ESSE 2023 ESSE 2023

ursuline academy of dallas ursuline academy of dallas

About the Front cover

Fill The Blanks

May Atwell ‘24

This artwork explores the desire to pursue personal passions and the limitations that one might encounter. In developing the concept of this piece, I found myself thinking about both the limits I place on myself and the external limits I encounter when pursuing an interest.

At times, when pursuing my passion for art and music, I limited myself by thinking I should not pursue it further because I was not the best. Beyond the limits I place on myself, sometimes I encounter limits by social norms. While music plays a significant role in my life, as I thought about my pursuit of this passion, I considered the ways the music industry still reflects gender bias such as how bass guitars are normally created for men’s hands with large wide frets that can be difficult for individuals with smaller hands to play. This consideration caused me to question, what I can do when I find myself in spaces where I encounter limits or maybe when I am not considered at all? How can I still flourish with the abilities I have? Where do I sell myself short as not just a creator but a human? “Fill the Blanks” is essentially what I have learned about persevering through limitation self-imposed or otherwise. With its missing parts and fragmented images, the artwork still creates something beautiful and whole.

Dedication

Dear Ms. Holmes,

Your presence in Esse over the past few years has been priceless. While you have never formally taught me, one of your peers, Sarah Kennedy, once told me that you are “rooted in your passion for art, and that touches everything you do,” which could not be more evident over this year in Esse. Just as in your artwork, you are able to take the abstract dream that is Esse and craft it into the beautiful magazine we have today. The care and dedication you have for our magazine are palpable in every meeting, email, and discussion. Thank you, endlessly, for all the beauty and sentiment you have brought to this magazine. You are truly irreplaceable!

Thank you,

Phoebe White ‘23

Dear Ms. Holmes,

I have never had a teacher who cared for me more than you have. You have been far more than just my art teacher; you have been someone I can seek for advice or someone to whom I can simply rant. You have helped me grow and thrive as an artist, constantly bearing endless support for my every artistic endeavor—I will never forget that. I’ll never forget the times you attended my art shows, even though it wasn’t necessary. So, you have been more than just my teacher, you have been my mentor. Ms. Holmes is what I hope every teacher is and should be: supporting, compassionate, and knowledgeable. I will forever treasure my experiences in her art classes and the conversations we had.

Thank you,

Marie Katherine Relucio ‘23

Ms. Jocelyn Holmes

Photo by Judy Nordseth Photography

letter from the editor

Dear Reader,

Ten thousand years ago, in a cave in Argentina, prehistoric artists put their hands on the walls and sprayed pigment around them, creating stencils that would last beyond antiquity. I discovered La Cueva de las Manos the summer after my sophomore year and was immediately struck with pure awe. In awe of the fact that, despite the vast differences between the lives of you and me and our ancient predecessors, we feel the need to make a claim at permanence the one way we can— with creation. Despite generations of evolution, we have stayed the same, cultivating the need to become more than ourselves, to discover our meanings, and to push our hands against a wall so that we can be rediscovered thousands of years later.

In light of this revelation, Esse’s theme this year is “human.” Humanity— the one thing that connects us all. All the differences in the lives we lead, our passions, and our trials all culminate in our humanity. I believe that our humanity is our creativity, our connection with nature, our ability to love and hate and obsess and forget. We shoulder the responsibility to continue a 10,000 year legacy of creating. Bolstering this legacy, I asked my fellow students at Ursuline: What makes you human?

Reflecting on this question, Esse has culminated a sprawling and intricate collection of artworks. The students of Ursuline Academy have captured love, family, creativity, anger, politics, and peace in their written and visual artwork, all for the sake of finding human nature. Now, I invite you to join us in returning to our nature by discovering our connections and disparities. So as I asked my peers, I ask you, reader, what makes you human?

Sincerely,

Phoebe White ‘23

Editor-in-Chief

Table of contents: literature

11 Today 11:56 PM, Charlotte Robinson ‘24

12 The Shy Neighbor, Blaire Taylor ‘26

15-17 Mellow Drama, Claire Chesnut ‘23

20-23 The Silence of Songbirds, Laurel O’Brien ‘25

25 clementine (i still love you), Madison Morrissey ‘25

26 Insides, Kaia Putnam ‘23

27-33 The Human Experience, Lili Alderink ‘23

35 But I Just Can’t Help Myself, Sidney Kovacs ‘24

36 A Hero Would Let You Burn, Cora Mahaney ‘25

39 the unseen as i see, Phoebe White ‘23

40 Ode to Chick-Flicks, Jordan Malone ‘25

43 Filling the Puddle, Miranda Moyse ‘24

44 dear fathers, tar, and showers, Claire Chesnut ‘23

45-59 Sincerely, A. Stranger, Grace Gargiulo ‘23

60 Vulnerability is Welcomed, Gigi Sears ‘24

61 Validation: Are You Satisfied?, Lili Alderink ‘23

62-64 Beyond the Sea, Phoebe White ‘23

67 Breathe, Kate Walsh ‘25

69 Stitched Together, Kaia Putnam ‘23

70 Everyone Has A Dragonfly, Georgia Keith ‘23

71-72 Questions, Cora Mahaney ‘25

75 Stay, Lily Dugas ‘24

76 Trees, Victoria Arce ‘24

79 Political Divide Is An Epidemic, Julia Mizerany ‘24

80 Paid Actions, Avery Garner ‘26

82 Hope, Kaia Putnam ‘23

Table of contents: artwork

award winners: literature

2023 Esse Best Literature Piece

1st Place: The Human Experience by Lili Alderink ‘23

2nd Place: clementine (I still love you) by Madison Morrissey ‘25

2022-2023 Wild Tangent Award for Creative Writing

Kate Walsh ‘25

Grace Gargiulo ‘23

2022-2023 Wild Pioneer Award for Contributions to the Ursuline Creative Writing Program

Audrey Stuckert ‘23

2023 Dr. Anne Freeman Book Award

Mellow Drama by Claire Chesnut ‘23

award winners: artwork

The Katherine Bolka Endowed Scholarship for Academic and Visual Arts Excellence

Life is Like a Box by Julissa Guardado ‘24

2023 Ursuline Art Exhibition: 1st Place

Artistic Achievements

Figments by Lolo Pham-Hoang ‘23

Planned Chaos by Brooke Rowley ‘23

2023 Esse Best Visual Art Piece

1st Place: The Hidden Bell Ringer by Nika Vahadi ‘24

2nd Place: Memory Slices by Andrea Nunez ‘25

Doughnut by Gabriela Rodriguez ‘23

Starfish by Ariana Burlingame ‘25

Genuine Snakeskin by Reagan Chen ‘24

Squandering by Sophia Neisler ‘26

Routine by Madeline McClure ‘25

Flips by Mariana Young ‘23

2023 Ursuline Art Exhibition: Award of Artistic Merit

Alicia Suarez Soto ‘23

2023 Ursuline Art Exhibition: Senior Purchase

Matanda Na Sila by Marie Katherine

Relucio ‘23

Dancing in Memories by Ellie Tusa ‘26

Lavish Sunsets by Reagan McKee ‘23

The Colors of Singapore by Leah Osbaldeston ‘26

Memory Slices by Andrea Nunez ‘25

Window by Margaret McKinney ‘24

Cannot Show Frizz by Caroline Patton ‘23

Memory Slices

Andrea Nunez ‘25

Mixed Media, Colored Pencil

ESSE 10

Today 11:56 p.m.

Hey, I know it’s really late and you’re probably asleep but— I was gonna say sorry for texting so late, but you want me to break that habit, so I’m just gonna spill my thoughts. Because I was driving by my old neighborhood, and I was muttering to myself, pointing out the old field where I played softball (Can you believe that I did sports?) and the alley where I walked my dog, and I spoke of everything so fondly like how you do with Arizona. And now it makes me happier to listen to you speak of that state because I can understand those nostalgic, joyful memories more. Like how I almost wish I didn’t say how we were like Mel Bryant’s “Wildflower” because I can’t think of any flowers other than you. Taking my shoes off in your mother’s apartment was the most horrifying thing I ever did, mainly out of disbelief that someone would ever truly invite me into their home. If you hadn’t asked for me to pack a pillow and show up at your doorstep, I sure as hell would not have. I was trying to take my damn time, but you made me crack so much faster. It only took a couple of months before I was sobbing in front of you. It only took you a couple of days (probably). In earnest, I can’t really remember the first days. I remember that first lunch in the back of the cafeteria with just you and me—you opened your mouth, and I knew you were safe. But I recall those sunlit lounges and overused couches more. I recall just trying to get my driving course done so my mom would be satisfied (it didn’t work). And I know I’ve brought it up a million times, but that night in April when I was at my wits’ end, when I was scared, when she hung over me like the dried wildflowers that used to be strung up over my bed, you offered me a place to stay. I said no, and I hope I will never have to say otherwise. But the words hung over me heavier than her. I think—I think I felt seen for once in my life. I hate being visible—I avoid my reflection for my own sake— but you’re different. I see your old photos of us, and I don’t regret you taking them. Because in them, you can see us happen.

