Ursuline Academy of Dallas
About the Covers The cover artworks chosen for the 2020 edition of Esse were selected because of their strong artistic voice, in accordance with this year’s theme. As artists and writers, our voices are our strongest tools, giving our work meaning and determining the way we create. With our voices, we share our perspectives, encourage positive change, and impact the world around us. The artwork displayed on the covers shares the personal narrative and emotions of artist Ollantay Avila ‘20 who uses her voice to create thought provoking images that reflect her own experiences. These powerful pieces set the pace for Esse 2020, filled with exceptional student works that vibrantly express each creator’s voice. -Justine Walker ‘20 Art Editor My pieces follow a narrative from first person perspective and place the viewer as a spectator to my memories. In my pieces, I present conflicts such as boredom, distraction, and identity. -Ollantay Avila ‘20 Front, Back, and Inside Cover Artist
Front Cover: Ollantay Avila '20 interlude: Glimmer Digital Collage Back Cover: Ollantay Avila '20 In My Room Pencil and watercolor on wood board
Inside Cover: Ollantay Avila '20 introduction: Emorium Digital Collage
Esse
Literary-Art Magazine Ursuline Academy Volume LIV 2019-2020 4900 Walnut Hill Lane Dallas, TX 75229 469-232-1800 www.ursulinedallas.org
Scan this QR code to watch Mr. Lee’s creative writing class’ fall performance, and scan other QR codes throughout Esse to see individual performances.
Dedication To Mr. Kyle Lee, Although most Ursuline students know you as the beloved technology wizard who rescues their laptops from the brink of crashing, we on the Esse staff have had the privilege of seeing your creative side as the new creative writing teacher and an advisor for Esse. Your transition from technology to English this year came as a surprise to some, but this change demonstrates how you are the perfect model for our theme of “Voice” as a writer whose own voice is composed of countless facets of your unique identity. You are also an inspiration to all Ursuline writers and artists for proving that creative expression can and should be pursued, no matter one’s age, occupation, or situation in life.
Thank you so much for all that you have done in your creative writing classes to foster imagination and confidence in your students. Your thoughtful instruction and advice provided budding creative writers with the tools they needed to develop their writing abilities. You went even further by creating an encouraging and judgment-free environment in your classes and by investing in the personal growth of each of your students. The Esse staff greatly benefited from your unique perspective and thoughtful advice. We are so thankful for all the time and attention you have put into supporting Ursuline writers and shaping this magazine, and we are so excited for your continued involvement in Esse in the years to come. The Esse Staff
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Editor’s Note If readers listen closely, they will hear the voices of writers speak through the words they handpick, the phrasing they arrange, and the punctuation they place just so. The same is true for artists whose characteristic brush strokes, color pallets, and perspectives differentiate one from the other. In both literature and art, “voice” acts as a metaphorical signature, distinguishing one creator’s works from everyone else’s. We, the staff of Esse, chose “Voice” as this year’s theme. A creator’s voice is evident not only through the distinct style in which a message or idea is expressed but also through the different facets of one’s identity that come through in creative works. One of the favorite Ursuline classes is sophomore year English, better known as “The Female Voice,” in which students dive deep into how the female identity has manifested itself in the works of talented female writers throughout history. Since our student body is entirely female, each of these students showcased in this magazine creates with the female voice evident in their work. Although united by womanhood, these writers and artists are also shaped by a variety of factors such as special circumstances, experiences, and convictions. Each of these identity fragments form these creators’ voices, wholly unique and completely their own. I hope that as you read this edition of Esse, you will hear the varied voices of these students and recognize their individual beauty as much as I have. Abigail Mihalic ‘20 Editor-in-Chief
Olivia Pujats ‘21 Change of Pace Acrylic on Canvas
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Contents: Literature Prose 11-12 21-23 31-35 39 43-45 46 53-60 69-70
Memories // Silvia Vazquez ‘20 Nothingness // Katherine Reynolds ‘22 The Death of a Light // Katherine Reynolds ‘22 Sense of the World // Claire Herzog ‘21 The Modern Columbus // Ellie Skelly ‘21 SS Basco // Zoe Hobson ‘21 Disconnected // Bailey Uttich ‘20 ¡Pura Vida! // Sarah Hui ‘20
Poetry 6 7 9 15 16 17 24 25 27 28 29 37
Skin // Sophia Tran ‘20 warm // Nina Ricci ‘21 blank pages and broken hearts // Jamie Lim ‘22 Golden Drops of Sun // Jamie Lim ‘22 Doubt // Helen Emerson ‘20 Atlas // Sophia Tran ‘20 The Withering Flower and the Blind Man // Aryanna Rivas ‘22 The Mosaic // Olivia Sikes ‘21 The Scream // Teresa Valenzuela ‘20 Ordinary Transcendence // Sarah Hui ‘20 Winter of the Gods // Aurora Rain ‘23 Shiver // Claire Weber ‘20
40 A Blue Wave As a Golden Moment // Sarah Hui ‘20 47 Elegy // Claire Weber ‘20 48 Untitled 01 // Sophia Tran ‘20 49 The Mirror // Ellie Skelly ‘21 50-51 Against a Woman // Teresa Valenzuela ‘20 62 Blinded Shadows // Zoe Hobson ‘21 63 My Room // Natalie Volanto ‘23 65 The Red Elephant // Marianne Cano ‘21 66 Dear Heart // Reagan Engleman ‘23 71 I Am, But I Am Not // Viviana Esquivel ‘22 72 Boots // Claire Weber ‘20 73 Nanie // Abigail Mihalic ‘20 75 Sidewalk Chalk // Emma Brodsky ‘22 76 The Emptiness // Abigail Mihalic ‘20 77 An Embrace from My Heart to Yours // Katherine Reynolds ‘22 79 ‘Rona Madness // Teresa Valenzuela ‘20
Film 18-19
Meraki // Angelina Velis ‘20
Each year, Esse hosts a literature contest. The staff and moderators recognize two literature pieces that display creativity and exceptional literary merit. Winners receive monetary prizes. The 2020 first and second place literature winners are Teresa Valenzuela for “Against a Woman” and Katherine Reynolds for “The Death of a Light” respectively.
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Contents: Art Digital Photography
Drawing
6 8 13 20 28 30 38 41 47 61 64 76-77
48 62 75
Silence // Sophia Tran ‘20 Train // Marcela Toscano ‘21 Morning Bloom // Genevieve Brainard ‘23 Only If // Kayleigh Currier ‘21 10:00 PM // Vivian Nguyen ‘21 Trapped // Kayleigh Currier ‘21 Suspense // Sophia Tran ‘20 Double-Exposure Portrait // Ava Love ‘21 Youth // Caroline Brandt ‘23 China Town // Kayleigh Currier ‘21 Milk Crates // Kayleigh Currier ‘21 pre-quarantine // Anupa Matthew ‘22
Painting 3 10 14 26 50 51 67 68 78
Change of Pace // Olivia Pujats ‘21 sam’s place // Jordan Migis ‘21 A Plastic World // Kayla Hanrahan ‘20 The Grabbing Hands // Savannah Flores ‘21 Dude, Just Let Me // Vivian Nguyen ‘21 The Bag // Vivian Nguyen ‘21 Growth // Michaela Coulter ‘20 Butterfly Garden // Ava Love ‘21 Connected // Lauren Goree ‘22
Could it be Self Love? // Vivian Nguyen ‘21 Portrait // Cady Lambert ‘22 Sidewalk Chalk // Emma Brodsky ‘22
Mixed Media Front 1 7 16 36 52 72 Back
interlude: Glimmer // Ollantay Avila ‘20 introduction: Emorium // Ollantay Avila ‘20 Memories // Devon Vopni ‘21 Staples // Justine Walker ‘20 Brighter Perspectives // Olivia Pujats ‘21 Prometheus Anamnesis // Brooke Murray ‘21 Manitos // Justine Walker ‘20 In My Room // Ollantay Avila ‘20
Printmaking 4-5 42
Abstract Peach // Justine Walker ‘20 Food Desert // Anne Ermish ‘21
Ceramics 24
Wither Flower // Vivian Nguyen ‘21
Each year, Esse hosts an art contest. The staff and moderators recognize two art pieces that display creativity and exceptional artistic merit. Winners receive monetary prizes. The 2020 first and second place art winners are Brooke Murray for “Prometheus Anamnesis” and Kayleigh Currier for “Milk Crates” respectively.
Justine Walker ‘20 Abstract Peach Gelli Print
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Skin Sophia Tran ‘20 Mine, the color of milk and coffee Hers, a delicate cream The perfect layer of latte foam That lowers my self-esteem Or maybe it's more of a porcelain white Only opinion knows Her dream-like complexion made of cloud Was pigmented by a rose My ceramic skin darkens without end Even to the tips of my toes I would trade for hers without complaint As if we were changing clothes But little did I know her thought I never heard her cries Her waxen face humiliates My skin was perfect in her eyes There she goes, that gorgeous girl She's out to buy my tan I hide behind a shaded curtain While she lounges in the sand Products of our mothers' love They said they know what's best "You're too dark" or "You look sick" "Instead, go look like the rest"
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Sophia Tran ‘20 Silence Digital Photography
warm
Nina Ricci ‘21
Devon Vopni ‘21 Memories Mixed Media Drawing
swirled blobs of lavender and marigold pinpricks of daisy skin covered in fading warmth comforting feelings fleeting away
dragged hands taking final residence on rapidly increasing murmurs ba ba boom … ba ba boom ba ba boom closed eyes embracing rhythmic pulses
fingers ignited in flames tracing stitches etched in skin ingraining sense of security and home remnants of past lives
undeclared promises for better days voices attempting to sound unbroken two hesitant smiles forming a beginning an ending that isn’t quite goodbye
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blank pages and broken hearts Jamie Lim ‘22
Marcela Toscano ‘21 Train Digital Photography
blank pages bare without ink, no stained purpose my heart was moved so i caught a word with the fibers of imagination woven into an intricate web of possibilities i caught another word yet another one and with these beads i formed a necklace and strung it across the page the page was blank no more embellished with precious jewels but it lacked, and my heart was moved once more so i crept into the depths of a twisting, turning mind seemingly empty yet full of hidden treasure i reached for a blade of light and pierced the darkness to find a cowering word another one, too i gathered them in my arms frightened little sheep they were i held their hands and led them to the page and they became stars that illuminated the beaded necklace but still the page lacked, and my heart was moved again so i summoned from my soul a magnet seeking its love and i brought it to the page an unexplainable force chained to the magnet dragging it to the page and locking it within but not locked enough for when i turned around the stars vanished the necklace unraveled the beads rolled into inexistence the flashlight dimmed the magnet collapsed the words disappeared the page was blank and my heart was broken
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Jordan Migis ‘21 sam’s place Acrylic
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Memories
Silvia Vazquez ‘20
H
er ocean blue eyes gaze at the green mountains that surround her. The sun sets in a spectacle above her. Humidity hangs around her. A red, white, and blue Puerto Rican flag tussles in the breeze next to her Spanish-tiled, whitewashed house in Cayey. It’s time to go. She descends the stairs, passing the large banana leaves with hidden coqui frogs. She shuffles to the kitchen to prepare some coffee—the strong bittersweet kind, a specialty of the island. Seeing her mug already on the table, she realizes that she must have made a cup and left it to cool down. She’s not sure. Now she sits to sip the fresh brew, beginning to think about dinner. Should she make chicken and rice? Plantains or black beans? Maybe something with avocado? Her dog’s clamoring barks disrupt her planning trance. Someone is outside. A neighbor calls out to her with a friendly “Hola, Montse!” After they share a welcoming embrace, Montse offers her neighbor some coffee. As they talk, there are noticeable differences between the two women, not just in the contrast of the neighbor’s tanned skin and flowing black hair with Montse’s freckled skin and meticulously curled and dyed brown hair, but in the Spanish itself: Montse has an accent. Another round of greetings takes
place once Montse’s husband enters the room and invites the ladies to a competitive game of dominos. Declining the offer, Montse returns to her dinner plans: paella, gazpacho, or calamari? She decides on a Spanish tortilla and gathers the potatoes, eggs, onion, and olive oil. After dinner is prepared, she heads to her room. She grabs her rosary which hangs over a family picture from her childhood, a black and white portrait of her parents and seven siblings taken in their home in Spain. While she prays, as she does every day, her mind drifts to the struggle to keep her religion during the Spanish Civil War. She remembers learning of her grandfather’s death at the hands of Republican communists after exclaiming, “Viva Cristo Rey.” She can still picture her grandmother’s secret home Masses and the communists smashing a statue of the Virgin Mary under their feet. When the war ended and her family returned from their exile, she remembers attending Catholic school even after the murders of nuns and priests. So now she grasps each bead of the rosary fervently, grateful for the freedom of religion and the Mass she went to earlier today in the church upon the mountains. Once she finishes praying, she passes through the narrow, dimly lit hallway lined with decades of photographs.
The native, quarter-sized coqui frogs have just emerged outside and begun their nightly chorus. She has reflected between each frog’s “ko” and “kee” for over fifty years since leaving her home country of Spain to come to this tropical island with her Puerto Rican husband. Through the open windows, the faint rhythm of her neighbor’s salsa music mingles in the air. he comes to the den where an electric fan blows, threatening the mosquitos. Her husband puts away the domino table with a wide smile under his baseball cap, signaling his victory. Montse settles into her rocking chair to give her arthritic knees a break and turns on the news. She briefly wonders if she took her medications today. She’s not sure. The news segment begins with a flyover of part of the island. Her eyes catch sight of the royal blue plastic tarps that still cover the tops of a few vibrantly colored houses, a reminder of the catastrophic hurricane that devastated the island two years ago. She knows she was luckier than some; she had a generator and family in the States she could stay with for a few months. A news commentator appears on the screen, outlining the rest of the program. Suddenly, headlights flash through the window as a car drives up the steep incline to the house. The shutting of car
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doors interrupts the soothing sound of the outdoor fountain, and a familiar, highpitched screech emanates from the front porch as the metal gate opens. She smiles. They are finally back. “Abuelos!” they call out. Hearing the voices, Montse comes out to hug her grandchildren who have just returned from a visit to the old capital. She pictures the cobbled roads, street vendors, colonial buildings, and of course, the tourists by the sea.
