Ursuline Academy of Dallas ESSE 2016

ESSE 2016 URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS

About the Cover

The oil paintings on the covers and the title page of this magazine are my renderings of photographs taken of Ursuline Academy buildings through different colored glass jars. They make up two pieces of a tryptic called Fixed Beauty. A description of my evolved opinion and perspective of Ursuline Academy, they express how I have learned to view objective reality in a different, subjective light.

The Ursuline façade with its grand columns, red bricks, and Georgian architecture once overwhelmed me and spoke of tradition, structure, and social standards. Similarly, St. Joe’s represents Ursuline’s deep history and the sisterhood every Ursuline girl experiences with traditions such as the Big Sis/Lil Sis Picnic. Both of these buildings seemed so grand, and when I thought of them, my mind jumped to those preconceived ideas of Ursuline life.

By my senior year, I had matured and grown into who I am, developing personal beliefs influenced by lessons learned at Ursuline. As my mind, body, and soul evolved, so did my opinion of my school. Blossoming in art classes and delving into a subject I never knew I would love helped me express and illustrate my newfound ideas, principles, and interests. These three paintings launched me into a discovery of my true artistic voice. By creating art through a unique process, I could share my individual perspective. Viewing Ursuline through these different colored glasses, I quite literally saw this educational institution in a different light. The distorted shapes and odd colors do not represent imperfection or misinterpretation, but rather they reflect the transformation of an Ursuline student’s mind throughout her high school career. Influenced by her experiences, her outlook on Ursuline Academy undergoes a long process of change, alteration, and formation. To me, these pieces from Fixed Beauty represent my answer to the question, “What does Ursuline mean to its students?” Every day of high school I might have had a different answer, but eventually I grew into myself, expanded my mind, and came to see Ursuline in my own distinctive light.

Bernadette Cole ‘16

Front Cover: Bernadette Cole ‘16 Fixed Beauty No. 2 Oil on canvas Back Cover: Bernadette Cole ‘16 Fixed Beauty No. 3 Oil on canvas

Editor’s Note

The paintings on the covers of the magazine portray Ursuline’s iconic Main Hall entrance and St. Joseph’s Hall, which reflect Ursuline’s deep history. St. Joseph’s Hall was purchased from the Sailer family in 1963 and was used for humanities and language classes. The Ursuline sisters’ guests sometimes stayed in bedrooms upstairs. Since 1981, the building has housed various administrative offices, and the lawn behind it has hosted graduation parties, reunions, and class picnics. Ursuline’s Main Hall opened in December 1950 and has played an integral role in Ursuline life. The French Family Center for Math, Science, and Technology, pictured on the opposite page, was dedicated in 2010.

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Literary-Art Magazine Ursuline Academy Volume L 2015-2016 4900 Walnut Hill Lane Dallas, Texas 75229 469-232-1800 Fax: 469-232-1836 www.ursulinedallas.org

Bernadette Cole ‘16 Fixed Beauty No. 1 Oil on canvas

One CLucyhapter Calzada ‘18 I’m from the daze where the world don’t sleep And the streets echo secrets you don’t keep There is courage yet cowardice in us you see I’m from the daze where the world don’t sleep I’m from the skies that hide the moon And put you back to sleep too soon Their colors rise a sweet maroon I’m from the skies that hide the moon I’m from the steel that brushes the clouds And bass that plays the beat too loud Where worries drown in empty crowds I’m from the steel that brushes the clouds I’m from the river where the water’s dark And leaves a carving on your heart You’ll always wear its burning mark I’m from the river where the water’s dark This isn’t a block for running dangerous Or the right place for bright exchanges The tides are low, the nights are faceless This town is a murder house but I know its hiding places Christa Gorman ‘19 Awkward Moment Mixed media drawing 2 ESSE

Making a U-Turn in the Middle of the Highway Elena Graham ‘19

We captured the warmth of the sun in a bottle and drank until the heat seared the space inside of us. That was the night we created a new space, a space outside of the universe. A space woven with tin cans and broken melodies made of better days.

Our space wasn’t new; it was a space that had always existed in each of us, but that night we threw aside the curtain and let our minds run. Our space held its own stars, not unlike the lights that gave directions to explorers in lost seas, for they gave us meaning in the oceans of darkness that surrounded us. We found our life in the silence that came from drooping eyelids and lightless roads. We felt it. Our space. A space filled with platonic longing. A space I’m still afraid I just imagined.

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Dedication To Mrs. Monica Cochran,

You have been an integral part of the literary magazine for over a decade, and the magazine would not have grown as it has without your hard work and dedication. Whether it is guiding the editor through the process of creating the magazine from the ground up, providing bagels at the meetings, tirelessly submitting to contests, or promoting Esse every chance you have, your guidance and support are a constant for every member of the staff. Using your eye for writing excellence, you consistently help us build a magazine that represents the best and brightest of Ursuline’s creative endeavors year after year.

Even though only a few of us have had you as an English teacher, we have all learned from your unwavering faith in this magazine. As we come back to Esse for our remaining years at Ursuline or move on to the next chapter in our lives, we will remember your dedication to this project.

Esse would not continue to run without you, and for this we are all eternally grateful. For that reason, Esse 2016 is dedicated to you.

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Mrs. Monica Cochran and Alexandra Muck ‘16 Photo by: Deborah Kellogg

The Esse Staff

Letter from the Editor

We tell them as soon as we are old enough to talk. We listen when people tell them to us. We consume them constantly in their many forms. Stories have always been and will always be around us.

Whether they are happy or sad, simple or complex, or told from our point of view or the perspective of another, they take snapshots of our human existence.

When deciding the theme for this issue of Esse, I chose “story” because I wanted to acknowledge the power and importance of these snapshots of our lives. When compiling Esse, we are not just publishing poems, stories, photographs, and artwork. We are sharing a part of the authors’ personal stories and are adding a part to our own.

On that note, the theme of “story” particularly fits this year as this edition of Esse marks the magazine’s fiftieth issue. For this reason, we have made some exciting changes to the magazine, the rectangular shape of this publication being the most obvious.

Additionally, we have added an archives section at the back of the magazine to showcase some of Esse’s best work over the years.

It is my hope that as you see and read the stories in this edition of Esse, you are inspired to contemplate your own personal stories.

Happy reading!

Alexandra Muck ‘16 Victoria Segovia ‘17 | Electrified | Digital photograph

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CONTENTS: LITERATURE

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Chapter One Making a U-Turn in the Middle of the Highway** A First Day Five Letters Kaleidoscope Nostalgic Happy Early Birthday: A Graphic Novel Abandonment One Left, One Loved Yellow Walls An Aesthete’s Dream Midnight Thoughts The Moon Drowning Keep Running Death in This World The Oak The Cliff The Girl Who Never Went Outside Fissure* Winter Eyes In Loving Memory Brown Eyes Finding X Cleanliness is Next to Gothliness A Mother’s Gift Beautiful Uncovered Should the Soul Ever Wander Samson Straight Paths The Unexpected Path Greetings from Chicago The Long Road Home The Castle The Disinherited Swimming Lessons Grandma The Truth of Time Addressing the Choir in My Brain

2 3 8 11 12 14 16 20 21 23 24 25 27 29 30 32 34 36 39 41 43 44 47 48 51 56 57 58 62 63 64 67 70 71 73 73 74 75 77 78

Lucy Calzada ‘18 Elena Graham ‘19 Leah Bartlett ‘16 Cassie Fritsche ‘17 Alexandra Muck ‘16 Leah Bartlett ‘16 Grace McCormack ‘18 Alexandra Muck ‘16 Eliza Davis ‘16 Catherine Blizzard ‘16 Alyssa Dean ‘19 Alexandra Muck ‘16 Jacqueline Artz ‘16 Victoria Robertson ‘16 Annabel Stollenwerck ‘16 Jacqueline Artz ‘16 Addie Stone ‘16 Vi-Anh Hoang ‘19 Jordyn Wedell ‘16 Victoria Robertson ‘16 Abby Turner ‘18 Maria Tracy ‘16 Lauren Horner ‘19 Jordyn Wedell ‘16 Brittany Wierman ‘16 Elise Welch ‘19 Audrey La ‘19 Sabrina Zuniga ‘16 Olinda Garry ‘16 Veronica Yung ‘18 Hannah Ni’Shuilleabhain ‘17 Lauren Jilek ‘16 Haley Dotter ‘16 Lucy Calzada ‘18 Cass Christy Netherland Kristin Putchinski Victoria Espinoza Abby Kieker ‘16 Brittany Wierman ‘16

CONTENTS: ARTWORK

Fixed Beauty No. 2 Fixed Beauty No. 1 Awkward Moment Electrified Music Narcissus 3 Laziness at Its Finest Blown Away Birthday Fate Nicole Double Identity Void Patches Life of an Ursuline Girl Icy Smoke Metamorphosis Simplicity Leyla Searching Tomahawk Now You See Me Reaching Out Relief Grasp The Deserted Beach Daphne Every Rose Has Its Thorn Lost in the Sun ** Self Portrait Weekend in Dubai Serenity Value Connections Carried Away 90057289* Fixed Beauty No. 3

Cover Title 3 5 6 8 10 13 14 20 22 24 26 28 29 30 33 34 37 38 40 42 45 46 48 50 56 58 63 65 66 70 72 76 78 Back

Bernadette Cole ‘16 Bernadette Cole ‘16 Christa Gorman ‘19 Victoria Segovia ‘17 Christa Gorman ‘19 Kit Popolo ‘16 Izzy Ramirez ‘17 Madie Terreri ‘17 Sophia Love ‘19 Darlene Ngo ‘16 Julia Yaeger ‘17 Caitlyn Epes ‘16 Miranda Walker ‘17 Miranda Walker ‘17 Hannah Salinas ‘16 Gaby Loredo ‘16 Bernadette Cole ‘16 Victoria Segovia ‘17 Miranda Walker ‘17 Maddie Drone ‘16 Kyra Wilmes ‘16 Lindsay Beach ‘16 Kyra Wilmes ‘16 Kate Morrison ‘16 Darlene Ngo ‘16 Hannah Salinas ‘16 Kit Popolo ‘16 Kelly Mansour ‘19 Victoria Segovia ‘17 Brittany Wierman ‘16 Ashley Liu ‘17 Natalya Holtz ‘18 Sophia Love ‘19 Victoria Segovia ‘17 Darlene Ngo ‘16 Bernadette Cole ‘16

Asterisks indicate the first (*) and second (**) place winners of Esse’s annual literature and art contest.

Christa Gorman ‘19 | Music | Watercolor

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A First Day

Leah Bartlett ‘16

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Kit Popolo ‘16 | Narcissus 3 | Digital collage

Tall, gigantic actually, solid walls.

Brown bricks, and not much else. Two rounded, cement-colored stone pillars stood on either side. Three steps leading up to the ominous double doors made of 6-inch thick solid wood – more like tree trunks than doors if you asked him.

Charlie took one small step in his squeaky new sneakers, and his heart started pounding so loudly that he thought the girl next to him could hear it through his chest. He craned his neck slightly to glance over at her and was relieved to see her distracted by the girls next to her. Once again, he took a stride, finding it easier this time, and he continued up the steps and plunged through the double doors.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t this. The hallway was never-ending, or so it seemed; it was so crowded with bodies he couldn’t even see the other side of it. One group was lined up, all with their hands forced behind their backs, walking single file down the hallway behind a large, beefy woman with a nasty look on her face.

Another group, huddled to the side near a water fountain, whispered quietly amongst themselves, a few shooting him looks that could kill as he walked by.

Charlie kept his head down and pushed forward. Staring at his shoelaces, one foot in front of the other. Don’t make eye contact, don’t make a scene, just get

to your room, he thought. After what felt like an eternity, Room 281 loomed to the right. Just as he entered the door, he ran head first into a bulging stomach. Charlie gulped, craned his neck upward to make eye contact, and met the gaze of a middleaged, balding man who had to have been some sort of WWE fighter in his younger years. The man’s arms bulged out of a purple, short-sleeved, collared shirt so tight it seemed almost incapable of containing him.

“Watch where you’re goin’ next time, sir,” the man said with a straight face and a furrowed brow.

Charlie opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out, so he nodded quickly and scooted past him. Keeping his head down, Charlie occupied the closest chair he could find and shoved his paperwork inside the compartment along the far left wall. The room was already almost filled so he must’ve been late.

Great, he thought, already made a terrific impression.

Before he could even think about how to respond, the man standing at the side of the room called his name and paused, seeming to be waiting for a response.

“That’s me,” Charlie croaked, not sure what exactly was needed of him. But as the man checked a box on his clipboard and called out the next name on the list,

he realized it was just standard protocol.

Charlie glanced around the room, taking notice of all of the others that were here along with him. It was probably split evenly between boys and girls, each chair being filled in the room with someone completely unrecognizable to Charlie. There were large, floor to ceiling windows on the far side of the room where the large man stood, and there was a board filled with multicolored papers stapled to it at the front. Several filing cabinets stacked on top of each other lined the room’s perimeter, marked with labels illegible from a distance. The desk at the front of the room, made of large, wooden, intricately carved beams, looked like it was an antique of some sort – something you would see in a movie. The piles and piles of papers stacked on top of each other covering the desk were extremely intimidating: not that he knew what they were for, but Charlie couldn’t stop his nerves from kicking in.