Charlotte Robinson ‘24

The Shy Neighbor

by Blaire Taylor ‘26

the shy neighbor girl next door was quiet at first constantly writing in her little notebook but one day i found her up in a tree and she said, “come up and watch with me” and so i did we sat up there together just watching the world for a while and then we started talking she told me her name is Irene she told me about all her dreams, thoughts, and secrets and i told her about mine everyday up in that old maple tree eventually i asked if i could read her notebook and she said yes

i opened it up and there were thousands of poems some were about how lonely she was before she moved and then i saw ones about us sitting up in a tree together

on the last page she wrote on she had written i love him, the boy who sits up in the tree with me

i saw this and gasped and said i love you too Irene and so i kissed the shy neighbor next door up in that maple tree and that was the first of many times i married Irene and proposed to her in the maple tree

mellow drama

Claire Chesnut ‘23

There’s a way that the air breathes in coffee shops that’s unlike any other. It breathes focus, connection, and lonesomeness but not in a tragic way. Soft footsteps across the worn wood set a rhythm alongside the dripping espresso and click of compact laptop keyboards. Melancholy, prolepsis, and milky whispers hang like smoke, seeping through cracks in the floor and cracks in unsteady egos.

Between frantic scribbles, a poet seated by the window sneaks glances through the glass as if expecting someone. Her pen runs along her page in a seemingly continuous line, never lifting aside from the periodic pause to search the windowpane for her missing partner. Businessmen on a mission to recruit new clones to rot over keyboards in windowless offices chatter by untouched hot cappuccinos about how John, their near-billionaire ringleader, is “one of the good ones.” Yet John can never really be a “good one” if he has generated and retained enough money to provide healthcare to 22 million people and likely cuts the

paychecks of employed women to give milliondollarbonuses to the slyest of plagiarizing white men. Muttering under her breath in the corner table, a woman draped in battered florals and aged lace curses the small letters on her mobile crossword puzzle that her eyes struggle to make out even after long years of squinting to see the curl of her late wife’s eyelashes and the brush of her freckles in the summer. The barista who carefully curates the postcards taped to the back wall and the soft jazz whispering over the speakers jots down the orders of their regulars with ease, remembering briefly mentioned weekend plans and names of mothers to ask about the next time the regulars come in as the card reader flashes green.

The years-worn green door swings open, cool air momentarily hushing the curl of a jazzy saxophone, and reveals the shapes of two bodies,

Melancholy, prolepsis, and milky whispers hang like smoke, seeping through cracks in the floor and cracks in unsteady egos.

seemingly arriving as a pair, with two entirely separate entities. They cross the threshold from concrete to the softened hardwood of the café and, and though they appear knowing of each other’s obscure talents and hidden birthmarks, the pair fits like two puzzle pieces not made to join but shoved together by the angry fists of a toddler.

beach, their conversation mesmerizes other patrons who look up from their papers and laptops for more than a glance. They pause only occasionally to watch the other as if staring at a complex painting and then once when the barista delivers steaming porcelain mugs to the wooden table.

They stumble around each other towards the hanging chalked menu in heavy Dr. Martens and oversized cargo pants that once walked the unfinished railroad ties of the California Zephyr. The barista greets them with a smile dripping in warm honey, scratching down “the usual” for one and a hot Americano for the other.

They settle into a table against the back wall and the shared bill gets shoved down the buttoned front pocket of one’s quilted jacket. Chattering back and forth about tattoos on kneecaps and cows on road trips and sand on towels at the

Conversation runs like a river, speaking and pausing like well-played records. They know when to keep quiet and when to fill the lulls as if already knowing their partner’s response. Yet they speak in a way that still startles the other, ever in apparent awe of each other no matter the years. Saying everything and nothing, they touch on the oldies playing at the 80s theater that may be crumbling apart but no one chooses to notice, and how California could be a sock for a very long foot. The way that people continue to smile as they walk apart after saying their goodbyes and the yellowing, handwritten receipts at all-sales-final antique shops, children’s faces on the sides of milk jugs, and the illusion of southern manners that are truly rooted in hatred. How one’s parents welcome them just as they are, messy mullets, new hobbies and all, and the others silently slide the door chain into the lock cutout after disapproving glances and head shakes. Their connection is beautiful, how they weave into each other and quilt their presences with the seam evident but tightly enough to defy

They exist like an old letter with words written vertically and horizontally to save paper, both stories legible but intricately intertwined.

even the strongest of shears. They exist like an old letter with words written vertically and horizontally to save paper, both stories legible but intricately intertwined. Eyes fixed on the other as if the artists had adorned them with the glowing golden halo of angels and gods. Faces rest on hands and in the hands of the other, reassuring and delicate, a stark contrast to the sharp angles of collarbones and profane messages on t-shirts about the Christian God and a witch coven.

The dainty chipped red clock hanging above the squeaky door ticks along to the rhythm of the mellow jazz, welcoming and bidding farewell to each foot that crosses the seam in the flooring. It rests there as a reminder of the passing moments that help wrinkles deepen and earlobes relax into the beauty of age. The steady clicks around the endless circular track eventually call the pair from their place over the coffee-stained wooden table to wander carefully towards the same green door that they once entered. Floor creaking under their shuffling, a soft navy jacket slings over the shoulders of one though they are already warm from the down feathers, the once steaming espresso, and the honey gaze of their partner. Hands wave to the kind rosy face of the barista, and they cross from the loved hardwood

to the stone-y concrete, clock ticking in a farewell. The hem of one’s shirt snags on the door handle and with a soft pull, they wander away from the warm air of the café and into the harsh sun of the warming earth. Ceramic mugs now in the small bowl labeled “dirty,” rings of condensation, and a drop of foamy milk soaking into the wooden table remain the only signs of their mellow presence.

Ceramic mugs now in the small bowl labeled “dirty,” rings of condensation, and a drop of foamy milk soaking into the wooden table remain the only signs of their mellow presence.

To Be Human

Kaia Putman ‘23

I never really was human

Until you came along

Offered up your hand

Picked me up off the ground

“Human” then was something

You wanted me to be--

I wrapped myself in a lie

That everyone could see

Can I live, being human?

I asked as affection waned

You see, a year went by

And I never could be tamed

The Hidden Bell Ringer

The Hidden Bell Ringer

Nika Vahadi ‘ 24

Nika Vahadi ‘24

Digital Photograph

The Silence of Songbirds

by Laurel O’Brien ‘25

It’s raining outside of my small, ratty apartment in London. Each raindrop hits against the window with such undeterred strength. And then, it’s raining inside, too. At first, it’s a painful, sluggish drip, drip, drip, and then there’s a steady stream of gray water pouring from a crack in the ceiling. My bed creaks, slow and drawn out like the rumored wailing of a ghost, as I stand up, shivering. My thin sheets do nothing when it comes to this unimaginable cold. I get a dull, silver pot from the kitchen and put it under the leak.

The blinking clock on my bedside table reads 3:01 AM.

I turn the lamp on. The bulb flickers and buzzes unsettlingly, and my grayish curtains shift from a stray draft. The lamp flashes out. Dead.

I rummage through the junk drawer in my kitchen until I find the matches. Small fires, tiny little fires, are so mesmerizing in the darkness. I light a lavender-scented candle.

The coffee maker whirrs as it comes to life, and I am thankful once I have something to hold. As I look

around my cramped kitchen, with its paper-thin walls, muted colors, and empty space, I see myself. My choices, my passion, my mind leading me to this very moment, where I look at all there is and all there will be and the overwhelming mediocrity of it hurts. I chastise myself for being so entitled, thinking I deserved more from the universe then it has already given me. The heat of the mug is the only comfort on this uninspired, abysmal night.

The blinking clock on the stove reads 4:02 AM.

I’ve almost left the kitchen when I see him. Not really, of course. He left long ago along with my optimism and sense of accomplishment. But there are always reminders of him, no matter how much I scrub and clean. This time, it’s a fragile rose crafted from a ripped The New York Times he got when he was studying abroad in America. I had just graduated high school and he was spending the summer in New York. He

gave it to me that one night when we were walking together into the dusk, when I felt like I could reach the stars, just reach up and hold one with my bare hands as no human has ever done before. How naïve of me to think I could ever hold that much beauty in my hands and come out unscathed. The petals of the small flower droop just slightly in a forgotten corner of

my kitchen, in a vase I bought from a thrift shop up town. The vase is covered in little blue birds. “Look at these misshapen peacocks,” he’d laughed, pointing at the vase. But they weren’t misshapen peacocks. They were Crowned Pigeons. I didn’t correct him.

I see myself. My choices, my passion, my mind leading me to this very moment, where I look at all there is and all there will be, and the overwhelming mediocrity of it hurts.

The Changing of the Season | Cameron Dow ‘25 | Digital Photograph

Now, I take the flower delicately in my hand and bring it up to nose as if it is a real flower. It smells like being forgotten.

I sit down at my desk still holding the flower and look out to the city, then to my work, sipping my coffee tiredly. My poems, my words, my mind—raw, vulnerable, unguarded, poured painstakingly onto pages and pages, my passion evident in ink-covered hands, stubby nails, and bleeding cuticles. Yet each word seems tired, each sentence nonsensical, each poem worthless trash. Costly trash.

I uncap my pen.

I gave up college for this. I gave up my parent’s approval. I gave up financial stability. I gave up the familiarity of America.

The ink glints beguilingly.

My mother was right. These are “stupid nineteen-year-old whimsies.”

Intangible dreams.

Ink swells and trickles down to my hand. The droplet is a dark bloodred.