“She worries over the future and whether or not she’ll eventually forget more of her vivid past, the lifetime of memories she holds dear.” It’s dinnertime. Her son helps her flip the Spanish tortilla out of the pan. It’s getting harder to do that by herself. The family sits down to eat, and they chatter and laugh away. She interjects, ready to tell one of the elaborate stories that embellish her personality. Perhaps one about an adventure with her siblings? The happenings of one of the huge dinner parties she hosted? Or maybe the many wedding and baptismal dresses she sewed and sold? Instead, she tells the one about the dance where she met her husband. Later, her granddaughter asks if
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they can add to the recipe book tonight. “Sí,” she responds. They’ve been working on filling the pages of the red leather book every summer for the past few years. s her granddaughter grabs the book, her son asks her about her plans for tomorrow. She would like to call her brother Quique in Spain. Her son looks perplexed. He explains that she already called Quique yesterday. She’s not sure. Lately, she’s been having trouble recalling recent memories. She worries over the future and whether or not she’ll eventually forget more of her vivid past, the lifetime of memories she holds dear. For now, she decides to enjoy the moment with her loved ones. The coqui frogs delight the evening as the hands of the clock move and a gentle mountain breeze rolls through the open window. Her face lights up as her granddaughter comes back with the recipe book. She hopes she remembers today.
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Genevieve Brainard ‘23 Morning Bloom Digital Photography
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Kayla Hanrahan ‘20 A Plastic World Oil
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Golden Drops of Sun Jamie Lim ‘22
Their days are brimming with golden drops of sun, Waterfalling into the basins of their hearts. They taste nectar from lush wildflowers Sprinkled on hilltops freshly picked with his hands. They inhale the sweet aroma of wild berries Delicately ladled into her palm Like ripened pearls found beneath waves of petrichor.
Soon, exhaustion overpowers the tempest, Tethering it to the bottom of her unconscious soul, Forcing rain and wind into its deepest crevices. There, the imprisoned storm awaits the next night When another dose of toxic will end the drought. And now he finds her chained to the ground, collapsed. Tonight could be his first night free from this prison.
But their nights are brimming with raindrops, Trickling into the rusted gutters of their hearts. Her tongue does not savor the nectar anymore. She crushes a blossom in the abyss of her palm, Watching life drain from its petals while her lips curl. There is no lingering scent of wild berries, Her mind intoxicated by the taste of poison.
But instead, he chooses to shackle himself beside her Because he knows well enough that she too Is living in a prison, wearing the chains of addiction. One day, her eyes will be reopened And no longer will she see her reflection in a bottle. They will be freed from this prison with the only chain Being the love that binds them together.
As the bitter cold of night blankets them in silence, They heave the covers over their pain once more, And her ears relish the sound of cracked spirits. Tonight, it rains on him again. The rivers bleed down the marred mountainside Where there once had been the dulcet innocence Of nectar and berries and golden drops of sun.
Until then, he is willing to hold her bound hands To remind her of the wildflowers and the berries And the golden drops of sun.
The wrath of the storm batters his broken body Until his bleeding heart is reduced to mere shards, The glass remnants of an unmirrored love Where the only reflection she can see is her own. And she, too, stumbles and plunges under the waves, Drowning with her body, unable to ingest oxygen Because she is already filled to the brim with poison.
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Doubt Helen Emerson ‘20 She sat blinking, breathing. She watched the trees beating, beating On her window like alarms or summons. She dared not twitch or twiddle her thumbs For she might let loose those thoughts— Those thoughts surely tucked away— Awaiting their escape through her fountain pen To tumble upon the eager page. She believes they are there, She urges them out, But they remain as the trees are beating, And she is breathing Stuck in doubt.
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Atlas Sophia Tran ‘20 A moment with you, my own private paradise A day in the sand I pray will never turn to night I feel some unease as a wave sweeps me off my feet And I realize, falling into your embrace, I almost feel complete A moment turns to two, a day to night You wrap me in your ocean arms and warm till first light And even when we are apart, I lay in bed still rolling in the waves From a ripple to my entire world My unease, your pacific presence unfurled You need me I need you But now we really are apart And when I lie in bed, I can’t seem to feel my heart Alas, what once was effortless Finally gave way to stress What once was pressured by circumstance Never even stood a chance
Justine Walker ‘20 Staples Mixed Media Collage
I turn my back and you climb on, a mess Blood dripping from the left side of your chest What once was weightless innocence From wave to riptide, the change almost instant By instinct I held on, what else was there for me to do? You’re my everything, my world—how could I drop you?
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Angelina Velis ‘20
Images courtesy of Meraki by Angelina Velis ‘20
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To watch Angelina's film scan the QR code below.
In Meraki, 91-year-old Deno Velis shares his journey of escaping Nazioccupied Greece and immigrating to America in pursuit of a better life. He reflects on how different life was in Trehlos, Kalavryta, Greece, during World War II. Because of the war, the schools shut down when Deno was in fifth grade, and he had to work to help his family. When Deno was fourteen years old, he lived through German bombings and the Massacre of Kalavryta. After these life-changing events and others that occurred during his time in Greece, Deno knew he wanted to leave for a better future and better life for his family. Deno decided to travel to America to start his own shoe repair business. Meraki is a Greek word, meaning “the soul, creativity, or love put into something, the essence of one’s self that is put into one’s work,” and it is perfect encapsulation of Deno’s passion for shoemaking. Filmmaker and granddaughter of Deno, Angelina Velis, believes that her grandfather has made many sacrifices throughout his life for his family, and he continues to make shoes today because of his passion for his work and love for his family.
“We heard some noise. Airplanes were coming east from our village. ... We then found out they were German airplanes, and they bombed the village. When they finished bombing, we saw the village, our houses destroyed. We walked a few steps, and we saw my mother killed. Then we started screaming.”
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Kayleigh Currier ‘21 Only If Digital Collage
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Nothingness
Katherine Reynolds '22
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he world is ending. At least, that’s what Luke tells me. He says that the sky grows darker by the night as the stars slowly blink out of existence. He says that the light of the sun dims by the day as it too peters out, that the city in which we once made our home has crumbled to brick, and that bits of twisted metal poke up from the ground like barren trees upon which the few carrion birds still circling overhead make their roosts for the night. Luke says that the streets are black with ash. Some days, I think I can smell it—a harsh acrid scent, like the tires we used to stack and burn and run away from, whooping in exhilaration, heedless of the choking smoke that billowed around us. I will always remember that smell, I think. It would dizzy me until I could barely walk straight, until Luke’s hand wrapped around my wrist was the only thing that anchored me. Pursuers’ footsteps would echo in the streets behind us, chasing and chasing without ever catching up. We have Luke to thank for that. Luke tells me that our friends are gone. Vanished in the same event that consumes the nighttime stars and sucks the heat out of our days. I know this cannot be true. If they are gone, then who do I hear calling my name at night when the wind howls through the emptiness? I know every one of their voices. I can identify each of them just by the color of their
screams. How can the voices not be them? Luke was our leader—before. He cared about our friends just as much as I did. I remember how he would call out each and every name when we regrouped after a burning, no rustle of paper or scratching of pen accompanying the sound of his smoke ragged voice. I remember the first time no response followed a name, how he called her name—our friend’s name—twice, then thrice, then never again. Next time there was one less name on his list. His voice, once so strong and clear despite the ash clogging his airways, weakened as name after name vanished like so many nighttime stars. We stopped going out when there were only five of us left. I remember their voices: Marie, a rage-simmering scarlet with her trembling vowels; tea green Joshua, whose clear voice sang us all through a thousand sleepless nights; and Irina-who-was-once-golden, whose Midas-touched soul turned to steel over those thousand nights. Joshua had a guitar. Its hollow body was smooth to the touch, and the hard strings shook when I brushed my fingertips over them. One cold night, he stopped playing, set his guitar down with a thunk, and went outside. He never came back in. rina loved to paint. I never understood why she cared for it so much—paint was cold and wet, and it stuck to my hands like a second skin. Still, it made her happy. She would scavenge bits of wood and fabric and tie them into a frame. When she could not find enough materials
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for a new canvas, she would simply paint over one of her old works. After Joshua vanished, she painted less and less until one day the slick smack of paint against fabric simply stopped. Marie didn’t like me. My constant questions and questioning hands annoyed her. Still, I was sad when she vanished. The burnings had been her idea—a cry of rebellion when none would listen to our fears. How right were we in the end … Their voices, so rough and worn yet so familiar and clear, carry over the howling of the wind and emptiness and slip through the cracks in the sealed window. I hear them as I lay in bed, my cheek pressed against my still-cool pillow.
“Their voices come together in an indistinguishable wail until they crescendo with what must be the voices of all the world, all screaming my name with the fear of the dead.” At first, they call my name gently, waking me from my slumber. There are just a few of them then, only Joshua and Marie and Irina. As I lie there unresponsive, their calls intensify, and the voices grow in number: Sebastian and Frances; Alba and Louise; Rebecca, Jack, and Lindsey;
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and even John joins the mix. Now they plead with me, their screams cracking in desperation. As I ignore them, they only grow louder and more numerous. Their voices come together in an indistinguishable wail until they crescendo with what must be the voices of all the world, all screaming my name with the fear of the dead. I cover my head with my pillow and fruitlessly will myself to sleep. It is only when the voices peter off with the rising warmth of the dying sun that I finally drift into a sleep both deep and restless. As the morning warmth on my skin lessens daily with the fading light, and the cold nights grow ever longer, their hoarse cries persist longer still and my few hours of stolen sleep lessen, minute by restless minute. Luke says that the line of the horizon is no more, the empty city halfgone in the smoky darkness. The burning smell grows ever stronger as the cloud of smog encroaches. What once was but a bitter tinge in the back of my nose now clogs my throat and forces coughing fits that wrack my body and dampen my hands with liquid that smells faintly of metal. Luke stands strong, but the hoarseness of his voice betrays his own affliction. As the days pass and the nights lengthen, his voice grows weaker and rougher until it resembles one of the frogs that once croaked below my window.
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ne day I take a step out of the threshold and am met by nothing but empty space. I flail my arms and fall forward; a raspy scream tears its way out of my throat. Footsteps pound down the hall, and warm hands grasp my upper arm and haul me upward. I am falling again, but this time backwards. Luke hits the floor with a thud and a gasp. I follow, and my head hits the hard wood with a crack. When the ringing in my head subsides, Luke seats me besides the fire and places a mug in my hands. I sip the warm water (We ran out of coffee grounds two days ago, and the nearest rations stop was recently consumed.) and let the heat soothe me from the inside. “I checked the other sides of the house,” Luke says. He tells me how the dry fields that once surrounded the house have succumbed to the same thing that has consumed the sun and stars. He describes how the sandy path at the bottom of the porch step is now nothing but empty space. He says that he thinks he knows what it is like to be me now. The darkness outside is so absolute that even his brightest flashlight cannot penetrate it, cannot reveal anything that might be hiding in the nothingness, if anything is even out there. He does not need to say it for me to know that even the sun is gone now. The chill that set into my skin the instant I stepped into the nothingness for that
terrible moment tells me all I needed to know. Even the smog that choked us is gone now. My lungs sigh in relief with each breath I take, freed of the weight that has restricted them for longer than I can remember. We are the last outpost of a dying universe, a final flickering of the flame before the snuffing. Even the voices of those who went before us do not disturb my slumber. Luke, on the other hand, sleeps less and less as the endless hours wind on. There is no day anymore, no true way to chronicle the passing of time. Upon my third waking during this time, something is different. I listen for Luke’s uneven snores, but all is silent. When I leave my room and pad down the hall to his, only my footsteps and ragged breathing can be heard. I reach for the doorknob, but I am met with empty space. I drop to my hands and knees and run a finger along the wood of the floor. It is smooth with the years, every knot and splinter buffed out by thousands of footsteps. I push my finger just a bit farther—nothing. Luke is gone, vanished into the emptiness that blots out the stars and crumbles the earth. Gone—just like Joshua and Marie and Irina. I sit back on my knees and inhale. The house smells stale now that I am the only one left to live in it. There will be no crackle of fire or bubbling of cooking food anymore. No hum of voices or thumping of
footsteps echoing through the rooms. It is just me and the emptiness now. Perhaps I should be afraid. Perhaps I should scream with grief for Luke and the world until my wailing tune joins the voices of our long-gone friends. Perhaps I should sob and weep, half-mad with fear and grief alike. Instead, a chunk of ice grows in the space between my collarbone and navel—a cold apathy unlike any other. I cannot hear its steady crystallization within my chest, the only indication of its existence being the lack of warmth within me.
“We are the last outpost of a dying universe, a final flickering of the flame before the snuffing.” I should mourn, but I can hardly bring myself to care. Where I once felt things with the intensity of an inferno, there is now only a nothingness as absolute as the one that has swallowed the universe. I stand and walk back to my room. The wallpaper is smooth despite its age. Its coolness is kind to my fingers which run along the barely textured surface until they trip over the door frame. I walk inside and lay down on my bed. I bury my nose in the pillow and inhale. The familiar smell of my pillow, of soap and dust and detergent, is gone. I raise my head and sniff the air. Nothing. So smells are the first to go, I think.