Just as he was looking around, daydreaming instead of listening and wishing he was anywhere but there, a stack of books slammed onto his desk.

“Take one, pass it back,” the man grunted, staring at Charlie with bulging eyes.

Welcome to the first day of kindergarten.

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Izzy Ramirez ‘17 | Laziness at Its Finest | Screen print

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ive Letters F Cassie Fritsche ‘17 For my dog Day by day We conquered villains Of polyester, squeakers, and fabric We romped and roamed In yard and home Wherever our fun wreaked its havoc We dipped and dove Through ice and snow Men of powder Dogs of white In winter’s fences Employed our senses Cold was something we didn’t know Others we met Wiggling tails and bright faces Spartan puppies for the little dog races Never afraid and never alone Our walking the solace Away from home We grew and filled Our gangly frames A softer face, a sharper chin Thicker mane, the first beast slain Of growing old But no disdain

We lived and worked One house, one school A pack of children With my owner and jewel I walked the houses each and every night Watching companions that smelled of sleep Protecting you, and the family too Was the bit of my life that was always right Older and older Taller and bolder Whiter fur and dark-circled eye You fought the numbers from the school of wonders But I was there when you wanted to cry Lending my shoulder and paw in place of hand I dried your face and warmed your heart But never did you think, though you did in fact know That the end for me had taken its start A girl and a bone A family, a home Gifts I was given, my love in return Three children to raise, different kind and tack I’d give all I could, just so I could go back

As my time here waned You all grew pained Much like I felt, though I pushed away The grave name of the game That no one can tame Five letters whose scythe would strike me lame Your sorrow hurts more And in my last, I implore That your suffering due to mine please be no more My family I leave I know you will grieve But be thankful as I For the life we had For years and years Side by side We’ve traveled wide and far But now, my loves, my last breath dawns It’s time I court the stars

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aleidoscope K Alexandra Muck ‘16

The first time she looked through a kaleidoscope lens, she was five. She saw the variety of colors. She saw the patterns of shapes. But what interested her most was how they crashed together. The blue squares and the yellow triangles would collide and form some sort of new pattern of dots and diamonds with an array of colors.

It mesmerized her.

How did it happen? How could such a violent collision give birth to something so beautiful?

“Come along,” her nanny told her, pulling her away from the toy. “It’s time to go.”

The memory stayed with her, though, for at least a little while.

-- Ten years later, the memory was almost all but forgotten. The middle school years had erased all thoughts of “children’s toys,” replacing them with girl drama and a new world of cosmetics and clothing choices. The high school years, only just begun but so telling already, continued the process, showing her the “fluff” and drama from middle school was not quite over, the maturity of life later on not quite yet

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begun.

The road was rocky, and the path was too curvy to know where it was going, or even if it still existed at all, but she blindly followed, accepting the latest fads, trying the newest styles, fitting in like she could do so well. Following blindly the path set by those before her, she was determined to fit the mold.

“Come along,” her friends would tell her. “This is what we have to do to fit in.”

She believed them.

-- More years passed, more memories faded, more people walked in and out of her life. The train wreck continued, crashing into more and more people who in turn crashed into her. Overwhelmed, confused, and alone, she still refused to break the pattern, afraid of the consequences it might bring.

It was only after she walked, briskly of course, by some children at the mall did she once again see that old childhood toy that she once was so fascinated by. It was small and made of cheap material, but it still fascinated her in the same way.

She woke out of her daydream of her youth by the children themselves, jumping up and running to their mother who had just walked out of the store carrying too many bags and clearly juggling too many tasks and memos in her brain. In their haste, the children left the kaleidoscope on the bench.

Walking over, she picked it up, turning it over and examining it casually before slipping it into her purse. She carried on with her day, at a slower pace, but a constant one all the same.

Once home for the night, she pulled it out, choosing to put aside the to do list and laptop for a glance and a couple turns of the children’s toy. The color still amazed her, the shapes still fascinated her, but the changes took her breath away— she had forgotten how beautiful it was to observe.

Madie Terreri ‘17 Blown Away Digital photograph

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ostalgic N Leah Bartlett ‘16 Ten years ago to the day.

Waking up to the sounds of One, Two, pairs of feet, Skittering down the hardwood floor.

Throwing myself out of bed on account of the Sizzle, Bang, “Ouch!”

Of the boys and their homemade Saturday morning breakfast.

The piercing voices of those two songbirds as they belt out John Denver, And the all-too-well-known burning bacon aroma that fills every corner of the house.

But When the days are numbered, And a year turns into Two or Five or Ten, We wonder where the sounds and smells go, When the house is quiet And smells of freshly washed sheets That have yet to be touched by those two grown boys.

Sophia Love ‘19 Birthday Mixed media drawing 14 ESSE

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Birthday: A Graphic Novel Happy EarlyGrace McCormack ‘18

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Abandonment Alexandra Muck ‘16

Scene: It is a sunny day. A DOLL and a red toy TRUCK are sitting in a sandbox in a park while children play nearby. The DOLL is sitting propped up against the sandbox with her leg slightly out to one side, as if someone was carefully placing her there before being preoccupied by something else and failing to finish the task. She is mostly brand new, with only a few marks of wear and tear.

The TRUCK is clearly a bit older with some scratches in the paint and signs of use. The children playing nearby are laughing and chattering. They chase each other around the park. They have forgotten about the toys they were just playing with in the sandbox.

TRUCK: Forgotten again, huh? This is becoming quite a pattern.

DOLL: I’m sure they don’t mean to. Kids just get so preoccupied with other things.

They are almost as busy as their parents…

TRUCK [finishing DOLL’s thought]: …but without all the responsibilities of adulthood. They are so carefree.

DOLL: Sometimes I wish I could be like them, running and laughing and having fun.

TRUCK [agreeing]: Yes, it can certainly be boring being just a toy. We sit and we wait until someone else decides to do something with us. Then the fun begins.

DOLL: But it is so much fun when they play with us!

TRUCK [warningly]: Don’t be too optimistic about it. All good things come to an end.

DOLL: What do you mean? Yes, games will 20 ESSE

end, but there will always be a new one to take its place. It’s our job as toys to be ready when the kids are ready for games.

That’s what we’re here for!

TRUCK: I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have.

DOLL [surprised and confused]: What is that supposed to mean?

TRUCK [giving DOLL a sideways glance]: Kids grow up into adults and become worried with other realities of life. They don’t have time for us anymore. We’ll always be toys, but kids will not remain kids for long.

DOLL [with a sad expression, she looks longingly with a sigh of regret]: Oh. [The sky darkens as clouds roll overhead.]

TRUCK: It begins slowly at first, so slowly you almost don’t notice it. You just start being used less and less. The kids stop some of their games; they cease to make up new ones. It fades slowly. You don’t know it’s happened until the sun goes down one day, and you realize that you haven’t been played with at all. Instead, the kids have been busy with their friends on some electronic device. The kids have grown up, and you’ve been left on your own.

[DOLL nods acceptingly but sadly. The clouds turn darker. The children run toward their parents, get in their cars, and leave.]

TRUCK [sighs knowingly]: This is how it starts. This is the beginning of the end.

[DOLL looks on sadly. Rain starts to fall. She hangs her head in resignation.]

END SCENE

One Left, One Loved Eliza Davis ‘16

Scarcely a week of life on earth, Already deserted By the one who gave birth, Not ready for motherhood, Too young and too poor, A girl left her issue at an orphanage door.

Not a hint, Not a word, All that remained: An abandoned baby girl with history unexplained.

Life comes full circle, The baby girl is full grown, Now face to face with an infant of her own.

Scarcely a week of life on earth, A baby girl so cherished By a mother who understands a daughter’s worth.

Darlene Ngo ‘16 Fate Watercolor ESSE 21

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Julia Yaeger ‘17 | Nicole | Charcoal on paper

ellow Walls Y Catherine Blizzard ‘16

The windshield wipers stretch back and forth, etching a soft hum against the glass and bouncing from friction to frictionless and back again. Constantly, they knot and break this melody, some drops splattering then depleting, others offbeat from the hum-- rapidly sliding backwards, rolling, leaving but a spotted trace. I glance out the window, squinting my eyes, hoping to catch a break in the rain. I jolt up, my fingertips grasping the window as if trying to slow their awful determination.

Tap, Tap, Tap, my index finger pounds the window opener consistently inconsistent with the rub of the wipers.

A boy, probably no older than seventeen, the tips of his shoes sprinkled with water, knocks at the door of Joe’s diner.

“Louis… Louis?”

“Yes?” says a soft, familiar voice dulling the spirts of rain slapping the glass.

Sucking in gasps of air, the rain droplets running faster and faster, tumbling into each other, forming small puddles, and slipping away from each other.

“Remember…Remember when you drove up behind me at Joe’s diner, and while waiting in line…”

“Waiting in line.”

“I tapped you on the shoulder and you turned around, your hair bouncing up

and down with a hint of a smile on your face.”

Rows of cars line the supermarket dotted with umbrellas and small blue carts, their rusty wheels squeaking every few steps, jolting right or left avoiding the puddles. Riding in the shopping cart, Louis pushed me through the glossy concrete isles, while watching my quiet laugh bounce off the confined walls-- a distant laugh, yet it filled the whole hallway with a sort of sweet vanilla. Pounding the windshield, the friction quickly overpowers the brief intervals of frictionless.

“Jerry’s ice cream.”

“What, hun?”

“Jerry’s… I taste it, the crispy cone with an almost symmetrically perfect swirl of vanilla and chocolate.”

Louis responded, a quiet hum in his voice, “But you, you always asked for it lopsided, never could the chocolate be the exact amount as the vanilla side.”

Outside, the clamor of wiper against glass quiets to a numb, the droplets no longer racing but stagnant; spread far, the blue panels of the house fill in the gaps.

“Honey, do you have your purse, the black one?”

“Yes, Yes,” I whisper, a sort of urgency or perhaps tiredness creeping out

from the huff of my breath as Louis helps me from the car.

“I will be waiting for you when you get back. Okay?”

The yellow walls come into view, or maybe they are white. Either way, I enjoy the soft color. It was now just cloudy outside, even a few sun patches file through the blinds. The plants drip the last bits of water, satisfied for the day, splashing against the ground, then disappearing into the light brown deck. A shrill ring cuts the air. “Ring, Ring, Ring.”

I sit calmly, letting it ring three times, then I slowly pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi, honey. It’s Louis. I was just checking in. Are you--”

“I’m sorry,” my lip slightly quivering. “Who is this? Who is Louis? I recognize your voice. Why do you sound familiar?”

“It’s Louis, your husband,” his calming voice transmitting across the phone.

“I’m sorry,” my hands shaking rapidly tapping a pen against the counter-- a silent beeping noise fills the room. Splitting the cap from the pen, taking a yellow sticky, I write, “Louis - Husband” and slap it on the yellow wall.

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n Aesthete’s Dream A Alyssa Dean ‘19 The Moon is a maiden whose fair light bleeds the dusk indigo I am as the Moon is: Waxing, waning, wishing However, she climbs the sky, running over the ocean like a stallion, and Bleeds blue and white into the waters below How would it feel to touch the Moon’s light? Saccharine? Gentle? Perhaps so.

The Earth envies her, buzzing and busy with the essence of black grounds and forests who plead to reach out to her in the sky I am like the Earth, I travel to fields painted red and gold and hope the maiden sees me I feel like dripping window panes and cold weeks, red knees; serene, to say the least The maiden’s light kisses the Earth, slowly, rising from the horizon and at last, Earth’s lips Among Earth herself, her sanctified ground is cursed As a fight of swords would go: The taste and smell of metal and blood, the sight, sound, cutting edge of silvered blades In the Moon’s hallowed light, the black swallows the night Morose, gaudy visions of gold and red and white violence Praying, nearly clinging to “Holy Mary, Holy Mary” Fire static and burning, white noise Nobody dreams to hear of resolution The aftermath leaves me in currents of golden saltwater, gilded gold and brown The sky, drowned in indigo, caresses the color lavender Saying, “It will be okay, it will be okay” I tell the sky Caitlyn Epes ‘16 And the Moon, Double Identity And the Earth Digital media 24 ESSE

In honor of a beloved Ursuline English teacher who passed away, the Ursuline English department has established the Dr. Anne Freeman Book Award to be given to a senior whose writing demonstrates superior writing skills, a love of the English language, and the ability for growth. This year the recipient of this award is Alexandra Muck.