But who would’ve known that my passion for writing would cease

along with his “unconditional love and affection”? But let’s be real, he never loved me, did he?

The ticking clock on the wall reads 5:39 AM.

I walk over to my old armchair and turn on the television, tucking my legs underneath me and pulling a thin blanket over my shivering body. The television blinks on, and the gruff, low voice of a sport’s announcer sounds for just a second. There is screaming, cheering, joy evident as the players sprint across the unnaturally bright green field. But the scene glitches out to a shifty, gray scene and the screaming of static filles my ears, loud, blaring, and unwelcoming. I lurch back, covering my ears from this—this unholy noise, and scramble to find the remote. Silence.

I walk, no—pace around my small apartment, aimless walking, everroaming, restless, restrained. My phone buzzes softly on my bedside table, flashing bright blue, then fading. I hurry over, but it’s only a co-worker. Take my shift tmrw?

The blinking clock on my phone reads 6:43 AM.

Outside, the screeching of tires against slick pavement is accompanied by panicked honking. I set my phone down and look out my window just as the cars narrowly avoid a crash. I sigh, unlatch the door to my balcony and look out at the glowing city. The traffic is a steady flow of cars, each with headlights bright and constant, horns loud. Even this early in the morning, people have places to be. It wasn’t worth it.

None of it was, not really. I should have gone to college. I should be in America right now, partying with my American friends until the early hours of the morning, not sitting in a dirty, tiny, ancient apartment, too broken and too uninspired to write something new.

And the rain is a relief, isn’t it?

Why was I stupid enough to sacrifice my life for him?

My mother’s words echo in my mind. “When your life falls apart and you come crawling back to me, you better remember how I warned you.” The only colorful thing in my apartment catches my eye. Dangling from a string of yarn is the blue-gray

feather of an American Kestrel I found when my friends and I accidentally drove up to Canada. That feels like ages ago. Next to it, I hung the dark indigo quill of a Ruby-throated Hummingbird. The iridescent feather of a six-feathered bird-of-paradise. The blue and white one of a Giant Kingfisher.

I force open the door of my balcony. The feathers sway in the wind. I step out onto the charcoal gray of the balcony and look up at the sky. How comforting it is to be in chaos, with the world paralleling the turmoil of my mind. If only I could write some of the madness down…

The chiming tower in the distance reads 7:00 AM.

Then, I hear a slow, melancholy tune drift out the open window next door. The man in 405 is playing once again, the depressing, dramatic melody of his own design. I close my eyes and sway to the slow, echoing song, rainwater streaming down my face. My arms and legs are heavy and the water mixes with my own tears until I’m a soaking mess, my hair sticking to my face in dark tendrils. The wind is loud in my ears as I sway to the last lingering, searching note until the

song slowly falls away, leaving echoing, despondent, and utterly endless silence in its wake. There is the quiet pattering of footsteps and the clicking of light switches as the man in 405 retires to bed. Or maybe, he’s going to work. All I know for sure is that somehow, the world seems even lonelier than it had before. Except nothing has changed. But then, the door to his balcony creaks open, and he steps out. He looks disheveled in his suit, with his bowtie undone, his suit jacket draped over his arm, and his once crisp, white button-up now wrinkled and untucked. He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves and rolls them up to his elbows, looking up at the blackened clouds with relief.

And the rain is a relief, isn’t it? There is a flash of white-hot lightning as the world splits apart, and I let some of my fury go. The electricity of the sky halts time, if only for a second, but that is all I need. I look up at the sky, at the world really, and I think I’ll be okay.

I know I’ll be okay.

One day, it’ll all be worth it.

I see the orangey-brown shape of an American Robin flutter over to my balcony, perching on my railing. I freeze. It flaps around, letting out a few

cheerful notes of song, before flying away.

She is the melody, and I am the words.

“Uh, neighbor-woman?”

I look up, startled, to find the man in 405 looking at me expectantly. And then I smile. “Pardon? Neighborwoman?”

He nods.

“Yes?”

“Your rose, it’s ahh…”

I look down. I’m still holding my coffee and that paper rose from that night long ago. The rose’s damp petals hang limply, crumpling into a sodden mush of wet paper, and rainwater splashes in my mug, mixing with the coffee into a murky graybrown.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, and I can honestly say that I mean it. I let the paper rose fall apart. I let him be forgotten.

“Here,” he says. He undoes the boutonniere from his suit jacket and tosses it to me. I catch it, startled, and look at the bright, golden petals of a sunflower. “For inspiration.”

It isn’t a rose, but it’s enough.

Window | Mags McKinney ‘24 | Oil On Canvas

ESSE 24

clementine (i still love you)

Madison Morrissey ‘25

the orange sits lonesome in (y)our fruit bowl. you’re more lonesome though and i wish for a moment that you stayed. the fruit bowl we bought together at that flea market, remember? of course you can’t remember. you can’t hear me. i wish you did. would you listen? you pulled me close, you grabbed my pinky, too shy to connect our palms, and shuffled awkwardly (you inherited your walk from your mother) to this stupid booth that sold these oranges. i hated oranges, i was allergic. but you didn’t know that, and you looked so happy, i wanted to make you happy, you pulled me in your sweater and i smelled the street tacos we bought earlier and you bought me some oranges and i ate them and i thought then that maybe i was something worth loving. i wonder if you saw the hives rising in my cheeks. if oranges have to change and peel, we have to too, right? i’ve never been a fan of opening up. funny how we refuse to peel. it isn’t so orange now, clementine’s trainwreck of browns and yellows look like your bruises, the ones i can only see in the hard part of the night when no one can see the wine stains on your skin but me. i trace my fingers over the orange and i’m reminded that you’re gone and it’s not your fruit bowl and it’s mine now and that i am simply a human bruise with blood draining from me by the minute because i cannot have you. why? i’m looking at the orange and all i can see is your face and your eyes and your sweater that smells like street tacos and i can’t breathe and the clementine just grew legs and sat beside me and my skin breaks into hives and i see you and the birthmark above your eyebrow and you kiss my forehead and everything quiets for a moment and i think i still love you.

Insides

Kaia Putnam ‘23

I want to love with my heart wide open Organs showing, blood pouring red Onto the one before me

I want to love with fervor

Shaking my very being, bursting arteries just to see my person in the morning

I want to love with every single bone

In my body from my femur to the stapes Because I don’t want to hold anything back

I want to love with heartstrings tied together Where all my thoughts can be in the open No secrets allowed, a simultaneous thought

I want a love where smiles are contagious And every fault is smoothed We’ll jump without hesitation into life

Me, Myself, and Something Else Me, and Else

Simone Mayega ‘ 23 Simone Mayega ‘23 Oil On Canvas On Canvas

the human experience

A Collection of Words Which, When Strung Together, Might Convey Some Feelings

LiLi Alderink ‘23

Literary People: To Feel is To Be Human (An Introduction)

Experiencing the consequence of emotions and the mere existence of free will (or choice) are concepts that can be seen as “strictly human,” yet why does the effect of such ideas make me feel more akin to a monster than human? Am I a monster for choosing the action that leads to the least painful consequence for myself, or just a selfish human? Am I a monster for valuing the words of a once-stranger over the words of the people who have dedicated seventeen years of their life to raising me, or just an ungrateful human? Slapping such degrading adjectives in front of the word “human” ironically makes the phrase seem less human. A sick human. A lazy human. An egocentric human. Contrarily, an uplifting adjective

compares the person to a deity. An important human. A caring human. A hard-working human. Those are the types of people to be praised and uplifted by the rest of society. No one wants to be associated with the likes of you.

Be gentle. Be caring. Be fragile. Be everything, but nothing at the same time. I’m overwhelmed by how underwhelming it is, by how exhausting it is to keep up with what other people have to say. So I don’t.

But if this process has taught me anything, it’s thatIt’s okay to feel. And this collection contains a lot of feelings. Everything is going to be okay.

Inside and Out, You’re Beautiful (On Rejection, Loss of Motivation)

It starts with a flame.

Oh, how brightly it flickers even in the darkest of days. You spend years nurturing the flame, feeding it, making sure nothing can blow it out.

So, you learn to burn.

You burn with everything in you. Never enough, but too much all at once. Music, reading, writing, math, programming, sports… the medals and ribbons start to accumulate on your shelf. The flame burns brighter. But caught up in the middle of it all, you can’t help but feel as if the fire was never real to begin with.

The days are bright, but the nights are darker. The flame is there to keep you sane.

The Portal to Hyper Fixation

The Portal to Hyper Fixation

Olivia Dominguez ‘ 23 Olivia Dominguez ‘23

Digital Photograph

Alas, the day comes when you start to really burn – the four years of youth. The flame felt real. Instead of burning for the sake of producing ashes for show, now you burn because you enjoy the feeling of being alive. The new things that matter to you – friends, identity, music – have become the fuel you need to keep going. Hyper-fixation is your friend.

The days are dim, the nights stygian. The flame flickers but never goes out.

You finally realize the point of burning. It’s not about achieving the highest level of light, but rather which match will choose you? Hours are spent trying to perfect your flame – it almost goes out, figuratively and literally in the process, but it’s all for the match. It’ll be worth it, you tell yourself, it must be. Because if it isn’t… well, you haven’t really thought that far.

The days are colored, the nights are black and white. The flame is your purpose.

there are people with bigger and better flames, but you’ve reached your limit and you recognize that. You’re proud of your flame for how far you’ve come.