I say it aloud. The room remains silent. I sit up on the bed, my fingers curling around the sheets. I try to say something else. The tentative hello has barely crossed my lips before a new sound makes itself known. “Hello?” It is Luke’s voice, just as it was before the burnings and the smoke and the nothingness. Young, clear, and safe. A second voice joins it. Irina. Soft, gentle, musical. A third speaks, then a fourth, then a hundredth and a thousandth and before I know it, the voices of the cosmos are calling out to me, a chorus of a hundred billion hellos crashing around my eardrums. When I cover my ears, the hellos shift into something else. Curiosity and apprehension become terror and pain, the pain of a hundred billion deaths, every voice wailing like they will never be heard again. The screaming intensifies and crescendos with a mighty shriek. The bed dissolves beneath me, and I am falling. he nothingness is searing cold and freezing hot. It is silent as death and loud as screams, and I cannot help but scream with it. It is every extreme and the most nightmarish emptiness at the same time. I fall, and the nothingness embraces me. I have no choice but to embrace it back.
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The Withering Flower and the Blind Man Aryanna Rivas ‘22
My life was a hybrid flower in your hands, Difficult to care for and hard to maintain, My aroma reminding you of a better time. Now I am a withered flower, unrevivable. How much pain was quietly suffered in your hands? Why the flower bud enveloped in disease Never blossomed again, the blind man will never know. The blind man held the withering flower with a sweet aroma.
Vivian Nguyen ‘21 Wither Flower Ceramics
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The Mosaic Olivia Sikes ‘21 If moments in history were displayed in art museums, Each one recreated into its own unique piece, Then the civil rights movement would be a mosaic. At a glance, The fragments look like glass, Like the shattered dreams of thousands of black children Who were birthed into our world Expecting to be respected Only to be segregated. At a glance, The half-open eye only sees the biggest, brightest fragments And pictures a face on each of them. It grants the blue shard the name of Martin Luther King, Jr. The fiery red one it calls Malcolm X. The purple one is Rosa Parks. But only the open eye Notices the obscure fragments in between, The smaller pieces that hold the mosaic together. They are the two students in Alabama Who desired nothing more than advanced knowledge. They are Hosea Williams and John Lewis Who dared to protect their marching followers from storms of tear gas. They are Jo Ann Robinson and Fannie Lou Hamer Who inspired their people to fight for their right to be American, To be human.
Without them, The mosaic would not be whole. Without them, There would be no letters from a Birmingham jail. No public bus boycotts. No protest marches. Nothing left to lose. The inquisitive eye will soon realize That these fragments are not glass but stone. They have cracks, but they never break. At a glance, The mosaic looks unclear, but The whole picture soon transforms into a fist Not of anger but of pride. And perhaps, to certain eyes, This mosaic will always be unclear, But the truth is It is beautiful And it will never die.
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The Scream Teresa Valenzuela ‘20 A cry is heard throughout the night A horrible, wailing screech It cries and cries but never dies Though stars and moon beseech
I search the source but cannot think An iron rounds my spine Eyes are bleeding, brain is seizing My throat is raw, confined
I hate that voice, that tortured tongue That plagues me without rest Shattered strain cuts through my brain Until it splits the crest
I beg and plead; it will not cede The voice will not decline My throat is sore and grates still more The voice, I find, is mine.
Savannah Flores ‘21 The Grabbing Hands Oil
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Ordinary Transcendence Sarah Hui ‘20 I tried to capture the experience of my body rising to the occasion during a grueling cross country run as my wrung out mind took backstage. Round and round, heartbeat after heartbeat pumps Filling hollow vessels with hot-fast blood Taut, then stretched, muscles moon-leap grassy bumps Ankles flex—but not too much— streaked with mud Mind exhausted from churning thoughts all day Fades to emptiness—somehow numb, serene Matter, stiff and slow, does fly fast today And clay vessel itself comes forth as queen Arms and legs in tandem soaring as one As dying air weaves fast through lungs blood-vined Skin littered with salted ponds glint of sun For brief etern’ty body eclipsed mind And now at close, the weary partners loll Resting equal while aloft glides the soul
To watch "Ordinary Transcendence" performed live scan this QR code.
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Winter of the Gods Aurora Rain ‘23
Hoarfrost glistens in the moon, Shining for the sweet Selene Whose gloriole ever gleams
Aphrodite hears the call Of a lover to his other, Proclamations of undying love.
And tho the waters uphold grue, Zephyr softly flitters and floats Gently rocking all the boats.
Nereus is a gentle soul And scoops the lover up in whole; Solid ground he greets with tears.
The men shall lie in Hypnos’ grasp, Tied like Odysseus to the mast Of sleep and revelry.
Caerus casts the silver die But alas the luck has failed, Fate no longer be travailed.
Poseidon tosses in his lair As tempests sweep the little ships Groaning wood creaks and tips.
From the depths of the ocean, Kymopoleia is called upon And brings the little ships To a watery grave.
The realm of Hades is never far Whilst oceans scream With waves ajar. Each anguished cry a loss of sense, Prayers and sacrifice to no avail While Aeolus ignores the mortal's wail Sails fly to Triton's call. Vessels devoured by Scylla’s maw— Oh the sight! Vivian Nguyen ‘21 10:00 PM Digital Photography
The little lover on the beach Is bleeding, for he is torn. Apollo reaches out a healing hand, And the lover is reborn. Gifts of thanks and supplication Rise up in wisps of smoke For tho they sank his little ships, He was spared for love alone.
And from a dismal glinting boat Comes a creature with a coat, Charon reaps the souls of soaking.
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Kayleigh Currier ‘21 Trapped Digital Collage
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The Death of a Light Katherine Reynolds ‘22
Second place literature contest winner
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he painting is simple: a brown pipe with a black tip against a cream background. The words are inscribed below it in black cursive font. Ceci n’est pas une pipe. This is not a pipe. It was painted by Belgian surrealist René Magritte in the late twenties. The painting itself is simple, the style uncomplicated. Its interpretation is not. The meaning of this simple painting of a pipe on a cream background with black cursive lettering is the reason for its popularity. This is not a pipe. At first glance, I was mystified. If this is not a pipe, then what is it? I walked away dissatisfied with this alleged masterpiece. The second time I looked, the first inklings of understanding began to leak into my mind. It is not a pipe—it is a painting of one. I walked away pleased with my artistic sense and enlightenment. Now that I see it again, I understand. I am with you, at an exhibition of Magritte’s work. I do not know why I brought you. You have never been one for art. We stand before the painting of the pipe. You look at it for a few minutes,
before shaking your head. “Ceci n’est pas une pipe?” you read out loud, the pronunciation tripping up your tongue. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You walk to the next painting. I linger behind and look at the painting of a pipe for a little longer. I could tell you what it means, but I doubt you would understand. You and I see things so differently from one another. Looking at the painting is like looking at my reflection in the mirror. The pipe in the painting is not a real pipe. It is but the image of one just as my reflection is just an image of me. The knowledge soothes me late at night when I awaken from nightmares of crowded rooms and hindered movement. I make eye contact with my reflection and feel my heart turn cold. I see you there in the eyes of my reflection. Even in the late hours of the night when solitude envelopes and soothes me, you are still with me. How is it that you have such an influence over me, that even when I think I am alone, you are still there? Ceci n’est pas une pipe. If a painting is not the thing itself, then my reflection, which ceases to exist when I step a few feet to the right or left, is not me either. The me in the mirror, the me
with you in my eyes, is but an image, just as the painting is but an image of a pipe. Ceci n’est pas une pipe. Ceci n’est pas moi. This is not me. Of the four hands which extend themselves to one another and press their fingers against the glass, only two are real. The reflection of me, the you in my eyes—they are but an illusion. You are not here. I return to fitful sleep with my fears temporarily assuaged, yet my dreams are still colored with the sound of your voice. I wake with a craving for it and check my phone for your message. It is always there; you have always been reliable in that way. You are too reliable. It makes me afraid. he painting of the pipe is the first in the exhibition. To the right is a painting of an eye without eyelashes—where there should be an iris there is only a cloudy sky. It is called The False Mirror. I give it only a passing glance before walking past it. It is too much like me. You are fascinated by it, for some strange reason. Even when we have moved on to the next painting, your eyes still stray back to it. You lean in next to my ear and your breath brushes against my cheek. If it were any other person, I would be
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discomforted. With you, the proximity does not bother me. “What does that one mean?” you murmur. You point with one hand to The False Mirror and lightly rest the other on my arm. The gallery is filled with the gentle buzz of fifty murmuring voices. Yours is as tastefully lowered as the others, yet it rises above them all. “What do you think it means?” I ask. You watch me out of the corner of your eye when you speak. A teasing grin splits your face in two. “The person in the picture thinks that it’s a lovely day for a picnic, but those are really rainclouds, so the picnic is about to be ruined.” I laugh. You turn toward me, looking me in the eyes. Your expression is more serious now. “What does it mean to you?” I cannot meet your earnest gaze in return, so I look back at the painting. The lash-less eye stares back at me and fifty disturbed nights flood my memory. here is a saying that the eye is the window to the soul,” I begin. The temptation becomes too much to resist, and I glance at you. You are watching me, just as you always do. “It never specifies which way the window goes.” I turn back to face you. This time, I look into your eyes. Twin reflections of me are there, yet more treacherous images. They disappear as you blink, popping back
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into false existence with the reopening of your eyes. “The painting is called The False Mirror,” I inform you. You nod, keeping your eyes trained on mine. “To me, the artist is comparing the eyes to a one-way mirror—something which serves as a window on one side and a mirror on the other. The mirror is to conceal the user of the window.”
“The eye is a false mirror because it pretends to show reflections of what a person sees, when in reality, the reflections only serve to conceal a person’s inner self.” I glance at the painting, then look back at you. “The eye is a false mirror because it pretends to show reflections of what a person sees, when in reality, the reflections only serve to conceal a person’s inner self.” You are silent for some time after that. We move on to the next painting. You recognize this one; your eyes light up and you turn to me. A print of it was hung in your English teacher’s classroom junior year, you tell me. You had no idea that it was a Magritte. I nod. As I listen to you speak, I stare into your eyes. I try to peer past the reflections within them, but the image of
my own face hinders me. The way you speak is hypnotic. When you are thinking about what to say, your eyes look down even if your head is upright, as if you are reading notes off the cuff of your sleeve. When you speak, you fix your eyes on me; I hardly see you blink. Your unwavering gaze pins me to my spot so that I cannot look away. It frightens me, how looking at you is both a Herculean feat and the easiest thing in the world. My eyes stray to you. You hold onto my gaze without realizing it, and it takes the strength of a thousand titans for me to tear it away. Time and time again, my eyes are drawn to you; I cannot see the beautiful things before me, thanks to you. You tell a joke, or maybe it is a story. Whatever you said, you are laughing now. I laugh too and take the chance to look away from you. The rest of the exhibit progresses without incident. We eat dinner in a nearby restaurant. You order pasta while I order tomato soup. There is bread on the table, and we eat through two bowls by the time the food arrives. I meticulously butter each chunk, careful to spread the butter evenly over every bit of the meat of the bread. You point it out as you dip a piece in the olive oil and vinegar. “You’re so funny about these things,” you say. “You treat everything so carefully.” There is something else behind
your eyes, your true meaning hiding behind the way you look at me. You smile, but the expression is flat. “Being around you is strange,” you tell me, biting into the bread. You chew, swallow, and continue. “You have this air to you—like you’re something unreachable. Like my aunt’s cat.” “I’ve always preferred cats to dogs,” I inform you. Although it was not particularly witty, you laugh. “Like that. You have this weird thing where you deflect any question or statement that seems remotely personal.” The waitress arrives with our food. You dig your fork into the pasta and pull it out. Nearly half the plate comes up, the noodles tangled around the tines of the fork like so many fine hairs. You slide most of them off the fork and insert the rest in your mouth. pick up my spoon and look at my soup. A single basil leaf floats on top of the orangey-red slop, a tiny fly perched on the stem like the lone captain of a little green boat. I fish the leaf out of the soup, setting it on the table beside me. The fly crawls off and flies away. “Not to your taste?” Your tone is lighthearted, almost teasing. “There was a fly on the leaf.” You frown. “We can ask for a new bowl, if you like.” “It’s fine.” It is not fine. Nothing is fine. Not you, not me, and not the thin angel hair
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pasta wrapped around your fork, each noodle slowly snapping, one by one. “I don’t think it got into the soup itself. Plus, it’s gone now.” I wish you were gone. I wish I had never met you. You nod and smile, and I wish that I hadn’t invited you. I wish that I did not know that I will be thinking about that smile for the rest of the night, and that when I wake up at midnight, two-thirty, four, the image of that smile will be in the eyes of my reflection, taunting me. I wish you were not here. I wish I was not here.
“The wide grin your mouth is so prone to is gone; something else curls the corners of your lips. It is still a smile, but one unlike any other that graces your face.” The soup is naked without its leaf ornament. It is a sea of blood, like Dante’s Phlegethon. A bowl of boiling blood which chokes and burns the onion sinners floating within it, scalding their skin and filling their lungs with hot, sticky, scarlet stew. I dip my spoon into the mix, and suddenly it is tomato soup again, orangey-red and steaming with spices. I take a sip, and it is still tomato soup. I look at you.
