ESSE 2022

About the Covers

Inspired by the struggles and triumphs I have faced in connecting to my cultural identity, this piece which was originally created as an oil painting on wood panel is meant to describe a disconnect from identity, specifically, the disconnect I feel between both sides of my cultural heritage. It means to ask the question, “At what cost did it take?” to obtain my identity when it should have been open for me to inherit from the start. Through the strained fingertips and the na tional flowers of my culture’s two countries, strife, anguish, pain, and beauty are all emulated throughout the overall image.

Simone Mayega

Front Cover Searching

Simone Mayega ‘23

Back Cover Searching (Variation)

Simone Mayega ‘23

This year’s Esse is dedicated to Dr. Stephen da Silva “...a kindred spirit, friend, and advisor”

Dear Dr. da Silva,

I will never forget how we first met. I was a freshman in Ms. Chambers’ beginners’ choir class, and you brought your English III Honors class in to watch La Traviata. I struck up a conversation about opera, unaware that I was talking to someone who would become my favorite teacher never to actually have me in his class. Over the next three years, I came to look forward to encountering you in the hallway so we could discuss our thoughts on your latest book recommendation or whatever I was reading in English at the moment. I knew I could rely on you to bring a new perspective to whatever was on my mind; you challenged me to think in ways I had never thought before.

I treasure the memories of how time seemed to disappear when we conversed, sometimes to the detriment of my attendance record. My classmates who have had the honor of being in your class have sung praises about your kindness, understanding, and intellect. Your depth of thinking and passion for the literary arts will never cease to awe me; when I am older, I would be thrilled to possess even half your articulation. While your time at Ursuline was unfortunately curtailed, the impact you had on so many hundreds of students will never be overestimated. You have been a kindred spirit, friend, and advisor to all who have had the good fortune to talk to you. We miss you dearly and wish you happiness in your life to come.

Katherine Reynolds Editor-In-Chief 2022

Editor’s Note

In Catholic tradition, Jesus is said to be the light of the world. Every human reflects that light and possesses their own ability to bring the light to those around them, typically through the sharing of their own unique talents.

It is this proverbial light that makes Ursuline students so unique. Ur suline students do not just remain passively alight, they burn. Every student at Ursuline holds a fire within them that inspires them, motivates them, and keeps them going even when their flame falters. Ursuline students are artistic, altruistic, ferociously intelligent, and incredibly dedicated to their passions. Be it the passion that drives them or the terrors that incinerate them, I wanted this year’s Esse to reflect this unique burning of souls, hence my selection of “Burn” as the theme of Esse 2022. Thank you.

Regards, Katherine Reynolds Editor-In-Chief 2022

Nika

Table of Contents: Poetry and Prose

Internally Burning, Madison Morrissey ‘25

Yours and Mine, Isabella O’Brien ‘23

(Be)Longing, Lili Alderink ‘23

Same but Different, Lolo Pham ‘23

For Women Who Hold the Burden of Other People’s Emotions, Bailey Purcel 24

Is This a Love Poem?, Katherine Reynolds ‘22

War, Hope, and a Tennis Star, Beckett Morris ‘22

Recycled Love, Ella Kobyluch ‘22

Grasp of the Green Grass, Viviana Esquivel ‘22

Dreamers, Natalie Volanto ‘23

Sundown Maiden, Isabella O’Brien ‘23

For Girls Who Don’t Fit In, Libby Payne ‘24

On Weather, Brooke Bergin ‘23

In the Night, Kate Nolan ‘22

Something Like Sunshine, Ella Kobyluch ‘22

Dragon Stole My Heart, Reagan Chen ‘24

Ocean King, Beckett Morris ‘22

46

Doodlebug, Katherine Reynolds ‘22

48 Gamboling with Love, Jamie Lim ‘22

50-58 Nora Nox, Brooke Bergin ‘23

61 Emancipation Oak, Lauren Goree ‘22

62

Bond of Three, Emma Whitley ‘22

65-69 Phantom Limb, Katherine Reynolds ‘22

71 For People Who are Burdened by Expectations, Cate Swindle ‘24

73 Beloved Eyne of Fire, Teah LeBlanc ‘23

75-79 Yellow Primroses Bloom at Night, Kathryn Wilson ‘22

81 Philautia, Maggie McKinney ‘24

83 Green (Emerald, Sage, Pea), Mary Borkowski ‘24

85 Vampire Prayer, Katherine Reynolds ‘22

87 For Fourth Graders Who are Afraid to Fail, Meredith Hazzard ‘24

89

Ode to Epiphanies, Ella Kobyluch ‘22

Table of Contents: Artwork

Flame, Natalie Volanto ‘23

Forest, Nika Vahadi ‘24

Excitement, Gabriela Rodriguez ‘23

The Sound of Nature, Elizabeth Barbero ‘24

Double Sided, Nika Vahadi ‘24

Life is Like Metamorphosis, Lauren Goree ‘22

Help Needed, Lauren Goree ‘22

Eye, Abigail Marquis ‘25

Koi in Half Glass Marbles, Michelle Bao ‘24

Skeletal Hand 2, Cady Lambert ‘22

Dastardly Disguise, Emma Brodsky ‘22

Life Itself, Mary Atwell ‘24

Branch of Winter, Elena Montenegro, ‘25

Marionette, Shelby Lovejoy ‘24

Chaos, Gabriela Rodriguez ‘23

A Pathway to Brightness, Rosha Vahadi ‘23

Dwelling Dunes, Olivia Dominguez ‘23

Departure, Bridget Reynolds ‘23

The View Within, Jana Elawar ‘23

Kamryn Carter ‘22

Water Leaves, Avery Zulick ‘22

Butterflies, Lexi Sauvage ‘23

Saturday Nights with Jada, Gabriela Rodriguez ‘22

What are the Causes, Ellie Mentgen ‘23

Line Horses, Madeleine Marlowe ‘24

Lily, Cady Lambert ‘22

Psychedelic Whale, Cristina Stadler ‘23

Enter If You Dare, Nika Vahadi ‘24

State, Bailey Purcel ‘24

Light, Emma Morales ’24

Jagged, Nika Vahadi ‘24

Award Winners: Artwork

and

Ursuline Art Exhibition: 1st Place Artistic Achievement

Mayega

Esse Best Visual

Piece

1st Place: “Marionette” by Shelby Lovejoy ‘24

2nd Place: “Chaos” by Gabriela Rodriguez ‘23

Ursuline Art Exhibition: Best in Show

“Mi Abuela, La Reina” by Elena Velasquez ‘22 - AP Studio Art

Ursuline Art Exhibition:

Senior Artist

Cady Lambert ‘22 - AP Studio Art

“Bananas in the Kitchen” by Annabelle Tobin ‘25 Digital Photography I & II

“Double Sided” by Nika Vahadi ‘24 Digital Photography II & III

“Equus Caballus Amare” by Kaia Putnam ‘23 Ceramics Non-Functional

“Mountains Majesty” by Crystal Cantu ‘24 Ceramics Functional

“Fashionable Desk” by Bennett Llan ‘23

- Studio Art II Drawing

“It Never Ends” by Natalia Quevedo ‘22 Filmmaking I

“Man Made Imperfection” by Aryanna Rivas ‘22 - Book Arts & Papermaking

“Mi Abuela, La Reina” Elena Velasquez ‘22 - AP Studio Art

“Pink Stripe” by Lily Dugas ‘24 Screen Printing

“Self Portrait” by Alicia Suarez Soto ‘23 - Studio Art III Painting

“The Empty Booths” by Danica Bagayna ‘23

- Studio Art I Drawing, Painting, and Design

Internally Burning

Madison Morrissey ‘25

I

I watch placidly as the fire burns. Little fires, they Build and build until their weary bones need rest Their shadows flourishing like the melodic tunes

A violinist plays. But this Fire has a mind of her own.

She wills kindle into a fresh existence, consuming every bit of forlorn land she can find. Her heart knows no joys, no Happiness that could have saved Her from the worlds of hurt she Would destroy. She knows not Her power, She only knows

The raw pleasure she feels from seeing things burn. Many

A few would rescue the oceans, the lakes, the Forests from Her abysmal grasp, their attempts Futile. Her power (or lack of it ) would always prevail.

When all hope was lost, what better Was I to do than to let the earth go up in flames?

My impact was at best insignificant. relinquished myself to the fire and I burned.

II

I watch placidly as the fire burns. Little fires, they Build and build until their weary bones need rest

The i r s had ows flourishing like the melodic tunes

A violinist plays. But this Fire has a mind of her own.

She wills k i ndle into a fresh existence, consu m i ng every bit of forlorn land she can find. Her he art knows no joys, Happ i ness tha t could have saved Her fro m the worlhurt sh e Would destroy. She knows not Her power, She only knows

The raw pleasure she feels from seeing things burn. Many

A few would rescue the oceans, the lakes, the Forests fro m H e r abysmal grasp, their attempts

Futile. Her power (or lack of it ) would always prevail.

When all hope was lost, what better Was I to do than to let the earth go up in flames?

My impact was at best insignificant. relinquished myself to the fire and I burned.

Yours and Mine

Isabella O’Brien

one day you’ll wake up and your world won’t be burning around you the walls we built eroding like sand to reveal the unrelenting horror— the uncaring cruelty of the world and wind won’t bash you from all sides begging you to give up, to stop. i’ll make for you a home of blood and bone— my own, as you are— to shield you from my pain and you’ll never be cold, or hungry, or sorrowful. that is mine to feel.

(Be)Longing

Lili Alderink ‘23

I long for a life free from standards

I want to be treated like a normal student, praised for great effort with no fear of failure

I want to breathe without a burden

weighing down my shoulders

I want to have the ability to say that I am worthy of success

I want to wake up every morning, feeling refreshed and looking forward to the day to come.

I want to be able to look my parents in the eye, pride gleaming in their smile

I want to be the example for my siblings and be the person they look up to.

I want to find myself. The real me was lost along the way, buried under expensive textbooks and countless nights of lectures, never to be seen again.

I should feel alive.

Same But Different

Lolo Pham ‘23

My friend and I are the same. Same, but different. Our fathers hail from different countries, but our mothers come from the same land. We live in our mother land. We claim our motherland, a place where fathers are the heads of the family.

My friend and I are different. She looks nothing like that land she claims. Car amel curls and cinnamon spots on her cheeks so unlike the women in her family. Only the blood which runs in her veins is as red as her mother’s and her skin as white as the coconut water which flows from land of her heart.

My hair runs dark ebony like a line of ink on parchment paper. My skin bronze from days spent under the southern sun. My teeth, large and white, white like the pearls which lie hidden in the depths of the blue sea. My eyes black like my mother’s, black from the many lives that have passed before me. We eat together. Crouching on bright plastic stools and balancing steaming bowls of hu tieu on our knees. Thin strands of clear rice noodles dangle from our chopsticks; the fragrance of golden

crisp shallots caresses our nose, sweet rich broth warms our tongue. Holding a freshly grilled bánh tráng nuong in our hands as we stroll on sidewalks that don’t exist. Buttery fried quail eggs. But tery yellow sky above us.

We eat together, facing each other on wooden chairs next to a window with a view of the streets below. Green plants adorn the white walls. The newest Viet pop hit plays softly. We hold our menus with two hands and read it in two languages. She orders in her mother tongue every time. Whether we are crouching on bright plastic stools or sitting in a new modern-décor restaurant, she orders.

Each time she orders is like the first time.

Tall like a palm tree with skin as sweet as coconut flesh, she speaks the language of her mother with the distinct accent of the land she danced on as a child. Each reaction she receives is like the first. Surprise flows out from their eyes down their faces to their mouth to form a perfect “o” Surprise covers their ears and plugs it with cotton.

Each time she orders, she must repeat herself. Surprise morphs into a crease at the corner of their lips and ridges in their foreheads before it settles down into a breathless laugh. They would later go on home to tell others of their encounter with caramel curls that spoke their language. How is it they cannot believe that it is her language, too? Their eyes full of questions as they look at us: one with hair like ink and one with hair like caramel. Ink does not always flow in familiar strokes. Caramel can be different, but it is filled with familiar contents.

She is elegant like a white crane and her mother’s blood runs hot in her veins. She drinks coconut water under the blazing southern sun with her feet planted firmly on the land she was born on. She has her mother’s smile and speaks with the accent of her mother’s ancestors.

Nuoc dua, coconut water. Nuoc nhà, home country. She and I, we are the same. Same but different.

For Women Who Hold the Burden of Other People’s Emotions

Bailey Purcel ‘24

You are a hotel

Lived in for an instant but seldom loved

A place of rest for those on wandering journeys

You will bury your emotions deep, Deep within the satin pillows on which you allow others to dream on

Your strength reduced to the peeling paint which once brightened the room Your love, only a blanket to keep others warm And your soul

Oh your tired and achy soul, a bedframe used by those you love

You cannot make yourself a home Though you will try

You will close your doors Board up your windows And hope someone will want to reside in you, permanently They do not come

You resume as you were

You will try to be loved as you love, Wasting your joy and fulfillment on someone who expects it

They will spend four days relaxing Taking advantage of the amenities Perhaps they will be so satisfied, they will buy a suite to take up more space within your heart I know you will want to let them, Don’t

Remember who you once were A beauty with a huge heart

Let people come to you But do not let your paint peel for them Wrap them in a warm blanket, but not too tightly Rearrange the pillows and the furniture

And allow your heart to lead yourself as well as others

Is This a Love Poem?