The days are bright again, and so is the night despite everything. The flame is beautiful. No horror movie could prepare you for the fright of the match applications. You give it your all and hope you can catch the eye of your favorite match. The flame burns vigorously. You plead with whoever exists beyond that you get noticed – that your flame is bright enough, warm enough, and big enough. Everyone around you is telling you that you’ll be noticed for sure. They’re crazy if they don’t, they say:

“Maybe you’ve always had a way of predicting the future.” Maybe they are crazy.

The flame doesn’t provide any warmth despite being a flame.

It diminishes but doesn’t go out. Not yet.

Not yet. Not now. After preparing your whole life for this moment. After giving it your all. Pushing yourself to the limit, almost blowing out your own flame. Driving yourself insane with the heat radiating from the flame. It’s not fair, you think. Well, of course, life isn’t fair, comes the voice, but I’ve prepared for this for so long, I deserve it. Do you though? I’ve worked so hard, tortured myself to try to be good enough. Do better then. I reached my limit. Look around you; they’ve gone beyond.

I hate it all. The comparison. The competition. The strictness. The slim chances. Why can’t my efforts bring something to life? Instead, the brighter I burn, the more everything turns to ashes around me.

People compliment your flame, so you think it’s going pretty well. Of course,

“Maybe you’re just a pessimist. A really unlucky one.” Or maybe, “your best wasn’t enough. It never was, and it never will be,” Is what you say to yourself once you get your match rejection letter.

…

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

…

It’s cold. Where’s the flame?

…

I feel empty. If only the flame were here.

The day is… well, you aren’t sure. The night is… well, it’s hard to tell. The flame is nowhere to be found. There’s nothing left to show for your dedication except the wax and ashes. The wax, a reminder of how hard you tried, how hard you burned, just to drown in self-sabotage from your own flame.

The ashes, a reminder that no matter what happens, you burn all that you touch. And maybe, just maybe, you regret burning that much.

What good is a self-destructive flame? Burning was never worth it anyways.

You blow the flame out.

Unbothered (On Depression)

It doesn’t bother me, not really.

Doesn’t bother me when I wake up and I have no notifications. Doesn’t bother me when I skip meals to do work. Doesn’t bother me when I forget to shower.

Doesn’t bother me when every little thing becomes a chore, And every person irritates me.

When lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, all the thoughts come rushing back.

I’ve tried so hard to forget them, to busy myself with no free time, but they Always. Come. Back. Always, “Is it that time of month?”

“Why can’t you be happy?”

“I’m tired of your attitude.”

“Be happy. Have a happy day.”

…

I can’t help but think of the “whatifs.” I know what I am capable of, but rejection feels like a stab wound. Now all I can do is wait. Wait for what?

Wait for the wound to heal. Wait for me to be okay.

Wait for the flame to rekindle.

Never, “I’m here for you.”

And it sure doesn’t bother anyone else. Good. As long as I’m not a bother.

The selfless life of depression.

Untitled (On Perseverance)

I’m so tired.

What good is a selfdestructive flame?

Dying Out – It Hurts More Each Time (On Heartbreak)

And suddenly, you’re here. And I feel okay.

You struck a match and lit my flame again.

And it’s warm again.

But then you’re not.

And I’m wondering what went wrong, where did I go wrong?

How can I salvage this, salvage us?

You lit my flame, only to put it out again yourself. And I’m wondering if love is real, if it exists after all. You’re not who you say you are. Because if you were, I’d have a flame stronger than anyone’s.

I’m sorry.

Only Fools (It hurts)

Foolish girl believing in things as foolish as love, as foolish as another person loving you back how you love them. I wish I wasn’t so foolish. Loving is foolish. Love is for foolish girls, they comfort each other – the girl who cannot stop foolishly loving, and the world with no one to give her foolish love to.

Untitled (On the Fragility of the Heart)

And I have to pick myself back up each time.

It’s me who pieces back together my heart, but it will never love like that again.

It’s me who replaces my band-aids, but

the wounds will never heal if they keep getting re-opened.

It’s me who comforts myself, but no amount of tears can soothe the soul like you did.

And I’m wondering what went wrong, where did I go wrong?

How can I salvage this, salvage us?

I’m left undoing all the damage you were supposed to help me heal. Except this time, my heart cracks once more.

One more step towards shattering completely because I don’t know how much more it can take.

Lonely, Never Alone (On Repetition)

I am not depressed, not clinically at least. These days, you can never know for sure. Days where I feel separated from reality, keep my head down through crowded hallways, constantly plug in headphones, and wake up the next morning to do it all again, start

Burning was never worth it anyways.

to blend. All that is left is this feeling of emptiness, like I am missing something in life. It is not a feeling of depression or sadness but rather a constant nagging at the back of my mind – “Am I doing something wrong? Does everyone feel this hollow inside and out?” I have friends, a good school and teachers, a loving family, and enough money to spend on dumb things, so why is the puzzle not yet complete? These are the questions I want to navigate. Because, for a living being, I feel awfully dead. If I had to describe this feeling, I would put it simply: A desire to be lonely. But that phrase in itself is a contradiction; for how can a human being, made by humans and destined for another, yearn to be separated?

this way. It is not that other people annoy me or have wronged me to the point of spitefulness or rightful wrath, or the fact that I want to be left alone. No, in fact, I crave attention and try my hardest to connect with others. But what’s missing?

I don’t know, so I get up in the morning and do it all over again.

The Daily Routine of Distance (On the Pain of Distance)

9:30 a.m.: I wake up to a good morning text from you, still blissfully happy from the night before. 2 hours later, I’m still in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if you’re okay

I already showered and now it’s 7:30 – where’d the time go… I have a paper due soon.

9:00 p.m.: I still haven’t put in my retainer - waiting for you to call, for it to all be okay. Because I didn’t put in my retainer for you. Whatever, I’ll start my work now. it’s okay.

It’s 10:30 p.m., and I have to go to bed. Yet again, I’m left feeling lonely. But it’s not your fault; it never is. Then why do I keep trying to blame you? Oh yeah, I need to put my retainer in.

12:00 a.m.: I’m still up. I shouldn’t be. Did I do something wrong? You know you can come and talk to me about anything right? You trust me… right?

Well, it appears I am good at asking questions I do not know the answers to.

I have some guesses as to why I feel

12:00 p.m.: lunchtime rolls around, so I check in; of course, you’re still busy, but I am too so it’s okay. it’s 3:00 p.m. now, and I get hungry, so I go downstairs just to feel guilty. I send you another text while I’m already feeling it.

5:00 p.m.: the overthinking starts, and I haven’t been productive at all. It’s almost dinner time though, so I’ll save the work for afterwards. But it’s okay.

1:00 a.m.: I love you.

Untitled (On Loss)

“You are my proudest granddaughter, “I LOVE YOU”

That was the last thing she said to me, 6 days ago. And now I’ll never hear from her again.

It’s a funny thing, loss is. I already cried my tears. Or maybe I don’t have any left. But I didn’t cry this morning

Because, for a living being, I feel awfully dead.

when my mom walked in at 6:06 a.m. and told me she passed. I didn’t cry when I showed up at school at 6:45 a.m., when I went to class and reread that last text over and over. And it’s weird because I’m not feeling anything. Why, why am I not feeling anything? Had I already come to terms with her death? Had I already felt everything, and now I’m just hollow on the inside? Am I not worthy enough to shed tears for her?

Tell your loved ones you love them. You never know when it will be the last time.

Untitled (On Heartbreak, Again)

In my heart, there’s a hole that you said you would fill, reaching out with open arms. Instead, you twisted the knife, pulled it out, and left me bleeding.

And yet I’m the sorry one.

A Conclusion (The End)

Can’t we just Start over?

But I Just Can’t Help Myself

by Sidney Kovacs ‘24

I stumble, I fall, I will forget you all, But I just can’t help myself. If you asked if I’m okay, I might forget to say, Yes, I am great. How are you? But I just can’t help myself. Don’t be surprised when I don’t show up, To a meeting or your birthday, I am only a person, remember? I just can’t help myself.

When I get knocked down, I don’t know if I’ll ever get off the ground.

You use your wings and gracious arms to lift me toward the sky, But I kick and scream the whole way up. Even though you are only trying to uncut The webs that welcome me home. I will get it someday, Maybe not now or maybe not today, But I can help myself, with your way.

A Hero Would Let You Burn

Cora Mahaney ‘25

A hero would let you burn to save the world. A villain would set the world on fire To save you. For all the time I’ve known you You have thought yourself To be the villain.

Someone who leaves Only a path of destruction In their wake.

But you were wrong You still are wrong. You were never the villain, Just a hero— A human one.

A human hero

Who makes mistakes Who gets up after being Knocked down Time And Time Again.

I know this because I’ve watched you grow Into someone kind Into someone who risks their life for others Into someone who saves the world Even if it meant letting me burn.

the unseen as i see

Phoebe White ‘23

starless sky, no north to pull me home amaranth poem: unsolved, unread alluring shades of monochrome rhyme after reason, built from honeycomb a gift from Venus-- one widowed starless sky, no north to pull me home

no love to bemoan mind heavy with graphite, not lead alluring shades of monochrome

dichotomy matched from troublesome love, an azure landscape, ever ablaze starless sky, no north to pull me home

take me down the path my mind ever-roams perfectly crafted pirouette alluring shades of monochrome waves crashing into seafoam endless pattern to be endlessly revered starless sky, no north to pull me home alluring shades of monochrome

stained flowers

Marianna Young ‘23

Marianna Young ‘ 23

Digital Photograph

Ode to ChickFlicks

How I wish love would fall at my door, landing with a resounding knock and red roses that last forevermore. You can’t judge a girl for wanting it all, chocolates every holiday and maybe a gift-wrapped puppy that pitter-patters down the hall.

