wind fanning their mother's hand every hot summer afternoon. And in this life, there is no one who loves you as much as your mother, who lives your whole life because of you like your mother, who is willing to share the sweetness with you like a mother.

“A mother’s love cannot be measured; no page can be written”.

TANGLED IN THE WIND LUCIANA NAJJAR '24

“What about you? The woman asked, surprisingly.”

“The money I just gave you can only buy enough tickets to get down to the third station from this station, so it's not too far from my house, I can walk. You just take the ticket, I'm a man, why can't I. And a woman like you can't walk home in the dark. Well, I hope you have a great train.”

After saying this, without letting the woman react, the man quickly gave her his ticket. Then he hurriedly took some changes, got off the train and went to the ticket counter. In a short time, he boarded the train again. The woman approached the man and asked:

“Why did you do that, do you not regret it?”

The boy shook his head.

“No, ma'am.”

In the eyes of that woman, there was an unfathomable joy. She took the man by the hand and said:

“Young man, come down here with me for a moment.”

The woman pulled the him out of the garage, waved a taxi, automatically opened the car door and turned to look at the man:

“Let's get in the car. Today you are officially my employee.”

Turns out, this woman is the daughter of a president of a famous toy manufacturing corporation. In order to find a reliable assistant, she had to dress up and stand on the train station for the past 3 days.

She said: “You guys think I'm stupid to have to suffer like that, but it's really worth it. When I stood at the station for those 3 days, I realized that: It is difficult to find a really good person in this life. Maybe, that young man does not have the qualifications or knowledge as much as university graduates or higher degrees, but the most precious and valuable thing is that he has a "heart". There is a "mind" in life, then there is a "mind" in work. That's what my company needs."

QUALIFICATION AND KINDNESS

BAO QUYEN HA '23

In the afternoon, in the courtyard of a large city, a woman in her thirties was sweating carrying her bulky luggage.

On her face, the hardships and pain of a poor worker were etched. She was walking, her seemingly hopeless gaze around the yard as if searching for something, but then she seemed to be disappointed. She looks miserable.

On the golf course, the passers-by are heavy. Anyone who passes by that woman throws back at her a look of pity and sympathy. No one has the intention of stopping to help her.

Especially the well-dressed people, they all passed her at a very fast speed, as if they thought that if they slowed down, the woman would surely pull them over to bow down and ask for something.

"You watch out, maybe she will beg for money or will find a way to make friends with her so that she will torture you during the trip with long and ungainly stories, or she will borrow your handkerchief to wipe my sweat." One man there said that to me.

"That's disgusting." A well-dressed woman pouted her lips and spoke to the elegantlooking man next to her.

“Hello… please…”

Indeed, the woman approached the crowd waiting for the train. But, without waiting for her to finish her sentence, everyone nodded, shook their heads, and quickly turned away. Undeterred, this woman followed the windows of the train cars and jumped on the boats before the departure time.

Wherever she went, she had a face like she wanted to ask for help; she looked so poor and the only words that came out of this miserable woman's mouth were: "Please help me."

The people on the train were very uncomfortable with this woman. Some people waved their hands to chase her away, some people just saw her figure at the top of the train's head, they hurriedly took the newspaper to cover their faces and pretended to be asleep. There was a look of disappointment and frustration on the woman's face.

For me, too, my mother is the person who cares about me the most and is also the person I love and am most grateful to in this world. I used to think that my mother is not beautiful. Not beautiful because she does not have fair skin, a round, kind face, or sparkling eyes... she only has a dark, tanned face, a high forehead, wrinkles of the age of 40, of many worries in her life, imprinted on the corners of her eyes. But my father said that my mother was more beautiful than other women in intellectual beauty. Yes, my mother is smart, hard-working, decent, and responsible. As a leader, everyone thinks she is a cold and uncommunicative person. Sometimes I think so too, but when sitting next to my mother, her hand caressing my hair, all those thoughts disappear. I have a feeling of lightheadedness, an indescribable agitation, a feeling like I have never received so much love. It seems that an intense stream of love through her hand flows into my heart, through her loving eyes, lips, sweet smile ... through everything she does. That love can only be felt when people are close to their mothers for a long time. From childhood to adulthood, I accepted my mother's infinite love as a favor, a natural thing.