Katherine Reynolds ‘22

sometimes i wonder what would happen if you were to find this book. would you gaze at my splattered soul on these pages and know which parts were written just for you? or would you shake your wind-kissed head like those before you and speak the confusion that grates like a false note and stings like lemon juice in an open cut. i am but a poet in search of a something worth sonnets. i want a certainty that rings like a bell; a sounding promise that love will be a freedom; that devotion is no gaoler. i want your poetry and your prose. i want your prelude and ending note, tapped out with care on the piano i never

knew you played. if you are in this story’s epilogue, then i think the tempest of our exposition will have been worth its while. i want you here, studying the records of my evanescent dreams, granting them form before they vanish into the mundanity of early morning like sun-banished dewdrops on green green grass. this book is the record of my mortal heart; this book is the catalogue of my vulnerable soul. if you read this some unknown day, be it tomorrow or a hundred years from today, then know this: my poet soul longs for a sonnet; my lonely thoughts found this poem in you.

War, Hope, and a Tennis Star

Beckett Morris ‘22

Upper West Side, New York

On day fifty-six, he walks around the gray New York City block collecting inventory: genetics, first and foremost, then gender, lifestyle, and a brief inspection of trauma, med ical history, financial situation, upbringing. He passes coffee shops as drowsy workers begin their opening procedures, enters brownstones as well-to-do businessmen spray expen sive cologne, and sends cold stares as endorphin-intoxicated runners bounce by in brightly colored workout sets. “Sicken ing,” he mutters.

Upon completion of the final neighborhood, the Upper West Side, he marches back to his temporary residence to enter the data. Twelve candidates on the day—not bad.

After exchanging civvies for battledress, he sits down at a large oak desk centered in a dark, unadorned room. As per routine, he starts his desktop computer, runs security tests, and opens his leather field journal.

“Good morning, Ares,” comes a computerized voice. “How can I be of assistance?” “Blasted modern technol ogy,” he roars. “Just shut up and stick to relaying the weather to inane mortals as they choose their outfits in the morning!”

“Sorry, I didn’t get that,” the blasted modern technol ogy replies.

Ares’s nostrils flare, jaws tighten. All the more mo tivation to finalize his newest battle plan against those pesky mortals with their pesky lifestyle and their pesky technological advancements.

Opening a classified file, Ares crunches the numbers. Candidate after candidate he compares in an effort to pinpoint the most susceptible victim. At last, he selects one target,

along with a squadron of backups. These he meets, one by one, with a silent, painless blow of war…war against them selves.

Arthur Ashe Stadium, New York

Osaka stands on the court, head pointed downwards to shield the tears streaming down her face. She had beaten her idol, twenty-three-time Grand Slam title winner Serena Williams, in the final of the 2018 U.S. Open. It is supposed to be a dream come true, yet feelings of unworthiness drown her mind in a flash flood of guilt.

Back in her hotel, a drab room with khaki walls and a white bedspread, Naomi crumples to the floor—not out of physical weakness but rather out of a lack of motivation, of purpose, of hope. She no longer experiences joy in seizing an ace or fulfillment in accomplishing her childhood dream. No. Naomi feels—depressed.

Cloud Kingdom of the Gods

Yes, the gods, when they have no desire to mingle in mortality, reside in a kingdom in the clouds, invisible to the human eye. And so sits Elpis, leaning over the balcony of her studio apartment, surveying the sweet little beings below as they bustle here and there with admirable intent. Each morning, as the mortal world jolts awake to the buzz of their alarms, Elpis peers down at humanity, searching for those who need a spark of optimism. Upon finding such a per son, she shapeshifts into a fairy-like creature, again invisible to the human eye, and sprinkles golden glitter around him or her. The glitter is just for giggles, of course. It is hope that

Elpis truly brings to her mortal friend. On this particular morning, Elpis notices a young tennis player, Naomi Osaka, whom Hermes had mentioned for her recent performances. “Matches,” Elpis reminds herself, “Not performances. Those are associated with the arts. Matches.” Hermes always berated Elpis for confusing the two—just one example of the ways in which the Olympians scorn lesser gods like herself. In fact, the Olympians even developed their own neighborhood in the Cloud Kingdom, built with luxurious high-rises and sumptu ous gardens. Elpis shrugs, returning her thoughts to the de spairing young woman who lies curled into a ball on the floor of her bedroom.

Slipping an extra sachet of glitter into her backpack, Elpis soars down to Earth. She lands on the carpeted ground next to Naomi and watches as the girl attempts to slow her breathing, to choke back tears. She walks under Naomi’s shoulder and feels her tear-soaked skin. She lifts herself onto Naomi’s back, outstretching her arms so as to give the poor creature a hug. In rolling waves of movement, she feels Naomi’s breathing patterns: rapid, then steady, then rapid again. Elpis leaps down to the floor, tilting her head in curiosity. “Maybe I should try this curled-up position,” she ponders. She steps to the left, even with Naomi, and lowers herself into child’s pose. She breathes rapidly, then steadily, then rapidly again. “Mortals are indeed strange,” she muses. “Not in a bad way—that’s a Zeus thought. They just undergo the most extreme of emo tions convinced that the suffering will never cease.” She peers over toward Naomi, who has composed herself and stepped upright. With one final deep breath, Naomi collects a purple duffle bag sitting on a wooden desk chair and leaves the room.

Alone now, Elpis transforms back into her ordinary figure, that of a young woman in what mortals would la

bel her early twenties. At this point in her routine, Elpis typically ascends back to the clouds, sprinkling a little extra glitter on street corners and playgrounds as she rises. But not today. Today, Elpis feels a pull to intervene the teeniest, tiniest, unobservable-by-the-Olympians bit more.

Olympian neighborhood, Cloud Kingdom of the Gods

Long returned from his mission on earth, Ares stands scrutinizing the mortal population below. He has successfully initiated tense inner conflict within the minds of his targets. Each one now suffers with feelings of desperation, low en ergy, lack of joy and motivation, reduced ability to concen trate, amplified stress, sleep problems, and extreme mood swings. The mortals have even generated a medical diagnosis for his dealings: depression. Ares smirks. A triumphant operation indeed.

The god of war takes particular interest in the progres sion of his primary target, Naomi Osaka. As a rising tennis star, Naomi will surely bring Ares’s mission to the forefront of the public eye. In less than a month, in fact, Naomi will compete in the 2021 Wimbledon Championships—the perfect opportunity to observe the effects of internal war on mortal actions and decisions. Surely, her mind’s turbulence will cause a spectacular scene. He cackles at the thought of proclaiming his victory to his uppity family members.

Naomi’s bedroom

After some deliberating, Elpis decides to write Naomi a letter. She gently pulls out the desk chair and grabs a blueinked pen and journal, conveniently sitting in the desk’s central drawer. Gently lifting the book’s cover, Elpis realizes she has uncovered Naomi’s diary. “I cannot possibly read it,” Elpis

decides. “Right. I cannot read…But perhaps a greater under standing of Naomi’s situation will better equip me to write to her…Right. I will read.”

After finishing the most recent entry in a sequence of heart-wrenching accounts, Elpis shuts the journal and swift ly composes, on a piece of loose leaf, an entry of her own.

“Dear Naomi…Take care of yourself, dear one. Respect yourself and the time it takes to heal. Remember that hope is not lost, not stuck in a box…” She chuckles at this line. “You are not alone, and you need not fight alone. Use your voice. Stand up for yourself. Choose to hope in a better future ahead.”

Elpis replaces the pen and the journal. She sets the letter on the chair. And she drifts back to her apartment, wish ing desperately that Naomi will choose hope.

Hours later, Naomi enters her bedroom, exhausted from yet another tennis practice spent preparing for her up coming tournament. Ten days, is it, before Wimbledon? She had pondered the idea of withdrawing, but perhaps it is too late now.

Striding over to her desk, Naomi notices a sheet of paper, filled margin to margin with flourishing cursive swirls. Too fatigued to give in to surprise, she studies the letter, perplexed and amazed and confused and relieved. “Respect yourself and the time it takes to heal,” the writer had said.

Naomi has a choice to make, a choice to either calm the war within her mind by stepping away from tennis or to live a constant battle by prioritizing her public reputation. She has a choice. And she chooses.

Cloud Kingdom of the Gods

“Naomi will not be playing in Wimbledon this year,” the broadcaster declares. “She has decided to take a break in order to prioritize her mental health.”

In the Olympians’ family media room, Ares’s mouth hangs open. “How did she, a mere mortal, elude my siege?” he murmurs. “What’s that?” snick

ers Aphrodite from behind his shoulder. “A mortal defeated the god of war?” All too quickly, hoots and guffaws reverberate around the room as Ares’s family jeers with amusement.

Blocks away, watering the pot of mauve irises that sit on her balcony, Elpis smiles. Naomi had read her let ter. She had chosen hope. And now, with Naomi as inspi ration, with the stigma against mental illness receding, with the converstion opening, millions more can choose hope, too.

Recycled Love

Ella Kobyluch ‘22

O, love, how the grooves etched in an exposed heart betray you. How then, to see the etches and grooves I know so intimately of my own hand, not reciprocated. How, even, harsh, jagged arches stuck on your fingertips I know so intimately, enough to not see their imprint upon the bloody, beating masterpiece bearing a tale. Tell me, then, a tale—a tale of abandoned adoration. Tell me then, a tale of the reach through concrete-laden, cracked ribs (my own, yet, unbroken), and what, then, found behind them. Tell me, then, a tale of the one whose hands sunk only far enough for my own to stretch past the cracked ribs and lay my own hand atop the ghost. Tell, then, a tale of the smiling mist dissipating, whispering reminders of your tale into my ear to speak of closely held hands, of fervently whispered sonnets, etc.—of a love, not yet hardy enough to raise itself to walk—but yet, still, enough to stand. O love, will you not tell me a tale?

Grasp of the Green Grass

Viviana Esquivel

Throughout my life, I have always had conflicting feelings towards one of the seemingly least conflicting things: grass. I should admit that at first, these ever so complex emotions were not yet so complex and were as simple as the green shards themselves. When I was younger, I was disgusted by grass for two reasons: the itch it brought to my skin and the stain it left on my clothes. Those are valid reasons for a third grader, right? Since I think they are still valid reasons as a twelfth grader, this disgust has not faded over time. Instead, disgust has become the least complicated of my several emotions towards grass.

As my awareness of the world around me grew, I understood that my disgust towards grass was not as signif icant as the anger I felt towards it—an anger that stemmed from these threeinch blades completely dictating my father’s life. My dad was one of countless uneducated and undocumented mi grants that emigrated from Guanajuato,

Mexico, to find a better life in the Unit ed States. But during his search for this “better life,” he became enslaved to this infamous greenery. At the time, having his own landscaping business, hours, and money sounded like the American dream.

But thirty years later, he is still living out this so-called dream as he leaves home at 8 A.M. to cut, trim, and maintain grass until 8 P.M., Monday through Sunday. And for what? What could my father possibly be working himself to the bone for every single day?

Well, that’s an easy answer: it’s for me. It’s for my education and the opportuni ty for me to have better life that he could not give himself. Sounds like big shoes to fill for a teenager, right? Trust me, I know.

You see, in my mind, these perfectly trimmed, three-inch green shards are representative of my dad’s unrequitable life sacrifices and, for that reason, I feared them for most of my seventeen-year-old life. I feared them

because I worried that my work was not enough for the grass, and, in turn, not enough for my father. So I tried doing everything: every honors class, every student organization, every extracurricular. When my course load first felt too “easy,” I increased my classes to all hon ors and APs. When my evenings first felt too “free,” I added orchestra, then track, then cross-country, and finally a parttime job to the mix. Without realizing it, the grass began making me work myself to the bone, just like it did to my father.

I feel disgust, anger, and fear to wards grass, but above all, I feel absolute hatred towards it—for making my dad work so hard, and also for making me

“...perfectly trimmed, three-inch green shards are representative of my dad’s unrequitable life sacrifices...”

feel as if I could never work hard enough. But somehow, at the same time, I feel completely indebted to it. These greens shards made me believe that I could nev er do enough to make myself worthy of my dad’s sacrifices, but for that same rea son, I learned to test my limits. I learned to ignore my voice of doubt, whispering at me to give in, and instead I listen to the voice of the green blades, screaming at me to work harder. As I tried to prove myself to the grass by trying—with an emphasis on “trying”—to be the perfect student, the perfect athlete and, most importantly, the perfect daughter, I have discovered who I truly am, what I truly love, and how hard I can truly work. I realize that my dad has given me a world of opportunities, but I must acknowledge that the grass forced me to take them all. Litte did I know, years ago, that the grass leaving me itchy and stained would leave me more passionante and driven than I could have ever imagined.

Dreamers

Natalie Volanto ‘23

maria, reina del mundo

I bring you into a world where airplanes rip through the paper skies.