I can see your eyeroll from here, you know. But for a girl raised on strawberry ice cream and chick-flicks with my mom, beyond all the romance and enchantment, I just want my Dad to call.

To pick up the phone and know he’s there because his absence in this home is sometimes too much to bear. A blanket that suffocates instead of comforts, when seeking warmth from his cold incumbrance. To believe he will come home is a fruitless endeavor, as love in this life has shown to break before even the winter. To believe the bonds of his marriage will drag him back is just widening my heart’s broken and frayed gaps. Those cracks I tried to bandage at the mere age of two are stuck— his absence free for everyone to view. But I can’t seem to shake the hope of his return because wouldn’t he come back for even me?

Hence my love for Ryan Reynolds, Target’s brilliant array of gourmet treats, and Emily Henry’s propensity towards cute-meets. Laugh and call me naive for loving it all, but wouldn’t you want to believe, too, that your father would call? How I wish love would fall at my door, or maybe just my Dad, who would stay forevermore.

Jordan Malone ‘25

Engulfed

Simone Mayega ‘23

Charcoal on Paper

ESSE 42

Filling The Puddle

Miranda Moyse ‘24

My mother always taught me how to love with a drowning heart: engulfing but promising a chance.

She tries to bridge us, as best as she can. Tries to salvage our decaying relationships. Our responsibilities too.

She is beyond capable of leading her lambs to the promised land, but the scars burn deep in our wool.

We must hear her.

Me— I fall subject to my high-handed mentality over the people I should be leading, too. My directions often melt into disagreements and puddles of desire.

Puddles of my desire to help her that as I look over, I see the same, submerged reflection.

When do I pull myself out?

The Colors of Singapore The Colors Singapore

Leah Osbaldeston ‘26 ‘26

Mixed Media

dear fathers, tar, and showers

Claire Chesnut ‘23

you cut mushrooms for dinner by the angry hole in the wall gifted to our kitchen by your father it’s covered by a wonderful pal

a collarless blue jacket hangs we eat with the baby spoons your name is the whole universe we’re stuck like tongue and groove

the vest sags a bit too low a parking strip paints the past june doors creak after seven hours scraping tar dull for a steady pulse

gun fights in the shower you sing me to sleep with some lullaby about a tragic disease

the house is on fire the door caves in the crowd, they scream by night, they put us on instagram

there’s a snowflake on your nose your skin’s frozen to vegan leather and the lines on your legs are flowers, now they don’t show

your red boatneck shirt’s a hand on my neck so tight we hold each other on the carpet to remind us we’re alright

Sincerely, A. Stranger

Grace Gargiulo ‘23

Amelia Stranger: The middle child of the Stranger children. The one tasked with writing a eulogy for her father. She’s a semi-professional writer around twenty-five.

Michael “Moody” Stranger: Amelia’s best friend in the family and second child around twenty-six. Who definitely shows up to the funeral high and wearing sunglasses and definitely claps after the eulogy even though that is very much not how one is supposed to react to a eulogy.

Mary Jane “MJ” Stranger: The youngest of the Stranger children around seventeen years old. Just recently started going by MJ around freshman year of high school (does NOT want to be asked about college) and still has to correct her family members.

ventures before selling out and joining his father’s company.

Lucille Stranger: Overbearing mother. Think Lucille from Arrested Development.

Alastair Stranger: The elusive (and dead) father who wasn’t the nicest of guys when all was said and done—he was business focused and sometimes that meant being not-so-child-focused. He did however have a special bond with Amelia (the only other A. Stranger) in the family.

Rachel: Ryan’s mother and Moody’s therapist.

Ryan: Rachel’s son and MJ’s crush.

Setting: A fancy penthouse in the Northeast inside a living room with two couches facing a coffee table. There’s a fireplace at the back of the room.

[The stage is dark. We hear a phone ring and a baby cry in the background.]

Sorry, what was that? [We hear muffled crying over the phone] What? He’s…oh, hey, Ma, don’t cry. It’ll… it’ll be alright, don’t worry. I’ll take the next flight out of Boston. Don’t worry about it, I’ll be there before the sun’s up, okay? Just hang tight. See you soon.

[The line clicks and the call ends. There’s a pause. The phone rings again and a tired voice picks up.]

Moody, from offstage: Thank you for calling at three in the morning. This is Greg with Weed and Fur Dealers Limited: you smoke ‘em, we cloak ‘em–oh, hi, Mom. Oh… oh no… that’s terrible. All right. Thanks for calling. [Hangs up]

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

YEAAAAAAAH! [continues cheering like a maniac until the fade-out.]

[The phone rings a third and final time.]

Jack Stranger: The eldest of the Stranger children. Real frat boy to businessman pipeline guy who had numerous unsuccessful business

Jack, from offstage: Lisa, can you–geez! At least we know he’ll be a good swimmer [Picks up phone]. Hello? Yeah, hi, Mom… sorry, I’m just a little— hang on a sec— [Yells] LISA, SMOTHER THE DAMN KID IF YOU HAVE TO! [Back to normal]

Amelia, from offstage: Hello? Mom, what’s up? [a beat] What? No, but I just spoke to him on the phone just yesterday morning, he was… he was fine then, what? What happened? [A beat. When Amelia speaks again, it sounds like she’s on the verge of tears]. Gosh, that’s so quick. Yeah, yeah I can write something. Um, I can be around in an hour or two, just give me time to drop Winnie off with my neighbor. No, Winnie’s a dog, mom, I don’t have any

kids you don’t know about. Is this… is this happening? Is dad really… gone?

[A pause.] Sorry, mom, I have to get going… I’ll see you in a bit. Bye. Love you.

[After a moment, we hear Amelia break down in sobs.]

[BLACKOUT.]

[The lights come up on a lavishly decorated living room– this is where upper-echelon people live. Two figures are already in the room: Lucille is by the mantle with a glass (surely of alcohol) in her hands. Jack sits on the sofa, leans forward, hands on his knees in a very dad-way. His head is down. He also has a glass of some unknown liquor in his hands. As the lights go up, Amelia runs in, clearly a little frazzled.]

Amelia: Sorry, the train broke down on the way here and I had to wait it out.

Lucille: Amelia! Oh, don’t worry about it, darling. The important thing is that you’re here.

[Lucille gets up and hugs Amelia tightly. Amelia looks over her shoulder at Jack, bewildered.]

Amelia, whispering: Is Mom okay?

Jack: She’s been drinking since six in the morning. She’s great.

[Lucille pulls away, still holding Amelia by the shoulders.]

Lucille: I wish you’d brought Willow with you.

Amelia: Winnie.

Lucille: Yes, yes. I so wish I had a companion in this awful moment.

Amelia: We’re here, Mom.

Lucille: Yes, but you know how I just love dogs.

Jack: You hate dogs, Mom. You never let us get one because you said we shed enough as is.

Lucille: I do not hate dogs! I had several growing up. Sure, they were there to guide the horses to the stables, but I loved them just the same. Besides, I’ll take Amelia’s dog over your child any day…

Jack: Okay! Mom, you’ve had a long day, I think you should head up to bed. Amelia and I will handle everything.

[Jack goes to guide Lucille upstairs, but she clearly dislikes the idea.]

Lucille: I won’t hear of it! My dear husband has just passed away, and you’re already treating me like some old maid! It’s shameful, really. What if it had been me? Would you be treating your father this way?

Jack: I would if I thought he’d had enough bourbon to sterilize a gunshot wound. Come on, Ma… you need to rest. We’ll be here when you wake up.

[Lucille pauses, looking at Amelia.]

Lucille: You hold him to that, all right?

Amelia: Of course, Mom.

[Jack takes Lucille gently by the arm and guides her away from the living room.]

Lucille: I really do appreciate you both being here. Sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky with so many lovely children.

Amelia, after a pause: Hey, mom? Where’s Mary Jane?

Lucille: How the hell should I know?

[Lucille and Jack disappear offstage. Amelia sighs, taking her mother’s glass and putting it on a coaster. She wanders around the living room, reminiscing. She’s trying very hard to be strong, but every once in a while, there’s a sniffle. Jack comes back.]

Jack: Well, she’ll be out for a bit. I had

to stop her from popping a couple valium… I hid them in that shoebox at the top of her closet—the one she always complained she couldn’t reach. That should do the trick.

Amelia: That was weird… right?

Jack: Very. I don’t think she’s been this tame in years. She has a vice grip for a fifty-year-old woman, though. She wouldn’t let go of my arm until I promised her I’d bring Lisa and Jack Junior by.

Amelia: How are they?

Jack: Good, we’re all good… Lisa was a little disappointed you couldn’t make it to Jack’s first birthday party.

Amelia: Yeah, I’m so sorry about that. I had an article due and I just couldn’t get myself to write it for about a week. By the time I had an idea where it was going, you were already cutting the cake. I’m sorry.