In the eyes of a child, a mother is born to take care of her child. I have never asked myself the question, "Why do mothers accept unconditional sacrifices for their children?" She has had a great influence on me since "always". Why do I think like that? just one reason which is I always think she is my angel, a woman can do anything in the world nothing more than a perfect woman. In the past, I made my mom being sad over and overtimes because of my fault. But she still forgave me and always tried to understand me, she taught me everything: how to be tolerant, sympathize, and share with people in difficult circumstances, which has made me more responsible and put more effort into myself.

Mom, you sacrificed so much for me, but you never asked me to pay you back. You are the most wonderful, the noblest, the greatest mother. This one goes for life with motherhood. No one is ready to protect you at any time. Oh, my sweet and beloved mother! If only I had the courage to say three words: “I love you, Mom!" But I am not brave, not as decent as my mom. I write these words, “I hope you understand my feeling from my heart better. I will always love you, be happy to have you, and be sad when you have bad luck. You are my whole life, so I just want you to live forever to love me, take care of me, comfort me, protect me, and let me take care of you, love you forever”.

Mother's love is the most sacred feeling in this world. That love has nurtured many

immature people, taught many people to grow up. It was my mother who gave me that ove. Therefore, I always love her, looking forward to growing up quickly to take care of her. And I want to say to my mom, “Even though I grow up, I am still your daughter. Go lifelong still under the mother's womb."

"I'm not a thief, why do you behave like that?" The woman regretfully thought.

She went to the train station again, but no one wanted to hear her explain her situation. At that moment, she saw a young man with a very scholarly appearance sitting reading a newspaper.

The young man was reading the newspaper very attentively and he seemed to be oblivious to everything around him.

Gently walking towards the young man, the woman said: “Excuse me, can you help me?”

The young man put down the newspaper, looked around for a moment, and then looked at the rural woman: “Excuse me, are you asking me?”

The woman nodded. "Please help me. I went to the city to find my relatives but couldn't find them. The money was stolen by the crooks. I want to go back to my hometown but I don't know how. Can you buy me a ticket to go back to my hometown?"

After listening to that woman's words, the young man's expression looked very hesitant. It seems that he both wanted to help and did not want to help that poor woman. After a while of silence, the young man put his hand in his pocket. With great difficulty, he pulled out a pile of change, shyly giving it to the woman.

"You take it. I… I only have this much left., I don't know if it's enough. I just bought a ticket to go back to my hometown, so I don't have much left. I went to this city to look for a job, hoping to find a decent job, but when I went to the city, with an intermediate degree in hand, I couldn't find a job. You hold it for now."

The woman tearfully took the boy's change, it was very difficult for her to utter two words: "Thank you".

As soon as she turned on her heel to go to the end of the train, she heard a young man's voice calling out to her. He hurriedly went back to her and said: “How about this, you are from the same hometown as me, so you should take my ticket.”

THE BOSTON SUMMER DAYS LUISA HENAO '25

REFRACTION DONOVAN HENDRICK '23

PHOTO SPOTLIGHT:

AVERY KURZONTKOWSKI '23

RIGHT ON TIME

BELOW THE EYE LEVEL

BEFORE FLIGHT

DISCO

MARIANAPOLIS ROBOTICS CLUB

In March, the Robotics Club headed to Cape Cod for the VEX Spin Up Tournament. "Disco" placed 3rd out of 19 teams and sent the Knights to the quarterfinals.

COMPETITION AFTERMATH

CAMPBELL BRAUN '23

DISCO CAMPBELL BRAUN '23

YOGA PARTNER

BAO QUYEN HA '23

AUTUMN IN MY HEART

Piano Performances By

SONG FOR BROTHER

MUSINGS

KATHERINE WELCH, ADVISOR

Perhaps you have heard stories Told 'round the blazing fire

Words of heroes’ actions spilling From impassioned poets’ tongues

Stories of warriors lost Wandering sea-tossed seven years long, Of wooden horses carrying legions, Of victories achieved by the many-armed god’s incarnate, Of Geat’s battles 'gainst demons, sea-monsters, dragons, Or repeated run-ins with windmills

Perhaps these stories paint Scenes of hillsides common Or firey landscapes and molten spires Or stormy waters and spectre-like birds Or fantastical realms where the littlest are most brave

Perhaps they tell histories: Legendary kings and knights, Power-struggles between imperial clans. Or the falls of angels. Or even every-day happenings.

Though diverse in their adventurings These stories all share one thing: me The muse of ebony-plaited hair And olive skin, whispering In the ears of sleeping dreams

“Kalliope...”