Your expression is different now. The wide grin your mouth is so prone to is gone; something else curls the corners of your lips. It is still a smile, but one unlike any other that graces your face. I have seen it a handful of times before. You think you are clever, smiling at me like that when I am not looking, but I see you. I always see you. poonful by spoonful, I choke down the soup. We talk between bites—about the exhibit, about the movie we watched together last week, about the book I am reading at the moment, about your work, about my work—until my spoon scrapes against the bottom of the bowl, drawing white lines in the soup residue. You slurp up the last few pieces of pasta as I wipe my mouth with a napkin. A tiny dribble of red sauce stains the corner of your mouth. I motion for you to wipe it away, but you do not understand, so I hand my napkin to you. You swipe it across your mouth, missing the spot. “Help me out?” you coyly ask when I tell you this. Your smile is catlike and smug, and you lean toward me. My face burns for some arbitrary reason. Logically, such a thing should not fluster me. Logically, your words and actions should not affect me to the point where I blush at the most innocent questions. You are the opposite of logical. “It’s here,” I say, pointing to the spot on my own face. You miss again. A wide grin splits
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across your face as you lean closer to me. You offer me the napkin. “I can’t reach it,” you say. Something both mischievous and hopeful glints in your eye. I squirm in my seat but keep my expression even. I refuse to give anything away. “There’s a mirror in the bathroom.” The waitress’ return rescues me. I thank her and take the check; it is snatched from my hand. “I’ll pay,” you offer, tucking your credit card into the check. “You paid for the exhibit; it’s only fair.” hat do you know about fair? Everything about you is the opposite of fair. “I invited you,” I say, “so I should be the one to pay.” You do not acquiesce. I watch as you hand the check back to the waitress. When she returns with the receipt, you sign it with a flourish. “Are you taking the train back?” you ask once we are standing outside of the restaurant. “My apartment’s the same direction as yours, so I can walk you there if that’s okay with you,” you tack on, glancing at me quickly. You are nervous. My stomach flips, and my flight instinct is activated. Anything that makes the ever confident you nervous is something to be feared. I swallow down the rising
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apprehension and nod my assent. You brighten, your shoulders straighten, and your eyes meet mine again. I look into them for a sign of what might have made you so strangely fearful, but all I see is the reflection of me.
“My stomach flips, and my flight instinct is activated. Anything that makes the ever confident you nervous is something to be feared.” We board the metro in silence. At this time in the evening the train is only ever moderately full. We stand together, our hands directly beside each other’s on the overhead bar. The train stops at the first station, and I stumble into you. You steady me with your hands as I regain my footing. “Are you okay?” Stop acting so concerned for me. “I’m fine,” I tell you. I tighten my grip on the overhead bar and widen my stance. The next station is my stop. I sway with the motion of the train but do not stumble this time. You walk with me out of the station. I live a few blocks south of it, on the sixth floor of an apartment complex where one only knows their closest neighbors. Our shoulders brush together with every other step. The contact shocks me every time. You eye me oddly and ask if
I am alright. “I’m fine,” I mumble. With my next step, I move slightly to the right. Our shoulders do not brush anymore, and I feel safe. Then careful fingers brush along the back of my hand, and I am vulnerable all over again. You press your palm against mine, intertwine our fingers, and tug me in the direction of my apartment. Your face is red, but you are unaffected beyond that. You do not hear the ocean rushing in my ears or the war drum in my chest. You walk as if there is nothing to fear, as if what we are doing is the most natural thing in the world. Your hand is warm and slightly clammy. The contrast with my cold, dry hand that I have forgotten to moisturize a few too many times sends a cold tingle down my spine. My hand burns where it touches yours. I am so caught up in my own thoughts that I do not notice that we have arrived at my apartment building until I have walked several paces past it. Your hand around my own tugs me to an abrupt halt, and I stumble. A hot wave rushes over me which I am certain has turned my face a horrid shade of scarlet. ou laugh. It is not unkind laughter, but I am embarrassed anyway. “This is you, right?” I nod, not trusting myself to speak. You do that to me. Something about you makes my throat close up and my tongue
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lie flat within my mouth. The words that I utter around you have substance to them; I can feel the shape of each syllable in my mouth and taste the texture on my tongue. You walk with me up the six flights of stairs to my door. I pull my keys out of my pocket and unlock the door, then turn to you. “Thank you for coming with me today,” I say. You grin, and I am blinded. Your smiling stuns me like the headache I get after stepping out of a dark building on a sunny day. “Thanks for inviting me,” you answer. “I liked seeing those paintings with you.” I nod. “It was nice.” I turn to go inside, but you grab my elbow. As I turn to face you again, your hand slides off my arm, gradually, then all at once. “What is it?” For once, when I look at you, your eyes are not on me. You fidget with a button on your jacket, your gaze blank and fixated on the motion. It is silent, even when you open your mouth. You close it again, and resume fiddling with the button. Cold water creeps up my spine and sends a chill through my body. A weight rises to the top of my throat, the dread so heavy I can almost taste it on my tongue. I know what you are going to say. You give the button a gentle twist.
Your lips form the syllables, but no sound comes out. You look at me. The button snaps off. You say my name. There is a strange light in your eyes. It must be the image behind the false mirror, revealing itself through the chips of window that the years have worn into the mirror. an’t this wait until later?” my mouth blurts. My mind is a few seconds behind; it sees how the light in your eyes flickers. My mouth plows onward. It does not have eyes; it cannot see how this affects you. “I’m tired.” The light dies. You step back— when had you gotten so close?—and nod. It is a brief, brusque jerk of the head. When you look at me again, your eyes are dull as ash after a fire, the fuel of the flame long spent. This then, is what will haunt my reflection’s eyes tonight. Not your smile, not your voice, but the way death takes hold in your eyes. When you murmur your dejected goodbyes, the words heavy with what just transpired between us, a part of me dies too. When you no longer meet my gaze, when I look at you and you are not looking at me, I feel the piece of myself wither away within. And when I open my door with trembling fingers and stand before the mirror, when your smile does not taint the treacherous image before me, I know that it has died for good.
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Shiver Claire Weber ‘20 In honor of a beloved Ursuline English teacher who passed away, the Ursuline English department 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. We congratulate Claire on receiving the 2020 Freeman Book Award. SHIVER (verb) to tremble in the wind as it strikes to undergo trembling
Maybe there’s magic to sustain Some type of world can grow and spread I wake up shivering again
I wake up shivering again And it’s not even cold in bed This is not an ode to my brain
This issue could cause a migraine! Spill it, REM! What’s in my head? This is not an ode to my brain
Forgetting could be to my gain But then, of course, just to cause dread I wake up shivering again
I really wish I could retain The dreams in my head, but instead I wake up shivering again This is not an ode to my brain
I ask, is this some sort of bane I just can’t keep dreams in my head This is not an ode to my brain
Not an ode, it’s a villanelle
Olivia Pujats ‘21 Brighter Perspectives Mixed Media
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Sense of the World Claire Herzog ‘21
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Sophia Tran ‘20 Suspense Digital Photography
She walked over to him, her short hair falling behind her in swift rivulets and her legs making way with quick sways and struts. She dropped her book bag on the gravel as she reached him and looked up expectantly with her lips tilted upwards, her eyes locked in a speculative glance, her hands folded in on themselves as she moved anxiously and gracefully. “Well?” she said. He knew what she wanted to hear, but he wasn’t going to give it to her. No, she wasn’t the type. He could tell that by the group of people staring at them from the nearby gas station. They were too confident, too sure of themselves with their bold dresses and pantsuits and sunglasses. Five times the madness and twice the fun. They were all gold-rimmed glasses and sparkly voices, never once giving note to the scraps on their thumbs or the crumbs on the floor and never suggesting anything but the dazzling, dizzy weight of gilded Tomorrowland. He thought of unfinished pages, blank stares, and candied wishes. Short, sharp gasps of laughter turned into sallowness. They were looking over with what must have been amused looks, mirroring
their apprentice who stood a mere foot away. He wondered what they thought. Maybe they were followers, he assured himself, with nothing short of great struggle. As if to confirm this, he angled his head slightly to see the sign as he leaned on the lamppost, the pavement underneath him drenched in artificial light that created curvy, twisted shadows across its slick surface. Sure enough, it was there, plastered against the barred window by muck and rain. She still looked up at him with that same look, though it had morphed into a slightly less amused one. He just had to take the chance now, no matter what may or may not have been. So he asked her. She simply replied with a curt nod of the head and a jut of the chin as if to say it casually. And with that, as a memento safely tucked into his heart, he slipped back into the shadows. The knots in his mind raveled and unraveled themselves again and again, tugging him back to the pale, dark ghost of the beginning. His breath was catching, freeing, catching the wind as he walked, but he didn’t care. It was all he needed to catch the snare of the noose, and, quite simply, let it loose.
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A Blue Wave As a Golden Moment Sarah Hui ‘20 Beneath a dry and nebulous haze of heat, I reached forward with my fingers and my toes, swaying to the left, then right, making a turn past the corner of one green, manicured lawn and slipping suddenly on wet, slick mud. Nestled in the time between one heartbeat and the next, a far away blue wave crested up, then down and further down, smoothed out of existence, now mere particles of substance drifting beneath a glassy surface, then again lifted high and above into the space stretched by oxygen where sea and sky kiss. The next heartbeat arrived then, after a spell when Gravity was master and Time sank down stooping to kiss her feet. Then the space between two heartbeats fit the story of a single golden moment, and I caught myself, heart pounding, fingers splayed over empty air, lips tight with surprise that the ground was beneath feet, not scraped knees or palms. My legs pumped on, swirling greater and greater eddies of heat between them.
Ava Love ‘21 Double-Exposure Portrait Digital Collage
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Anne Ermish ‘21 Food Desert Screenprint
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The Modern Columbus Ellie Skelly ‘21
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s an individual, I value solitude. I have my ways, my routines. On occasion, a fellow or two may bother me, and I simply send them away into the obscurity that is the rest of the world. On June 19, 1994, however, I met my first foe, a man known as Jeffrey Jones Applebee. Jones was well-known in most circles as a respected novelist, selfprofessed cheese fanatic, and sociopathic cult leader. His physique consisted of a barrel-chested body, disproportionate to his height (an astute five feet and three inches). His arms were short, his hands both stubby and enormous, as if they had been poorly enlarged in Photoshop. His legs were stoutly acute with an added layer of winterly thickness. His feet oddly small and elfish, ending his body neatly like the end of a sausage link. Jeffrey Jones, who I shall now simply refer to as Jones, was quite a normal looking man, the type you would find charging into Home Depot, focused on his task of overcomplicating a backyard deck. Jones had only one, awe-inspiring attribute which made up for the rest of his stodgy appearance: piercing blue eyes that sparkled on the rim, enticing those who dare make eye-contact to look further. But as one made the entrancing journey through the river Styx to the pupil, the eyes of Jeffrey Jones Applebee got darker until
the canal stopped, reaching an unsettling midnight hue, disturbingly offset by the jet black of his pupil. As he sat in the warm sand on a preferably anonymous island, drinking the lukewarm water of a fallen coconut, Jones’ life was already going horribly astray. “Coconuts are not as refreshing as they look,” thought my antagonist as he took a glug of the disgusting, murky nut-water. Repulsion spread across his face, contorting it into various folds and arrangements resembling a rather unpleasant raisin. “This is rotten,” he choked to his loyal subject Steve Fisher, spewing the cursed juice across poor Steve’s face. Steve blinked twice, then lifted the top of his shirt to his nose, wiping off the coconut and saliva mixture he had just been sprayed with. “I don’t think it is, your allbestowing highness. I believe that’s how coconut water naturally tastes. I can offer you some of my boiled urine. I saw it once on Running Wild with Bear Grills, and it didn’t look half bad.” Steve paused, sensing the repulsion on his beloved leader’s face, and hastily added, “Uh, I’m not sure that it would be the same as our lovely tap water back in the great state of Utah, though, uh sir.” After finishing his enlightened
claim, Steve Fisher, formerly a telemarketer manager from Omaha, looked deep into the jungle, into oblivion. From an outside perspective, it might appear Steve was deep in thought. Perhaps he was thinking about his wife and three daughters, all below the age of nine, whom he left in Omaha three years ago to follow Jones, first around Utah and now to the end of the world. Or perhaps he was reflecting on his dead mother, who passed three and a half years ago on a family ski trip. Most likely, though, Steve was thinking about the particular episode of Running Wild with Bear Grills he had previously mentioned, his favorite episode of his favorite show. teve, as always, you disgust me,” sighed Jones. Glancing around the deserted island, he felt dismay. No one was doing anything remotely related to aiding his comfort. No one was worrying about what their one true savior needed right now. All he could see was selfish distress. His followers worried about what food they were going to eat, how they were going to find help, what shelter to make, and where clean water was. All while Jones, the respected cult leader of the Modern Columbus, was sitting in wet jungle grass with sand in every crevice of his body, forced to associate with Steve. How tragic. Dismay. Jones felt dismay. He
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had worked so hard to accumulate the thirteen members of his cult, cultivating only the strongest pawns to seek shelter under his fatherly wing. He performed his manipulation with the precision of a surgeon, yielding skills worthy of the worship and following. Jones liked to think that the all-knowing Zaza, the god whose divine intervention inspired Jones to write his manifesto, The Revelation from Zaza, was personally wielding Jones as the modern Excalibur. The Revelation from Zaza changed Jones’ life. Three and a half years ago, the book sold ten million copies across the nation. Consumers ate it up, completely infatuated with what they believed to be a parody of ridiculous cults, a meta look at Kool-Aid drinkin’ culture. This interpretation was all fine and dandy until Jones was invited on a late-night show. is appearance was odd to say the least, every joke thrown Jones’ way awkwardly cleared the top of his head. The most unsettling moment occurred at the very end of the show when Jones interrupted the host, utilizing his most disturbing attribute to stare deep into the lens of the camera, enticing all willing adventurers to abandon the pointless pursuits of the real world and chase the only definite thing in this world: its end. Hence, the thirteen eclectic men shipwrecked on a desert island. Now though he was forced to deal with the
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failed mission. Eventually, Jones stood up and walked towards the shipwrecked cruiser. How simple it all had been just two days ago for Jones when, after traveling an hour off the southern coast of Florida, almost drunk off Jimmy Buffet’s voice, he and his followers hijacked the rent-by-the-hour party pirate boat, named the “White Pearl” and then in smaller print under it, “In no way related to the Black Pearl from the popular Pirates of the Caribbean franchise.”