I bring you into schools where you will be dissected like an insect. your hair, and skin for what danger you will become reina, you will learn to love this beautiful disaster of a country. you will fall for glittered tongues and search towards the lights of cities far away.

but, my love, you will also hear the scary stories that I protect you from as a mother. you will learn that those monsters, those thousand eyes are not your enemies, but the ones you will be closest to. I will arm you with metal and might, to meet this melting pot of a country and you, my reina, shall look up at the sky of this gorgeous apocalypse and build up the stars.

Sundown Maiden

Isabella O’Brien ‘23

“come now,” murmurs Love cupping my jaw with Her soft, moonlit hands

“it’s raining. come now.”

the sundown maiden then took me into a grove of lightning where flowers of agony— fragrant as night rain— and slender ivies of ecstasy cracked and spilled through the shifting indigo canopy, like ribbons of a silvery, molten moon, or death.

“every sharp lick of starlight on your stomach,” She murmured; every twilight shard of fractured bliss, starving you alive— is me.

For Girls Who Don’t Fit In

Libby Payne ‘24

You are a bull in a china shop, Trying not to break everything in your path

You’ve been told you’re a parasite Destroying, stealing

Never enough to fit in on your own

Changing yourself to fill a void you can’t even see. You’re simultaneously too much and not enough, You tried to make yourself big, Because how could someone ignore what’s right in front of them?

You tried to be small, Because no one will pick on something they can’t see. You tried to please and hide and shapeshift into The perfect girl –

You didn’t know that isn’t real.

You cannot fit a square peg in a round hole, You cannot force yourself where you do not belong Be patient, dear

One day you will find those who fill your heart and your soul and your mind

And you will no longer feel like a bull in a china shop –You’ll run in open fields

On Weather

Brooke Bergin ‘23

Whether the weather is warm and we’re swimming at the pool in someone’s backyard enjoying candy or each other’s company, just smiling through the moment together, or withered and someone’s crying at midnight on the phone over broken Legos or hearts, just helping each other through life together, we’ll weather it together.

And that, my friends, is the thing about weather. For what two clouds don’t stick together?

Whether the rain brings puddles or springs, we’ll dance in it forever.

And when the rain brings flowers with her, Who worries about the ones to wither? for whether they bloom in May or in June, we’ll savor them together.

So, after I myself have withered, do not withhold the urge to savor the rain.

Branch of Winter Elena Montenegro, ‘25

In the Night

Kate Nolan ‘22

A silent black world

A quiet night sky

Darkness consuming the shadows, stretching as far as the eye can see

Complete blindness, no depth perception

Perfect and utter silence

Not a single sound to be made

Time passes by, ever so slowly

Not a whisper to be heard

Real peace is alive in this place

Then all of a sudden

A ripple, a roar

A blinding flash of light

Cutting through the seemingly never-ending dark sky

Cascading, soaring through the air, lighting up the entire world

A glimmer, a sparkle

Then, no more

The darkness eats the light, consuming it wholly

Bleeding onto the path the light has left behind

And in an instant, gone

The blackness resumes

The peace returns

Was the light ever there?

No one could ever know

The memories fade, you begin to forget

The darkness lives on.

Marionette Shelby Lovejoy

Something Like Sunshine

Ella Kobyluch ‘22

Lying deep within the city of corrugated steel arching upwards for the rainclouds, of terrible muddy puddles turned rivers turned great rapids rush ing towards the great ocean beneath the twilight of a great city, a story was recounted to me by a dead man. Then only a boy to whom something terrible had happened, not revealed to me, and to whom the great rapids pushed on to wards some terrible destiny. He walked hunched over, fraught over keeping his cigarette dry from the thumb-sized droplets of rain assailing him. Long blonde eyelashes blinked away droplets of water from pink eyes onto a sym metrical, hard-looking face with a wide jaw, appearing to weigh down his face— brown hair. It had been blond.

Before the rain and before the terri ble thing that had befallen him.

His hands stuck into pockets of a starkly red overcoat, wide fingertips brushing up against the crumbled-up pieces of paper and plastic guarded within its pockets. Eyes widened as the droplets rolling down those yellow eyelashes waned down to only those orig inated from the rainclouds. His hands

flew from his pockets as he patted them down in a fervor as he pulled the inner lining out only for stray pieces of plastic and paper to dive into the rapids lead ing to the great ocean under the city, under no focused gaze but his own.

Jericho’s eyes, not fallen upon a single article of humanity, scoured the empty streets: plastic and broken glass swept into the current, rusted street lights whose attempt to illuminate him he scorned as he dodged back into the shadows, chain-linked fences that guarded only overflowing garbage cans, all swept under this dusty, orange and black sky visible from windows between the stormclouds. Not one smiling family at the kitchens through glazed and rainy windows, no lights on in the plank homes and shops, no one else outside on the streets, the great canal behind him, overlooking the real river which overflowed by the second behind him.

One single article of humanity lay in the distance: a light, though obscured by the bars upon the windows. A shop, he had guessed, open. Before he knew what he was doing, Jer icho ran towards the blinking light that

grew closer and closer, finally spotting a broken lightbulb, a wall of old tattered magazines, cracked tiles on the floor, until he reached the door and pushed it open.

The broken tile was trashed, he noticed, with dirt and plastic and fallen magazines, the only suitable covers for this disarray as the ceiling light flick ered on and off. Frequent instances of jarring darkness fell upon the room in intervals, as Jericho stepped forwards, pushing through this jungle as though he possessed a machete, and when he pushed through the final vine, his eyes adjusted from the sudden darkness.

Jarred back into light then too, a woman with handfuls of CDs who had been just about to reach one more before the light and the crescendo of approaching footsteps urged her to look behind her.

With hair wet, eyes pink, shoes tracking in mud and grass across the floor, he looked at her. And she looked back and smiled.

Jericho stayed frozen in place, words disappearing from his mind before they could leave his mouth, and

just as he had given up and had turned to leave, he heard her voice for the first time: “Hey—”

He turned around, eyes widening with bewilderment.

“Hey—be careful out there—it’s raining a lot.”

Why, he already knew of the stormy shower outside, but he turned his head to peek out the glassy windows at the rainstorm as if he had never before seen one so terrifically waterlogged. Hesitating in the doorway for a moment, between tremendous bangs of thunder crashing against the hard, dusty orange rim of the sky and the tiny universe within this one shop alone, he saw the other shops still darkened, with no light illuminating their windows with hom iness. He took a step closer—this time to stay, which I imagine, is what she had desired to begin with.

“I’m Jericho.”

“Tallulah.”

Tallulah, was it? I first knew he was in danger when that soaking, bright-eyed boy in the red coat uttered the name of Tallulah. Had he instead spoken of Olivia or Jane, he may yet have been salvaged to speak his own story, and yet I had smiled when he told me, nodding lamely. An exchange of the soul upon merely exchanging names

was what this was, what it always had been. I can picture her too, a little taller, a little brightness added to her eyes, a little brasher, perhaps, as the sacrifice he knew not of sustained her.

The way she spoke from then be came more and more fervent as the rain itself slowed, pocketing the CDs in her hands as she spoke to him of music— Jericho told me he thought her taste in music was “not the best,” but after all, he only said that once he was angry at her—of friends, and most especially, the community. Sometimes, when she talked of the cult on the fifth floor, Jericho could see some of the homes in the background illuminate, although it glittered only for a second, a mirage in vaporwave. Still, Jericho remained hesitant, almost stepping backwards at times as the enthusiasm appeared to unduly increase. He lit a cigarette he had taken from her and asked why they all cared so much anyways, why they all stayed together, why they hadn’t found a nice big home by themselves like nor mal people—not to be rude, of course.

“I usually don’t tell people this— you know, not every fool who comes here in the middle of a rainstorm,” she responded—his eyes remained dull, wisps of smoke coiling around his shoulders. She had paused for a mo-

ment, awaiting a response that never came, absent in only the laziest “well, get on with it, then” of stares.

She started in then, tongue flick ering, eyes unblinking, the very tail of the cobra beginning to wrap around and around and around with her every sweetly spoken word. “Well, now that you ask…” she probably started de murely. She always started that way, always with the same fake hesitancy.

I have no reason to believe she cared enough to notice that Jericho never asked. The same content as always followed, about the cult on the fifth floor have knowledge no one else has. We have connections no one else has. What we hear, none can foresee but us. The way she spoke of the cult made it impossible to resist, had made it impos sible to resist for most, all because of the last sentence, a blindingly hopeful beam of sunlight: “And we’re always open to welcome more.”

He had looked unimpressed, had faltered, had even taken a step back wards and glanced back at the storm clouds, a novel twist from expectations, and the one memory of his that makes me smile to this day. To imagine the face of Tallulah, to imagine the gears of her mind churning to create a new idea, new persuasions, gears rusty from

disuse yet still began to churn until she struck gold.

Family. We were like a family, she told him, and the grasp of the cobra strangled his poor mind.

And then Tallulah threw him into the very lion’s den that night, and when he had brought his meager possessions with him, he looked like perhaps a glim mer of sun had finally peeked through the smudged glass and made all of us look to check if it had.

We welcomed him, I remember, for it was that night I asked, so interested, how he had been recruited. I received a version of the same story I always do (albeit with one or two deviations), and for my part, I left him alone with a certain pang of disappointment. For a number of days, he had roamed carefree throughout the rooms, following the rules back then to a T and with more en thusiasm than I had seen from a newbie. Yet, more pitiful was the enthusiasm with which he followed Tallulah, with which he pursued all of us.

One day, Tallulah came to my door, her bony knuckled rapping until my attention was drawn to open the door and allow her to hover in my door way. She was red in the face, pointed a finger into my chest, hissing at me for allowing to bring uncleanliness into the

compound. Of course I was distraught, surprised, unsure of what she meant. That was, until in her jumbled, infuriat ed rush of words I made out a “tattoo.” While myself years prior would have heard her disjointed words with confu sion and laughter—after all, what was so bad about that?—I knew now, before her next words reached my ears, what the problem was.

The rules. It was no secret—those in the locked, dark room next door with their music echoing throughout the hallways would regularly emerge with new rules we had to follow, and this one had emerged six months prior, along side mandates on higher education and decreasing the amount of calls we could make on the landline, and to whom, the most relevant being no more tattoos.

See, I had to feign my own surprise, for I knew the type of men she tried to bring into the cult on the fifth floor, and most importantly, which men would actually join. I knew Jericho, his desper ation to walk twice as fast to catch up to speak to anyone near him, his dopey grin. I had no qualms that he smoked too. I had no qualms that in a month, those next door would determine that his hair was too long or some equally petty new rule, and that probably, his having a tattoo was among the best of

instances in terms of breaking the rules.

I never calmed her down.

I never told her, with a hand still rested against the door and yet begin ning to tighten into a fist. “Well, we should have already known that—really, isn’t it your fault for not checking?”

“And so then,” I never did add. “if it’s your fault for not checking, then why get the boy into trouble?”

I never did say that if it was just as she said, just a small coloring on his shoulder, we could ignore it, if neither of us reported it. I wished I had told her, not because we were friends, but be cause I had seen this process happen to one in the months prior.

I wished not to see it happen again, but once I gave it thought—rules had to remain rules.

When I saw the shirt drawn back from his collarbone, I saw the blue colored puddles at the top with bubbles floating up—a boy, blonde and legs-up in the water spitting out bubbles into the yellow moonlight that floated up past the yellow waves, I saw the words in crooked lettering, scrawled in what I imagine was his own handwriting: childish and messy and easy to read.

I saw alcohol put on it. I saw the scalpel held in shaky hands. I saw the expression on his face before twisting

my head to face the newspaper-covered walls, closing my eyes tightly until I saw red. Until the action was done, until I could no longer hear cries or whimpers.

I set the tool down shakily.

I remember the last boy whom this was done to. He never looked at me again. He certainly never smiled in my direction, yet, never scowled. His face would go white and he would dip into the nearest room. I remember his hand always clutching his forearm with white knuckles.

But I also remember Jericho—Jer icho who stepped into my room after hours, pale and with the glazed look in his eyes—tell me thank you. I remember him smile. I remember him tell me with a hesitant look that he thought, may be, he would have to leave. That it was because of me he could stay.

Since then, he spoke to me inces santly. Not because we were friends, but I assume, because I was the only one who would listen without twist ing his words into a lesson for him to learn about loyalty or truth or another abstract, meaningless word underneath our roof. To apathetic reactions, he told me once, that Tallulah tore his room apart in search of cigarettes, and so he stopped smoking among a broken television and a cracked door. He told

me another time that he could hear the others speak at night, that what they said began to escape him more and more until it was unrecognizable from the beliefs he had previously under stood—that this was more than just a closely knit community. They would not cease speaking at night, in harsh whis pers that grew more fervent over time, and the music that once disguised their voices had silenced since they declared that too, against the rules.

I remember Jericho, then, telling me, discouraged, of what Tallulah had told him one night atop the roof, look ing up at a starless sky. She had admitted then that he was not as dedicated as she desired. She accused him of taking ad vantage of us, of being a leech. He spoke, voice lowering suddenly, paranoid eyes glancing to his side before he let a word escape him. He spoke of heavy silences that were only broken by corrections, by invasive questions that worried him even while alone.