Midnight Thoughts Alexandra Muck ‘16

We danced in the nighttime, you tell. Let’s pretend we were walking with your eyes glistening like silver together in a wood and there are rocks found just beneath a dark water’s surface, and me

two paths. You would choose the one less traveled and I would follow

with my hair pinned up but falling down as if I could catch it in one

not because I am particularly daring but because I would be scared to differ

ponytail holder when in reality nothing can pin me up or tie me

and maybe that is what makes all the difference and why your eyes are so

down; but you might be different, it’s hard to tell since you’re so

dark and mysterious and glittering while I remain caught up in what ifs and paths and thoughts

quiet while I constantly chatter in nervousness or confidence, I can’t

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Miranda Walker ‘17 | Void | Digital photograph

The Moon

Jacqueline Artz ‘16

There is something beautiful about the moon. It isn’t just a rock in the sky there for our exploration. The moon is magical; the moon makes things happen.

It flirts with me during the day, sometimes hiding behind a cloud while I search for it but always being right over my shoulder, a blink away. At night, the moon shines.

The whole world darkens and the sun is nowhere to be found. But the moon lights up the ground and pours into windows.

“I’m still here,” it whispers, scaring away the shadows. I always wonder if the moon knows me, if it knows that I know what it really is. Tonight, I will get my answer.

Sitting in my room, surrounded by darkness, I contemplate the meaning of my life. I feel plain and average. Everything about me is ordinary, from my straight, one-shade brown hair to my average height of 5’6’’. I have some really good friends, but I’m not popular. Sometimes I depress myself with these thoughts, and I try to think of ways of becoming extraordinary.

If I dye my hair, would people notice me?

Would they suddenly care?

Feeling lonely, I ask the world some difficult questions. Why am I here?

What is important about my existence?

Almost as an answer, the moon knocks at

my window with rays of light peeking in through the blinds. I smile because only the moon knows when I need guidance. I unlatch the window and gaze up. Beautiful, breathtaking light shines down on me, soothing my worries.

I close my eyes and let the moon lead me downstairs through my front door.

The night is cool and the grass is damp beneath my toes. I open my eyes and notice the moon getting smaller, backing into the night sky, its rays of light retreating down the street. Mesmerized, I follow the path it makes for me, walking in the light it provides.

I follow the moon out of my neighborhood, cutting through perfectly groomed yards that are filled with colorful flowers of all shapes and sizes, all the while keeping my wide eyes trained on the moon.

The light takes me straight to the woods, and I dodge stray twigs and ant piles. Trees surround me from all sides, tangling leaves and branches in my hair. The further the light takes me, the darker the night’s shade deepens. All I can see is the small patch of grass illuminated by the moon as I keep walking.

Finally, the twisted branches end and a clearing appears out of nowhere,

filled with white roses that sparkle in the moonlight. The darkness ends, replaced by the moon’s vast ray of light that just reaches the boundaries of the clearing-- a perfect circle. A single tree, huge and beautiful, stands in the middle of the clearing with innumerous branches reaching out, trying to bask in the light the moon provides. Its branches are filled with thick, white leaves. The moon’s gleam reflects off of them, forcing me to throw up my hands in admiration.

The tree pulls me towards its shadow, and I am nervous but not afraid.

I know the moon will take care of me, as it has guided me to this beautiful site.

The ground fills with sparkling flowers, but I manage to harm none as I am led to the middle of the meadow. As I reach the softwood, the intensity dims and the light surrounding me warms my soul. I drag my hands across the smooth bark of the trunk and explore the wood. The light brown color smells of sugar and causes my fingers to tremble with delight. Around the bark I go, eyes closed with only my hands leading me. Finally, back to the front, I open my eyes.

The moon casts a light down to me from the middle of the foliage, like a hand

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reaching out. Almost touching it, I stretch on my toes and start to climb. The light is just out of my reach each time I grasp for it. My hands grab the branches and my feet find unlikely places to settle in between steps. I keep grasping; I am almost there.

Higher and higher I go, time not being an obstacle, until I finally get ahold of the ray of light.

I take it in my arms and press it against my face, letting the warmth spread through me. Rocking back on a branch, I settle in the tree and allow the moon to shine down, light reflecting on all of the white roses below me. I watch the moon smile until the early hours of morning.

Miranda Walker ‘17 Patches Digital photograph 28 ESSE

Drowning

Victoria Robertson ‘16 “Happy go lucky,” they’d say.

A veritable Little Miss Sunshine.

Effervescent, bubbly, blithe.

A mirage.

Oh, how she fooled them.

“A prodigy,” they’d say.

An everyday Einstein.

Astute, bright, academic.

A defense mechanism.

Oh, how she fooled them.

“A true beauty,” they’d say.

A down-home Miss America.

Arresting, winsome, exotic.

A front.

Oh, how she fooled them.

“Cold,” she’d say.

A shattered soul with a carefully executed exterior.

Numb, unfeeling, drowning.

An imposter.

Oh, she could never fool herself.

Hannah Salinas ‘16 Life of an Ursuline Girl Screen print ESSE 29

eep Running K Annabel Stollenwerck ‘16

Gaby Loredo ‘16 | Icy Smoke | Digital photograph 30 ESSE

Darkness had swallowed the street by the time I made it within a few blocks of my house. It seemed to seep up from the ground, through the air, into my lungs— Stop, I thought. I needed to stop freaking out and focus on getting home. Breathe in deeply, breathe out even deeper. Darkness wasn’t a physical thing; it was not coming to get me, it was not infiltrating my body.

I thought about the nice warm bath that awaited my aching feet, about scrubbing off the layer of sweat that covered my entire body and caused chills to run down my spine at every gust of wind. I sighed with longing before picking up my pace, the streetlamp where I would turn coming into vision like a lighthouse to a lost ship.

A sudden clang from behind startled me, and I whipped around to see a seemingly empty, dark street; nothing moved, as if the sound had just been a trick in my already scattered mind. I felt the adrenaline coursing through my body, igniting my nerves and setting me even more on edge. I turned slowly back around to face the light again; if I could just make it to the light, I would be safe, which was remarkably like the childish thought that hiding under a blanket would cause the monster to go away. I began walking again, faster

this time, my boots hitting the pavement in hard strikes that made me feel somehow safer—like being more present would scare off the nightmarish aspects of my brain— until I saw a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye that was much too big to be an animal. My breath hitched in my throat and jammed the scream forming back down into my body, spreading terror like a wave with it. I didn’t check to see if I had imagined the movement; my legs worked on their own, breaking into a sprint towards the light. My senses heightened, and the darkness once again became a thing, a thing I could feel and breathe and taste and see and hear. It seemed thickest right before the street lamp, as if it had a mind of its own and planned to overtake the light.

I broke through the barrier I had created in my mind and stood straight under the bulb, the light steadily pulsing around me whilst the pulse inside of me ran wild. Half of me wanted to keep running until I reached my house, to run and jump into my mother’s bed and attach myself to her side like when I was small. The other half, the curious half, wanted to turn around and see if it had just been my mind pulling a trick or if something really lurked

back down the dark and ominous street.

The latter impulse won, and I held my breath as I slowly turned around to face the way I had come, my hands shaking by my sides, to face—nothing. There was nothing peculiar about the street behind me: empty, long abandoned buildings on either side, the wind causing their hollow bodies to moan and whisper, leaves rustling across the ground, the faint hum of cars from the busy street roughly a mile away. I let my breath out and smiled. My mind had created the movement. I was fine. I laughed slightly at my superstition. How childish I had been, to personify the darkness in such a way. I turned away from the street, back towards home, but I wasn’t even halfway around before I felt a strange-smelling sack being forced down over my head and plunging me into an even more terrifying blackness. I barely had time to lash out before the effects of whatever gas was laced into the bag made its way into my bloodstream. You should’ve kept running echoed through my mind as I melted into the darkness.

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in This World D eath Jacqueline Artz ‘16 “What does it feel like to die?”

I get asked this question often, from the mouths of little children, from the eyes of my friends. They twitch nervously on the hospital chair andmake polite conversation about irrelevant topics. But I see it, not so hidden, right beneath the surface. What, they prod, does it feel like to die?

Think of it like a hole. A growing hole. No, a patch of quick sand. It traps you and slowly drags you farther down, inescapable and resolute. No hope.

That’s what it feels like to die in this world.

Your breath quickens, teasing the life right out of you, and then slows, shutting down your organs. The body is quite interesting in how it copes with dying; it knows when death is near.

And after a whole life of wishing to be in tune with your body, you suddenly are. You know it’s the end.

You know how to fall asleep and allow the darkness to take you away. You know how to slow your organs, shhhh, until the wheels in your brain stop churning orders.

Silence.

You know death is near when you hear nothing and think of nothing, even while you’re speaking your last words. You could be dying for days, speaking animatedly to others, and only you know how close you are. Doctors can’t measure it; only you can.

A goodbye can sometimes be heard, whispered by the friendliest of appendages. Goodbye, love, your fingers may cry, I’ve had fun working with you.

Goodbye, chant your legs, carrying you gave me meaning.

Goodbye, says your brain, I wish we had longer.

And as you are pulled under forcibly yet gently, you too say goodbye.

And it’s just me in the bleached room now. All my family left hours ago, unaware of the call they’ll get later tonight.

Goodbye, world, I whisper, three hours before the end will come. I hope you do better.

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Bernadette Cole ‘16 Metamorphosis Collage and charcoal

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Victoria Segovia ‘17 | Simplicity | Digital photograph

The Oak

Addie Stone ‘16

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I sat there in the enormous bluebonnet field on the outskirts of my East Texas ranch, noticing how crushed petals would be picked up by the wind as I shifted positions. Clouds passed over and over again in front of the early spring sun, intermittently making the usually vibrant blues of the flowers, greens of the pine

trees, and sandy browns of the clay-like soil seem muted, as if the life had drained out of them. As I stared into the nothingness of the beautiful land, I could not help but think about her: her beliefs, her actions, and her mannerisms all came to mind whether I wanted them to or not.

Turning my head to the left, my

gaze rested upon the row of saplings she helped me plant just last month. My dad’s plan was to separate the giant field into two smaller ones. One would stay bluebonnets so my family could continue to “appreciate the simple beauty” of them and take our annual Christmas card. The other we would replant with sunflowers in the hopes of having more bountiful dove hunting seasons. The wind rustled the tiny trees’ fragile leaves, knocking off a few here and there.

Rising without purpose, I walked toward my ATV, the only indication of man’s existence besides myself in the vast field, and slowly turned the key towards the “on” marking. The engine whirred to life energetically but died down to a low, slightly concerning murmur soon after; it was in need of gas and a new battery and other sorts of vehicle parts. Consciously, I had no set plan of where I was going, but subconsciously I knew exactly where I would end up. Crossing towards the saplings, I did my best to maneuver the wheels around their delicate, young limbs. In the cumbersome ATV, I inadvertently flattened a few of the new plants. Guess I’ll just have to put some more in their place, I thought mechanically.

I came across the spot quicker than I expected. There was a simple hut made up of bricks and wood, building sup-

plies left over from the construction of the main house we had carried into the forest when we were about ten. That was not what I wanted to see though. As I looked past our fairly sturdy childhood creation, I took in the view of the giant oak tree rooted so firmly in the ground that it had to have been over two hundred years old.

The tree stood tall; its lofty branches reached almost as high as the soldier-like pines and just as wide as Atlas had to stretch to hold the world. It stood out against the pines, and instead of shrinking away like an outcast, the oak thrived as if it was in charge of all that lived on the land. Our names were carved into the worn but resilient bark, and instead of wearing away over the years since she etched them in, the words seemed to have been held onto by the tree, like precious memories it did not want to forget.

I approached the tree and put my foot knowingly on that first protrusion. I climbed higher and higher, confident that each sturdy branch I grabbed would support me as I ascended. She would always beat me up the oak, never looking down, always gazing up toward our goal. I knew what awaited me at the top: a durable, well-built platform we crafted out of planks. Whenever we sat there, we could not help but be at our happiest, could not

help but feel free and alive. We made our favorite memories up there and let our imaginations run wild.

Three branches.

Two branches.

One branch, I was there.

I hoisted myself up and sat down just as I had earlier in the field, but it felt as though I was a world away from those bluebonnets. The clouds had disappeared and the evening sun now shone brightly and warmly on my face, lighting up the whole ranch so I could see all the beautiful changes that took place at the onset of spring every year. I looked to the left and instead of seeing the weak, freshly planted saplings, I saw the river that bordered our property, rushing and surging with power from a recent rain. A pleasant wind blew against me, holding me up, not attempting to push me over. Gazing out over the countryside that we both loved, I smiled.

The past twenty-four hours without her in my life hurt more than I could explain, but through those petals and leaves and whispering winds, I felt her assuring me, “You will be okay.”

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The Cliff

Vi-Anh Hoang ‘19

Dark, red blood dripped down my face like honey as I sprinted across the plain. My body was weary, carrying the burden of the world. My feet pounded on the ground as I ran and ran from the beast behind me. I could smell the revolting, suffocating stench of it, polluting the air. My chest ached from the pain of running. All of my fears encouraged the beast to grow, to become stronger, to become more determined. It chased me to the edge of the cliff. The orange and red dust created small clouds around my feet. Tears streamed down as I sobbed and sobbed with the agony I had been keeping in for all those years.