“The power that pulsed through him at that moment was incomparable. He had his fist around the world’s neck, and he was shaking it for all its worth.” He remembered the bewilderment in Captain Rob’s eyes as he took out the long rifle and commanded the captain to walk the plank. The power that pulsed through him at that moment was incomparable. He had his fist around the world’s neck, and he was shaking it for all its worth. “Are y’all serious?” shouted Rob in a swampy Floridian draw, “I don’t know what’s down there!” “Go on,” said Jones coolly, much to the excitement of the rest of his clan, their cheers egging him on. “No way, I saw an alligator once
and that’s enough marine life for me!” A bullet blew past Captain Rob’s ear. He walked the plank. Now the ship was abandoned on the beach, the red and black paint chipping away, and over the name “White Pearl” was spray painted “The Modern Columbus’s Vessel of Passage.” Jones paused at the dissipated ship, then climbed onto the withering wood. “Attention crew of the Modern Columbus! Everyone gather at the beach.” The followers moseyed across the white sand, all white, all men. Jones believed that women would not be able to comprehend the complexities of the search for the end of the world; plus, he would be embarrassed by his lack of a girlfriend. “Hellooo, everyone! I know you are in distress, and trust me, I am too. But the lack of respect for my needs is disgusting. What am I supposed to do in this situation? I am Zaza’s servant, but you serve me.” “Sir, how can we do anything when we might not survive? How are we going to eat? Where should we sleep? We’ve been here for three days and haven’t done anything except wander around in a panic, cracking coconuts which,” and at this point eighteen-year-old high school dropout Sam Huddle looked like he wanted to cry and call his mom, “there aren’t any left.” Jack Mulliner, Sam’s best bud, extended Sam’s unnerved whining, adding, “like how will we get clean water, man?”
Jones was enraged. How dare such imbecilic creatures question his intent? He could not fathom how such benevolence could be overlooked, how his priorities could be called into question. Most of all though, Jones was offended by Jack’s language. Such language towards a minister of the all-powerful Zaza would not be tolerated. Jeffrey Jones Applebee, former Academy employee and New York Times best-selling author, demanded the same level of respect that his icons (Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great) received in ancient times. Slowly, Jones raised the gun he used to threaten Captain Rob. “You think I’m just some common man, some average Joe like you? I could never stoop to such a level.” ones lowered his head to spit at Jack Mulliner, and before he knew it, he was flat on the ground without his gun while clutching a large gash on his knee. Sam dusted his clothes and stood up, barely reacting to tackling his cult leader. “Lay off him,” pipped Sam Huddle. “Excuse me?” screeched Jones, still on the ground, ego and body badly bruised. Besides Steve Fisher, who had scurried to Jones’ side, his sleazy self eager to help, the rest of the cult stood still, stunned by the events and unsure of what to do. No one was likely to help since cult members are not known to be the most sympathetic of creatures.
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“Lay. Off. Him.” Sam spoke clearly and strongly, the first person to ever challenge Jones’ authority. “Leave us alone. You have done nothing for us since we’ve gotten here.” The others jeered, and Jones was unsure if the creeping claustrophobia was a result of a new concussion or the crowd closing in. “Look, man,” Sam said, turning Jones red with rage. “I’m sick and tired of obeying your every command, like, I seriously just came here to get my parents off my back and quit school, but I’m done.” As Sam spoke, the crowd of people moved closer and closer to Jones. As Jones scrambled to stand, he realized that someone had grabbed his gun. He also realized that maybe he should start running. Jones tore through the crowd of people, shoving full-grown men to the side. Like a Greek monster, the crowd had twenty-six arms desperately reaching out towards Jones. Fueled by panic, paranoia, and an activated survival mode, the crowd grew crazed, snapping out of the blissful hypnosis that was the cult of the Modern Columbus. Jones willed his legs to move faster and faster. Pure adrenaline pumped through his body, and through his mind flowed thoughts of himself and how tragic his life would be. He reached the edge of the beach, a point at which most would come to a halt, not daring to enter the thick
jungle that rumbled at night. Jones did not stop. The man was a maniac, running from something even more dangerous: collective maniacs. he jungle Jones ran into was of the utmost unusualness. No animal was in sight, no sounds of birds chirping, monkeys howling, or pigs snorting. There also seemed to be no end to the rainforest. In the most literal sense, it seemed to stretch on forever. As he ran further and further, the sound of the crowd died out, and Jones ran in silence, the type of silence I expect stalks the grim reaper. I watched as Jones ran until he met a place where the ground ceased to exist, in which case he fell. Great, I thought, I am stuck with Jeffrey Applebee for the rest of eternity. Jones had found the end of the world and was falling into it. After Jones’ fall, his cult fell apart. Two days later, Steve Fisher was revealed to be insane, went on a rampant killing spree, and murdered seven of the thirteen members. The rest resorted to cannibalism. Nowadays my visitors are boring— the usual gone to hell Royal Caribbean Cruise or an all too predictable stray Malaysian flight—but I will never forget the visit of Jeffrey Jones Applebee, mostly because I am stuck with him until the end of time. On the island, if you listen closely, you can still hear him screaming about Zaza, thanking the god for not only showing him the end of the earth but also pleading to find the bottom.
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SS Basco
Zoe Hobson ‘21 I was first inspired by the stories my dad told me about running boats up and down the river as a summer job, but I decided to steer this boat in a different direction. The sea is swelling, reaching high as the heavens. White foam fingers brush dark, cracked ceiling. Then the great blue curves down. As the waves double back, they bristle against the red, rusted hull, skimming the curved B A S C O letters tacked to the side. Water clanks over the railing and sloshes down to the brown wooden deck where it is collected in tin pails, held in baby fat hands, and tossed back out, sploshing down to the endless blue. “Captain, we are going under. The waves are too great for us,” calls the young sailor clothed in tunic top and pants two sizes too large. Spare bits of rope tied together form a bandana over his hairline. Dirt smears his brow and nose, creating a sort of raccoon effect. The weathered captain isn’t much better off. The flooding water does little to help him as he battles the earth jarring waves. He is draped in a heavy overcoat, slipped off his shoulders from years of wear and torn in two at the bottom. He has tied a remnant of the coat around his head as a makeshift eyepatch; whether or not he is actually missing an eye is unknown.
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The captain pulls out a rusted pipe and, using it as a telescope, searches with an unseeing gaze. “Aye, my good man, if only you have faith, turn the ship ‘at a way,” he commands. He points towards an equally turbulent area of sea. The boy gulps nervously, and the ship eeks meekly against the waves, tossing legions of water onto the wooden deck. Dutifully, the ship grinds against the concrete waves. From the distance of the pouring storm, the captain’s mother proclaims, “Honey, Bailey’s mom called!” The waves drain, and the captain turns to face his dining room window. “Mom! We are just about to go under!” He stamps his foot lightly, jumping out of the pretend bucket boat. The crew member follows, shedding himself of the oversized scraps and costume. “We’ll finish the game tomorrow.”
To watch "SS Basco" performed live scan this QR code.
Elegy
Claire Weber ‘20 Here rests one child’s innocence Gone are the days down the rabbit hole She sits in stiff suits in conferences And goes home to make casserole Alice grew up to be Allison Living in a world of dreary mainstream But the little boy in her house, her son Sees rabbits and queens when he daydreams
Caroline Brandt ‘23 Youth Digital Photography
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Untitled 01 Sophia Tran ‘20 I know you’ve seen the empty cave That echoes deeps regret For time lost here casts darker shadows Than memory’s silhouette
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The Mirror Ellie Skelly ‘21 I stare into the soulless lens of a gangly camera. I sit lifelessly in a chair, posing for a picture. I am overly invested in the outcome. Tricks taught by long stares in even longer mirrors run through my head: shoulders back, head forward, sit still, sit poised. I will be greatly affected by the outcome. Pictures last forever. Muscles stiffen, jaw tightens—I contort my face into a practiced, relaxed smile. The mirror taught me how. Snap. The camera shutters and everything in the universe screeches, coming to a startled halt. The entire earth pauses and poses for the camera taking my portrait. My mind and hand race to my hair. I can’t remember if the mirror told me to tuck it behind my well-adorned ear or free it to obstruct my painted face. “All done,” magic words called by the Houdini behind the camera. My legs untangle from their locked position. I open my mouth for a thank you. I feel a tap against my leg. I fall face-forward, my legs entangled with the camera’s. The magic cameraman attempts to reach out and catch me. I fall through his arms onto cold, hard floor. The world has resumed. I hear a clatter; I turn around. I see my dance partner broken on the floor. The unforgiving lens shattered. Glass tears streaming from the abyss within.
Vivian Nguyen ‘21 Could it be Self Love? Graphite
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Against a Woman Teresa Valenzuela '20
First place literature contest winner See my face and watch me cry A blindman’s spear is in mine eye A tempered past that’s so uneven A hidden fear of harrowed heathen He, startled by my sex, my curse, Threw his spear, his sharpened verse He called me smart, he called me dim He said I ought, but not to him I ought to speak, I ought to say “I’m not your toy, I’m not your prey” But he’s gone deaf, ears out of reach He cannot hear that strangled speech The words of which his own hand wrote The words which now constrict my throat Instead he tutors, instead he teaches Valued lessons are what he preaches: “Stand tall, stand proud, don’t be a cushion” Then, “Shut up, sit down, you curséd woman.”
Vivian Nguyen ‘21 Dude, Just Let Me Acrylic
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A tale so old, a tale so young A tale which has before been sung They call you great, but only when You act like pure, unspeaking hen But when choked throat lets out a scream You act neurotic and so extreme But I am out to prove them wrong I will shout, I’ll scream my song They will hear and they will see How little, small, and weak they be Against a woman, one such as me. I will scream, and I will yell And I will break their ego’s shell It is quite brittle, it is quite frail This thing they praise, this thing they hail And I will bring an end to reign Of one so fickle, of one so plain They will see me as their leader And not just as some baby breeder For I am strong, I will endure Until new reign is set, secure My name will hold a certain fear For the name will heal a broken ear And they will all be taught to hear Our voice, our song, our verbal spear.
Vivian Nguyen '21 The Bag Acrylic
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First place art contest winner Brooke Murray ‘21 Prometheus Anamnesis Mixed Media
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Disconnected Bailey Uttich ‘20
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wide smile stretched across Ruth’s face as the thunder of laughs followed her last anecdote. Her hand stretched out to wave gently at the crowd in front of her as she stepped down the side stairs of the stout stage. Ruth sent one last look into the bar, and her gaze immediately locked on someone in the crowd. He wasn’t anything out of the ordinary with his sandy blonde hair and freckles dusted across his cheeks, but Ruth knew she had seen him in a dream. What followed was something she had been dealing with since her eighteenth birthday: an intense stabbing pain originating behind her head that quickly followed down her spine and to her limbs. Every square inch of her skin felt like fire before her muscles clenched tight and she collapsed. An intense beam of light drew Ruth from her slumber, and she tried to not let it consume her. The light eventually pulled Ruth awake, and she winced at the burning sensation spreading across her body. Once her vision cleared, her gaze landed on the tall figure standing at the foot of her bed wearing a clean, white coat. The lady had dark skin and lines of worry etched into her forehead. Behind the doctor stood a nurse in
maroon scrubs scribbling furiously on the clipboard in his hands. Just as Ruth shifted her head back to look, the doctor cleared her throat and approached the side of the small hospital bed. “How are you, Ms. Ridley?” the doctor asked, grabbing the stethoscope from around her neck. Ruth sat up slightly, the burning feeling on her skin still simmering caused her to inhale quickly. “About a six,” Ruth shrugged and took a deep breath so that the doctor could listen to her lungs. She furrowed her eyebrows in response. “That was quite a fall you had. Are you sure just a six?” “I mean, my left side hurts, but this isn’t anything new. I have these ‘episodes’ every few months where my muscles clench and my head hurts and I get really bad déjà vu. It doesn’t usually result in passing out, but it’s happened before.” Doctor Mohammed, as written on her ID, nodded. “I took a look at your file, and you are a frequent flyer here.” Her black sneakers turned to face the nurse. “Oliver, is that the blood work?” The raven-haired nurse quickly handed them to Doctor Mohammed. “I grabbed them on the way in. Mostly normal.” As she read through the material on the clipboard in her hands, the doctor
circled things that concerned her. “Your head CT came back clear. I didn’t think you had a stroke or aneurysm due to your records, but I wasn’t sure if you had hit your head hard enough.” Ruth shifted in the bed, the thin cotton sheets rubbing uncomfortably against her legs. As she had told the doctor, this was not a new issue. She almost groaned at how much she wanted to go to sleep in her apartment. She figured that was rude to the people who may have saved her life, so she kept it down. “Your blood work looks like it came back alright. Did you eat anything before the show?” the doctor asked, finally looking up from the results. Ruth thought back through the past twenty-four hours and lightly shook her head, finally remembering the pizza she left in her microwave, uneaten due to how rushed she was before leaving for the bar. octor Mohammed nodded and handed the papers back to Oliver who was now typing on the keyboard on the cart near the door. “From a medical standpoint, I would say this episode was just from low blood sugar and dehydration, but I’m sure you’ve heard that one before, right?” She paused for a minute before adding a recommendation for genetic testing.