He spoke of Tallulah.

He said that he thought she regret ted bringing him here, I think the utmost cruelty second only to taking him here to begin with, and in that moment, sheathed in the blackness of the night, I imagined what it would be to take off in the midst of the night and to never

turn back, and whispered to him, as the stars and the moon and the lights of day shut their eyes, if he had ever thought of doing so—of running away.

He blanched—paled—turned away—and from then on, never turned to hear me call his name nor spoke my own.

“I didn’t think so,” I whispered, clos ing the door.

Silence fell upon us until the day which, for the second time, the rainclouds almost lifted, and the door opened to a second, bewildered boy in the doorframe, Tallulah beside him with his hand in hers.

He spoke, not until that night, the night upon which I walked in and saw his mirror shattered with his hands gripped against the corners of the table until his knuckles were white, table and floor and front doused in broken glass as he turned to look at me, eyes wild and body shaking. They were speaking again in the room beside his, louder now, almost howling, voices reaching their crescendo as the age-long silence of Jericho shattered.

That night, beneath the canopy of the dark sky which sheathed him from the view of the moon and the stars, he planned to heed my words and steel away back into the great muddy waves

of the floods which brought him to this cursed place. I closed my eyes. I would tell them in the room over, yes, and they would increase in fervor until the very shell of Jericho would crack, and he would become as Tallulah.

“Do it then,” I whispered, and I stepped out of the room with hands clasped behind my back.

I said I knew nothing at first, when Tallulah asked.

I pretended as if I knew nothing for as long as I could, before the words escaped my lips and I knew his soul was doomed before they had declared it to be so. I remember the look on Tallulah’s face. She wasn’t guilty, I think, but she looked saddened, in her own cold way.

A month or two passed. I woke up from a restless slumber to hear those in the next room speaking of Jericho once again, crinkling a piece of paper beneath their hands and speaking of “John Doe” and “homicide?” and “should we say anything?” and “not even his name?” It had been so long since I had heard his name, for to speak of him was now also, against the rules.

What had happened was that he slipped away that night, through the window on the side of the dorm—he’d climbed down from balcony to tree to balcony to floor. Then he ran into the

night, beneath the shield of the sky and running with the tide of the city. He survived where he could, how he could, for as long as he could until he found the light of the sunrise the same faded color upon the horizon it had been so long ago, the thunderous clouds looming above to pour down rain. The homes and the shops were all still darkened behind their windows. Jericho stepped backwards—he noticed the store in which he had met Tallulah—lights darkened within.

But then, while the city slept, there shone a glimpse of the sun onto the ocean in the gutters, shimmering off the metal on the rooftops, and Jericho saw that. He saw that, and he smiled.

Only after that, it happened on that morning, when they wrote in the paper a day later about a body found in the alley of that small corner of the city.

At least, that is what I hope happened on that foggy morning. That is what I picture when I close my eyes and the whispering next door grows unbear able, from whispering to shouting. That is what I picture when I step upon stray shards of glass under my carpet after all this time and look to see the clouds still looming above.

A Dragon Stole My Heart

Reagan Chen ‘24

The scaly beast, With breath of flame, Forty feet long, Teeth the size of front doors.

But, they fail to mention the siren’s tune that hides behind your cruelty: How you lured me in and took my heart. Claws piercing my flesh, my blood running red. You ripped my will from my body, Leaving me mistaking my hatred for passion. And now you sit,

Guarding the entrance to where you locked my will away like a damsel, Waiting for her knight.

But there is no knight coming, no Prince Charming. Nobody would take the sword to such a formidable beast, And I guess you know that. So, you sit, Holding my heart hostage, Experimenting on it like some cruel physician, Watching me fail at your impossible situation, Laughing because,

You put my heart on the highest shelf, And I Just can’t quite reach it.

Ocean King

Beckett Morris ‘22

My feet sprint over the searing sand, ankles submerge in the sea.

I haul my legs over the waves, then dive.

As I slip under the surf, the ocean swirls my skin into numbness.

I watch as assemblies of bubbles make my arms their meeting place. Perhaps they even call out to me,

Dwelling Dunes Olivia Dominguez ‘23

but I do not bother to listen.

I am searching for the one behind all this— the one behind my sunburned soles, the eternal tides, and the infinite babbling bubbles.

I swim. I swim. I swim.

But I cannot find him.

Please tell me: Who do you believe to be the one behind all of this beauty?

Doodlebug

Katherine Reynolds ‘22

Abbab is seated in the old corduroy recliner. It is the blue one, the one over which Oma always drapes that one Ursuline blanket. He wears his glasses on the bridge of his thin nose and his hair is thin in the classic Bondy way. Ten years from now, Uncle JD will have that same hair. In thirty, Andrew likely will too—he always took after Uncle JD, and Uncle JD after Abbab. I do not know what David will look like—I only hope Aunt Susan’s side is not half so prone to balding.

Abbab is a doctor. You can see it in his thin wire frame glasses, in the colorful ties he wears on an irregular rotation, in the gentle way he calls me “doodlebug.” His voice cracks with wear and use. Ten years from now, I will remember that sound.

Abbab’s wrists are thin. To be fair, all of Abbab is thin—he is a slight man, especially when compared to my more buxom Slovakian grandmother. I always thought they were a funny couple. Oma is tall, her frame heavy in the German way, still beautiful at seventy-five. Abbab is the same height as her and wiry as the teenaged boys with whom I will go to coffee shops ten years from now. In the future, Oma will tell me how they met, but for now, I am six, and my grandfather is calling me doodlebug.

Abbab wraps his bulging, bony knuckles around the head of a cane. Mom holds his other arm, and he stands, leaning his weight onto the smooth gold hook at the top. At this time, he has only been sick for a few weeks. I do not see the signs of sickness in him at the time, but looking back with all the clarity hindsight affords, I see it—the trembling of his hands as he wrote, the bulging veins pushing in protest against that translu cent skin stretched over those skeletal hands, the way his voice rasped over the word, doodlebug.

I go to Abbab. I know he is sick, but I do not grasp the gravity of it. I do not know that my days with my beloved grandfather are numbered, bound within my parents’ anniversary and my mother’s birthday. I do not know that ten years from now, I will remember the sound of him calling me doodlebug and be faced with a choice: Do I lament the little time I had with my Abbab, or do I cherish that, unlike my younger siblings, I still remember how his voice cracked on the ooh of doodlebug? I am six years old, and the future is but a petty matter to be set aside for tomorrow. For now, what matters are my grandfather’s two trembling hands, and his rough voice calling me doodlebug.

Gamboling With Love

Jamie Lim ‘22

i was combustible, flammable leaning toward every lighter easy to ignite and easier to douse a wildfire rages within me swallowing every bough of judgment devouring every branch of reason splintering the feeble twigs of resistance

some play with fire but i gambol with love such a fleeting, flickering flame like a tiptoe in the wind taunting my desire lifting me from sanity only to release and watch me plummet forever scarred from its searing grip

thus i was no longer falling in love i was falling from it there was no escape from this wildfire a constant, addictive cycle initial discovery of another eager ignition toward another blazing contentedly with another then to be smothered again by another

those who play with fire learn to withdraw their hand from the flame but those who gambol with love so often dip their fingers into the heat that their blistered skin grows not only accustomed to burning but wildly infatuated with its torment

Nora Nox

Brooke Bergin ‘23

I flew across the ground, my form moving directly under the crow. Gliding over grass, over pave ment, over houses (some of them crumpling), the crow dragged my shape onward. If I had a heart, it would have been racing with adren aline. I watched the sky as I moved, seeing its dwindling streaks of red and yellow and orange. Suddenly I was pulled into a sharp right turn as the crow landed on the roof of a house. I extended my form, complying with the setting sun so the crow’s shadow would appear long. Not that the crow would notice how its shad ow was shaped. I could form an ice cream cone, and there wouldn’t be a single human to run away screaming. But I was a good shadow, so I shaped like an extended crow.

As the bird ruffled its feathers, I had a few moments to plan my next moves. Since the crow was a living thing, it would need a living shadow to cover it. I scanned the

area for the nearest living shadow, discovering one resting as the shad ow of this house.

Swap with crow? I communi cated.

I heard the shadow’s voice respond: Yes.

The crow didn’t react to these voices, as only nearby shadows could have heard them. A moment later, it looked up and raised its wings, tak ing off. As it passed over the door way to the house, I merged with the house’s shadow. For a brief second, we were one, a single swath of darkness. Then the crow flew onward, and a shadow continued to follow in form, taking my place. I rested as the shadow of the house: successful swap.

I lay idle for the rest of the hour, watching the sun droop lower and lower towards the horizon. Sun set’s daily battle. Every day, the Dark tries to overtake the Light, and every day it succeeds. Some

legends called them Lux and Nor, but I preferred the human terms. Not that it mattered; Dark was evil, no matter how it was named. As a shad ow, I was the only instance of dark ness during the day. I wasn’t made of evil Dark, though, but a result of the good Light. When Light lost its sunset battle in a minute and faded away, I would fade as well. But there’s always a second battle, sunrise, when Light wins. The dangerous Dark will fade, and I’ll pop up as the house’s shadow again. As the Dark engulfed the village, the sun dipped lower, and lower, and lower, until at once I vanished. §

I reappeared in the Dark. I looked around. None of the humans were out yet. I couldn’t sense any shadows either. I looked to the sky and saw the moon.

No shadow is supposed to see the moon.

I was still the shadow of the house, but the light illuminating my shadow was that of a child’s lamp. Or rather, an adult’s lamp held by a child who probably shouldn’t have been handling kerosene. The girl looked left and right and darted away.

And I followed, suddenly and unwillingly becoming the shadow of the girl.

I couldn’t believe my luck. All day I had journeyed, swapping with other shadows to get to a good spot. Flying under crows and handbags, free to go wherever I wanted. And I got stuck with a teenager.

A teenager who was sneaking into the Dark.

Every living shadow is aware of the rules for being a Human-Shadow. Each living shadow either belongs to a human or is free. A Free-Shadow can swap with other shadows, take the form of buildings, travel, be free. I owe every liber ty of my life to being created as a Free-Shadow.

But shadows created with

humans aren’t free. Humans notice things. A human would notice if its shadow suddenly took the shape of an ice cream cone. A Human-Shad ow must stay in the proper form and follow its human. Forever. Human-Shadows have an actual job: to protect their human from the evil being, the Dark, Nor. No one knows exactly why, only that if the Dark touches humans, the result would be bad.

Every human is assigned a shadow at birth. This human teen ager should have had a shadow. But she didn’t, so the nearest shadow was assigned to her. Me. I was now attached to a human.

A human who was sneaking into the Dark.

Why are you sneaking into the Dark? I thought quietly, knowing she wouldn’t be able to hear me. She was still walking, moving closer and closer to the forest at the edge of town. My thoughts started to get louder as I got angrier. Why didn’t you have a shadow? Why do I have to be stuck to you?

The girl halted and turned

around. She glanced left and right before looking down and noticing me.

She flinched and tried to back away. Tied to her, I followed. She stomped her foot, effectively stomping on me.

I can’t feel that, silly girl. She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t care,” she said harshly, turning around and continuing to tramp into the dark.

What a funny coincidence, I thought. The girl was only talking to herself, though it did sound like she was talking to me.

The girl whirled around. “What coincidence?” she demanded. My mind froze. Can you hear me?

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “Should I not be able to hear you?”

“Why didn’t you have a shadow? Why do I have to be stuck to you?”

She paused for a second, then demanded, “What number am I think ing of?”

Her thoughts rang in my head like an echo. Eight, eight, eight. Four, I thought to her. Though I haven’t reviewed the rules for

Human-Shadows in a while, I don’t think there’s one about lying to your human. Especially since you’re not normally able to communicate.

The girl nodded once and trekked onward.

Wait, I called out to her. You aren’t supposed to be out in the Dark!

I knew she could hear my voice echoing in her head, but the girl didn’t stop. She entered the forest, dragging my form along twigs and branches. Stop! I called out again. This girl was going to ruin everything. Stop!

She stopped.

Looking back at me, her eyes looking silver in the dim light, she turned off the lamp.

I formed again on a wooden floor.

Still the shadow of the girl. Faded sunlight shined through the window of the kitchen. The girl must have gotten ready in the dark. The clothes she wore had streaks of dirt, obviously the same outfit she’d worn into the forest. A dirty backpack lay on the ground, the lamp from last night next to it.

Good morning, I communi cated.

To her credit, she didn’t flinch this time. Nor did she make any attempt at response. Yet as she stared out the window, I saw her back straighten.

She stared outside for an other silent minute before turning, grabbing her backpack, and heading out the door. As she walked towards the center of the town, she glanced back at me. Seeing my form as I was dragged unwillingly after her, she narrowed her eyes and kept walking.

No, she thought to herself, thinking I couldn’t hear. But you will pay for it.

§

The closer we got to town, the more people we saw. A woman exited a shop, wheeling a baby in a stroller, its wheels shiny. A man in muddy boots walked down the other side of the street. The girl, walking faster than both, passed the woman.