The beast looked me in the face with its unnaturally dark eyes. Those terrible eyes captivated me. Inside of them, I could see all of my misery, all of my jealousy, doubts, and worries, all of my anger, sadness, and hatred. This grotesque being was me and not me at the same time. It was an embodiment of everything about myself I wanted to forget. Its inhuman teeth curled out of its mouth like knives.

As my body shook, the beast drew near. I could hear the cold waters crash at the bottom of the cliff. The dark sky above seemed to tremble. The voices in the water called out my name, screaming pleas of help and wishes of release from the torture they 36 ESSE

suffered. Their screeches chilled me to the bone. Their pain, their hatred, their jealousy seemed to drag me closer to the rough edge of the cliff. Invisible hands grabbed my arms, hair, legs, and my ankles, pulling me towards the frigid water. I let out a scream as I fought to stay on the cliff. The cliff was my last hope.

The beast seemed to stare past my face, past my soul. It looked right at the person I was. I closed my eyes and turned away. The hands pulled me down, and I grabbed onto the ledge. My body hung from the cliff like a piece of meat in a butcher shop. The salty water slammed against the cliff, spraying my legs with cold droplets which stung my cuts. The beast growled and leaned over the edge.

Its bared teeth were only inches from my face, its putrid breath clouding the misty air around us. My arms felt like stringy rope. It seemingly dared me to face it, to look at it in the eye, to accept it for what it truly was.

I looked away. The only way to get away from this monster that came from within me was to let go. I felt peace and hope resign within me as my fingers tore away from the tiny, rocky ledge.

I felt the freezing air flowing through my hair as I fell into the murky water. The water flooded over me. The water was a collection of all the tears I had ever

cried, an embodiment of the pain I had suffered. I allowed the water to rush over my head as I sank to the bottom of the ocean, forgotten and never heard of again.

For years and years, I floated in my misery, until one stormy day, I saw a girl like me, running from her own beast.

She too was wailing. I saw her and cried out to her, hoping that she could get me out of my own torture. I watched her as she turned to face her monster, her face hard with determination. She let out her anger crying, “You are a disgrace! You are not worth anything! I wish you could just disappear!” Then her face softened as she said, “But you are a part of me, and I must accept that.” She embraced the beast with such warmth that even I could feel the heat. The beast slowly changed into something, or rather somebody. The person glowed with such radiance that my heart lifted and joy filled my being. Then the next moment, the person was gone, and the girl embraced herself. She stood up with such defiance and looked out into the water. She said, “I am not like you. You will never get me off this cliff.” That girl not only survived but also flourished with happiness on the same cliff that brought me to my demise.

Miranda Walker ‘17 Leyla Digital photograph

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Maddie Drone ‘16 | Searching | Digital photograph 38 ESSE

Never Went Outside The Girl Who Jordyn Wedell ‘16 There once was a girl Who never went outside And everyone always asked her why Does it not bother you They would say That you have never seen the world That you have never touched the outside Or have never had fun like the other girls?

The girl never responded Just sat there and smiled But after they left She always pondered their question for a while Why was it that she has never been outside, she wondered Was she afraid of greatness Or the feeling of a coming new tide Or perhaps she didn’t like the music, the new culture or some lie Or maybe it’s because of the way mistakes somehow seemed never to die But whatever the reason She always concluded with a wistful sigh She had already been outside And it was not pleasing to her eye

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Kyra Wilmes ‘16 Tomahawk Digital collage 40 ESSE

Fissure

Victoria Robertson ‘16

I remember the final crack of the ice.

The way it felt to be standing one minute and submerged the next, icy darkness swirling with my hair to blind me. The sting of the chill, slow at first, then burning, lighting me on fire under the black surface.

The fight to breathe, to swim, to survive, then faltering resistance. The way the fissures seemed larger and uglier as I sank further and further into the icy prison.

I wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Go,” they said. “What are you scared of?”

Drowning, falling, dying? But Daniel did not balk when they threw him to the lions. And so, I stepped.

Crack. A girl, age five, talking to her friends. A teacher, finding her a distraction, handing her a “red” card. The first.

She turns to the table, face red, trying to explain what the class already knows. She hides. They laugh.

Crack. A girl, age seven, skiing on a hill. Nervous, she rides too close to the instructor, failing to see the jump. She hits it at full force, ski snapping, snow flying, bodies crashing, as she’s suspended. She flips. They laugh.

Crack. A girl, age nine, mediating between two friends. Alternating between one side and the other, she doesn’t realize a third one is forming without her. She stands on the playground, watching them giggle as they run off together with her on the outside looking in. She cries. They laugh.

Crack. A girl, age eleven, speaking to the class. In her excitement, she runs to the stage, her socks hitting the hardwood too fast. Arms flailing, ground nearing, scream forming. She falls. They laugh.

Crack. A girl, age thirteen, standing at her locker. A boy, trying to show off to his friends, saying he “mustache” her a question. She turns towards him, hand covering her mouth from view, and falters.

She runs. They laugh.

Crack. A girl, age fifteen, sitting on the bleachers. Her eyes downcast, hair shielding her face, trying to block out the whispers, stares, and slanders. She shies away from the names, from the glares, from the condemnations of a crime she didn’t commit. The accusations grow louder, meaner, sharper, pelting her with the force of stones. She bolts. They laugh.

Crack. A girl, age seventeen, lying

in her bed. Tears streaming, heart breaking, world crumbling. A chorus of voices, of “you can’t do it,” “you’re going to fail,” “you’re not that special” berating her ears.

The pressure builds, overwhelming her until she’s numb. She breaks. They laugh.

“Go,” they said. “What are you scared of?”

Drowning, falling, dying? But I did not have Daniel’s faith. And so, I fell.

I wasn’t supposed to be that girl.

I remember the final crack of the ice.

The way I shot out of my bed, chest heaving, adrenaline pumping, heart pounding, alive. The way it felt to be dreaming one minute and awake the next, the memories flooding my mind in a kaleidoscope of snapshots. The sting of the laughter, slow at first, then consuming, transporting me back as I gulped in air. The fight to brave, to bear, to endure, as my life continued on. The way the fissures seemed smaller and more beautiful as I broke the surface of my icy prison.

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Lindsay Beach ‘16 Now You See Me Digital photograph

42 ESSE

Winter Eyes Abby Turner ‘18

My eyes are not regularly vivid.

A gray-blue the color of the winter ocean or a snowy sky.

They are cold as stone and equally as forgiving.

My eyes claim December and rarely slip into June.

Summer does not become my irises, Pupils desperate in times of iridescence.

Luminous shades of topaz glorifying sadness.

Exotic turquoise visualizing despair.

If summer eyes look through my lashes, Tears are hidden there as well.

For when liquid sorrow makes an appearance, My winter eyes take their leave.

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In Loving Memory Maria Tracy ‘16

I couldn’t do it. I signed a contract, I passed the training with flying colors, I even learned to make friends with these people. But when it really mattered, I couldn’t get the job done. They taught me how to carefully construct a unique and endearing personality, how to soften my features into an anxious but loving visage, how to sit on the edge of the hospital bed and speak in a low soothing voice -- but the thing that tripped me up turned out to be stupidly simple: the eyes. No one warned me about the eyes.

The first moments after the mark returns to consciousness are the most crucial. Even though the “accident” is meticulously constructed and designed to target the part of the brain affecting the mark’s long-term memories, sometimes mistakes happen – the human brain is a complex organ after all. So in that handful of seconds, the handler must determine what the mark remembers. Because if the handler claims to be the mark’s father, for example, and is met with an angry accusation – “My dad is a six foot tall brunette. Who the hell are you?” – then the handler has to make a quick getaway. But if the mark accepts the story, then it’s the handler’s job to seamlessly transition into the role of concerned loved one.

You may be asking yourself – what kind of sick monster purposely hurts 44 ESSE

someone enough to erase their memory and then impersonates their friends or family? Well, we don’t just do it for kicks. The answer should be pretty obvious, really: money. Our organization is a well-oiled machine, with protocols, bureaucracy, experts skilled in different fields. There are tech people who Photoshop pictures of the handler with the mark, construct convincing social media pages with our phony words plastered all over them, and make sure that our pictures and cell phone numbers are displayed on the mark’s emergency contacts. There are the coordinators who select the mark and engineer the accident.

Finally, there are handlers like me. Our job is to persuade the mark to trust us enough to give us access to their credit cards, their savings, their house, their car, their valuable baseball card collection, whatever. So no matter how much work the techies and the engineers put in, it’s really all up to the handlers not to screw it up.

I really thought I was ready. Each member of the organization can only act as handler about once every year or so, to prevent suspicion, and this was my first time.

I was prepared to prove myself worthy, to put all my training to good use.

Nobody prepared me for the tsunami-size wave that would crash through my chest when the mark opened her hazel eyes for the first time and I saw nothing

but terror and devastated confusion in the green flecks ringing her irises. But that wasn’t even the worst part. My training took over, and I began to calmly explain that I had been her best friend since childhood, and I watched in horror as she just believed me, put all her trust in me without the slightest hesitation. Her petrified gaze tempered into a relieved, earnest look as her eyes filled with moisture and she began to thank me profusely for being there.

That’s when I snapped. I just couldn’t keep lying to this victim (the surgical detachment of the word “mark” no longer seems appropriate), and I couldn’t keep lying to myself, pretending I was okay with what I had become. So I ran. I didn’t even try to explain to her who I really was; honestly, I didn’t think I could handle seeing her heart break through those expressive hazel eyes.

So now it’s not really a question of if, but when. Because there’s no way the organization won’t come after me now. You don’t just walk away in the middle of an operation. Will it be in two months or two years that my car will go careening into an electrical pole, I’ll wake up to the smell of antiseptic and the prick of an IV in my hand, and I’ll cry streaky tears as my “sister” or “high school sweetheart” wraps their arms around me, reassuring me that I’m in good hands?

Kyra Wilmes ‘16 | Reaching Out | Acrylic and collage

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46 ESSE

rown Eyes B Lauren Horner ‘19 brown eyes with just a glimmer of emerald green. sun kissed skin, golden from years of conversing with the brightest star. she holds me as I sleep. she never sets me down. gentle hands with long fingers that nursed squirrels back to health and flung mud at older brothers and friends while surrounded by tall oaks, with air born pebbles skimming the calm translucent creek water. long legs that once sprinted down high school tracks and walked hyper canines to the park. strong arms that once embraced newborn kittens and puppies and maneuvered handmade soap box cars as they wildly raced down neighborhood streets. grabs my hand and pulls me out of the crowd. short skinny legs and little feet keep time to the beat as long legs lead the way. pearly whites all in a row, a result of a mouth full of metal in earlier years. glossy lips that curve upward as I shimmy and twist to classic melodies blasting through our ears as we dance under the luminous moonlight. years of laughter and love with occasional tears along the way. photos fill albums while memories fill minds. little feet grow and sometimes struggle to keep time with the beat. short legs lengthen and sometimes wander off the path. but her wisdom and care guide them back to their uncertain yet exciting adventure.

bitter and broken tears fall, yet she wipes them away and squeezes weak hands. joyful and elated tears stream down faces glowing with happiness and we both laugh until our sides ache. an unbreakable bond sealed with patience, tenderness, joy and trust flourishes as new calendars cover the wall each year as time rolls on. brown eyes with just a glimmer of emerald green stare into mine as I stand by her hospital bed. sun kissed skin now sags and wrinkles. gentle hands rest in mine as they always have. long legs remain under dove white sheets, too weak to support a full body weight. strong arms reach out to a circle of the closest relatives and friends. pearly whites slowly show as we reminisce and step back into previous years. we listen to our favorite melodies that have a way of soothing nervous souls. i stare at my best friend, my example, my caregiver, my world. “remember that night we danced?” i cannot help but question, already knowing her response. “how could I forget?” arms embrace bodies and cling to each other. each moment, each memory, each blessing, and we never let go.

Kate Morrison ‘16 Relief Digital photography ESSE 47

Finding X

Jordyn Wedell ‘16

48 ESSE

Darlene Ngo ‘16 | Grasp | Oil on newspaper

It started out like any other day. I woke up, brushed my teeth, got dressed, held a 10 minute debate with myself on whether or not I should just go back to sleep, and then I finally mustered the strength to head to the Place. It was where I had to go every morning to get my Assignment, even though I already knew what it was. Everyone had the same task: find x.

The ultimate goal of the Community was to find x. Every day, thousands of us would pour into the Place, waiting patiently for new information from the Supreme Overlord on how to find x. It was mostly the same strategies repeated in different ways, but they nevertheless kept us busy for hours, struggling to complete our Assignment.

Strategy 1: Divide and conquer and do not attempt to understand x in its entirety; instead, go in groups and have others attempt to understand different parts of x. We can find x faster if each person has to only worry about one part.

Strategy 2: X is not a tangible thing, so try to make it one so you can find it.

Strategy 3: Do not find x. Let x find you.