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Ruth could tell the doctor was trying to be sociable, but all she could manage was a weak nod. With every second sitting on that hospital bed, Ruth felt her eyelids slowly flutter shut for a moment before snapping back open. “You’re making me feel tired just looking at you,” Doctor Mohammed chuckled. “While I go grab a coffee, Oliver here is going to get you ready to leave. You have Ibuprofen I assume?” she asked. Without waiting for a response, she continued, “Great! Sleep well.” Silence enveloped the room and all that could be heard was a soft clacking of the keys on the keyboard in front of Oliver. Not much was said between the pair except questions about current medications and an address verification.
“Intent on staying awake for the fifteen-minute ride, Ruth concentrated on the graffitied walls at each stop. She was used to the bright colors and weird fonts spelling out words she couldn’t read, but tonight felt different.” A heavy breath escaped Ruth’s lips when she finally stepped out of the hospital. Her phone read 4 A.M., and she
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suddenly dreaded the next day. While she didn’t have anything in the morning, she hated going to bed that late after a show. Ruth immediately found the red line station and fiddled with her thumbs while she sat patiently for the train to arrive. Hardly anyone roamed the station, but she couldn’t help but grip her pepper spray inside her purse. Her Chicago upbringing had taught her to always be prepared when alone at night in the city. The train arrived shortly after she did, and she sighed in relief. She wasn’t sure how long she could go on sitting by herself when so close to sleep. It was empty and quiet on the train which worried Ruth since she had a tendency to fall asleep and miss her stop. Intent on staying awake for the fifteen-minute ride, Ruth concentrated on the graffitied walls at each stop. She was used to the bright colors and weird fonts spelling out words she couldn’t read, but tonight felt different. Ruth couldn’t tell if it was just her exhaustion or the graffiti artists deciding to keep Chicago on its toes, but every time she saw the illegal form of art, the paint didn’t swirl into different shapes and created something beautiful. Instead, the art she saw through the cloudy train window was only a collage of different letters. The letters didn’t form any words, but they were haphazardly drawn in clusters with bright colors splattered in the background to emphasize the letters.
Ruth wouldn’t describe herself as an artsy person. She remembered drawing in freshman year art class, but it wasn’t her strong suit. She wouldn’t vocalize her opinion, but she decided she didn’t like the new form of graffiti. hile looking up at each stop to judge the graffiti, Ruth texted Hazel, her friend since her embarrassing high school years. Ruth had no intention of worrying her, so she relayed to Hazel the events of the night. Ruth was often described as having an “old soul,” whatever that meant. She rarely texted and preferred to call or FaceTime, but she was not going to do either of those at four in the morning. Ruth surprisingly remained awake until the train halted to a stop at the station closest to her apartment. Before the doors closed, Ruth hurried out of the last car and planted her feet on the concrete. After glancing back down at her phone one more time, Ruth looked back up to the end of the platform. She did a double take when her eyes landed on a bearded man standing at the edge of the platform ahead of the train. His bony legs were shaking, and his fists were clenched to his sides. “Sir?” Ruth called out, eyebrows furrowed in concern. The man glanced her way before moving his stare back to the tracks in front of him. She couldn’t figure out what he was thinking because of his blank expression with faint tear streaks down his cheeks. Without hesitation, Ruth started
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walking hastily in his direction, hoping he wasn’t about to do what she suspected he was planning. “Excuse me, sir!” she yelled, hearing the train announce that it would continue its path north. Ruth’s flats pounded against the concrete as she raced to reach him. As the train lurched forward, the man sent her one last glance before leaning forward and falling into the tracks. The train plowed over his body. A scream echoed throughout the empty station, stopping Ruth in her tracks. Her trembling hand reached up to cover her mouth as she stood still watching the train continue. When the train finally trailed off, Ruth’s eyes reluctantly glanced at the spot the man’s mangled corpse should have been. nstead of red splatters against the cold metal of the tracks, all that remained was a pile of dust. It wasn’t the usual dust that appears from the crumbling rocks that may fall into the tracks; this light gray dust almost appeared to sparkle. Ruth’s heart pounded against her chest, and she felt wet streaks on her cheeks. Ruth blinked a few times and shook her head, releasing a quick breath of air. She couldn’t believe what she witnessed and tried replaying the events over in her head. Ruth saw the man. She couldn’t forget how vulnerable and frail his shaking body appeared as he contemplated ending his life. Realizing that she was in a public
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place, Ruth turned her head to scan the station. To her relief, it was still too early for the work crowd and just too late for the partiers to still be out. Ruth shot one more look to the dust starting to float away and, clutching her bag tighter, she continued her venture to her apartment. She repressed a cry of relief when she finally closed her apartment door. After hurriedly wiping off her makeup and changing out of her clothes, Ruth finally climbed into bed, trying not to replay the train station incident.
“Soon, the sensation of needles originated at the back of her head, and her body clenched as they spread downwards in a force so intense she couldn’t think of a more painful experience.” Ruth squinted from the light from her bedroom window. When her eyes adjusted, they landed on a full audience ahead of her. It was the same venue that she performed at that night except the lively audience was replaced with stone faces. She scanned the silent room and made eye contact with the man that was at her show. Deep lines were etched into his forehead and his once light hair looked
dark.
After what felt like hours, Ruth’s gaze drifted to the back of the audience, and she clenched her fists. The older man from the train tracks had the same expression from earlier, his shaking made obvious by the cold beer he was gripping tightly. Soon, the sensation of needles originated at the back of her head, and her body clenched as they spread downwards in a force so intense she couldn’t think of a more painful experience. In her ears, the thunder of the train roared, and her body fell limp into her bed.
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uth gasped so deeply for air that her ribs ached with the sudden pressure. She sat up abruptly and looked around her dimly lit bedroom. “I lost the key you gave me to your place, open the door!” a loud voice came from behind the front door. Shaking her head and rubbing her eyes, Ruth climbed out of her bed and made her way to the front door. “I’m coming,” she croaked. The knocking did not cease, but Hazel did stop yelling. Ruth pulled the front door open to reveal the exhausted face of her best friend. Hazel moved past Ruth towards the kitchen and right to the coffee maker. Ruth instinctively grabbed two bowls, the Froot Loops, and the milk from the fridge and placed them on the coffee table as this was a common Saturday ritual.
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Once the coffee was finished brewing, Hazel filled two mugs and sat across from Ruth. “What happened last night?” Ruth shook her head softly and took a sip of her coffee. “I don’t even know. Like, the show was great, and the audience was cool, but then I just passed out and woke up in the hospital at four in the morning,” Ruth explained, omitting the train station situation because she still wasn’t sure if it had been a product of her combined exhaustion and head trauma. “How are you going to do another show tonight?” Hazel asked, shoveling her spoon into her mouth. “You collapsed last night. You shouldn’t be performing.” Ruth shook her head defiantly. “It’s not as big of a deal as you think. If you didn’t know, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened.” The milk in Hazel’s mouth almost came out her nose as she laughed lightly. “Wow, that’s new information to me. Almost like you didn’t pass out and pee on me in college. Multiple times may I add.” “Oh, shut up,” Ruth smiled. nudging Hazel’s foot. he adrenaline from Ruth’s show temporarily eased her mind. Ruth was glad she went on as the first act of the night, allowing her to sit in the audience for the rest of the acts instead of being a tangle of nerves in the backroom.
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Ruth hadn’t performed at this large outdoor bar before, but she already loved the energy from the audience. It was more relaxed than some of her previous sites. Most of the audience had cheap plastic cups in their hands filled with tap beer, and everyone seemed the right amount of buzzed. After her show, Ruth found a seat at the bar and ordered a drink. “You were really great,” a deep voice said to her right. Ruth snapped her head to the side to see an oddly familiar face with dark hair and chocolate eyes.
“Despite the terrible night less than twenty-four hours ago, Ruth couldn’t remember having as much fun after a show as she did with Oliver.”
“Thanks…” she smiled, instantly feeling bad for not knowing who he was since it seemed like he knew her. “Oliver,” he offered his hand out. “I believe we met in the ER last night. I wouldn’t expect you to remember though since you were half asleep the whole time.” Ruth took his hand. “Nice to meet you, Oliver. Do you come to comedy shows often?” He smiled which made Ruth smile in response. “Nah. I’m just here for cheap beer. Nursing students don’t make any
money, sadly.” Despite the terrible night less than twenty-four hours ago, Ruth couldn’t remember having as much fun after a show as she did with Oliver. They closed the bar, and much to his surprise, Ruth paid for his drinks. “Hey, now that’s not fair. I should be paying,” Oliver protested, trying desperately to not slur his speech. Ruth pointed at him, “Starving nursing student, right?” He breathed through his teeth and raised his hands in mock defense. “I’ll pay for them next time.” “Next time?” Ruth’s eyebrow quirked up playfully. He brought his hands down and dug into his pocket to find cash to tip the bartender. “Yes, next time. And it better not be in the ER. Their alcohol selection sucks,” he joked, making Ruth chuckle. “Good to know,” she responded before reaching for a napkin and the pen she used to sign her bill. “Here’s my number because now that I know the hospital doesn’t have any good drinks, you won’t catch me there anymore.” It was Oliver’s turn to laugh before accepting the napkin and looking at her embarrassingly terrible handwriting. “It’s bad, I know,” Ruth joked before he could insult her penmanship. “Get home safe,” she said finally, bringing him into a quick hug before she left the bar with Oliver still smiling at the napkin in his hands.
Ruth made her way home easily with no train incidents, thankfully. It felt as if the smile etched onto her face wouldn’t fade as she kept replaying her night with Oliver. Ruth would not consider herself a romantic person because not many men, unfortunately, liked that she was a comedian. With her late weekend nights and constant lack of seriousness, she was rarely in a relationship that lasted longer than five dates. She wanted so bad for Oliver to be different, but she just figured she would have to find out. At the very least, she knew she wanted to spend more time with him. After such a long night, Ruth was glad to finally fall asleep. She knew she sounded like a schoolgirl, but she hoped that Oliver would text her in the morning if he could even remember their conversation.
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uth’s skin erupted in goosebumps when she felt the cold, metal chair she was resting in. Her eyes refused to open, almost like they were glued shut, and wires pressed against her skull. The chill from the metal sank into her bones and for all that she wished to move, her body refused to respond. “Shit, she’s awake,” a voice spoke hesitantly, almost as if the woman who said it was scared. Multiple pairs of feet shuffled against the floor to get closer to her, and
Ruth’s breath caught in her throat. “No, she’s just disconnected for now. It’s her genetic thing,” a man responded. He was further away than the others, and his voice was eerily calm. “And I think I found the problem,” said the same man. “Got it.”
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ike the night before, Ruth hurled her body forward in her bed and attempted to catch her breath. Every part of her body ached, and she glanced down at her palms to see deep indents from her nails digging into the flesh. Ruth’s body was still chilled, so after slowing her breathing down, she wrapped the covers back around herself. With so many questions racing through her mind, she struggled to fall back asleep.
than enough time for Oliver. Not only did he not seem wary of her profession, he often bantered back until they almost cried laughing. Ruth forgot about her dreams and the imagined suicide. She hoped to keep it that way until one morning she woke up early with a forceful pounding in her head. It was noticeably different than the pain from her “episodes” because it felt like a hammer was slamming against her skull from all angles. The old man from the red line stop flashed into her mind every time she attempted to sleep. His solemn eyes, a
The following few weeks were the best Ruth could remember having since her “episodes” started. She did not have a single headache following her abnormal dream. Ruth followed her normal schedule and continued to write new sets while making more
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sad gray with few specks of blue, haunted her every time she tried to rest. Oliver and Hazel took turns watching her as her migraines worsened, forcing Ruth to reluctantly cancel gigs. ushed phrases about genetics and the touch of icy metal began to trade nights with the old man haunting Ruth to the point where she considered herself lucky to have forty minutes of uninterrupted sleep. Ruth hated that Oliver, a guy she had only known for three weeks and who attended nursing school online every day, felt like he had to take care of her on the weekends. She wanted to tell him it was okay to leave her, but any sound that entered her ears only added to the pain in her head. In one of the rare moments when she was alone, Ruth grabbed her discarded phone off the coffee table. Squinting when the bright screen pierced her eyes, Ruth opened Google and searched her symptoms. Like every doctor Ruth had seen, Google only attributed her headaches to migraines, stroke, or meningitis. Unsurprisingly, hauntings of suicidal men who may not have been real sent her to mental care facility websites. Ruth didn’t even know how to write about the dreams with the voices because she didn’t know who was speaking. They talked about genetics and technology frequently, so Ruth assumed they were scientists or
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doctors.
Ruth scrolled through pages of various searches she used to try and explain her dream when her gaze landed on a year-old LA Times article. She hesitantly clicked on the link and read the title. “Cult leader who thought humanity was a simulation commits suicide in asylum.” Ruth did not imagined anything coming from the article, but as she continued reading about the man’s past, her palms began to sweat from how many similarities there were between what happened to her and what the man described to his followers. Not only had he shared similar dreams of people speaking over his nonresponsive body, but he suffered from what the article described as “intense migraines.” “Tell me, Mr. Walker,” a reporter asked in a linked interview, “why do you claim that no one is in control of his or her life?” uth’s hands began shaking so violently that her phone slipped between her fingers and her breathing stopped. The man being interviewed, though significantly younger in appearance due to the age of the interview, resembled the man who had killed himself at the train station. His beard was not yet white and his eyes were a dim blue instead of the gray that appeared in her dreams, but his face was unforgettable. Sitting up quickly
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to grab her tea, Ruth closed her eyes and tried the breathing techniques one of her doctors had taught her.