“Excuse me,” she asked in a light voice, “do you know how to get to the town hall?” The woman reached into her purse and pulled out a map, the generic one you can get at the train station. “Here, you can have this.”

“Thank you so much!” the girl said with a smile.

“Are you visiting for the festival also?”

“Yes, actually, I just arrived.”

“So did I, yesterday! We must have been on the same train. The two P.M.? I don’t recall seeing you.”

§

It’s not my will to be stuck to you, I thought at her.

She continued to ignore me.

“I came this morning actual ly,” the girl said, keeping up her air of friendliness.

You’re from out of town too? said a sudden voice— the woman’s shadow. Do you hate it here also?

Oh, I’ve actually lived here my whole life, I responded.

The shadow paused. Didn’t your human say you just arrived?

Right. I hesitated.

“See you around, then!” my human said with a smile, walking away.

Goodbye, said the unfamiliar shadow, sounding a bit less friendly than it had when we met.

When the woman and her stroller were out of sight, my human put a pair of sunglasses on her head. Where did you get those? I demanded.

She sighed and looked around. Seeing no one, she turned and spoke to me.

“If we’re going to be partners, you’re going to have to help.” Gone was the voice of friendliness she’d used with the woman. “When I need to do things, like obtaining sunglass es, or asking for a map as a cover, you need to help. Be a distraction. Or, at least, just don’t arouse suspi

cion.” She turned around and continued walking, tossing the map to the ground as she did.

You... how did you know the woman would have a map? I asked. She didn’t turn around to speak. “I agree with that shadow.

I hate it here, too.” She passed the town hall and continued onward. “The wheels of the stroller were shiny. Only someone newly arrived to town wouldn’t be covered in mud.”

She shrugged her backpack on her shoulders. I noticed the mud scraped on the sides. “I messed up anyway by saying I just arrived. Luckily, she didn’t seem to notice.”

I noted another piece of in formation: not only could my human hear me, but she could also hear other shadows. What a strange girl. Where did you arrive from? I asked, prying for more details.

“Around.”

Did you not take the train?

The only transportation into the city? Can you fly or something?

I thought the last, sarcas tic question was funny, but the girl didn’t care to react. She shook her

head, going silent.

§

The sun got higher in the sky as we neared midday, and I was forced to move directly under the girl. The longer we walked, the more I missed being a Free-Shadow. I wanted to find a crow to fly under, a tree to rest near. I was already tired of being dragged along.

A squirrel climbed down a nearby gutter and began to eat a nut. Suddenly, I sensed a shadow I recognized. Deity? it asked, you have a human?

Shadows aren’t given names by anyone, so some of us chose our own, just for fun. Or perhaps to feel more like humans.

Hey Acorn. Yeah, I got attached to this one.

Ooh, I’m sorry. My human turned around and spoke for the first time in an hour. “I’m sorry you’re stuck to me too,” she said, sounding more angry than remorseful. Then she tilted her head at the other shadow. “Your

name is Acorn?”

YOUR HUMAN CAN HEAR US?

Yes, I thought to both of them.

What an interesting life I lead.

Acorn’s squirrel started to climb away, pulling it along with it. Bye, it called down to us as it moved away. A moment later, it was just the two of us again. If I had breath, I probably would have sighed.

“Come on, Deity,” the girl said, starting to walk away.

Wait, I said. You don’t get to call me by my name unless I get yours.

The girl stopped. “Fine. My name is Nora.”

Her mind finished the thought: Eleanora, but you don’t get to know that. She continued to drag me onward.

The day passed in an odd blur. The girl—Nora—seemed interested in the weirdest things, wan dering around little general stores, poking at candle wicks, and reading pamphlets. After reading one of the

pamphlets, she stole a bunch and started giving them to the towns people, slipping them into purses and leaving them on benches. As her Human-Shadow, I was probably supposed to be protecting her, but the task proved to be difficult, if not impossible. She stole coins from various passersby, always with a different alibi.

You’re not supposed to steal things, I said once in exasperation.

“Why do you get to choose what I’m supposed to do?”

I didn’t have an answer she wanted. I only had the truth: if I protected her well, like a good Human-Shadow, I would become a Free-Shadow when she died. If not, I would have to get attached to anoth er human. I didn’t bother explaining this to her though. She seemed like the type to sabotage me. Unless she already knew and sabotaging me was her goal.

Eventually, she decided she had enough coins to go shopping. She found a mini calendar at a shop and went up to the counter to purchase it.

You got a calendar. Will you be done stealing now? I asked when we left, almost pleading. “Fine,” she replied. Ten minutes later, she realized she was hungry and stole an apple. You’re going to get caught. She practically smirked. “No, I’m not.”

§

I watched the sunset that night with unease. The Dark covered the world now. Nora stood at the doorway, holding a lamp. The mo ment the girl turned off the light, I would disappear. Don’t sneak out into the dark tonight, Nora, I pleaded in vain.

“Shadows don’t get to tell humans what to do,” she said firmly. I’m supposed to protect you. I can’t do that if you go in the dark! “You’re hardly doing it well in the daytime. I’ll be fine.”

Humans can’t go in the–I vanished with the light.

attempts at protection completely.

The days began to feel mun dane. Don’t do that. I’m supposed to protect you. Don’t sneak into the dark tonight. Nothing worked. There wasn’t really a point in trying any more, but I would rather be dragged around yelling then silently.

I began to notice the small trends in what Nora did. After her weird phase with the pamphlets, she began to cross days off a calendar. She gathered random supplies, from decorative candles to mini floating lanterns. She read the Wednesday news and tore a page out. I tried to read it, but she always held it face up so I couldn’t see.

Finally, one night, before she turned off the light, I said something that made her reply. What’s the point of being able to communicate if we don’t do anything with it?

“Don’t say ‘we’ unless you actually want to help,” she responded, and the light went out.

§

The next day, I gave up my

And Nora delighted in it.

“I need a notepad,” she said, looking down to speak to me before we entered a shop. Together, we made our plan.

I scanned the area for nearby living shadows. Hey, I called out to the shadow of the shopkeeper. Do I know you?

I don’t know you, it respond ed. Who are you?

My name is Sun. I lied.

You named yourself after the sun? it asked in astonishment.

Probably chose the wrong name for this conversation. At least the shadow wasn’t watching Nora. She tucked a notebook from one of the shelves into her backpack and grabbed a cheap banana from the front desk to buy as her alibi. I kept a simple conversation going with the shadow, hoping to distract it. It was less of a conversation and more of me getting a scolding for naming myself after a celestial being, but it nevertheless proved an adequate dis traction. After purchasing the snack, we made our way out.

“You helped me.” Nora said. Was that surprise?

I did. I got to be the one confusing her now. I delighted in it. Instead of exploring more shops, Nora went back to the house with her notebook. Sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, she wrote in it for hours.

The sun fell lower and lower in the sky, shining through the win dow in front of her. Immersed in her writing, Nora didn’t seem to notice as my form raised higher and higher behind her, giving me a view of her words.

Entry 3: Town Anniversary Festival is 2 days away. Obtained dec orations appealing to humans. Floating lanterns are lit with tiny candles. Candles are not sold with matches. Silver coins must be stolen to be obtained. Even so, decorations acquired.

Entry 4: Town festival is tomorrow. Obtained notebook. Shad ow finally helpful, may be useful in future. Forgot to eat again. The entry monotoned on, detailing the events of the day, some of the details a bit strange.

§

That night, before she turned off the light, I asked Nora a new question. Can you leave the light on so I can join you?

She tilted her head, seem ing to think.

But her mind spoke. Why should I?

I almost spoke in defense when I realized she had only thought that sentence. I stayed silent.

You can’t hear my thoughts, right? she thought, testing me.

“Sure,” she said out loud with a shrug. Pulling me with her, illuminated by her lamp, we entered the Dark together.

So, what do you do out here? I asked. She put her finger to her lips and shook her head.

The Dark was out. It was touching her. Wouldn’t something happen? I hadn’t noticed any differences to her in the daytime,

though I knew she’d been sneaking out here every night. What was it she did in the Dark? Did she just like to taunt fate? Why aren’t humans supposed to go out in the Dark, anyways? Had the shadows been lied to our entire lives?

Does our protection even mean anything?

Suddenly, she stopped, putting the lamp on the ground.

“I’ll be right back,” she whispered, moving further into the dark.

I’ve arrived, her mind thought.

Welcome back, an unknown answered.

If I had been a human, I would’ve shuddered. The voice seemed to come from nowhere, low yet echoing.

What do you bring today? the voice asked.

A notepad, a way of documenta tion. Nora thought solemnly.

That’s hardly useful. I also brought my shadow. It

cannot hear us, but you can ob serve it.

Their thoughts went silent. Let me have it, the voice said. Nora walked over to me and turned off the lamp.

§

I formed again in the same spot, lit once again by the lamp. The voice was speaking. Gather other humans and shad ows to our side. So long as Lux has the humans, it will win. Tell your shadow–

Nora interrupted with her voice, talking to me. “Sorry, acci dentally blew out the lamp. Let’s go back now.”

I let her drag me to the house, my mind bewildered. I didn’t get the chance to sort out my thoughts before she turned out the light.

The next day, I rose with the sun.

Nora was writing in her journal. I couldn’t read it from my angle, but I could imagine what she’d be writing. Entry 5: Town festival is today. Can’t wait to steal more things and leave weird com ments in this book about regular objects. I remembered the events of last night and added to my sar castic description. Successful talk last night, I absolutely love it in this town.

The only thing she bought that day—yes, bought with actual money— was new clothes. A blue blouse, a leather coat. She pulled her hair back with a new tie.

She was suddenly interested in making friends. It started by greeting people: “Hi!” she’d say with what I started to call her “friendly voice.” “My name is Nora, so nice to meet you.” She charmed one person and annoyed another. Each conversation would

lead to the same point: “Will I see you at the festival tonight?” Eventually, she started to cut to the chase, beginning with the ques tion. I tried to talk to her, but she wouldn’t respond. The morning dragged on, quite literally.

The festival started at noon.

It was the festival of the town’s anniversary, celebrating the place’s founding. So only a good thirty people should have actually cared about attending. But Nora had done her best, which turned out to be better than I expected. A large crowd gathered in the town square.

It was the first time I had attended the celebration. I watched dancers in the center, listening wistfully to the music, wishing I could move freely. I watched people eat slices of cake. Finally, I gave up watching the people and just looked at Nora.

She mostly stood apart from everyone else, checking her

watch. Every so often though, she would weave through the crowd, pick up a slice of cake, and talk to someone. This time, she spread new information. “Have you heard about the floating lanterns?” she would ask with a smile. Upon their inevitable questioning, she would explain the “news she knew” about light ing floating lanterns at sunset that would protect them from the dark.

What was it with this girl’s obsession with rumors?

Finally, it was almost sunset. She walked ahead of the crowd to a spot at the edge of the forest, holding a small light. The area was dark when we arrived, Darkness coming from the shade of the forest. At last, I had a moment to speak.

Who were you talking to in the dark that night? I asked blunt ly, surprising us both.

“Talking to?”

In your head.

She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t know what goes on in my head.”

I spoke her name in defi ance. Really, Eleanora?

How do you know my name? she thought with sudden force.

Who were you talking to in the dark?

So, you can hear my thoughts.

No one goes out in the dark, I urged. There was no one to talk to, yet someone’s thoughts were there. “No,” she spoke, “there wasn’t anyone out there.”

But that means you were talking to the Da–”

“I was talking to my instructor, the one who sent me here.”

Your instructor—you mean, you were sent by the Dark itself? I asked in dismay.

“Nor, yes. Why do you think I chose my name?”

She stared at me as I lay, speechless. As helpless as a shadow.

“I said I hated it here, what did you think I meant?”

I thought you hated the mud! But... you’ve made mistakes and stuff. You’re saying the Dark makes mistakes?

“Of course not. I was making sure you didn’t catch me.

Not that it seems you would have. We won. The people will stay outside for the sunset, bringing themselves to Nor. Nor will win the battle of the sunset, and it’ll get the strength to take over Lux forever.”

I did catch you. I scrambled to think. That’s the worst plan I’ve ever heard. You can’t win the battle of the sunset. The Light will come back in the morning!

“Only if the people go inside. Otherwise, they give their strength to Nor,” Nora said, turn ing to let me look around.

The people had arrived. Townspeople and foreigners, gathered around little floating lanterns. The lanterns Nora had “obtained.” She must have placed them there in the dark one night. At the Dark’s request.

I tried to speak, but the people began to count down as they watched the sunset. They held the lanterns in anticipation for their lighting. It never came.

The lanterns didn’t light. The people counted down to zero, and the sun slipped below the horizon. Counting to their own destruction. The world went dark, and I vanished.

“You can’t win the battle of the sunset. The Light will come back in the morning!”

Emancipation Oak: 1619- Now

Lauren Goree ‘22

“What you ain’t never understood is that I ain’t got nothing, don’t own nothing, ain’t never really wanted nothing that wasn’t for you. There ain’t nothing as precious to me... There ain’t nothing worth holding on to, money, dreams, nothing else- if it means --if it means it’s going to destroy my boy.”