Jack: I can’t say I was surprised. You always loved your stories.

Amelia: It wasn’t a story, Jack, it was an article. For my job. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices. You of all people should get that.

Jack: What the hell does that mean?

Amelia: It… it doesn’t mean anything. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m just… I’m still a little caught off guard by this whole thing. It’s so sudden. I don’t think we’ve really had any time to deal with it, you know?

I’m sorry, we shouldn’t fight. There’s more important stuff to focus on right now.

Jack: You’re right. I’m sorry, too… I’m glad you’re here.

[Amelia smiles slightly. Both heads turn as a girl around seventeen appears from offstage. She doesn’t seem to be surprised at their arrival, nor really upset.]

Amelia: Mary Jane! Hey, how are you?

Jack: How’re you doing, kid?

MJ: Fine. It’s MJ now.

Amelia: What?

MJ: I go by MJ now. Mary Jane sounds like a kid with a lollipop and ringlets. When is Moody getting here?

Jack: Good to see she never picked favorites.

must’ve been around when… when it all happened.

MJ: No, I was at the game. Marymount was playing St. John’s. Big rivalry.

[MJ flops on the couch, pulling out her phone and texting. Jack and Amelia share a confused look.]

Jack: You know, kid, it’s okay to be upset. What you’re going through… what we’re all going through, it’s a lot to deal with. Any reaction is perfectly fine.

MJ: I’m not going to cry if that’s what you’re asking for.

Jack, slightly uncomfortable: I’m not asking you to [Jack looks to Amelia] Amelia, little help here?

Amelia: Look, MJ, losing a parent is one of the worst things that can happen to someone. We’re not asking you to cry or be upset; We just want to know that you’re okay, okay? And, if you ever did feel like crying, that’s okay. Everybody handles loss in a different way. Maybe it just hasn’t hit you yet, and that’s okay too! Just, when it does, we’re all here for you. You know that, right?

Amelia: Mar– MJ, are you okay? You

MJ: If Moody were here, we wouldn’t

be talking about our feelings.

Jack: If Moody were here, I’d be debating jumping out the window.

Amelia: Hey, he’s not that bad! He’s just… energetic. He’s got spirit.

Jack: Yeah, he’s got the best kind— I think it’s spelled with an A, a D, an H…

Amelia: Jack. Don’t be mean.

Jack: I’m not! I get that you and Moody had some sort of bond growing up, but he’s a dork! Last I heard he was in Vegas, blowing his trust fund in every casino he could find.

MJ: I thought he was a DJ in the Philippines.

Amelia: No, none of that is true. He just… likes to tell stories.

MJ: That’s an interesting way to say, “pathological liar.”

Amelia: He doesn’t lie to me. I know for a fact that he lives in an apartment for a fact that he lives in an apartment in New York with a cat named Rimbaud.

Jack: And how do you know this for a fact?

Amelia: He told me.

[Jack scoffs. MJ rolls her eyes.]

Amelia: What, you think he lied to me too?

MJ: He lies to everyone. It’s why he’s the interesting one.

Amelia: Moody isn’t… he wouldn’t lie! Not to me. He was my best friend growing up, he’s not going to lie to me on a whim. He wouldn’t do that.

Jack: Amelia, that’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do. Moody… he got dropped too much as a kid. That’s not his fault.

Amelia: Okay, both of you stop. You guys just don’t have any faith in him! Let’s just talk about something else, okay? Please.

[They all fall silent. It’s very awkward.]

Jack: So, Mary Jane… you thinking about college?

MJ: Aaaaand that’s my cue to leave. Lovely to see you guys, but I’m going to go grieve, or whatever.

Amelia, on her last nerve: No, no, you aren’t leaving yet. We need to plan, to figure things out. We… we need to mourn, damn it! Let’s all just sit down and mourn!

[Moody has just walked onstage silently. He’s in sunglasses despite being inside. He makes an entrance without even speaking a word.]

Moody: That’s disgusting, I’m leaving.

Amelia: Moody!

Aaaaand that’s my cue to leave. Lovely to see you guys, but I’m going to go grieve, or whatever.

Jack: You’re late, Michael.

Moody: No, I’m not, Jacklemore [like Macklemore but… Jack]. I said I’d be here eventually, and here I am.

Jack: Is that a Starbucks cup?

Moody, holding a very large coffee: Take a guess.

Jack, under his breath: Dear God, please let that be decaf.

MJ: Did you get my order?

Moody: Yes, and you need psychiatric help. Seven shots of espresso is for

doctors and psychopathic murderers. And I really hope you’re neither.

MJ: The jury’s still out on that one.

Jack: … Which one?

[Moody notices Amelia and gasps.]

Moody: Ames! [He hugs her so violently she’s almost knocked off balance]. Wow, look at you! Big— time novelist! Did you grow a few inches? I hear fame will do that to you.

Jack: Novelist? Since when?

Amelia: Oh, um…

Moody: Oh. Oh. You never told them, did you?

Jack: Told us what?

Amelia: Well, a few years ago I wrote a book based on my childhood— on our childhood— and sent it to a publisher. She liked what she saw, and she decided to put it in print. But it’s no big deal, really. It didn’t even do that well.

Moody: No big deal, my clavicle, it was hilarious!

Amelia: It wasn’t really supposed to be a comedy…

Moody: I actually brought my copy with me, I was hoping to get it signed…

[Moody pulls out a worn paperback book. Jack goes to take it from him.]

Jack: Let me see this. [He flips through the pages.]

Moody: Ooh, go to chapter two! That’s where she talks about you.

Amelia: Really, let’s not!

MJ: Hey, I want to see this.

Moody: You’re chapter three.

Jack, reading aloud: “Her eldest brother was the golden boy. From the time he was born, he was primed to take over their father’s business, but it was quickly discovered that he could barely run a Girl Scout meeting, much less a company. After several failed attempts to prove himself to their father, he went to college and became the frat boy he was always meant to be…” What the hell is this?

Moody: Ooh, ooh, keep reading. You’re almost to the part where she talks about flunking out of business school and all those failed start-ups.

Amelia: Can we just put the book away now?

[MJ has now taken the book and flipped to the part about her.]

MJ: “Her youngest sister was their parents’ last chance at a peace treaty. They thought that raising another child would make them as close as they once were, but all it did was drive them apart. They left the first three kids to raise the fourth, and from then on it was a downhill slope.” Are you serious?

Amelia: I… I didn’t…

Moody: Hey, at least she was being honest! We didn’t get that often growing up, remember? At least Amelia could get some profit out of it.

MJ, thoroughly pissed off: Yeah, that makes me feel great.

Moody: Aw, cheer up, Mary Jane! You should’ve read the part about Cousin Lily— I never picked our beloved Ames for a stone-cold mean girl, but that comment about her obsession with vampire novels… whew. Never have I heard someone use the phrase “Bella Swan Wannabe” so insultingly. If I weren’t such a saint, I’d be impressed.

Jack: For the love of God, Michael, take those off! [He rips off Moody’s sunglasses to reveal extremely red eyes]

Are you high?

[Moody pauses.]

Moody: We all grieve in different ways.

Jack: Unbelievable.

Amelia: Look, my editor told me that family drama sells, so I upped the ante on some things. A lot of things. And I felt awful about it— I still do! It was never where I wanted the book to go, but I guess I was just so desperate for someone to like something I wrote that I sold out. I’m sorry, Jack. And MJ. And cousin Lily. And Cousin Greg.

[Moody claps Amelia on the shoulder and sighs.]

Moody: We all hated Cousin Greg, kid. Don’t worry about that one.

Jack: Okay, this is not the time for this, alright? Now that we’re all here, can we please just deal with the situation at hand?

Moody: Absolutely, yeah… this wallpaper needs to go. I just look at it and know mom picked it out when she was knee-deep in the liquor cabinet. It’s really not the statement she thinks it is.

Jack: No, Michael! Dad!

Moody: Ohhhhh, that. Yeah, I brought something for that.

[Moody digs around in his pocket and pulls out a tiny popper (like the ones you use on New Year’s Eve). He pulls the string and it pops, sending a small burst of confetti into the air. The room is dead silent. Moody is unsure why everyone looks so shocked.]

Moody, quietly trying to get the vibes up: Yaaaaay… confetti.

Jack: Is this some kind of sick joke?

Moody: No, but I did hear a really good one the other day. So a grasshopper walks into a bar—

Jack: Michael!

Moody, yelling: Come on, you hated him too! The guy was a jerk. All he cared about was his business and his millions. We were just little blood bags living in his house and spending his money. All we did was take from him. He treated us like garbage.

Amelia: Moody, that’s not fair.

Moody: Of course, it doesn’t seem fair to you. Dad loved you. You were the only one who ever got through to him. There’s always a favorite—it wasn’t Frat Chad over here, or Wednesday

Addams, and it sure as hell wasn’t me. That leaves perfect little Amelia.

Amelia: I wasn’t perfect. And I wasn’t the favorite.

Moody: Well, then, what were you? Because as far as I know, you’re the only one he ever bothered to call.

Amelia: I was complicit, Moody. I was the only one willing to shut up and do what he asked me to do. That was the only reason he could stand me. So yeah, maybe I was the favorite, but if it’s only because I was willing to be a suck-up my whole life then I really wish I wasn’t.

he could barely run a Girl Scout meeting, much less a company.

[There’s an awkward pause.]