It was these Strategies and many others that the Supreme Overlord constantly spat at us, desperately hoping that

at the end of each day, one of us would finally find x. It never happened before, and most people thought it probably would never happen. The Community had not made a single advancement in its quest for x. Some people started to believe that x didn’t even exist. These people were called the Nonbelievers. They constantly questioned the value of finding x and prophesied that the Supreme Overlord made up the whole idea of finding x just to keep us busy. An interesting idea, but not one I was about to get involved in. The quest for finding x kept everyone in line, and I wouldn’t dare go against the Overlord.

I looked at the clock and silently groaned over how much time left in the day there was. If nobody came up with an idea on how to solve x by the end of the day, the Supreme Overlord got very angry and kept us late until someone made a suggestion. However, everyone was too scared to make a suggestion, mostly because it was always wrong. Sometimes, we didn’t even know why, but the Overlord would just sigh and say, “I’ll know it when you say it.” We came up with a system to make sure someone always had a suggestion. We all signed our names on a date in the calendar, and on each person’s date, it was their responsibility to come up with a suggestion. Today was my day. Did I have a

suggestion? Absolutely not.

Finding x was just so boring. The Community spent hours upon hours in contemplation at our Thinking Corners trying to find x. Most of us just stared at the wall. Some have even gone crazy due to over-thinking. Also, I was at the end of the suggestion calendar. Everyone already took the best ideas.

“To find x, we must divide and conquer.”

“Let’s make x tangible.”

“What if we let x find us?”

It was going to be a miracle if I could come up with any idea on how the Community could find x. But if I couldn’t make a suggestion by the end of the day, the Supreme Overlord would keep us late, and everyone knows what happens when you stay at the Place for too long…

“Jordyn? Jordyn? Did you get an answer for number 6?”

My eyes flashed open to see twelve snickering students and an annoyed looking teacher staring right at me. I fell asleep in class again. Whoops. “Oh, sorry, yeah, I um, I got, I got…” I quickly glanced at my calculator. “I got 2. X = 2.”

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Hannah Salinas ‘16 | The Deserted Beach | Digital photograph 50 ESSE

Cleanliness is Next to Gothliness

Brittany Wierman ‘16

The Michele McCusker Award is given in honor of an alumna who had a passion for language and displayed that love through her writing. It is given by the English department to a senior whose writing shows great skill and understanding of language. The recipient this year is Brittany Wierman.

Synopsis: gether. One day you shall fly away from me A group of goths confront their friend for his like a bat beneath the full moon.” Alas, he “ungothly” behavior. looks into my eyes, a tear of blood trickling down his face. In his hand, he holds a black, Setting: wilted rose. He speaks, “But, Amor, our love Chairs surround a long table shrouded in will be forever.” In the distance, a raven cries dark fabrics and cobwebs. Grand candelaas I reply, “Death is the only thing that lasts bras, skulls, and other Halloween-y decoraforever.” tions adorn the table.

(LILITH bows as the group claps.)

Characters: The GothsNIGHTSHADE: Beautiful prose, Lilith. By far Nightshade: The head of the goths. your most goth writing yet.

Insomniana: Loud and opinionated. She INSOMNIANA: That was like, really good, openly hates Viper.

Lilith. So dark. Blain, what do you think?

Lilith: Sweet and reserved. She would never hurt a fly.

(BLAIN gives a thumbs up.)

Blain: Insomniana’s boyfriend. His main purpose is to calm down Insomniana.

LILITH: Aw, thanks, Insomniana. Thanks, Ronoldo: Nightshade’s creepy butler.

Blain. (sitting) It’s your turn, Nightshade.

The QuestionablesNIGHTSHADE: (He stands.) This poem I think Viper: The one in question for his ungothly we all can relate to. (clears throat) Oh, woe behavior. is me, and I am woe- I can’t meet Edgar Allan Mother: Viper’s peppy suburban mother.

Poe. For he is dead and I’m alive although Father: Viper’s peppy suburban father.

I do feel dead inside. With words of death and poems of dark, he touched my goth and (Lights up on the group of goths. NIGHTSHADE bleeding heart. Each night, I lie awake and sits in a highback chair. The others sit on the cry for he is dead andfloor. LILITH stands, reading off of a piece of (There is a knock on the door.) paper as they all watch respectfully.)

LILITH: (solemly) And so, with my heart as cold and dark as an Arctic winter, I look at him. “My love,” I say, “we cannot be to-

ALL: (sighing) Oh my goth…

(RONOLDO opens the door and VIPER enters, ESSE 51

his MOTHER and FATHER standing close behind.)

VIPER: Hey, guys. Sorry I’m late.

FATHER: (laughing) Now don’t get mad at Jeffery, kids. It’s not his fault he’s late; his old man’s not too good with directions.

VIPER: Dad, I told you -- my name isn’t Jeffery. It’s Viper.

MOTHER: Hey kids! How are you all doing? (setting a plate of cookies on the middle of the table and patting NIGHTSHADE on the back) Daniel, I hope your mom doesn’t mind; I brought over some cookies for you all -- I know how she can be about junk food.

(THE GOTHS exchange looks of disgust, offended that MOTHER would use “normal” names.)

MOTHER: And, Daniel, please thank your mother for me for having the meet-up at your house this time. We’re still having a little trouble exorcising the demon you all summoned in our dining room the last time.

VIPER: (embarrassed) Mom, Dad, can I talk to you for a second?

INSOMNIANA: (hushed) Nightshade, can we, like, talk to you for a second?

(THE QUESTIONABLES move downstage right. THE GOTHS move downstage left.)

VIPER: I don’t know how many times I have to tell you guys, respect the names!

52 ESSE

Nightshade hasn’t gone by Daniel since the 5th grade.

INSOMNIANA: Nightshade, why is he here?

Who invited him? (loudly) I thought we agreed we’re not talking to him anymore.

BLAIN: (hushing INSOMNIANA) Babe…

NIGHTSHADE: I invited him. Don’t worry.

It’s all a part of my plan, you see? After tonight he’ll finally realize he doesn’t have what it takes to be a real goth.

MOTHER: Oh honey, I’m sorry. You have to forgive me. (loudly) You know I can’t keep up with you and this whole phase.

(THE GOTHS turn sharply and hiss at THE QUESTIONABLES.) VIPER: Mom, what have I told you about using the P-word?

INSOMNIANA: So what’s your big plan, Nightshade? Better execute it fast before he and his parents start singing “Kumbayah.”

NIGHTSHADE: So, for a while now, I’ve been compiling a list, a list of everything we can’t stand about Viper. It’s my theory that by presenting said list, along with appropriate evidence, Viper will finally see he is not a real goth, but a poser.

MOTHER: (moving to the table) None of you kids want any cookies? They’re made with love!

INSOMNIANA: (annoyed) Um sorry, Viper’s Mom, we don’t eat cookies.

THE GOTHS: Mmm hmm… yeah… no way… (ad lib) MOTHER: Oh that’s right! I am so sorry. Jeff

-- I mean Viper -- was telling me you all have gluten allergies. But that’s ok; I made some gluten-free lemon bars too! (to FATHER) Honey, where are the lemon bars?

FATHER: Oh darn! Was I supposed to bring those?

MOTHER: Well rats… Sorry kids! I guess we’ll have to run back home and get them.

INSOMNIANA: Or you could, like, just go home and never come back.

(MOTHER and FATHER look hurt.)

BLAIN: (sharply) Babe.

NIGHTSHADE: What she really means is, why waste gas? We’re really fine without lemon bars.

(MOTHER and FATHER look even more hurt.)

LILITH: (feeling guilty) One lemon bar wouldn’t hurt…

MOTHER: (happy again) Awesome! In that case we’ll be right back! Try not to burn the house down with those open flames (pointing to the candelabras) Goodbye Viper, we love you!

FATHER: Love you, son!

(They exit with RONOLDO.) VIPER: Sorry about that, guys. They’re still getting used to the names and not using the P-word.

(THE GOTHS all sit back down and stare at VIPER until he sits down too.)

VIPER: You know how parents are; sometimes they just don’t understand goth.

NIGHTSHADE: Well, the poison apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree for you, Viper.

VIPER: What?

NIGHTSHADE: How do I put this gently?

You’re not a real goth.

VIPER: Excuse me? I’m just a little confused.

I’m not goth?

NIGHTSHADE: Exactly. And we think it’s best you stop sitting with us at lunch. And stop coming to our meet-ups. And just stop hanging out with us in general.

VIPER: What do you mean? Did I do something to upset you guys?

INSOMNIANA: Your existence upsets us!

BLAIN: (patting her shoulder) Babe.

VIPER: Why are you so cranky, Insomniana?

Are you not getting enough sleep?

NIGHTSHADE: Cut it out, you two! You see, Viper? This is why we’re here. Your ungothly presence is causing problems. You are an embarrassment to the goth community!

VIPER: (offended) Excuse me, but I’m not sure what you mean. Personally, I think, in my opinion, I am more goth than any of you.

INSOMNIANA: You’ve got to be kidding me! You are about as goth as Strawberry Shortcake in a tulip field, Viper. (scoffs) I mean, look at you! Viper isn’t even a goth name! Since when are snakes goth?

BLAIN: (patting her hand) Babe.

NIGHTSHADE: Insomniana has a point. In fact, that is one of the long list of issues we have with you. (NIGHTSHADE puts a large

black bag on the table and pulls out a long scroll of parchment.) (clears throat) Problem number one: Viper is not even a goth name. Problem number two: listening to ungoth music.

VIPER: You’ve got to be kidding me. Even if that was true, which it’s not, how could you prove that?

NIGHTSHADE: I’m glad you asked. (shouting) Ronoldo! The evidence!

(RONOLDO enters carrying a large bag.)

RONOLDO: Here you are, Sir Daniel.

NIGHTSHADE: (angry) Ronoldo! (He gestures to THE GOTHS.) RONOLDO: My apologies… Nightshade.

NIGHTSHADE: Just put the bag on the table.

RONOLDO: Yes, Sir Nightshade. (He exits.)

NIGHTSHADE: A few weeks ago, a certain someone left some disturbing items under the lunch table. (He dumps the contents the bag onto the table. CDs pour out.) Care to explain?

VIPER: Those aren’t mine.

NIGHTSHADE: (picking up a CD) Who is this, Viper? (horrified) Boy George and the Culture Club?

(The table hisses.)

VIPER: I’m telling you-- they aren’t mine!

They’re (pause) Lilith’s!

INSOMNIANA: Will you leave her alone?

BLAIN: (sharply) Babe.

VIPER: I’m telling you, those aren’t mine.

My music is as goth as it gets. (standing) Test me right now! I can name every Joy Division song.

NIGHTSHADE: That won’t be necessary, Viper. (to BLAIN) Dispose of these. (BLAIN begins putting the CDs in a box labeled “for the incinerator.”) Say goodbye to your precious ABBA. LILITH: Wait!

(Everyone stops what they are doing and looks at LILITH in disbelief.)

NIGHTSHADE: What is it, Lilith?

LILITH: I-- I was just-NIGHTSHADE: Is there something you’d like to say, Lilith? Are you objecting to the righteous and fiery destruction of this ABBA CD? LILITH: No! I was just thinking I could be the one to dispose of these… vile CDs. (She begins collecting them in her arms.)

NIGHTSHADE: (suspicious) Wait a minute(He opens the CD case and removes the disc, showing what’s written on it to the table.)

“Property of Lilith”?

INSOMNIANA: (rising from her chair to confront LILITH) How could you? I trusted you, Lilith!

BLAIN: (pulling her back into her seat) Babe.

NIGHTSHADE: Lilith, I am appalled you would keep this hidden from us.

VIPER: I told you they weren’t mine!

LILITH: I-I’m sorry. I’ve been trading CDs with the cheerleaders in secret. I just love these infectious pop beats and catchy hooks! If I have to listen to one more BauESSE 53

haus song, I’m going to go insane! Isn’t it possible to be goth and still enjoy ABBA’s happy summer bops?

(Everyone talks over themselves.)

INSOMNIANA: Nightshade! Do something about this!

LILITH: (reaching over the table and grabbing NIGHTSHADE’S collar) Please don’t kick me out of the goth squad!

VIPER: I told you so…

NIGHTSHADE: Silence! As leader of the goths, I have made my decision. Lilith, I suppose you have a point. I will admit, I too can only take so much of Bela Lugosi’s “Dead” before I begin to feel dead myself.

LILITH: (wiping tears from her eyes) Thank you so much, Nightshade. Thank you for understanding.

VIPER: (leaving the table) I can’t believe you all.

NIGHTSHADE: Sit down, Viper. We’re not done here. That was only one thing on our list. (reading) Problem number three: failure to wear all black. Viper, I’m beginning to wonder if this isn’t just a phase for you.

(Everyone gasps.)

VIPER: How dare you?

NIGHTSHADE: Ronoldo! Bring me the evidence!

(RONOLDO enters and gives NIGHTSHADE another bag. He exits.)

NIGHTSHADE: Why must you disappoint 54 ESSE

us so? Wearing all black is the very essence of being goth. It’s the simplest, most pure way someone can become a goth. Is it really so much to ask from you? Is it really so hard to uphold this sub-cultural staple?