-Mama Younger, A Raisin in the Sun

“Sometimes it’s like I can see the future stretched out in front of me-- just plain as day. The future, Mama. Hanging over there at the edge of my days. Just waiting for me -- a big, looming blank space -- full of nothing.”

-Walter Younger, A Raisin in the Sun

Long before this nation traded lives, Before great beasts of the sea were memori alized,

Before the clock-controlled mankind, When the days turned long, and hands turned coarse

Before stiff metal locomotives supplied a hope

To the “hardworking” farmers who sang their life song

To the fates. When men worked for themselves, And worked for their name When an honest living meant you survived. They felt pride for their harvest. Those poor white settlers; those so-called seeds of the nation

Life moved slow, But then, they arrived

The White Lion stood sturdy, holding its prey of

Twenty or so which, they pirated from the sea These twenty soon became new tools to success, a new pride, a new avenue to building a name Just not theirs

White hands no longer bruised; but twenty bled,

The workers were no longer valued, just bred, Hands moved the clock, not the day. Pride wasn’t a companion for these twenty, Any pride that was left, fled to the inescapable need to survive,

No longer was life a goal, And the power of a name wasn’t needed to survive,

To survive they were given nothing, so that’s what they gave

To the millions to come,

To the millions that died “Nothing” allowed them to fight

Those apparatuses started from nothing, Yet they learned that coming from it didn’t mean they had to give up or quit.

For THEY arrived, For they survived

Not as tools for entitled destiny But as beautiful hands that Had pride,

For these were the seeds and the planters of this nation,

Oh! And I the tree, have seen Those twenty hands that bled. Those few that grew courage and led And now in my shade An emancipation Being read.

Bond of Three

Emma Whitley ‘22

My life is defined by a set of three Brother #1, Brother #2, and Me. Every summer, we share the same birthday We’re a package deal, as they say.

Long ago, we would spend our time Sneaking around doing childish crimes, Laughing till our breath ran out Hoping our parents didn’t start to shout.

Today, we’re discussing what our futures hold, Cherishing the last moments before were officially old, Friday-night football games and family dinners, Trips to the beach and arguments over poker winners.

Next year, these adventures will end Far apart our lives we’ll spend But worry not for our bond of three Distance cannot break up triplets, you’ll see

I killed something two nights ago.

Six-in-the-morning drive home from the terror of an after noon-turned-night shift, tired half to nightmare—I barely saw it com ing. Spiderweb abrasions matching spiderweb windshield, concussion resounding like a temple gong, leg gone raw egg in the tangle of car and tree and something sulfurous and oozing and inhuman. World gone black but for the stench of sap and blood all mixed together like a sixyear-old’s backyard potion, eternal slumber ending with an awakening to a cold room draped all in white. One pair of scrubs calls the lab coat. The other two check my vitals. A miracle that I’m alive, they tell me. The leg had to go, but no casualties other than that—

—Wide deer-eyes flash in head lights, yellow against the black-ink night—

Are you sure? I ask them.

Phantom Limb

Katherine Reynolds ‘22

The set of scrubs closest to me (the one with a capitalist’s pinstripes) laughs and shakes their head. What else could have been out there?

An arm the color of paper, a leg the hue of bloodless midnight—

I dunno, I say. Maybe I was seeing things.

They tell me there was an ice patch on the road, that I swerved to avoid it, overcorrected, slipped, and careened into one of the many gnarled centenarians that haunt the roads around those parts. The leg had to go, of course. Flesh and splin tered bone stewed together like the contents of a hyena’s stomach until tibia couldn’t be told from metatarsal—it simply couldn’t be saved.

How did the rest of me make it, then? I ask.

The scrubs shrug, shadow-eyes crinkling behind their masks. We don’t know. It’s a miracle, really, that you’re—alive.

Alive.

Something dark and sticky on the outside of the windshield, dripping, dripping, dripping in through the frosted cracks; a shriek like AC turned the wrong side of cool—

Alive.

Yellow eyes turned white-whitewhite, pupils rolled beyond the eyelid horizon, lips drawn back over moonpale gums—

Alive.

Paper-bag ribcage crumpled between tree and car, a single spindly spider-hand reaching out, the eyes— God, those eyes! —of something—

Dead.

One of the scrubs takes what is left of my left thigh in hand as the other unwraps the gift-wrap ping keeping the blood in. Propped against the pillows, I cannot see the stitched-up incision, but I can imagine it—a puckered slash of a mouth where a knee once bent, the bone-teeth restraining the blood like saliva swirling, lost in a thousand

new-formed roadways.

With ghost-gentle hands, the pinstriped one applies a new dressing and winds the elastic gag around the wound-mouth, silencing the sharp gurgles it gasps up my leg. The others gather around the lab coat, pointing at words on a chart and murmuring into each other’s ears. The pinstriped one secures the bandage with an anchoring pin, pulls my shroud-gown back down over my torso and legs, and hands me a blanket.

It gets cold at night, they say, then, Ring if you need us.

The lights stay on when the scrubs leave, pant legs swishing and shushing softly against their ankles. The lab coat goes with them.

I close my eyes. The space be hind my eyelids is black, then red, then orange, layer after layer of color peeling away like skin after a long day without sunscreen. I lie there for an hour (or is it a year?), chasing the specter of a dream. The stump throbs like a heartbeat, a pain so regular it hardly hurts at all.

I open my eyes.

The lighting is just bright enough

that I can make out the color of the wall across from me. A pale yellow, like the flesh of a banana, looks me in the eye. Remembering a story from sophomore year English, I swallow down a hysterical giggle.

I close my eyes. The blanket is cool against my skin. It wraps around my leg like a bandage, hugging the limb in all the ways I am not used to.

I do not like it. Without the protec tion of its stolen sister, the leg feels bare and exposed, the blanket more an intrusion than a comfort.

The stump’s aching intensifies.

Something brushes against my left foot.

I force my eyes open, blinking away the bleariness. The lights have dimmed, the once-yellow wall more shadowy mass than solid plane. In the bed before me, the outline of a single leg stretches out, its sinistral partner cut short by a dip in the fabric. Vanished, into the shadows.

I close my eyes.

The cool of the night weighs heavy on my skin.

The thing on my foot weighs heavier.

The rush to ring for help is more scramble than stretch, limb and leg and blanket all tangling with one another as my arms flail wildly in pursuit of the button. One searching limb connects with the side table, sending a dozen bottles and bandag es and metal tools that glint strangely in the dim light clattering to the floor.

The pink scrubs appear by my bedside in an instant. You rang?

I… my voice trails off as I look around the room. Various medi cal instruments lie scattered across the floor, and my sheets bunch up around my leg in a knot. I point to the bandaged stump. There was something on my leg.

The scrubs pause in their rear ranging of the bottles and laugh. When did they pick them up? I was watching them; they never leaned over. Phantom limb pains, they croon, perfectly normal for recent amputees.

It wasn’t like that, I protest. It was a weight, like something heavy was— was sitting on my calf.

Phantom limb pains, dear, they repeat. It’s just phantom limb pains. Do you need anything else?

The curtains rustle. They are blue plastic, of the sort used to block out all ambient light, and drawn so close ly together one can hardly tell that the rest of the world resides beyond their rippling bounds.

I want the curtains open.

Are you sure? they ask, blue mask wincing in the outline of a polite grimace, It’s not a very nice view.

I want the curtains open.

The scrubs’ shadow-mouth twists behind the mask. How about you ask again in the morning? The light will be better then. In the meantime, would you like something to help you sleep?

No, thank you. I want the cur tains open.

Blue plastic hisses, the curtains rubbing against one another almost in response to my demand. They are too long for the window; they extend well beyond the blanketed sill and brush against the floor. Soft shushing sounds a swishing shhh in the tempo of a heartbeat.

Tell you what, the scrubs say. Why don’t you take this and rest—they push a plastic cup into my hands. A white pill rests at the bottom, glow ing in the half-light—and I’ll come back and open them in the morning. How does that sound?

I nod. Gingerly, I accept the cup. The scrubs watch as I swallow the pill, expression enveloped in shadow.

Sleep now, they say. We will still be here in the morning.

I fall asleep to footsteps and a soft weight on my left leg—watching me, watching me, watching me. Its gaze and body are cold like death. I drift away to its frigid fingers trailing across my cheek, gently, delicately, lovingly.

The chill lingers when I wake. I feel it down to my missing toes, cool and sticky and wet. The scrubs sense it too, masked non-expression wrin kling when they enter.

Did you sleep well? they ask.

Yes.

I’ll get you something to eat. They turn towards the door—

—You said you’d open the curtains in the morning.

They look at me—at least, I think they do—shadow-mouth twisting into a shade of a smile.

I never said that. It must have been my coworker. Don’t feel bad about it, they simper, I know how hard it can be to tell us apart with these masks.

Will you open them now?

A shadow deepens—are they smiling?

Perhaps in the evening.

§

Is there anything I can do for you? A book, or something to listen to?

I think of the shelves of mag azines at my workplace, covers shiny and pressed and begging to be opened, sensationalized titles screaming about everything from the radio star’s songwriting secrets to the soap actor’s steamiest lingerie-clad scandal. I never cared much for tab loids—the breathless speculation, the soapy drama, the garish pink letters on far-too-yellow backgrounds—but I now find myself missing them and their furtively taken snaps of British

royals and American celeb elite alike. A certain nostalgia for that breed of boredom found only when waiting at the doctor’s office overcomes me. I’d like a magazine, please. They nod and scribble something down on their clipboard, then leave the room. Their heels click through the hallway long after they are gone, and echo towards me long before they return brandishing some wom en’s health magazine that my work place doesn’t stock.

GETTING BACK IN SHAPE: 10 TIPS FOR EARNING BACK YOUR BODY (p.5), the toned brunette on the cover declares, Read this mag azine and learn about MY SURROGATE STORY (p.17), then find out HOW I LOST MY ARM AND FOUND MY MARRIAGE AGAIN (p.33).

I think of my leg, blindly hopping across that early morning road, stamping out bloodstained foot prints yet to boil in the sun. The road twists, and the leg hops onward into the patient arms of an arboreal patriarch. A lost leg, a marriage found—a

marriage of bone and bark and yellow eyes in the shadows, hungry, jealous, dead. Dead like a raw-egg leg left to fry sunny-side-up on the black tar of the road, dead like twitching feet in a cat’s mouth, dead like the weight on my phantom limb.

I close the magazine. Something in the room—it’s the curtains, it has to be—hisses.

I close my eyes.

The air of the room and the weight on my leg are heavier than usual. When I open my eyes, the weight vanishes but the air remains—hot, humid, stuffy like a Texas summer night.

I need the window open.

I do not call for the scrubs this time. They will not help me. Instead, I scoot to the side of the bed and gingerly place one bandaged foot on the floor.

When I put more weight on it, even the curtains’ gentle breathing pauses, as if in anticipation. My calf trembles from disuse, but my knee holds firm when I stand, hand pressed flat on the bed for balance.

Carefully, cautiously, I stretch

out my missing leg—I can feel it, the bending of the torn tendons, the ach ing of the murdered muscles—take a step—

A nonexistent foot meets unre pentant air, and I fall.

My forehead smacks against the cold floor with a thwack. When I blink, a soft haze clouds the world, ringing in my ears and pulsating through my skull. I reach out, push away the clouds, and look at the curtains. Despite the pounding in my head and the fog in my eyes, the opaque plastic is thicker and clearer than ever.

I lift one hand, and smack it against the floor. My scrabbling, bitten nails gain little traction against the smooth floor, but the wriggling of my body propels me forward, inch by pathetic inch.

I need those curtains open.

I am a worm on the sidewalk, desperate for a hint of earth, a hint of rain, whatever won’t dry me to leath er. I crawl forward, hand by hand and hip by hip, leg kicking uselessly behind me like a beached dolphin’s tail.

I need those curtains open.

The curtains tremble and whisper soft shushes like those of two fearful children, pressing themselves ever closer to the wall.

Their fruitless, floppy efforts will not save them from me.

I NEED THOSE CURTAINS

OPEN.

I reach out, and my bone fingers brush cold plastic.

The whispering ceases. All that remains is the rushing in my ears and the shaking in my hands.

I wriggle forward, grasp the blue. The plastic wrinkles, crackles. I pull.

by the rotting remains of a single tendon. The other leg—its right, hopped jolted, haltingly. Its matted hair and fleshy breast bounced with the motion in a sickening antirhythm.

I had to kill it.

Headlights swinging around an ancient forest corner reflecting off a mouth as crowded as a hobbyist’s attic—jagged canine married to lumpy molar in a gum white and soft as beach mud. Its pointed ears twitched.

It saw me, and it smiled.

This was no mad deer or wounded wolf.

To such a nonentity, death would be a mercy.

It smiled, and I pressed the accelerator. The car roared and tackled it right in its bloated gut, yet still it smiled.

I killed it. I heard the thump of fender meeting flesh; I felt the crunch of bone meeting tree. Its blood bathed my windshield like thick mud. Its bloated torso burst, festering ribs snapping over and over like dead twigs on a tree. It laid there dead, face contorted in that same smug grimace, frozen and bleeding and dead, dead, dead.