MJ: I’m sorry, I really don’t understand why I need to be here right now. This seems like some big kid drama that I really don’t need to be a part of… Jack: You’re staying down here, Mary Jane. Look, can we stop getting off track here? We can deal with all of this later when we don’t need to plan a funeral.

Moody: Oh, Goddddd can we please not use the F-word? I hate funerals.

MJ: They’re not really supposed to be fun things, dude.

Jack: We need to talk about this now, Michael. I get that you’d rather be blazing up right now, but this is a serious matter.

Moody, trying not to laugh: Blazing up? Wow, fatherhood really has taken a toll on you, huh? What, are you gonna tell me you’re disappointed in me? Ground me? Be honest, did you read a parenting book? Look at your face… of course he did.

Jack: I’m warning you…

Moody: And what’s the deal with all this Michael business? No one’s called me that since I was watching Mr. Rogers. Well, no one except Dad, which— Oh. Oh. Is that it? You think that since Dad’s gone, you have to step up? Be the man of the house?

Jack: Michael, stop it.

[Moody groans.]

Moody: There you go again! Look man, I get it. Dad’s dead, you’re having your little emo moment, thinking about all this responsibility you have now. You’re gonna take over the business,

probably give your kid some serious emotional trauma, probably have a couple affairs along the way—although I do really like Lisa, so I will murder you if that happens—and then you’ll make some millions and move into a mansion just like this. You’re thinking about how you’re gonna screw up your kids, screw up your wife, and then one day you’re gonna wake up and realize that you’re just like him.

Jack: I’ll never be like him!

[Jack breaks down sobbing. None of the other siblings have ever seen this before. While Jack’s head is in his hands/he’s facing away, they have a silent, frantic conversation, mouthing things like “WHAT DO I DO?” “I DON’T KNOW MAN YOU FIX THIS!” “ME? I DON’T KNOW HOW TO DEAL WITH EMOTIONS!” etc. Slowly and after much prodding, Moody takes cautious steps towards Jack and pats him on the back.]

Moody: Hey, hey bud, it’s—it’s okay. I’m sure you won’t turn into dad, you know? As far as we know, you have a moral compass, so you’re already leaps and bounds ahead of the old man.

in the way of that. [He continues to sob violently.] Jack… are you okay?

Jack: I’m sorry… this is the first time I’ve shown emotions in ten years.

[Suddenly, MJ bursts into uncontrollable laughter, as in, about to be rolling on the floor laughing.]

Amelia: MJ!

MJ, still laughing: I’m sorry! I just find people crying really funny sometimes!

Moody: Maybe I was right; Mom did birth the antichrist. Hey, at least we know now that it’s not me!

Jack, still crying: This isn’t funny, Mary Jane!

[She cackles harder.]

Amelia, trying to calm everyone down: Guys, it’s okay! It’s okay! I’ll just… grab some tissues! Mom always kept them in the liquor cabinet because that’s usually where she’d go when she was sad, right? I’ll go get them!

[Amelia goes to open the cabinet, but it won’t budge.]

Amelia: Guys, I think… I think it’s locked?

Moody: That’s odd. I think I would remember if they kept the liquor cabinet locked when I was in high school.

Do it quick, please! Chad Michael Murray over here is getting snot on my Saint Laurent!

Amelia: It’s jammed. Something’s caught in the— oh, crap!

[There’s a loud hissing as Amelia immediately goes to slam the cabinet door. She presses her back to it, eyes wide.]

Amelia: So… I don’t mean to alarm you all… but there may or may not be a snake in the cabinet.

[Jack stops crying and looks up.]

Jack: What?

[Amelia nods, terrified.]

Amelia: And Jack, you don’t need to take Dad’s place. Mom can handle all of that. You need to focus on Jack Junior and Lisa. Don’t let this stand

Moody: Do it quick, please! Chad Michael Murray over here is getting snot on my Saint Laurent! Hey, that is designer, alright? Get your football hands off my pressed collar!

Amelia: Big snake. Big, big snake.

Jack: You’re telling me…that there’s a giant snake in our mother’s liquor

cabinet. [Amelia nods. There’s a pause.] No. No way. I don’t believe this. Amelia, I’ve had enough of your stories, and this is the last I’ll hear of...

[Jack opens the cabinet and lets out the most high-pitched jarring shriek anyone has ever heard. He slams the cabinet door, terrified. The next time he speaks, he’s trying very hard to keep his voice calm and level.] Amelia, Michael, move the couch in front of the cabinet.

Amelia: I don’t think that–

Jack, high-- pitched, voice cracking: MOVE THE COUCH!

[Moody and Amelia jump into action, moving the living room couch in front of the cabinet. They all stare at it nervously.]

Moody: Okay but are we sure that there’s really a–[There’s a sudden hiss and banging from inside the cabinet. The snake is very unhappy. Moody cowers behind Jack, also screaming at the top of his lungs. Suddenly, he cackles.]

Jack: Michael, what did you do?

Moody, laughing: I didn’t do this!

Jack: Then why are you laughing?

Moody: Because whoever did is a

friggin genius!

Jack: This isn’t a joke. I swear to God, whoever did this…

Lucille: It was me. [They all turn to see Lucille on the other side of the room. She looks perfectly pristine, and seemingly sober. She looks at them unwaveringly, as if she knows about the snake and is not fazed by it in the slightest.]

Amelia: Mom?

Jack: You… put a snake… in the liquor cabinet.

Moody: [whispers] Woah…plot twiiiiiiiist… [normal voice] Also hi, Mom. [He waves.]

Lucille: Hello, Michael.

Moody: So… why the snake in the cabinet? Have you decided to make your own shoes from now on?

Lucille: It’s my snake. I wanted a pet, and your father’s dog and cat allergies made me desperate. So I bought the snake without his knowledge, and when it arrived, I hid it in the liquor cabinet so as not to frighten him.

Moody: Okay… so I was following

your logic for about half of that… and then you kinda lost me at the end there.

Lucille: What’s illogical about wanting a pet?

Jack, bewildered: Fish, mom. People have fish.

Lucille: You can judge me all you want, it’s not as if that’s new to me.

Amelia: We’re not judging you!

Moody: Now hang on a sec, let’s not speak for the group here, Ames.

Amelia: We’re just trying to understand, that’s all. Wait, MJ, did you know about this?

MJ: Uh…

Lucille: Of course not. I was going to tell her on Christmas, as her big present.

Jack: Mom. It’s February.

Lucille: Excuse me for wanting to do something nice for my daughter.

MJ: Okay, stop! [She gets up.] I brought the snake here.

Amelia: What?

MJ: I was doing it as a favor. My friend Ryan needed someone to watch his pet snake while he was on a college trip, and I guess I just wanted him to like me so bad that I offered to take it for the weekend. God, I took the stupid snake over a crush.

Amelia: [Horrified] Do you mean… the snake killed Dad?

Lucille: God no! The man went to get a brandy, took one look at the thing, and dropped dead on the floor!

[Amelia gasps. Jack hangs his head. Moody is in utter disbelief.]

MJ: It’s all my fault.

Amelia: MJ…

MJ: It is. I brought that stupid snake into the house and scared him to death—literally! It’s my fault that he’s dead.

[MJ starts to cry.]

Moody, whispering: I guess the jury really wasn’t out on the murderer thing.

[Jack smacks him hard on the back of the head. Amelia walks over to sit by MJ.]

Amelia: MJ, it’s not your fault. People

make mistakes all the time.

MJ: Mistakes don’t usually end with killing your dad!

Moody: She’s got you there. [Jack smacks him again.]

Amelia: You were just trying to do something nice for someone you care about. No one can fault you for that.

Lucille: I can’t say I disagree. Twenty years ago I would’ve taken in a lion cub if Alastair asked me to.

Jack: I would’ve pet-- sat a grizzly bear for Lisa.

Moody: I’m not sure how thin your wills to live are, but I plan on staying alive until I see Taylor Swift on tour. Count me out.

[Jack goes to hit him again, but he dodges out of the way. As Moody goes to tauntingly point at him in triumph, Jack smacks his hand, and he recoils in pain.]

MJ: You guys… don’t blame me for this?

Amelia: Of course, we don’t. [MJ nods, but she’s clearly still upset.] Hey, mom? Remember how you asked me to write something for the funeral? Well, I got most of it done on the train. Would you mind if I read it now? I think it might help.

Lucille: Of course.

[Amelia nods and pulls out a piece of paper. She unfolds it, pausing before reading aloud.]

Lucille: I’d sooner blame your father’s alcoholism than that snake, much less you.

Amelia: When I first sat down to write A Family of Strangers—that’s my book—it looked quite different than how it does today. I spoke about my father as if he were a caricature: stoic, emotionally unavailable, with only a rare streak of goodness. I wrote it because it seemed simple and predictable. But the problem was that it wasn’t at all the truth. [a beat]. Our family was never perfect—I’ll be the first to say it. Instead of drinking cocoa on Christmas and singing happy birthday, we played mind games with each other. I played by the rules—his rules— and that made the difference. I guess that’s why I feel like I get to look back and smile. Everyone else feels like they escaped. We all have grievances. But I came here today just hoping to grieve. [beat]. Alistair Stranger was an entrepreneur, a businessman, and a father. I won’t say how good he was at

each—there are some things you don’t say at a eulogy. [a pause. There’s some quiet laughter most likely from Jack and Moody]. I think we all thought he’d outlive us all, right? Every time he refilled his glass or lit another cigarette, we all thought, “This guy has to be immortal.” In the literal sense, he wasn’t. Nobody is. But I don’t think I can ever forget the time he put me on a jet ski and told me to trust beginner’s luck, or when he drove all of us to the emergency room after I fell off the jet ski and split my head open. In that way, he’ll live forever. In memories, in his favorite jazz albums, in our therapy bills. [beat]. He’ll always be A. Stranger. And so will I. [a beat. Amelia looks up.] The game is over, Dad. You don’t have to play anymore. You can rest now. [Amelia sniffs, wipes her eyes, folds her paper.] That’s it.