“It was her favorite mug, but what concerned her was not the small crack around the rim, but how her hand was unable to grip the cup.” The video continued to play on her phone that had fallen onto the floor, and the sound of the man’s voice made Ruth’s head want to explode. Trying to keep her sanity, Ruth began to search for her phone but instead landed on the ceramic mug on the coffee table. It was her favorite mug, but what concerned her was not the small crack around the rim, but how her hand was unable to grip the cup. Her fingers tried to latch around the handle, but her hand waved through the once solid object. Ruth gasped from surprise as she stared at the sight in front of her. “I’m going crazy,” she repeated, continuously trying to grab the cup but admiring how her fingers moved through the object, almost as if it were a projection. Tears streamed down her face as she tried to piece together what could be happening, but her thoughts were clouded by a headache that only intensified with each swipe of her hand in the air above the
coffee table. When her headache grew too much to bear, Ruth rubbed her eyes with her fists, frustration taking over the confusion in her mind. Without the typical warning of needles pricking her body, Ruth’s vision went black and her body fell limp to the floor. Unlike every time before, Ruth’s eyes slowly peeled open. Her vision blurred from how bright everything was around her, but once her vision normalized, Ruth saw a large, black screen in front of her. “It’s her weird genetic thing. Fixing it is harder than we thought, so now we have to reboot the whole system because her wires short circuit all the time,” a voice said. Ruth tried to turn her head, but her body remained stiff. “Playing OrphanG2319 is so boring. She keeps glitching and messing up my playing time,” a voice whined from behind her. Just as Ruth tried to see her surroundings better, she felt the inside of her body tremble. She felt hands gripping tight around her biceps but looked down to see her bare skin. Ruth had never felt so physically messed up, as if someone was shaking her violently even though her body refused to move from her chair. “Fix it or she’ll have to go.” “Ruth!” Oliver yelled, shaking her body in his hands. He had just arrived to see
Ruth passed out on the floor with tea and a broken mug next to her. Just as his fingers found the pulse on her throat, Ruth inhaled and opened her eyes. Her head was still pounding, but Ruth stood and made her way towards her front door. “Where are you going?” Oliver asked, panic still laced through is voice. All Ruth could mutter was a quick excuse before climbing down the stairs of her apartment complex and leaving her building. It was only six in the afternoon, so it was still light outside, but Ruth didn’t care to notice. All she needed was to get out of her apartment and breathe fresh air, but she couldn’t help the panic attack that overcame her body a few minutes later as everything sunk in. he sidewalk about a block from her apartment was busy, as it should be during rush hour on a Friday, but Ruth didn’t think as she shoved past those in her way to the park bench a few feet away. Ruth’s breathing was so rapid when she sat down that she almost passed out again. Ruth’s eyes clamped shut, and she focused on controlling her breathing once again until her chest wasn’t straining to get more air. When her eyes finally opened, she was met with another extremely bizarre site. The area around her was oddly quiet for any day in Chicago, and she soon realized that when she moved her glance from the clouds above her to the frozen life
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in front of her. Ruth gulped as she tried to comprehend how nothing was moving in front of her. She had run out of guesses at this point. The statues of the people who were just frowning at her for pushing by were the final things she saw before her eyes rolled to the back of her head and darkness consumed her. Just as her head fell back to rest against the metal bench, Ruth’s eyes opened to reveal the same place she had just been in her dream. The screen was black in front of her, and when she turned her head to the right, she found what looked like Oliver’s body clothed in black to match his hair. His face had fewer lines of worry, and the lines around his lips from the smile she loved were gone. After inspecting Oliver, she soon discovered that his limbs, poorly hidden under a blanket, were as small as sticks. His bones were not difficult to see beneath his taut, unhealthily pale skin in contrast with his usual tan self.
“Only when she moved to find the wires on her head did she see how bony her body was.” Her body ached tremendously as she went to sit up in her chair. Only when she moved to find the wires on her head did she see how bony her body was. She gripped her forearm with her slender
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fingers to ensure she was real and looked up to the screen. She couldn’t hear what was happening, but she saw her Oliver, not the skeleton sitting next to her. He was talking on the phone to someone while running his hands through his already messy hair. In front of the couch, Hazel was hurriedly scrubbing the tea off of the carpet. Nothing made sense to Ruth at that moment, but she was oddly angry. She pulled the cap of wires off her head and freed herself from her IVs. Ruth didn’t know where she was planning on going, but she couldn’t bear to be near Oliver’s fragile body.
“With what little strength she had, Ruth bolted out of the room filled with motionless piles of bones and ran to the nearest door.” People dressed in light blue coats finally heard her move and quickly approached. With what little strength she had, Ruth bolted out of the room filled with motionless piles of bones and ran to the nearest door. She skidded into the hall and glanced around to see three guards standing to her left. They all seemed surprised for a moment before realizing what was happening and began chasing
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Ruth down the other direction. ll Ruth could see was a bright light ahead of her. As she got closer, it appeared to be a door to the outside. Her heart pounded heavily against her ribs as she fought to move her legs faster. Soon, the slapping of feet behind her faded, and she burst through the door and dashed out. Her sight had little time to adjust to the change of lighting before she realized she was about to run out into a busy street. Ruth slowed to a stop and fell to her knees. She hadn’t made it too far from the door, and she knew she’d never outrun the security guards forever. Instead, Ruth felt the soft grass against the tips of her fingers and looked forward at the cars zooming past her. She couldn’t think of a word to describe the vehicles, but she thought they all looked like white Teslas. A small group of people on the sidewalk a few feet in front of her had noticed her escape and approached with concerned expressions when Ruth felt a painful sting in her neck. Ruth snapped her head to the side to see a needle slowly pressing a syringe full of a lavender liquid into her body. Ruth lifted her hand to try and pull away, but it quickly drooped back down to her side. Her body suddenly felt as if butterflies were circling around, and her knees gave out, causing her to land in one of the security guard’s arms. She felt light when she was picked
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up and carried back into the building. The man holding her stared straight ahead, ignoring the frail girl beginning to fall asleep. The last thing Ruth saw before accepting the darkness were the freckles dusted onto his skin and his sandy blonde hair. When Ruth awoke, she was sitting in the bench she fell asleep on. Her headache was gone, but she couldn’t believe how exhausted she was. She slowly sat up and made her way back to her apartment, forgetting her reason for storming out and why she didn’t even bother to put shoes on. Her sock-covered feet made their way back to her apartment, and when she opened the door to her home, her eyes immediately fell on the coffee table. “What the hell happened to my mug?”
Kayleigh Currier ‘21 China Town Digital Collage
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Blinded Shadows Zoe Hobson ‘21 Souls standing in the mirror clear as glass, wasting our lives in thought iridescence. Never would you notice us as we pass, exteriors shine blindingly florescent. Why look more? Cheer skirt and clumped mascara, basic for sure. Thrifted jeans with home cropped tank, you’ve seen the type. Just a mass city walking under peer given name—preset. Masking our heart beating singular tune toward directions anew. There it goes. Hidden in the dark of glowing moon beyond the crescent’s glow, live shadows.
To watch "Blinded Shadows" performed live scan this QR code.
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My Room
Natalie Volanto ‘23 You have been through three paint jobs and A lot of patience. There will always be a pile of uniforms on the chair And a calendar that is never changed. A window looks out on a great big tree that I Should probably climb sometime. Your walls hold posters and pictures, Ticket stubs and hanging plants That wrap around me like A blanket of memories. Your floors hold sleepy dogs and Shoes right next to the bed Right where they should be.
Oh, the times we’ve had together: Dance parties with the lights on, Nights of reading under covers, Rearranging at three in the morning, Only to change it again the next day. And sometimes you steal my stuff Because how else can that many socks Go missing? But I do apologize for drilling so many holes Into you and not opening the window enough. So when I grow older and leave you for Someone else, more paint jobs, more memories— Remember how I sat in that chair, looking out into the world From the place I was loved the most.
Cady Lambert ‘22 Portrait Charcoal
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The Red Elephant Marianne Cano ‘21 I believe that not enough is being done about the immigration crisis at the border, and I hope my piece can spark discussion about this issue. The red elephant shivers at night, cold, alone, warmed only by aluminum light. She contemplates the meaning of her existence, watching on as other animals reach green grasses from a distance. See, the problem of the red elephant is that she is locked— beaten, neglected, abused, mocked— struggling to breathe in a small cage filled to the brim with other elephants for endless days. Unlike other animals, they are forced to the side. The elephants are invisible despite their immense size. Hidden from view, these caged giants disappear. Their trumpeting cries grow harder to hear. The red elephant never wished for this pain. She is simply another animal, looking in vain for a safe habitat where her children can play, yet . . . we put her away. Second place art contest winner Kayleigh Currier ‘21 Milk Crates Digital Collage
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Dear Heart Reagan Engleman ‘23 This poem gives voice to the internal battles our hearts go through during hard times and the effects these have on how we love long term. Damn. My hat goes off to you for beating for fourteen years. What is it like for you? What is it like to feel the emotion of everything firsthand? Him. Ouch, just the mention of him makes you ache, doesn’t it. But wow, you were in the same field with me as he spoke. Hell, I swear you stopped for just a second when he said those words for the first time. But how are you beating now After being torn in half by him? You’re beating, beating, beating. Endlessly, well, Not endlessly. How did you continue beating when she got sick? My stomach fails me with the utter words of cancer, yet you keep beating, beating, beating. How did you keep your steady thumping when you saw her crippled by the sickness? How did you continue moving when everything in my life was frozen in a nightmare? How do you go without the warmth of his touch? How do you go without a mother’s love? In my fourteen years I have often found you the only noise in the silence.
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You are always there, beating, beating, beating. I tap the rhythm anxiously on the desk—beating, beating, beating. I touch my palm on the back of the church pew—beating, beating, beating. I hear it in my ears—beating, beating, beating. It’s just you and I, So from now on, I won’t let any more pain reach you. No more leading promises. No more broken hearts and gaping holes. No more love lost. I’ll build walls to protect you. I won’t let you fall for anyone else. I won’t let your hopes up with love. I won’t shine the spotlight of happiness upon you in fear of being caught in the dark. I’ll keep you hidden. Locked away. You are safe, heart. So just keep doing what you do best. Beating, beating, beating.
Michaela Coulter ‘20 Growth Acrylic
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Ava Love ‘21 Butterfly Garden Acrylic
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¡Pura Vida! Sarah Hui ‘20
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t rained today, spilling memories into my mind. Sweet-smelling bug spray, blaring trumpets, and cleansing rain—they draw out a smile and return me to Costa Rica. This past June, I lived there for ten days in San Isidro, a city hugged by green mountains. Each night, seventy of us slept on a hilltop in a simple retreat center. Each day, we joined nearby communities to work, eat, and laugh together. I miss Costa Rica deeply. Not being there is a loss of an experience that was itself loss. There in San Isidro, specifically in the neighboring town of Rivas in a hamlet named Guadalupe, I surrendered some layers of life. One layer was physical comfort. We washed our mud, grass, and concretestained clothes by hand. There was no air conditioning for the sultry days, but I shivered at night when the temperatures sank. Nighttime swelled with noise— disembodied voices, roaring motorcycles, and loud insects. Bugs, inconspicuous or bulbous, became companions instead of pests. Bites from angry ants marching up my hand swelled and hardened into white bumps. Shower water gushed ice-cold from open-mouthed pipes and knocked the breath from my lungs. Each morning though, I awoke to the sound of birds. Their unfiltered
song drifted through the square holes our building had for windows. I would rise early to help Teresa and Andrea, mother and daughter, prepare our breakfast. My days began with peeling and slicing platanos, soon to be fried and delicious. A mountainous drive away in Guadalupe, my group helped to expand the hamlet’s tiny church, with its green roof and orange bricks. Lifting one hundred pound cement sacks, bending metal rods, shoveling dirt, hefting cinder blocks, and mixing concrete was strenuous. But it resulted in joyful camaraderie with the members of the community with whom we worked side by side. Our purpose to assist them removed from us the desire for personal gain, another aspect of life surrendered. I often subconsciously treat physical comfort and self-gain as required for happiness in life. While I was in Costa Rica without these two ornaments, life seemed to be of a purer form. My days were steeped in peace and joy, even though I still experienced some sadness and hurt. I could reflect on life with clearer sight, as if standing on a mountain instead of mired in mud. So I asked myself: What is my ultimate goal? I began to wrestle with an answer, and curious, I tried asking others once I
returned home. I asked The Dallas Morning News’ editor, “On your deathbed, what will you hoped to have accomplished?” “Having been a great father,” he said. “And on The News’ Wikipedia, positive contributions listed after my name." My close friend answered, “To make a difference and make things better.” ach of their answers regard others and their own impact on others, which brings me to another layer I surrendered in Costa Rica: the universally observed gulf between strangers. In Spanish, I can't communicate much beyond ¡hola! and ¿cómo estás? Forming meaningful relationships with the locals seemed so difficult as a result. But one afternoon in Guadalupe, as rain fell like silvery stars, an older woman wiped away her tears. Someone translated as she spoke to us with gratitude on behalf of her community. I knew I wanted to say something to her in return. I found her afterwards and, in halting Spanish learned moments before, said, “Thank you for your beautiful words.” Suddenly, we were hugging. I felt the warmth of a stranger's love. I was elated to see her again the next day. The woman, Doña Carmen as I learned, beamed warmly and told me she had gone home and said to her husband,
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“I made a new friend today.” I was surprised and moved she would say that after our brief encounter. With a quasibilingual friend translating, we began a conversation. She showed me photos of her grandchildren and invited me to come see her garden. I listened, smiling most of the time.