Is it really necessary you bring something so insulting into my household? At our annual Halloween movie night, you left these atrocities behind. (He places a ziplock bag with a pair of brightly colored socks on the table and slides them to VIPER.) Care to explain?

VIPER: Really? These aren’t mine! Not only would my feet would never fit in these, but also I am deeply offended you all would think I would ever wear this pattern. I wouldn’t even wear these in black. How dare you all accuse me of this fashion disaster! I’m innocent!

INSOMNIANA: You liar! Oh, Viper, just own up already, will you? You might as well start packing your bags now. In fact, I’ll help you! (She grabs the bag of socks and heads towards the door.) Excuse me while I put these awayBLAIN: (Sharply under his breath) Babe!

(INSOMNIANA turns as BLAIN gestures to the table.) Babe!

INSOMNIANA: (realizing her mistake) I mean put these away in the trash! Geez what did you think I meant?

VIPER: Oh my goth… (shouting) OH MY GOTH! INSOMNIANA: Shut up, Viper!

BLAIN: Babe!

VIPER: OH MY GOTH! NIGHTSHADE: I can’t believe this. Insomniana, Blain, do you have something you’d

like to share with us?

INSOMNIANA: No we don’t! We’ve done nothing wrong!

VIPER: Looks like someone is busted.

NIGHTSHADE: Sit down now and explain yourselves! (They sit.) Insomniana, are you saying these aren’t your socks? And, Blain, are you saying you didn’t just try to cover for her?

VIPER: (imitating INSOMNIANA) Oh, Insomniana, just own up already, will you?

INSOMNIANA: (throwing her hands on the table) It was me, okay! All my life I’ve been goth and all my life I’ve worn black! But these-(She picks up the socks and shakes them.) these are Vipers’ fault! If it weren’t for him bringing his ungoth attitude into this, I never would have purchased these! (throwing the socks at VIPER) This is all on you, buddy!

(Everyone begins to shout over themselves.)

NIGHTSHADE: All of you, cut it out! (infuriated) Is this really how it’s going to go down? All of us being revealed to be secretly ungoth? Might as well clear the air now!

Anyone else have any confessions to make?

Any declarations of love for organized sports? Any ribbon dancers at the table?

BLAIN: I have a confession.

NIGHTSHADE: Really Blain? I wasn’tBLAIN: (He pushes his chair back and closes his eyes, shouting.) I hate Nosferatu and every other vampire movie because they have inaccurate portrayals of vampires. I’m all for representation in the media, but this is no way to go about it! I reject Dracula and

all vampires of Hollywood.

VIPER: I don’t want to say I told you so butNIGHTSHADE: Shut up, Viper! Insomniana was right! This- this- betrayal is all because of your ungoth influence! Do you think being goth is some kind of joke? You think it’s just a little phase that doesn’t require commitment and serious lifestyle changes?

I am disgusted. You have soiled our goth sanctuary! I guess I’ll add it to the list! (He quickly scribbles on the paper.)

VIPER: Are you kidding me? You’re really going back to the list? After everyone has already admitted they are the ones responsible for my alleged crimes?

NIGHTSHADE: Problem number 3- brings ungoth aura into our squad and ruins being goth for everyone.

VIPER: This is ridiculous! What else do you have to say? (He snatches the paper away from NIGHTSHADE.) Problem number 7wears sunscreen with an SPF lower than 40? Problem number 10- leaves trash at the lunch table? What do these even have to do with being goth?

NIGHTSHADE: (defensively) All goths must properly protect their skin from the sun’s harsh UV rays. And there’s nothing goth about leaving a mess at the lunch table.

Cleanliness is next to gothliness!

VIPER: (picking up a candelabra covered in webs) To the people who purposely keep cobwebs everywhere for aesthetic value: you all are a bunch of hypocrites! I can’t believe you would all accuse me of these things when you know very well you’re the ones committing the crimes. But guess

what? Those aren’t even crimes! You say you’re goth, but you don’t know the meaning of the word. There’s nothing wrong with listening to upbeat music or wearing colorful clothes. (standing on the chair with his knee up on the table) What’s wrong is turning this dynamic and multifaceted subculture into nothing more than a stereotype. We are more than Tim Burton movie characters! You all forget the very purpose of goth is to be yourself without fear of judgment. You can like Siouxsie Sioux and still be you! It doesn’t matter what music you like or how you dress; being goth is in your heart. It’s more than a phase; it’s who you really are.

NIGHTSHADE: (wiping a tear from his eye) He’s right… Viper is right. I can’t fight this anymore! (He opens his shirt to reveal a brightly colored t-shirt with a pop star on it.)

(Chaos ensues as LILITH begins throwing her CDs back into the bag, INSOMNIANA puts her socks on, BLAIN rips up vampire posters, VIPER throws his hands up and celebrates being goth, and NIGHTSHADE sings a song by the person on his shirt.)

(There is a knock on the door and everyone freezes.)

(RONOLDO, MOTHER, and FATHER enter with gluten free lemon bars.)

MOTHER: Hey, kids! I hope you all weren’t too hungry waiting for us.

FATHER: I got the lemon bars this time!

MOTHER: (setting them on the table) Sorry lemons aren’t very goth. It’s hard to find

goth citrus this time of year, with blood orange out of season.

INSOMNIANA: Um, that’s ok. Thanks Mr. Viper’s Dad and Mrs. Viper’s Mom. (She takes a lemon bar.) Oh my goth, these taste like sunshine.

(THE GOTHS grab a lemon bar.)

MOTHER: Would you like one, Nightshade?

NIGHTSHADE: Sure! And you can call me Daniel.

MOTHER: Well, kids, it was good to see you!

FATHER: Enjoy those lemon bars!

(They exit.)

VIPER: So what now, Nightshade? Want to have another séance?

NIGHTSHADE: You know, I think we should try something new. Something lively.

LILITH: There’s an ABBA tribute band concert tonight.

INSOMNIANA: That sounds fun!

NIGHTSHADE: So what do you say, guys?

ALL: Yeah… I’m in… let’s go… (ad lib) (They all put their hands in the middle.)

ALL: One! Two! Three! Goth!

(They throw their hands up and music starts playing. Lights out.)

ESSE 55

A Mother’s Gift Elise Welch ‘19

You held my hand and I stared up at you With gazing eyes wondering why You looked at me with such happiness I had tried on your clothes But none of them fit I just wanted to be like you So perfect and beautiful And then you hugged me and said I already was.

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Kit Popolo ‘16 | Daphne | Mixed media painting

eautiful BAudrey La ‘19 I am beautiful now, you won’t notice right away the harsh lines and texture of my face will distract from that but if you spend time with me and watch me carefully, the beauty will peek out shyly it’ll come out after I’ve just washed my face and my skin captures the light and transforms it into a lovely gown, fit for a queen it comes out in the light of my eyes when I’m talking with somebody and smiling: the light of life and liveliness it leaps and jumps when I dance and sing to songs that have been played far too many times it is as fierce as a monsoon when I fight for my beliefs it marvels in wide-eyed wonder at the mysteries of life when I take in nature and the art that other humans have created it contemplates life with me when I stare out of a car window just like pop stars in dramatic music videos it smiles a little smile at you if you ever notice that my smile is tinged at the edges with the blue notes of sadness it hums sweet melodies softly against my ear when I’m stressed over things that won’t matter in a year it cradles you when you aren’t strong and need a body to hold for comfort it is my soul my soul is beauty now I only know all these things because I’ve lived with myself for so long but I know my facts and I know that ah yes, I am beautiful

ESSE 57

ncovered U Sabrina Zuniga ‘16 INT. GRACE’S BEDROOM IN FRONT OF HER MIRROR- LATE AFTERNOON GRACE, standing in front of her bedroom mirror, picks up her scarf lying on top of her drawers. She slowly wraps the scarf around her neck. She stares at her reflection in the mirror, looking blankly as if she’s unsatisfied. As she stares in the mirror, she suddenly bursts into anger.

GRACE (angrily): Darn it.

She angrily takes off her scarf and throws it on the ground. She is breathing as if she’s angry, looking into the mirror disgusted with her own image. She stares at the large burn mark across her chest and grazes her hand over it.

SISTER (concerned): Grace?

GRACE rapidly looks over at her SISTER who appears at the doorway, shyly leaning against the doorpost. She has a sympathetic but soft smile on her face.

SISTER (softly but caring): You okay?

GRACE (playing it off cool): Oh yeah I’m fine, it’s just…

As GRACE speaks, she bends down to pick up her scarf, but her sister quickly walks over and picks it up for her. SISTER touches the scarf first, and they pause for a second and make eye contact as they’re squatting bent down on the ground. They softly smile at each other.

SISTER gently grabs the scarf, and then they rise back up.

SISTER (softly but understandingly, very softly nodding): You Kelly Mansour ‘19 | Every Rose Has Its Thorn | Digital photograph 58 ESSE

don’t have to say it.

GRACE shyly and humbly looks down.

SISTER (softly): Hey, look at me.

GRACE looks at her sister with a slightly sad facial expression.

SISTER: I love you, sis, okay? Don’t ever forget that.

GRACE (softly chuckling): Thanks, sis.

SISTER: You know, I think you look better without the scarf.

GRACE, mildly angrily, grabs the scarf from her sister and wraps it around her neck, covering the burn mark.

ing. She pauses and looks back at GRACE, smiling softly. Then, she finally walks away.

GRACE is still looking at the mirror, slightly biting her lip with a serious expression. She exhales deeply.

GRACE (whispering): Okay.

HOUSE PARTY- LATE EVENING GRACE slowly walks up to the front door of the house of the party. She stops right in front of the door and reaches her hand out to turn the door knob to enter the house, but she hesitates, strongly exhales, and hastily leans back against the wall. She closes her eyes and takes deep breaths.

GRACE: I don’t think you understand.

SISTER (softly): Okay, it’s up to you though.

GRACE (whispering): You got this. Just don’t take your scarf off, and you’ll be fine.

ROSE: Are you alright?

SISTER gently smiles at GRACE while she puts her scarf back on and adjusts it while looking in the mirror.

ROSE walks up to the door and catches GRACE by surprise. GRACE looks startled and looks at ROSE.

SISTER (softly smiling): I hope you have fun at your party.

GRACE (embarrassed): Oh yeah I’m alright.

I’m new here, so this is my first party.

SISTER starts walking away towards the door while GRACE is still staring in the mirror.

SISTER stops once she gets to the door open-

ROSE looks pleasantly surprised.

ROSE (excitingly): Really? Me too! We

should go in together!

GRACE has a shy smile on her face chuckles.

ROSE (with a soft smile and soft voice): Hey… ROSE walks closer to GRACE, attempting to comfort her and show her that she is not going to hurt her.

ROSE (smirking): I just think us new girls gotta stick together. What do you say?

GRACE looks shy, but then she smiles ROSE small nods with a little grin on her face, and GRACE lightly chuckles and begins to smile.

GRACE (confidently): Let’s do it.

ROSE sighs of relief, then smiles back at GRACE (over the shoulder shot focusing on ROSE).

ROSE (confidently): I’m Rose by the way.

GRACE looks more confident GRACE (softly smiling): I’m Grace.

ROSE grins confidently and points to the door.

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ROSE (smirking): Shall we?

GRACE (smiling): Let’s.

They take each other’s hand, and ROSE slowly opens the door.

ENTRANCE OF THE HOUSE-- HOUSE HAS BLASTING MUSIC AND THE LIGHTS ARE OFF The two girls slowly walk in, looking around to see many people talking and dancing.

GRACE and ROSE pause and look at each other, nod, and then confidently walk into the party, integrating themselves into conversations and such. The two girls begin to have fun, and it seems as though nothing could go wrong. They are integrated, and people seem to accept them and welcome them.

The two girls toast to each other, and finally the majority of the party moves outside to the pool and hot tub.

OUTSIDE NEAR THE HOT TUB- NIGHT HANNAH and RACHEL come into view, sitting in the hot tub surrounded by people. GRACE and ROSE are sitting at a table nearby, not too interested in joining the rest of the crowd in the hot tub. HANNAH looks over at GRACE and ROSE periodically with a disgusted look.

HANNAH (condescendingly): Rachel, who

60 ESSE

are they? I’ve never seen them before.

RACHEL (clueless): No idea. They must be new I guess.

HANNAH (scoffing and snarky with an attitude): What are they even doing here?

Who invited them? And what the heck are they wearing? It’s August. Why is she wearing a scarf? And why is she wearing a giant sweater?

RACHEL looks clueless and shrugs. HANNAH continues to scoff, but then she grins widely.

RACHEL looks at HANNAH skeptically.

RACHEL (concerned): Oh no. Hannah, don’t do anything stupid.

HANNAH (grinning widely): What? I’m not doing anything wrong!

the hot tub. ROSE starts to look extremely embarrassed. Two girls start to grab ROSE’s arm and pull her towards the hot tub. ROSE fights back.

ROSE (quietly but angrily): Stop!