§

Three nights ago, I killed some thing.

It’s not my fault.

It wanted me to kill it.

Its glassy deer eyes bulged out of a shrunken pale face, head fused crudely to its dark sack of a torso by burnt and bubbling flesh. One leg dragged behind the other, exposed tibia clinging to blood-drained thigh

One glance screamed that the morning and the moonlight wait upon nothing like it. No creature birthed more than any one part of it, loved any more than a single odd limb or maggot-ridden piece of liver. It was nothing—a shambling heap of lost legs and stolen hearts, a patchwork of a hundred unknown ani mals molded into something on the threshold of humanoid. Nothing like it could exist—should exist.

It was nothing.

It wanted me to kill it. I was sure.

§

Nothing could have survived that crash.

Nothing. But nothing has my leg. Nothing is on my windowsill. Nothing is watching me.

For People Who Are Burdened by Expectations

Cate Swindle ‘24

You are a ladder leading to someone else’s destiny; you didn’t want this, to become the fulfilment of another’s desperate dreams. They pressed and passed it on: those desires.

The weight of the cold stares feign support. They, who couldn’t, rip your broken soul into broken pieces, shredded; your own ambitions have no place in this world that’s not yours.

What do you really want with your beautiful legacy?

What do you desire to leave behind? certainly not

This burdensome piece of another.

But you, your own imaginative, important ideas must grace this glorious earth with all its unique people. you must Put your authentic self forward for the world; not them, You.

Beloved Eyne of Fire

Teah LeBlanc ‘23

Thy hand stretched out amidst falling snow

Across tea table under which river swift flowed Wandering through markets bright and fair Memories spilling behind us like thine ink hair

Memories drift to our peaceful moments few Riding neath boughs laden with autumn dew Drinking and reading and conversing e’er and anon

From glimmer o twilight to rise o rosen dawn

O’erlooking our land in midst of verdant spring

Thinking not of what tomorrow would bring Thy passion, fervor fiercer than mere flame Made my heart forever caress syllables of thy ame

Turn to wintertide, barren and bereft

Thy keen spear sole earthly object left Scenes of thy battle art enthralled my mind

As we challenged foes, back-to-back, e’er aligned

Launch of ten thousand arrows by thy mighty hand Set fire to numberless ships doomed nev’r to land Thy sleeves stream behind thee in ripples white Moonlight and fire illuming starless night

By thy side I regard battlefield barren and aflame

There I fought endless enemies acclaimed

Raise a toast, our fingers brush, to victory sweet Never, I wished, to taste bitter agony of defeat

Thy smile worth a thousand lives

Verily, as I turned my head to crimson skies

Before us rose colossal mountain of stone Never, I vowed, will I let thee face foes alone

Arcs of thy spear, deft, powerful, and sure Met my spells adamant, victory secure Determination set in stone, we as one Now, alas alone, save for thy spirit o sun

Launched rain of fire, like thine eyne

To submerge ships e’ermore in brine

And once flames burnt to naught Once more we faced time peril-fraught

Woe! My heart rent and lorn!

E’ermore I am doomed to mourn!

From thy fair lips, mouthful of blood flew Alighting on battleground in pained view

For thy back, with thy lifeblood imbrued Stabbed with sword curved and crude

Towards thee I reached, my hand outstretched But my fingers passed through thy armor etched

A broken cry our last shared sound

As thee fell upon our last battleground

And as thee fell, beautiful to the end Thy hand reached to mine to defend

Yet a whistling arrow aimed true And through my anguished visage flew Agony in my heart matched in my form Yet in soul settled an ember warm

For thought of dying was far less dire Than living without thine eyne of fire Whisper o thy laugh rippling in my ear

Our memories the last ones I wish to hear

Our life, our love shattered ere I could tell thee You, my love, meant everything to me

“For thought of dying was far less dire Than living without thine eyne of fire”

Yellow Primroses Bloom at Night

Kathryn Wilson ‘22

I never liked the rain very much. It’s too dark, muffles any other sound and snuffs out the sun. It used to make me feel out of place, uncom fortable.

But now, as I look out at the water sobbing outside my window, I can’t help the tear that slips down my cheek. Silently, I open a pack of Marlboros, put the lighter to my lips, let the cigarette lie in my teeth— uncared for, stagnant. Then, after cracking open the window, I resign myself to escaping the rain’s trance, turning around and walking to the fireplace. On the mantle I pick off a drop of white wax, fallen from the cheap candelabra still sitting out from Halloween.

I should put that away, I note, but too distracted to actually do the action.

It is mid-February and I am still lost in August. Stuck in its wind chimes and parchment and pressed flowers. My weak attempts to drown

it in rain and tobacco have only made it more resolved to stay—de termined to poison me with sunlight and chamomile. The proof of this sits silently on the couch behind me, shivering under a towel and soaking wet.

There is my last remnant of August, the one I had hoped to snuff out. I could easily forget about the picnics and the brownies and the grocery receipts. I could paint over or throw away the canvases washed in pastel acrylics. But the girl behind me is the one thing I cannot wash out with water or cover with a tarp. After all these months, she still finds a way to peek through the cracked gray of my attempts to paint her exis tence away. And now, as I turn back from the fireplace, I am given no choice but to face her and, in turn, myself.

Finally, I look at her fully, take her in for the first time since the last. Immediately strawberry and rose

wood swirl my vision, apricot and hickory flood my head. Gray begins to flake away. I take a drag from the cigarette.

“When did you start smoking?” Daisy questions. She asks so simply, no judgment or disgust to be found.

I inhale the tobacco again, exhaling as I cross over to the coffee table to tap the soot into an ashtray. Taking my seat on the table, I end up closer to Daisy than intended.

“Late September” I reply.

She nods in response. Everything about our conversation has been short, stilted. We’re dancing around confrontation, with no one willing to stop the waltz and face reality. It’s funny how delicate we have become around each other; our bodies a safe distance apart, our sentences clipped, manners polite, so unlike the ebb and flow we used to live in.

She questions me again: “Why?” and in my head I pretend to be sur prised. She never changes, always so

curious and oh so predictable.

I shrug, take a drag. “It helps me think. You know, clears my head and stuff.” Helps me flush you away. I know you hated the smell.

A hint of a smile peeks through her mouth. “You know that’s like a paradox, right? You can’t say that smoking helps you think then follow it by saying it clears your head. That’s like scientifically incorrect.” She ends with a giggle, marigold painting her face.

“No, no” I protest, trying to hide a grin. “you don’t get it. When I smoke, the tobacco or nicotine or whatever is in there clears my head. Then, because my head is all cleared, I have more space to think and untangle all my thoughts.”

Daisy, covering her smile with a hand, just giggles more.

“Oh, my god! You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” I accuse, although there is no malice behind my words.

Sunshine etches its way across her cheeks. “No, I just think you’re wrong.”

“What?” Laughter now bleeding through my teeth, “How can I be

wrong? It’s literally my thoughts!”

At this point Daisy simply dis solves into laughter, I follow not long after. I’ve missed this, the sunlight, and flowers, all so bright, so com forting. I can almost feel the summer air, hear the faint songs of birds, see the dancing willows.

But it’s not summer anymore, it’s winter. It’s raining and it’s thundering and it’s dark. My smile fades and our moment of joy washes away. My cigarette has died. I consider lighting another.

Before I can decide, my cat Clover nudges my leg, stealing my at tention. Daisy reaches a hand down to pet him.

“Well,” she starts, “I think we should talk.” We are back to stirring gray and storm showers. The whip lash is killing me.

Daisy has been here for an hour, and I still have not even considered why she came. Opening the door for her was like muscle memory. I should have been surprised, but maybe I knew this affair was inevi table.

But now we’re here, which means

I have to relive all the mistakes I made—look back at each ugly word and wrong decision. I have to feel all the remorse and regret I’ve been painting over once again.

I breathe out a shaky “yeah,” and suddenly I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t want to face September. I never should have opened my door. I should have gone back to sleep.

Daisy speaks, but I can’t hear her. I am too busy frantically brushing gray over gold—blacking out July, August, September. I can’t relive it. I can’t let canary ruin my indigo. I have spent too much time meticulously detailing scarlet and plum just for a splatter of lemon to ruin it. It’s been too long. I can’t do this again.

Before I can stop myself, garnet rushes out from my lips.

“It’s been five months Daisy. Why are you here?”

She goes silent. And in that moment, the whole world quiets with her, the only sounds being the showers of rain and the pounding of my heart. I wait for her to speak, to break the silence. I can’t tell if it lasts

for seconds or hours; nevertheless, I fish the Marlboros pack and a lighter back out of my pocket.

I take out a cig.

Daisy takes a breath. What is she doing here?

I put it between my teeth.

Daisy picks at her fingernails. Why did I let her in?

I light it and inhale.

Daisy looks me in the eyes. I thought I moved on.

We both exhale.

“I think” she begins slowly “that I miss you.”

And just like that, three small words shatter everything I built around me. I thought she moved on. §

We’ve been sitting in silence for a while now—something we’re both awfully familiar with. At some point Daisy went to the kitchen, return ing with two mugs trading tobacco for tea. It tasted of lemongrass and citrus and went cold long ago. Now, the only sign of life to witness our hopeless attempt to grasp at tangled

strings is Clover, softly purring in Daisy’s arms. It all feels achingly familiar, and neither of us want to admit it.

“Explain it to me again. Please.”

Daisy’s eyes plead with me— “don’t make me do this again”—but she puts up no protest. Always so patient with me, so understanding. She looks down, picking at the dirt in her fingernails and resumes—choos ing her words as carefully as she did twenty minutes ago.

“I want to start by saying that I didn’t mean for it to happen this way. Any of it. It was never my intention to hurt you, and I’m sorry. Um… but I guess it all really started in Septem ber.”

Of course it was September. How am I surprised?

“It was fall and no one really needs a gardener in the fall, so I was home more, and I had a lot of free time which at first was great.”

I furrow my eyebrows. “At first? What changed??”

“Well,” Daisy starts slowly, “if you would just let me finish, I’m sure you’ll figure out.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” she replies with a mock smile.

“Now where was I?” Daisy mum bles. “Oh, yeah! Okay, so you had just begun your dreamscape project which took up most of your time—

“What? No, it didn’t!” I interject. “I literally made every Sunday a ‘No Painting Day’ just so we would have the whole day together.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you were free every other day of the week. She chuckles, “I mean I re member some nights I would wake up at like 3 A.M. and you would just be painting. And I joke about it now but I guess I just noticed that the more fall went on, the more time you spent painting… and the less time you spent with me.”

“Well, why didn’t you just ask me to hang out with you more?” Like that isn’t the obvious solution here.

She lets out an exasperated sigh. “It’s not that easy and you know that.”

God, she’s being ridiculous! “Of course it is! All you had to do was say ‘Hey Mae! Let’s hang out more!’ It

literally is that easy.”

Despite my condescending tone, Daisy does not fight back, not even uttering a word in response. Then, much to Clover’s disappointment, she sets him on the floor and replies, “It was never that simple though.”

We’re back to thunder. Tired eyes gaze at me with heartache and I don’t understand why. I don’t understand any of this.

Daisy continues, “I didn’t want to pull you away from something that made you so happy.”

Then, curling her knees towards her chest she rests her chin there, now avoiding eye contact. “And, I guess, I felt ignored.” She stops herself. “Well, maybe not ignored but more like left out? Like you were drifting away from me and I was being left behind.”

She could have just talked to me. Does she not think I’ll listen?

I look back over at Daisy, and al though I know she has already said this all once, she still so clearly curls in on herself as if the pain of it all will never go away.

“And that scared me” she whispers out.

Oh.

“And I-I didn’t know what to do

because obviously it wasn’t your fault, I mean not really, like I shouldn’t be demanding attention when all you’re doing is the thing you love, right?”

Not when it’s hurting you.

“But as the days went on, I got more and more scared that I was going to lose you completely.” She hesitates speaking these next words, knowing the punch they will deliver. “And so I left. Because I would rather leave you than wait and watch you lose me.”

Lightning strikes. My head spins. She doesn’t belong here. Summer cannot live in winter.

The air is filled with water, and there are a million words floating around in my skull. I take a breath. “So you’re telling me that all of this didn’t have to happen if you simply talked to me about your feelings? I mean honestly, all this time I blamed you for everything: for our failed relationship, for my inability to let go, for every issue I had after we broke up. Because you were the prob lem. You were the one who left, you were the one who gave up on us, not me.

“I thought I was free of fault. I had done nothing wrong, right? And because of that, I resented you for months—covered up paintings, stopped watering flowers, threw away receipts—I did everything I could to erase you from

my life. And now, after I’ve finally gotten rid of it all, you show up at my house in the middle of a storm and beg to give me an explanation for it all.

“And the worst part is, I’ve let you. I’ve sat here on my high horse thinking that you’d give me some bullshit expla nation, I’d yell at you, then kick you out.

And I’m upset because that’s not what happened at all. You’ve given me hon esty, and I hate it because it’s true. I hate that this was my fault and I blamed you. I hate that I made you the villain.”