“‘You will always be in my prayers,’” I told her. We hugged again. Although language separated us, it was not enough to prevent us from parting as friends.” On our final day in Costa Rica when we returned to Guadalupe’s chapel, there Doña Carmen was, sitting on the mound of dusty cement sacks. She held up a bag of smooth disks carved out of wood. They were gifts for all of us, made from a tree in Guadalupe. I also had a gift for her made from a tree. Before we said goodbye, I reached for the simple wooden cross that had hung around my neck for ten days
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and gave it to her. “You will always be in my prayers,” I told her. We hugged again. Although language separated us, it was not enough to prevent us from parting as friends. often think of the world, the awesome, vast world, in flickering, abstract images. I forget the world is the people before me, both known or unknown, friend or stranger. Doña Carmen taught me how to touch other people’s hearts, even past the hurdle of the unfamiliar. My goal in life now is to remember that strangers are human persons, brimming with memories, stories, and struggles just like me. In Costa Rica, they have a saying: “¡Pura Vida!” Pure life. That is what I miss so much. Surrendering layers of life—
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living without comforts, beyond personal gain, and amidst the unfamiliar—was like removing impurities. It was also at its heart a sacrifice. Through that sacrificial experience, I could feel to my bones what matters most: loving the other by placing her first. This feeling was accompanied by breathtaking peace and joy. I do want to make the world a better place, but I do not want my actions to just be my legacy. In the end, I want them to be my sacrifice for others.
I Am, But I Am Not Viviana Esquivel ‘22 My skin has a white tint But on ethnicity forms Hispanic I must print
I can pretend to act white But compared to my American friends I don’t fit in quite right
I grew up speaking Spanish But outside my home My native language would vanish
I have grown up with a double nationality But when it is seen as an advantage Sometimes I feel like an abnormality
My immigrant mother used to pack me lunch But when opening my peculiar food The other kids’ noses would scrunch
I am proud of my parents and my history But in the world I live Who I should be remains a mystery
I consider my family to be blessed But looking at others’ lives My situation should make me distressed
I am a Mexican living in a white society But not knowing who I am Gives my identity unique variety
I call myself Mexican But according to my brown cousins I’m nothing but American
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Boots Claire Weber ‘20 For the man said, “I will die in my boots” Not in a nursing home, invalid’s bed He was true to himself, true to his roots I know there will not be a substitute There are no fantasies now in my head For the man said, “I will die in my boots” We go to them in a long winding route To honor and remember the now dead He was true to himself, true to his roots His friends give the traditional salute Bullets in the sky, loud and made of lead For the man said, “I will die in my boots” Many have made a lengthy commute They stand proud now, speeches written and read “He was true to himself, true to his roots” We walk out in a haze, moving on foot He was found in his boots on his ranch, dead For the man said, “I will die in my boots” He was true to himself, true to his roots
To watch "Boots" performed live scan this QR code.
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Nanie Abigail Mihalic ‘20 I have a very close relationship with my grandmother, whom we call Nanie. I wanted to capture the complex emotions of a young child watching a loved one grow old for the first time. She hovers over a boiling pot of soup, A confusing mixture of spices, beans, vegetables and broth That tastes like nothing else, I mean everything else. She plays cards with the two of them, Making mock-shocked expressions when she is bested, Their faces gleam with delight. But she feels the weight of time pull down, hanging tightly on her hips, her back, her shoulders, her feet. When does the hanging reach the ground? She leans back with feet propped up, Drowning out the hemoglobins and the thyroid hormone counts, Their mouths contorted in worry. But she smiles when she looks at them, A delightful mixture of genes, attitudes, guidance, and love That she helped create.
Justine Walker ‘20 Manitos Mixed Media Collage
To watch "Nanie" performed live scan this QR code.
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Art in the Time of the Coronavirus Initially, Tuesday, March 10, 2020, was only eventful at Ursuline because local professionals came to speak about their jobs for Career Day. After a precautionary day off spiraled into the permanent cancellation of in-person classes, March 10 became known as the last day Ursuline students spent on campus for the 2020 school year. Coronavirus quarantine brought new challenges to the student body such as adapting to e-learning and being isolated from friends. Some students, however, faced even more difficult challenges like parental unemployment, diminished college options, and the loss of loved ones. The COVID-19 pandemic will certainly leave an impact, no matter what degree, on the entire Ursuline student body. In times of struggle, creative expression can play a vital role in the processing of complex feelings and realities. Thankfully, Ursuline students have created literary and visual works, providing both an outlet for these trying times and a beautiful encapsulation for years to come of life in the time of the coronavirus.
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During quarantine, I began to doubt the importance of creating art, but when I started to use the sidewalk as my canvas, I saw how I made a small but positive difference through the smiles of children and parents in my neighborhood.
Emma Brodsky ‘22 Sidewalk Chalk Chalk
Sidewalk Chalk Emma Brodsky ‘22
I was given the most useless gift, the most selfish of all trades. I can weave the very threads of light To sing myself serenades.
Now lonely lullabies I sing, and into night they fade. So I knit auroras on your feet and relish Joy’s cascade.
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The Emptiness Abigail Mihalic ‘20
The soft beat of the treadmill as she pounds the rubber pavement, The snippets of video calls as the breadwinners take their meetings, The swish of the dishwasher as it cleans last night's plates, The faint crinkle of the air conditioner as it takes up residence in my ear— So quiet but inescapable, the sound of emptiness. Grief is a feeling reserved for an actual experience. Staring at the electricity bill with no paycheck to settle it, Touching the fuchsia bruises from a protective but torturous mask, Sharing a last loving goodbye behind a clear glass wall as he slowly drifts away— Piercing, inescapable grief. Emptiness does not compare, but it is still there. It leaves me content and comfy in a warm house with a loving family, But it brings moments of sadness although brief and sporadic. The tears never come because when I reach out into the emptiness to find a reason, there's nothing to hold on to.
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An Embrace from My Heart to Yours Katherine Reynolds ‘22
Katherine’s poem “An Embrace from My Heart to Yours" won second place in the Ursuline Library's Quarantine Poetry Contest. This is an embrace from my heart to yours. I will send it to you through the pixels of your computer screen, for while I may not be able to hug you, you are still ingrained in my heart. I can neither take your hand nor tangle your fingers with my own, but I can still talk with you, still try to make myself as much of a presence in your mind as you are in mine. This time is temporary, and this separation impermanent. When the time comes and we are freed from the fear that keeps us apart for the sake of the whole, we will be free once more to walk the streets, to gather in groups larger than ten, to stand less than six feet apart and say, “I missed you,” and “Thank you for coming.” When this day comes, even if all that I wish for with you does not come to pass, I hope that you will let me tell you how you made this isolation just a little less lonely.
Anupa Matthew ‘22 pre-quarantine Digital photography
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‘Rona Madness
Teresa Valenzuela ‘20 Teresa’s poem “‘Rona Madness” won first place in the Ursuline Library's Quarantine Poetry Contest. I can’t go here, I can’t go there I cannot go most anywhere I’m stuck inside, nothing to do Except to knit a scarf or two I’ve gone mad, I’m now insane Too much stress destroyed my brain My sister’s home, she’s made a mess The whole downstairs is for her dress She’s in design, she has to sew But now I’ve got no place to go It’s couch, then bed, then back to chair I can’t do homework anywhere She’s taken over, she’s in my space With velvet, silk, and some weird lace I’m done, I’m through I’ll form a coup! And make her go so far away But parents say she has to stay
No school, no song, no friends to see To top it off, there’s my degree College, money, scholarships I’d love to take a Life day skip I’m gonna be in so much debt But I haven’t killed my sister yet! Housing, funding, food, roommate Oh, why’d I go to bed so late? Stay on topic, focus, Tees! Let’s watch Mann sing ‘bout this disease! Waste of time! You’ve got to work! My brain can be a real jerk I’m tired, I’m stressed, I’m angry too I’m stuck inside, too much to do! I’ve gone mad, oh, can you tell? We didn’t buy enough Purell I’m trapped, I’m caught, I’m stuck between A hard place and COVID-19
And then there’s school, it’s all online You’ve got projects? Well I’ve got nine Just a month of senior year I have to spend it stuck in here Lauren Goree ‘22 Connected Acrylic
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Letter from the Editor Dear Reader, Thank you for taking the time to hear each of the distinct voices present in this magazine. Although the Ursuline students who submitted literature and art pieces speak from a variety of experiences and perspectives, they all took the admirable leap of vulnerability and let their art speak for itself. Without these brave students and their unwavering voices, this magazine would not be possible. To everyone who helped put this magazine together, thank you for your hard work, insight, and dedication. I am so grateful to the Selections Committee for their thoughtful comments and commitment to elevating the best pieces for Esse. The leadership team in their various roles have been invaluable in ensuring these student voices have been heard. Thank you to Mrs. Monica Cochran, Ms. Kate Schenck, Mr. Kyle Lee, and Ms. Jocelyn Holmes for always steering us in the right direction and fostering artistic expression in your classes and beyond. And lastly to our publisher Mr. John Diebold, thank you for your time and guidance in bringing Esse to life on each page. -Abigail Mihalic ‘20
Colophon Esse 2020 as constructed using Adobe InDesign CS 6.0.1 on a PC. The font utilized for titles, authors, and pull quotes is Lora. Titles were set in size 18, and authors’ names were set in size 14. The Coronavirus Section title and inside cover titles were set in size 24. The font for page numbers is Lora, size 11. The font for body text and art credits is Candara, size 10. The cover font is Nexa Bold, size 78, and the spine font is Candara, size 12. The cover is on 100# Maxcote Satin Cover paper, and the content pages are on 100# Maxcote Satin Text paper. The pieces included in Esse 2020 were chosen by the Selections Committee, and the magazine was laid out by Abigail Mihalic. Esse 2020 was 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 is a member of the following organizations: the American Scholastic Press Association, the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, the National Council of Teachers of English, and the National Scholastic Press Association.
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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 may also submit student work they deem commendable. The Esse selections committee then reads the pieces anonymously on Esse’s Submission Manager and rates them in relation to the theme of the magazine and the quality of the piece. Each year, Esse holds an art and literature contest in which the top two winners in both 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, ursulinelitmag@gmail.com
Selections Committee Abigail Hess ‘20 Joann Nguyen ‘20 Chiamaka Osuagwu ‘20 Bethany Roberts ‘20 Kate Rucker ‘20 Teresa Valenzuela ‘20 Silvia Vazquez ‘20 Kayleigh Currier ‘21 Meenakshi Gujjarlapudi ‘21 Theresa Hayes ‘21 Claire Herzog ‘21
Zoe Hobson ‘21 Isabella Mast ‘21 Olivia Michiels ‘21 Eva Montenegro ‘21 Emmi Pitchford ‘21 Annabella Ritter-Pleitez ‘21 Olivia Sikes ‘21 Sophia Speer ‘21 Sona Srambickal ‘21 Manahil Gill ‘22 Ella Kanelakos ‘22
Sarah Kerber ‘22 Jamie Lim ‘22 Kate Nolan ‘22 Giselle Sethi ‘22 Arianne Tsioutsias ‘22 Sophia Combs ‘23 Hannah Davis ‘23 Eniola Egedigwe ‘23 Grace Keller ‘23 Teah LeBlanc ‘23 Aurora Rain ‘23
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Esse Leadership Editor-in-Chief: Abigail Mihalic ‘20 Abigail has been published in Esse her sophomore and senior years and has served on the Selections Committee since her freshmen year. Abigail first discovered her love for writing on the newspaper staff and then developed her creative side by taking Creative Writing. Abigail was honored with Ursuline Academic Awards in 2017, 2018, and 2020 for English I Honors, Journalism, and AP Literature and Composition. She served as the co-editor in chief of Ursuline's Bear Facts newspaper this year and has also been published in the Dallas Morning News.
Art Editor: Justine Walker ‘20 Justine has been published in Esse her freshman, junior, and senior years and has served on the Selections Committee since her freshmen year. Throughout her years at Ursuline, Justine has pursued her love for art by taking art classes ranging from Studio Art II to AP Studio Art. In 2018, Justine was honored with the Ursuline Studio Art IV Academic Award for her enthusiasm and exceptional work in Studio Art IV. She has also had pieces chosen for display in regional art shows.
Head Copy Editor: Sarah Hui ‘20 Sarah has been published in Esse her freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior years and has served on the Selections Committee since her freshman year. Throughout her years at Ursuline, Sarah has pursued her love for writing by taking honors English classes and Newspaper Journalism. During her senior year, Sarah served as the co-editor in chief of Ursuline’s Bear Facts newspaper. Sarah was honored with Ursuline Academic Awards in 2018 and 2019 for English II Honors and AP Language and Composition. In 2019, she interned at The Dallas Morning News.
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Moderators:
Monica Cochran and Kate Schenck
Assistant Editor:
Delia-Rose Constantin ‘21
Assistant Art Editor: Savannah Flores ‘21
Communications Officer: Marlene Weis ‘21
Copy Editors:
Caroline Neal ‘20 Sophia Tran ‘20 Claire Weber ‘20 Katherine Reynolds ‘22
Esse 2020 Volume LIV The Literary-Art Magazine of Ursuline Academy Copyright 2020 Ursuline Academy of Dallas