HANNAH scoffs and looks at the people next to her. THE CROWD is staring at ROSE and continues to taunt her.

HANNAH (grinning): Oh come on. Hey, Trevor, take that sweatshirt off of her and bring her in!

HANNAH looks over at ROSE and yells to her.

TREVOR tries to take her sweatshirt off.

CROWD yells at ROSE to take the sweatshirt off. ROSE looks dazed and nervous. Finally, she forces herself out of TREVOR’s hands and throws her hands up in the hair.

HANNAH (snarky and loud): Hey, sweatshirt! Take off that thing and get in here!

ROSE (angrily) : Okay, fine! I’ll take the damn thing off.

ROSE looks over at HANNAH. ROSE is taken aback, not wanting anyone to pressure her to get in.

ROSE slowly takes the sweatshirt off As the sweatshirt slides off her arms, giant cut scars on her wrists are revealed. The CROWD is shocked and stares wide-eyed at the scars.

ROSE (a little shy): Nah, I’m good.

HANNAH (scoffing and rolling her eyes): Oh, don’t give me that. Come on just take the sweatshirt off and get your ass in here.

CROWD starts shouting at ROSE to get in

ROSE (upset): See, this is why I didn’t want to take it off. God, all of you are staring at me.

ROSE storms off and runs inside. The CROWD

still looks shocked (close ups). RACHEL nudges HANNAH (front shot of the both of them), and RACHEL looks annoyed.

RACHEL (annoyed): What the hell, Hannah.

You didn’t have to do that.

HANNAH shrugs and looks away. GRACE looks disappointed and looks over at HANNAH. GRACE (disappointed yet sarcastic): Way to help a new girl feel welcomed.

GRACE follows after ROSE and runs inside. (shots of GRACE running inside ex: opening the door inside, entering the kitchen, seeing ROSE running up the stairs) ISOLATED HALLWAY- MUSIC FUZZLED IN THE BACKGROUND ROSE dashes into a room and slams the door shut. GRACE rapidly follows after her to the doorway. GRACE arrives in front of the door, and she tries to turn the doorknob, but it’s locked. GRACE knocks on the door.

GRACE (concerned): Rose? Are you okay?

ROSE (upset): Go away, please.

GRACE (softly but concerning): Rose, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to know if you’re okay. Please let me in.

The door opens, and ROSE barely shows her face at the crack between the door and the doorpost. She has tears dripping down her face and looks really upset. She retreats slowly back into the room. GRACE follows ROSE into the room.

THE BEDROOM ROSE sits on the floor in front of the foot of the bed. GRACE sits next to her.

ROSE (softly): The scars are from a long time ago. I don’t cut anymore, but they’re just huge reminders of a dark time in my life. I’m just insecure about them. I hate people seeing them. I hate it. I just think people will think bad of me because of it.

I’m not normal because of these scars, and it’s so annoying. I just hate them.

GRACE looks at ROSE and shyly smiles.

ROSE (upset): Oh forget it. It’s stupid I know.

GRACE: You’re not the only one with scars, you know.

GRACE proceeds to take her scarf off slowly, revealing her giant burn marks. ROSE’s eyes widen as she sees the burn marks GRACE was able to hide under the scarf.

GRACE: I know they’re not the same as

yours, but you’re not alone.

GRACE chuckles lightly and shakes her head.

GRACE (lightly chuckling): And before this, I thought I was the only one who’s insecure about some scars.

ROSE chuckles lightly and nudges GRACE on the shoulder.

ROSE: You’re pretty cool, you know. Thank you for being here with me and all.

GRACE grins. She pauses for a second, then smiles at ROSE. GRACE (lightly smiling): What do you say we get out of here? I don’t know, maybe go get ice cream or go downtown or something?

ROSE grins widely.

ROSE (softly but excitingly): Yeah. Screw this. Let’s go!

ROSE and GRACE quickly smile and laugh, then get up and leave.

The End. Please visit the following link to watch the short film Uncovered produced by Sabrina Zuniga ‘16: https://youtu.be/51h1tUuN--U ESSE 61

Should the Soul Ever Wander Olinda Garry ‘16

Based on the spirit of the villanelle Oh, give him a home for his wandering soul.

He’s dressed to his best with nowhere to go, Wandering down the path of fate’s control.

Dirt covered him up and swallowed him whole.

He opened the door, left his body below, And wished for a home for his now wandering soul.

Quietly she wept, impossible to console.

There stood his mother, heart full of sorrow, Cursing the path of fate’s control.

She prayed with her heart, no longer whole, To the Lord of the thousand winds that blow “Oh, give him a home for his wandering soul.”

Lady Death of sugar-white bones left with his soul This red-clad lady of bones kindly did show Him down the petal-lined path of fate’s control.

They came to a gate that opened with a bell’s toll To a dead man’s feast where laughs of the remembered echo She gave him a home for his wandering soul, One free from the path of fate’s control.

Victoria Segovia ‘17 Lost in the Sun Digital photograph 62 ESSE

amson SVeronica Yung ‘18 Your eyes, I think, could stop a war, But they could start one too.

You wooed me with your sparkling laugh, And I fell into you.

I loved you with a fierceness and You loved me best you couldWith charming words, angelic lies, You thought that you were good.

You became Delilah, dear, You wrapped me up in chains.

You cut my hair and clipped my wings, Ignoring all my pain.

Your fickle love’s not love at all.

It is a greedy clutch.

Your kisses burned my face and hands.

You scarred me with your touch.

But now, Delilah, I am free.

I smashed the temple walls.

All you built has turned to dust And scattered in the squalls.

No more shall I waste love on you, My darling, deadly dear.

I strike your head, you bite my heel.

For you, I have no fear.

ESSE 63

traight Paths S Hannah Ni’Shuilleabhain ‘17 Each person lives their straight paths Covered from sight by fog – mist – eyelids

Each straight path is not parallel to the next

Actually, they are all intertwined I might meet you for one mile on your path Or she might join me for thirty miles of mine

But what makes everyone’s straight path so special

Is not the leaves scattered or cracked dirt, But that The end will always be alone

That is not what is particularly sad

It is when one creature’s path is taken Entirely unaccompanied Then you should shed your tears

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Brittany Wierman ‘16 | Self Portrait | Oil painting ESSE 65

66 ESSE

Ashley Liu ‘17 | Weekend in Dubai | Mixed media painting

The Unexpected Path Lauren Jilek ‘16

Act 1 Scene 1 The play begins at an elegant high society ball set in the 1890s. On one side an orchestra plays on a small stage. On the other side of the room is a grand staircase leading to the ballroom floor. Every part of the room seems to be in varying shades of silver, white, and gold. Some couples waltz, others enjoy the drinks, and many gossip in small groups. HARRISON and CLARISSE WINSTON walk towards a man on the edge of the dance floor standing alone.

HARRISON: Brother, stop sulking and come join us! There are plenty of young ladies to dance with.

THOMAS [annoyed]: Perhaps. But show me one young woman not trying to marry me, and I will happily dance with her.

CLARISSE: Harrison, dear, will you allow me to dance with your brother? He’s letting his shyness get the better of him!

HARRISON: Of course, my darling.

[HARRISON exits to one side to speak to a group of young men as THOMAS and CLARISSE begin dancing.]

CLARISSE [softly]: You seem awfully quiet tonight. You used to love dancing at these events.

THOMAS [pausing and looking at CLARISSE]: I also used to have a lady to dance with.

CLARISSE [obliviously]: Well, there are many ladies here tonight who w— THOMAS [interrupting her]: But none of them are the dance partner I want.

[The music stops and the song ends. CLARISSE leaves THOMAS to join a group of young socialites. As he gazes longingly after her, a young socialite grabs his hand and pulls him into the next dance.]

THOMAS: Excuse me, madam, but I do not dance.

ANNEMARIE: Nonsense, I saw you dancing with Mrs. Clarisse Winston. Quite well, if I may say so. Allow me to introduce myself. [quickly curtsying] Ms. Annemarie Franklin, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Franklin of Manhattan.

THOMAS [shocked as she reaches for his hand]: Miss— ANNEMARIE: There’s no need to look so shocked. You are Mr. Thomas Winston, son of Dalton Winston, are you not?

THOMAS: Yes, but— ANNEMARIE: So you must be used to dancing with many young women. I should not cause you to be speechless.

THOMAS: If I may, Miss Franklin, why did you insist on dancing with me? There are many more eligible young men present tonight.

ANNEMARIE: Yes. And you are the only one who has not asked my parents for my

hand in marriage. [pausing as if considering something] But I highly doubt you ever will, for I saw the way you looked at your sisterin-law.

THOMAS [surprised]: How did you--?

ANNEMARIE: I’m quite perceptive, sir, and you are not skilled at hiding your romantic intentions.

[THOMAS remains speechless as the dance ends, and THOMAS and ANNEMARIE start to exit the dance floor.]

THOMAS: May I interest you in a drink, Miss Franklin?

ANNEMARIE: You may.

[They walk to the long banquet tables with servers waiting to offer the dancers drinks.

On the other side of the room, MRS. FRANKLIN and MRS. PORTER discuss their children’s future marriage arrangement.]

MRS. FRANKLIN: We must arrange a meeting for Annemarie and Gerard soon. With luck, we’ll hear wedding bells come August or September.

MRS. PORTER: Indeed. Though I fear your daughter’s attention is elsewhere tonight.

[Her gaze wanders to watch ANNEMARIE and THOMAS drinking and talking.] I hope that will not distract her from our arrangement.

MRS. FRANKLIN: Oh, Annemarie is only being friendly. Everyone knows Mr. Winston has plans for his son Thomas to marry one of those Beaufort girls.

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MRS. PORTER [getting up to leave]: It’s much too late for me to be out at this hour, so I must be off. Your family should attend our garden party later this month. I’ll have my butler send you an invitation. Good night, Mrs. Franklin.

MRS. FRANKLIN: Good night.

Scene 2 The scene opens on a garden party on a cool spring afternoon. The party mostly features women with a few single men and fathers also in attendance.

MRS. FRANKLIN [to ANNEMARIE]: Dear, let me adjust your hat. We want to make sure you look your best.

ANNEMARIE [exasperated]: Mother, it’s only a small garden party. Please relax; I don’t need to look perfect.

[The Franklin women enter the party. MRS. PORTER immediately notices them and goes to greet them.]

MRS. PORTER: Good afternoon, Clara, Annemarie, and welcome! Please join me; I have some people I would like to introduce you to.

[MRS. PORTER drags both women over to a fountain where a man talks to a young woman.]

MRS. PORTER: Clara, Annemarie, allow me to introduce you to my son and daughter, Gerard and Grace. Gerard, Grace, meet Mrs. Clara Franklin and her daughter Miss

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Annemarie Franklin.

ANNEMARIE [curtsying]: Good afternoon Mr. and Miss Porter, it’s nice to finally meet you.

GERARD: The pleasure is mine. Can I interest you in a drink, Miss Franklin?

ANNEMARIE [smiling politely]: That would be lovely.

MRS. FRANKLIN: Annemarie, dear, why don’t you tell Mr. Porter about your accomplishments on the piano and harp?

ANNEMARIE: I—Yes, I enjoy playing both instruments very much.

GERARD: Do you have any other talents?

ANNEMARIE: Yes, I like to sing and I enjoy writing.

GERARD: How marvelous! What do you write?

ANNEMARIE: Currently I write short stories, but one day I would hope to write a novel.

GERARD: Ah… well perhaps you should consider writing only short stories. After all they are much more suited to the creative abilities of a female.

ANNEMARIE [sourly]: I’ll take your advice into consideration. If you will excuse me, I believe I have just seen a dear friend of mine and I would like to greet them.

[She rushes off and notices the arrival of MR. AND MRS. HARRISON WINSTON and THOMAS WINSTON. She goes to greet them.]

ANNEMARIE: Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Winston. I would like to thank you for hosting the gala earlier this month; I had a

wonderful time.

CLARISSE: You are quite welcome. You and my brother-in-law make a striking pair of wonderful dancers.

ANNEMARIE [blushing slightly]: Thank you, ma’am.

[CLARISSE and HARRISON go to greet their friends.]

THOMAS [to ANNEMARIE]: Are you here alone?

ANNEMARIE: No, my mother is here with me. She’s trying to set me up with Gerard Porter.

THOMAS: I noticed that you ended your conversation with him to greet us. Did something not work out?

ANNEMARIE: He’s very condescending. I don’t think it will work out. [whispering in confidence] I’m afraid my mother will force any alliance with the Porters in order to remain in good standing in New York society.

Mother’s influence in the city is failing, and she seeks to recover it at all costs.

THOMAS: I might be able to solve your problem.

ANNEMARIE: Which one?

THOMAS: I’m offering to help you with your future arranged marriage to Gerard Porter.

ANNEMARIE: How? THOMAS: My father believes that it is time for me to marry as well. As a second son, I have more freedom to choose a wife than did my brother. You need a fiancé to free you from an unwanted arranged marriage.