But I can’t tell her any of that, not yet at least. Maybe when the sky is filled with ivory and less gray. Maybe when I learn to better verbalize my feelings. Maybe another day, but not today. So in stead, I simply exhale and say, “I…didn’t know.” Daisy at the very least deserves that.

She gives me a weak smile, and I know I don’t need to explain any because she understands. Just like I un derstand that she’s sorry. We both hurt each other, and we’re just now beginning to sweep away the broken shards.

It’s time to move on, to walk away; and, just like always, Daisy takes the first step.

“How are the paintings going?”

“Good. They’re not done though.”

“That’s okay,” she replies with a knowing smile.

I stand up. “Do you want to see them?”

Daisy nods, picking up our empty mugs as she stands—an indication for me to start walking. I lead her through the kitchen where she drops the mugs in my sink, and past the myriad of sticky note reminders on my fridge. Through the hallway and past the bathroom and past more sticky notes reminding me to drink water or go to sleep. Through the hallway and past every empty picture frame. Through the hallway and into the old guest room, my painting room.

We walk in together; Daisy first, I behind her.

I amble over to a painting of yellow primroses explaining how this type of primrose only blooms at night but I see Daisy has wandered towards my record player instead.

“This used to be in the living room” she states.

She peruses through my collection, finally settling on Bowie. Then, turning over her shoulder, Daisy looks at me expectantly, as if requesting an explana tion.

“Um, yeah I moved it a few months ago because I was never in there any more.” I fiddle with a paintbrush.

She hums in faint acknowledgement dropping the needle. “I like it better in here,” Daisy muses as she dances, cradling Clover in her arms and swaying side to side.

These circumstances feel familiar, but something is different this time. There are no carnelian and jam-cov ered clothes encompassed by bursts of laughter bubbling out of the open window. Echoes of angry nights with the door locked and piles of reds and blacks lumped onto a canvas in harsh sweeps cannot be heard. There is only the light thrum of Bowie and silence. The silence of two people who are tired of exchang ing the same words over and over again, two people who could never be any closer or farther apart.

Daisy closes her eyes as she spins with Clover happily in her arms, and as I watch straw-colored hair sway and twirl through the room, I turn back to the piece that caused all of this.

I open a bottle of marigold paint and squeeze it onto my palette.

Letting Ziggy Stardust whisk me away, I sweep champagne sunlight through jungle-thick trees, blend ing hornets into bumble bees and snakes into honeysuckles. In a few quick strokes, a skeleton morphs into a honey-haired girl lying in a field of

strawberries. Daffodils, sunflowers, and lemon trees sprout out of cracked earth as magnolia leaves dance in the sky. Am ber, tangerine, salmon, all wash away a once ash covered hallucination, painting a hazy glow over such a painful fantasy.

I step back and take it in.

Finally, after months and months of failed attempts to finish, the painting is done. Of course. All I needed was yellow.

And, as I observe the completed project, I utter the three words I have been avoiding this whole night:

“Daisy, I’m sorry.”

I wait. I wait quietly for any indica tion that she heard me, but the only re sponse I get is silence. I turn around and am met with an empty room, the door open and the record player closed. Light floods through the window and the rain has stopped. Although I can’t help to notice the familiarity of this situation, it does not feel the same. This time I don’t feel abandoned even though I have been left alone, and—for the first time since September—I’m okay with that.

Before I turn off the lights and go back to my bedroom, I add one last detail to my painting: a daisy.

Philautia

Margaret McKinney ‘24

Through the course of our entity

These waves ebb and flow with a will to destroy and forgive

To reclaim one’s breath is to extract another from its possessor

They will always outpace us in this complex game we buy into Bracing for another reckless surge, another love, only for it to dampen the heart’s fire

Consuming and forbidding the soul of its vigor in the final break of the wave

Intent to startle us until we are no longer undaunted

A simple quantum of spark left within

We figured an emotion so universal was easy to tame But underneath the dusty debris left behind From which we clamber, Weathered and wearied,

The arrival of asylum falls upon us where we least expect to find it Brother Sun shines bright and the migratory birds hum Meandering with poise through fields of assurance

Unto you is given the gift of a provisioned love

A deep love only you will understand

It takes you alone to come to terms with it Pulled into a sense of place, being, at long last

No need to trim the hedges of imperfection

For you are born from a nova

Your nerves sewn together, unmapped, by Mother Earth in the womb

So lay in your bindle of self comfort for all eternity, my dear

Yet such a feeling as delicious as love is arduous to fight off, isn’t it?

Sister Moon frowns upon your defeat in her twilight

This roundabout cycle churns our desperate and ambiguous organ of love once more

We will always fall victim to the soul of another

But it will be okay, my love

You are celestial

We are celestial

Green (Emerald, Sage, Pea)

Mary Borkowski ‘24

The ivy, once draped in true emerald green

Now brandishes spots of yellow decay. The train of her ensemble, once pristine, Spoiled, rather, tainted by a sun ray.

The other girls in their frocks glitter and shine–

The beams from the sky illuminate them so.

In their rich verdure of sage and pea they dine, At this grand banquet under the sun’s glow.

The ivy strives to conform with the rest, Though burning alive she puts up a fight.

Try as she may she does not pass the test; Rotting in the gentle rays, she died in the light.

The sages and peas continued to thriveWhy couldn’t poor ivy make it out alive?

Vampire Prayer

Katherine Reynolds ‘22

I hunger—

You know I have always strained at the bit, craving for an iron so unlike the rough silver between my teeth. I want something scarlet and tangy and sweet, something that will stain my canines and gather between my inci sors. My hunger is the rage that burns me from within, my boiling blood the accelerant that drives the flame to ever greater heights. My scorched esophagus screams with every breath I take. My cracked and peeling lips taste of bitter smoke, like flesh burning on a grill.

The rejection of your kind stings me no longer; my inferno consumes your pitiful match-lights and spits out not even ashes. Let the terror of my asymmetrical exis tence sicken your weak mind, sap the vitality of your birdish limbs, leach the calcium from your trembling bones until nothing is left of you but the shriveled remnants of your dry flesh mummified within a bandage of your own skin.

I have suffered so long denying myself myself, fearing the judgement of a god whose very love burns my cold skin. You would not refuse the cow her grass or the wolf her deer, so why am I alone destined to deny my manna from heaven? Why create a creature whose only hope of

salvation is to reject the very thing that runs in its veins? You say your kind does not live to die; rather, it dies to live. In creation I have died; where is my life?

Why does God love me not? A house without doors is a prison; a life without end, rejected by the very creator who expelled me first from his womb then his heart, is a hell in its own right. What right do His people have to define Evil with my name? Why must I sacrifice my life, that precious thing which all surely have a right to, for the sake of their peace of mind?

“Is it such a crime to be hungry?”

Tell me, God, am I a creature of the flesh or the soul?

If Hell is death in Your apathy then what is my life on this earth? How many millennia must I walk alone like this, cloaked in shadow and Your rejection, before I may live as one of Your own? My feet—they ache, and my body runs hot with the blood of so many thousands of years. Is it such a crime to be hungry? Is it such a sin to desire life?

I am so very, very old...

For Fourth Graders Who Are Afraid to Fail

Meredith Hazzard ‘24

You are a jack-in-the-box

Wound up tighter, tighter, tighter POP

They compare you to the stark, plastered, white paper

On the walls, prim and proper

Say you can do no wrong Overpouring praise, pride Keep going, keep reaching Keep falling

But you are too anxious, blowing wild like a hurri cane

But all they want is to plant a stake in your eye And stay there

You tried to hide it didn’t you?

Kept the storm in, raging on Hid the laziness behind that white picket fence

Tried to be less

Less messy, less disappointing Flawless

Less intense, less alive

Robotic

But even at night the tears still rolled and

The words on the worksheet shrieked

Nothing will ever be enough

What did you want to do?

Give up and watch the world go quiet?

You can’t always paint the picture exactly how you envision it

The others should have already told you that Didn’t they?

If it is not enough

Then let go and let it be not enough

The world won’t always bat an eye at one wrong step

Keep spinning

You are chaotic

And capable

And imperfect

Something that transcends the world’s expectations And redefines the beauty of failure

Ode to Epiphanies

Ella Kobyluch ‘22

A flickering light held in the distance, obscured but by some leaves

A hand hovers above it, one has tip-toed over so to reach

The flame licks upwards, as the flooding in feeling deceives

as but a solitary candle, awaiting to be found

But the flame’s reproach, not quite akin to pain

leaves even those who flinched down to the ground

finding themselves lost in the forest one night,

looking all around as they search for a light

Letter from The Editor

Dear Reader,

Thank you for burning with the best of what Ursuline Academy has to offer. While the works showcased in this magazine are from a hundred different flames with a hundred different fuels, they are united in the passion they display—a passion characteristic of the Ursuline student. Without their courage, dedication, and incredible talent, this magazine would not exist.

I would also like to thank the members of Esse Literary Magazine for their taste and dedication to the art of selection, as well as this year’s club officers. Thank you to the ineffable Monica Cochran, the incredible Kyle Lee, the lovely Jocelyn Holmes, and all the members of the Ursuline English and Art Departments for guiding us, fostering the talents of Ursuline students, and always offering extra credit to those who submit to the magazine. Finally, thank you to our publisher, John Diebold, whose guidance has been invaluable over the years as we assemble each magazine.

Katherine Reynolds ‘22

Esse Legacy

Ursuline Academy’s first literary magazine was published in the fall of 1907 as “St. Angela’s Echo” in commemoration of St. Angela Merici, the foundress of the Ursuline order, during the centenary of her canonization. Filled with black and white photos of the old, Gothic-style school building and advertisements from local businesses, “St Angela’s Echo Volume I” included four poems and two short stories. The small pamphlet sold for one dollar. Though the styles of writing and the name of the magzazine have changed, Ursuline’s love of art and literature has not. Past editions of Ursuline Academy’s literary magazine signify the rich history of its publication and serve as a reminder that this humble volume will too become part of that legacy for future generations of the Ursuline community.

Esse Leadership

Editor-in-Chief: Katherine Reynolds ’22

Katherine has been published in Esse her freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior years, and has served the magazine since her freshman year. Her short story “The Death of a Light” was honored with second place in Esse 2020’s literary competition, and her short story “Phantom Limb” won first place in the Dallas Literary Festival Young Writers Contest. Katherine has been received Ursuline Academic Awards in Theology, Social Studies, and Biology over her years at Ursuline, as well as the Baccalaureate Chemistry Award. She also is a National Merit Finalist. Katherine will be attending the University of Chicago in the fall.

Art Editor: Jana Elawar ‘23

Jana has been published in Esse her sophomore and junior years. Serving the magazine as an art editor since her sophomore year, Jana’s published poem Embargo on Humanity represents the intersection of her global and artistic passions. Jana has received Ursuline Academic Awards in Visual Arts, Theology, English, Arabic, and Mathematics over her years at Ursuline. As a rising Senior, Jana is currently applying to universities in hopes of study ing medical anthropology and public health.

Assistant Editor: Phoebe White ‘23

Layout Editor: Giselle Sethi ‘22

Public Relations Officer: Sarah Kerber ‘22

Moderators

Monica Cochran

Jocelyn Holmes

Kyle Lee

Copy Editors

Megan Nuchereno ‘23

Teah LeBlanc ‘23

Jamie Lim ‘22

Arianne Tsioutsias ‘22

Selection Committee

Alexandra Alderink ‘23

Mary Atwell ‘24

Brooke Bergin ‘23

Mary Borkowski ‘24

Annabelle Hazzard ‘22

Morgan Lemler ‘23

Gabriela Marques ‘24

Madison Morrissey ‘25

Laurel O’Brien ‘25

Aurora Rain ‘23

Nika Vahadi ‘24

Natalie Volanto ‘23

How to Submit to Esse

Students in grades nine through twelve are encouraged to submit their art and literature pieces digitally via Esse’s Submission Manager (esselitmag.com) or as a 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 Summision Manager and rates them in relation to the theme of the magazine and the quality of the piece. Questions about Esse or the submission process can be directed to the moderators or the Esse email, ursulinelitmag@gmail.com

Colophon

Esse 2022 was constructed using Adobe InDesign 17.3 on a PC. The font used on the covers is Baskerville Old Face in sizes 48 and 18 on the front cover and size 17 on the back cover. The spine font is Minion Pro, size 13. The font used for the inside cover was Baskerville Old Face, size 12. All literary titles and page headings are Baskerville Old Face, size 30. Authors of literary pieces are Baskerville Old Face, size 12, and all literary copy is Minion Variable Concept, regular, bold, and italic, sizes 10-12. All artist credits were set in size 10 Minion Variable Concept regular and italic. The font for the page numbers is Minion Pro, size 12. The cover is on 100# Silk Coverwright paper, and the content pages are on 100# Silk Bookweight paper.

The pieces included in Esse 2022 were chosen by the Leadership Team and the Selections Committee. The magazine was laid out by Giselle Sethi. Esse 2022 was produced by Ursuline Academy’s Literary-Art Maga zine Club and published by Diebold Productions, Inc. 500 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.