I need a wife and you need a fiancé and I believe we can help each other. [takes a deep breath] This is rather impulsive and unusual for me, but, Miss Franklin, I’m asking you to marry me. It isn’t for love; we both have problems that I believe we can solve through an arranged engagement. Do you agree to my proposal?

ANNEMARIE [speechless for a moment]: …

Mr. Winston, y—yes, I will be your fiancée.

[MRS. FRANKLIN sees her daughter speaking to THOMAS.] MRS. FRANKLIN [angrily]: Annemarie, please bid this gentlemen good day. We already have arrangements for us to sit and enjoy the party with the Porters.

ANNEMARIE: Mother, if you don’t mind, I would like to spend the afternoon with my fiancé, Mr. Thomas Winston.

MRS. FRANKLIN [turning from red to white]: When did this happen?! Annemarie Franklin, do you know what this means?!

ANNEMARIE [moving away from THOMAS to speak to her mother privately]: Mother, Mr. Winston is a suitable match for me. He has the high society standing and wealth that you desire in a husband for me.

[MRS. FRANKLIN is rendered speechless and shocked by her daughter’s confession. The news becomes too much for her and she collapses.]

ANNEMARIE: Mother! Mother! Are you alright?

THOMAS: She will be fine.

MRS. PORTER: What happened? Clara?

CLARA! What happened?

ANNEMARIE: I introduced her to my fiancé and she collapsed.

MRS. PORTER: FIANCÉ?

ANNEMARIE: Yes, Mr. Thomas Winston, son of Mr. Dalton Winston.

MRS. PORTER: Annemarie, you stupid girl. [recovering her composure] I mean, you are clearly confused. Mr. Winston is not the suitable husband for you. My son Gerard is a far better match.

ANNEMARIE: Mrs. Porter, if you please, I will not be marrying your son.

MRS. PORTER: Please attend to your mother. You are a child and you do not know what’s best for you. Hopefully, she will talk some sense into you.

[MRS. PORTER leaves quickly. MRS. FRANKLIN begins to rouse and the rest of the garden party begins to disperse and exit.]

THOMAS: Miss Franklin, we’ll find a way to fix this dilemma. Mrs. Porter might have connections, but she is not your mother.

ANNEMARIE: I’m afraid she can do more damage than you think; this party is only the beginning of a long summer.

[CURTAIN FALLS]

Ashley Liu ‘17 Weekend in Dubai Mixed media painting ESSE 69

reetings from Chicago G Haley Dotter ‘16 I bought you a postcard, But all the things I wanted to say Couldn’t possibly fit On these handful of lines.

I wanted to tell you I’m doing alright, But there are some days When I remember how your laugh Used to remind me of a foreign language, Melodic and sweet And intriguing to the ears.

I wanted to tell you I pilfered the picture of us That you had pinned On the bulletin board above your desk.

I wanted to say I’m sorry, But I also wanted to know If you’ve been missing it.

I wanted to tell you I’m haunted by my failure to ever mention That your heart, Though quick-tempered And highly flammable, Is the sincerest That I may ever know.

I wanted to tell you A lot of things, But I bought only a postcard.

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Natalya Holtz ‘18 Serenity Digital photograph

The Long Road Home Lucy Calzada ‘18

Icy streets and barren nights With hockey games on Wednesday nights Red and white and black and gold Our eyes are fierce our hearts are bold Pinstripe blue on April days Where I was only second grade Red brick walls with ivy leaves The battle of the Midwest teams Fifteen below on Soldier Field The TV screen doesn’t look real Our eyes are hooked on blurry forms And four-layered shirts become the norm Where your #OneGoal is winning games And Stanley is your favourite name No questions asked, the ref’s a liar #RaiseTheBanner raise it higher This is #TheYear that’s all we know Bryant and Rizzo steal the show Where 19 and its little C Are markings of a dynasty Red-eyed bulls on banners wave Above the madhouse tall and brave A piece for you a piece for me Now ‘85 is history It’s in your veins it’s in your joints Four red stars with six sharp points Three hours leaves you wanting more Our accents cheer the same accord This is our spirit in the sky This organ is our lullaby Hidden in these ivory towers This team is yours and theirs and ours.

ESSE 71

Sophia Love ‘19 | Value Connections | Charcoal drawing 72 ESSE

A rchives To celebrate Esse’s 50 year history, members of the magazine’s staff formed an Archives Selection Committee to select the best pieces that have been published over the years. Both sad and happy, these poems printed through page 75 remind us that we continue to produce the magazine because it creates a lasting impact on the reader. While the authors of these pieces may have graduated long ago, their ideas and work live on in the pages of past issues of Esse, and we recognize them again in this issue of the magazine.

he Castle T*Cass From 1985 The castle towers high above.

Its stones turning green with age, Some of them crumbling And falling to the ground.

O that such magnificence is wasted.

The flowers never again to bloom And fill the air With their sweet, haunting fragrance While ladies walk among them Exclaiming at their beauty O that it was allowed to fall Into ruin. Will our world too Fall into ruin --- someday, By man’s own hand? *The only name given for the author of this poem in the 1985 magazine

Disinherited The Christy Netherland From 1983 Against the sunset they ride.

Down the sloping plains and valleys, To fight…to fight for the land, Rightfully theirs, Taken harshly away by ruthless, unseen enemies…

That once was theirs.

Against the sunset they shall ride, Through the countless ways…

They once were mistreated, Yet still had hopeA hope that the Great One Would come to their rescue, And deliver them from The shame and bitterness Of a battle already lost.

ESSE 73

Lessons Swimming Kristin Putchinski From 1992 Jeremy never complained that his body ached

(It wasn’t his way.) and he loved the water as much as I loved him.

Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, I watched him run –

tripping

falling, laughing,

yelling – to grasp my hand and pull me to the poolside:

(“Do you remember the rules, Jeremy?”)

(and his childish squeal would answer:

“No pizza in the pool.”)

(Laughs would echo in the room –

remind me to laugh once in a while.)

Jeremy never complained that the water was too cold

(It wasn’t his way.) and he loved to race across the water with me;

he’d always win.

I never won, but never

thought to challenge him.

(“Do your arms hurt, Jeremy?”)

(and his eyes would flutter away from

mine: “No, the pain is gone

for now,”

“Let’s play.”)

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Jeremy never said good-bye to me

(He thought it was forever.) and he loved to hug my knees, but I took care when touching him

(porcelain—that shatters) I hugged him lightly to myself

(“Do you love me, Jeremy?”)

(and his cheeks would grow red

and his eyes would flare)

(“I love you more than this… “)

(His arms stretched out wide.)

Jeremy never saw the autumn.

(He was gone before I knew.) and I saw his fresh grave

through acid tears

that summer.

I crushed the flower in my hands.

(“Do angels love you, Jeremy?”)

(My voice cracked, but he heard.)

I knelt, and kissed his name, softly – breezes across my face. I thought I heard him say: “Angels love me more than this…”

(I saw his arms stretched out wide—

before me.)

randma G Victoria Espinoza From 2001 Youthful laughter vibrates throughout the room, The crystal clear sound tingles the curves inside the ear, Bouncing off the brown, wooden floors and peach, paneled walls, Evoking breathless laughter from people crowded within.

My aging grandmother, a radiating figure of sunshine and glory, My aging grandmother, 85 years old with treasured, golden stories.

With laughter like a bouncy, thirteen year old girl, As she secretly spies on her new crush, Grandma, with the glimmer of mischief, Reflected in her glossy eyes, Unable to suppress the tides of joy, Overflowing from within.

My aging grandmother, tongue of silver, Spanish coins.

My aging grandmother, immaculate spirit like no other.

With brown, leathery skin and silver coated hair, She flings her head back, Mouth open wide, A heart arousing sound dances in the air, A laugh unlike any other, Done the chamberlain way.

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Victoria Segovia ‘17 Carried Away Digital photograph 76 ESSE

The Truth of Time Abby Kieker ‘16

Time used to drag on and on, As minutes turned into days As days turned into weeks.

I used to count the seconds until the day would be over, Until I could go home Only to start all over again.

But now I find that time flies by, Memories forgotten and days wasted.

Time flies by with colors and tastes Without stalling, slowing, or stopping.

Now I know that I have been foolish, For the year is almost over and time has only just begun.

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Addressing the Choir in My Brain Brittany Wierman ‘16

Already I can feel my outlines fading.

Looking around my room I’m choosing now, What goes, what stays, what’s thrown away.

I’m savoring the time spent driving with my friends, And the way I always hated the sunset on the warehouses: Bruised, fire milk, and disgustingly sentimental.

Goodbye pink trash can and goodbye dusty dolls.

In a moment, it seems, it will all be gone.

These things will be stored in textures and smells, 78 ESSE

Only the soft atmosphere and I will remember how they felt.

Each day I inch closer to my undisclosed future, And I’m excited and stupid!

My lucid dream solidifiesThrough my eyelids I feel the bite of a winter I’ve never tasted.

Yet still, that buzzing, that faint drone, that humWill I miss you, cicadas?

Will I miss you at all?

How to Be Published

Students from grades nine through twelve are encouraged to submit their art and literature pieces via Esse’s Submission Manager (esselitmag.com) or hard copy to the moderators of Esse. Students may continue to submit work until the end of the school year. Teachers in the English and visual arts departments also submit students’ pieces they deem commendable. The Esse selection committee then reads the pieces anonymously on Esse’s Submission Manager and rates them in relation to the theme of the magazine and the capacity of the piece. Each year, Esse holds an art and literature contest in which the top two winners in both the art and writing categories are guaranteed to be published alongside the pieces that receive the highest scores from the selection staff. Questions about Esse, the submission process, or any of Esse’s contests can be directed to the moderators or the Esse email, esselitmag@ hotmail.com.

Note from the Editor Dear Reader,

If you have made it this far, you have read and seen the many stories that fill the pages of this magazine. I hope you have enjoyed reading them and have been encouraged to think of your own. I would like to thank you for your support, both to the magazine and to the writers and artists featured. To the writers and artists themselves: thank you for sharing your stories with us. It was a pleasure to read and publish them. Finally, to the selection committee: thank you for your hard work in this year of change with the magazine. I could not have done it without you.

Alexandra Muck ‘16

Darlene Ngo ‘16 90057289 Oil on paper ESSE 79

Esse Staff Editor-in-Chief Alexandra Muck ‘16 Art Editor Kit Popolo ‘16 Assistant Editor Hannah Ni’Shuilleabhain ‘17* Assistant Art Editor Miranda Walker ‘17 Moderators Monica Cochran Megan Schott

Special Thanks

The Esse staff would like to thank everyone who has contributed to the production of this year’s magazine. Our moderators, Mrs. Monica Cochran and Mrs. Megan Schott, deserve recognition for their faithful dedication, constant support, and valued advice. To those of the visual arts department, especially Mrs. Jocelyn Holmes for her support of the magazine, and those of the English department who inspire their students to create and to submit their pieces to Esse, thank you. Finally, we extend our thanks to Mr. John Diebold and Diebold Productions, Inc., for their time, assistance, patience, and genuine kindness throughout the creation of this magazine.

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Selections Committee Claire Roberts ‘17 Jacqueline Artz ‘16* Haley Dotter ‘16 Jade Whitney ‘17 Lauren Jilek ‘16* Martina Ashby ‘18* Darcy Pacheco ‘16 Julia Ferrara ‘18 Addie Stone ‘16 Shay Mansoori ‘18 Rebecca Wildman ‘16 Charlotte Pan ‘18* Olivia Parsons ‘18 Emily Arguello ‘17 Caroline Peng ‘18 Cassie Fritsche ‘17 Anna Rehagen ‘18* Ann Gehan ‘17 Madison Williams ‘18 Sarah Krueger ‘17 Christina Guerra ‘19 Mallory McKee ‘17 Kelly Mansour ‘19 Caroline Murray ‘17 Sofie Ritter-Pleitez ‘19 Alyssa Peckham ‘17 *denotes members of the Archives Selection Committee

Colophon

Esse 2016 was constructed using Adobe InDesign CS 3.0.1 on a PC. The font utilized for titles, authors, and art credits is Estrangelo Edessa. The font for page numbers is Calisto. Titles were set in size 20 and authors’ names were set in size 15. Art credits and page numbers were set in size 10. The font for the body text is Candara, size 10. The cover is Minion Pro, and the spine and back cover are Candara, size 87, 12, and 20, respectively. The cover is on 80# EuroArt Dull paper, coverweight, and the text is on 100# EuroArt Dull paper, bookweight. The pieces included in Esse 2016 were chosen by the Selections Committee, and the magazine was laid out by Alexandra Muck. The Editor-inChief, Art Editor, and Assistant Editors chose the winners of the art and writing contest.

The recipients of these awards receive a monetary prize. Esse 2016 is produced by Ursuline Academy’s Literary-Art Magazine Club and published by Diebold Productions, Inc. Five hundred copies were printed for 800 students and 150 faculty and staff at Ursuline.

Copies are provided free of charge. The magazine is published every summer.

ESSE 2016 Volume L The Literary-Art Magazine of Ursuline Academy Copyright 2016 Ursuline Academy of Dallas