Lucille: That was beautiful, Amelia.

Jack: It really puts things into perspective.

Moody, dramatically: I have a confession to make! [Everyone goes silent]. Oh, I don’t like this. Never mind, go back to your mourning.

Everyone: Moody!

Moody: Okay, fine! Geez! [He takes a deep breath.] Sometimes, I have a

tendency to… exaggerate the truth a little.

[There’s more silence.]

MJ: Yeah, dude. We know.

Jack: You’re not exactly subtle.

Lucille: I mean, really Michael? Who was going to believe you were skiing in the Alps one week and partying with the royal family the next? You hate planes—and the royal family!

Moody, thoroughly offended: Okay, wow. I was just trying to turn a new leaf, speak my truth, and the energy I’m getting back is just…wow. I’m going to be having a long conversation about this with Rachel.

Jack: Let me guess—Rachel is a rich heiress who has taken you on as her patron?

Moody: No, she’s my therapist.

Jack: Oh. I stand corrected.

Amelia: Moody, why would you lie to me? I thought we were closer than that. And lying to everyone around you is just as bad as lying to yourself, don’t you think?

Moody: [groans] God, you are such a writer.

MJ: She’s just trying to explain to you that the longer you fabricate your life, the more unfulfilled you’ll be. All you’re doing is creating a false sense of self that you can use to hide low selfesteem. [There’s a pause. Everyone looks at MJ.]

He’ll always be A. Stranger. And so will I... The game is over, Dad. You don’t have to play anymore. You can rest now.

MJ: Ryan’s mom is a therapist. And I’m inquisitive.

Moody: Surprisingly, our dear, demented little sister is correct, actually. Yeah… I don’t really want to elaborate on that. I’m deeply uncomfortable with emotions. [Looks up.] Thanks, Father dearest.

Amelia: Moody, just tell me one thing. [She walks over to him solemnly.] Is Rimbaud real?

Moody: Ames…

Amelia: I want the truth!

Moody: You can’t handle the truth! [Confused silence.] Sorry, impulse. No, Ames. Rimbaud isn’t real.

[This is Amelia’s last straw. She lets out a devastated squeak, covering her face in her hands.]

Moody: Oh, oh. Okay, it’s okay. Come here. [He hugs her.] I shouldn’t have lied about Rimbaud, I’m sorry.

Amelia: I knit him a sweater!

Moody: And it looks fantastic on my pet cactus!

[Amelia sobs again.]

Jack: You see? You see what happens when you lie? People cry and knit sweaters for imaginary cats!

Moody: Okay, fine! I live in San Francisco in a cheap apartment with two roommates named Jared and Jensen–and no they’re not the guys from Supernatural, it’s just a weird coincidence—and I have a corporate job in social media marketing!

[There’s stunned silence. For once, everyone believes what he’s saying.]

Amelia: You have a corporate job?

Jack: You always said you’d rather die than get a corporate job.

Moody: Well, then I had a run-in with a rabid sugar glider in Connecticut and had to reevaluate my choices, so, 9 to 5 it is.

[After a moment, Jack walks over to Moody and puts a hand on his shoulder.]

Jack: I’m proud of you, Moody.

Moody, tearing up: Oh.

Amelia: Moody… you okay?

Moody, clearly not okay: Yeah, yeah of course. I just… I’m not really used to processing emotions.

Amelia: No more lying, alright? At least not to us.

Moody: I’m not making any promises… and you’re not getting a Christmas card. I’ll send a family group text every month to let you know I’m alive.

Amelia: That’s all we ask.

[A woman walks into the room.]

Rachel: Hi there. Sorry, I didn’t know you had company. The doorman let me

in. Beautiful house.

Moody: Rachel?

Rachel: Moody!

MJ: Moody? Your therapist is Ryan’s mom?

Moody: Aw, your son’s name is Ryan? I love alliteration.

MJ: Mrs. Vaughn, what are you doing here?

Rachel: I just came to get Leopold.

Amelia: Leopold?

Rachel: The snake?

Moody: Ohhh…funny story about that…

MJ: He’s in the liquor cabinet.

Rachel: Oh?

Moody: He’s also the culprit of a literal murd–

[Jack laughs to cover up his words and pats Moody on the back a little too hard, causing him to shut up.]

Jack: You know… snakes. Always, uh,

slithering about. If you don’t lock ‘em in a liquor cabinet, where are you gonna put ‘em, am I right?

[Jack laughs forcefully, then stops. Then, he laughs again, and this time Amelia joins in. Then MJ, then Lucille, and then (with some prodding from Amelia), Moody. Rachel just stares for a moment, then laughs a little–very uncomfortably.]

Jack, trying to usher Rachel to the cabinet: Well then, you can wrangle your beloved Leopold and be on your way.

Rachel: I was hoping to see Mr. Stranger as well. I wanted to thank him for his donation to the Hawthorne Fund– it’s a charity I sponsor to help underprivileged teens suffering from mental illness, getting them the proper therapy and such. He’s taken a lot of weight off of us these last few years.

Moody: Hang on…dad donated? To a good cause? Huh. Maybe it really was his time to go. He was losing his marbles and we didn’t even know it.]

Rachel: I’m sorry?

MJ: Um… he passed away last night.

Rachel: Oh… oh gosh, I’m so sorry for your loss.

Moody: Ah, it’s all right! It just gives us all an excuse to drink too much and reminisce on our collective daddy issues.

Rachel: You realize you’re saying this to your therapist, right?

Moody: Come on, Rachel! You know I cope with humor.

Ryan: Hey, same!

MJ: Ryan!

Ryan: Hey, Stranger. Did you keep Leo alive?

MJ: You have no idea.

Ryan: Cool! Where–

Jack: Liquor cabinet.

Ryan: Oh. O…kay? [Ryan goes to the liquor cabinet, opens it, and takes out the snake (it should be obviously stuffed, but everyone should treat it as though it is alive and deadly). Ryan casually puts it around his neck like a scarf, petting it like it’s a normal pet.] Thanks again for doing this. Not everyone is down to take in a twelve-foot boa constrictor for the weekend. Hey, maybe you should come over and I can show you my sugar gliders. [Moody shivers at the words “sugar gliders.”

MJ, nearly swooning: Yeah, I’d love that.

Ryan: Cool. See ya later, MJ.

[Ryan holds out his hand for a fist bump, which MJ returns, then she leaves. Rachel stays there and points an accusing finger at Moody.]

Rachel: We’re gonna talk about this on Thursday.

Moody, sarcastically: Can’t wait.

[Rachel leaves and MJ turns to the family, beaming.]

MJ: Did you see that? He fist-- bumped me. And he said my name. And invited me to his house!

Moody: Ah, young love. It’s like The Notebook, and he’s Ryan Reynolds.

Jack: Alright, well, I have to go meet with a florist for the service.

Moody: [under his breath] Or is it, Ryan Seacrest?

Jack: I guess I’ll see you guys later.

Moody:[still under his breath] How many celebrity Ryans are there?

Jack: Moody?

[Moody snaps back to reality.]

Moody: Yeah?

Jack: Please keep seeing the therapist. And for the love of God, drink decaf for once.

[Slowly, Moody smiles.]

Moody: Awww, I love you too brother.

[Jack hugs Moody and Amelia, then ruffles MJ’s hair and leaves.]

MJ: I’m gonna head upstairs. All the dad talk got to me, and… I need a minute alone.

Amelia: Take all the time you need. We’ll be here when you’re ready to talk.

[MJ nods, hugs Amelia (she accepts it with surprise), and goes upstairs.]

Moody: I can help you get stuff ready for the wake, Mom.

Lucille: Thank you, Michael. [Moody walks over, offering her his arm very chivalrously, and she takes it.] And while we’re at it, why don’t we talk about these roommates of yours, Jared and Jensen? Do they bear any likeness to

their namesakes?

[They exit. Amelia, realizing she’s alone again, takes stock of the room. After a moment, she looks up and smiles.]

Amelia: Normal family gathering, huh? [a beat.] See ya, Stranger.

[She exits.]

THE END

Sincerely, A. Stranger was written as a senior one-act and preformed live by the Ursuline Theater Program.

Happy Birthday Happy | Ximena Bailon’23 | Digital Photograph Ximena Bailon’23 Digital Photograph

Vulnerability is Welcomed

Gigi Sears ‘24

Don’t let vulnerability scare you; let it inspire you. Human beings are vulnerable and that’s one of the most beautiful things about them.

Annec y Annecy

Alexandra Sauvage ‘ 23 Alexandra Sauvage ‘23

Pastel On Paper Pastel On Paper

Validation Are you Satisfied?

Lili Alderink ‘23

I smile, but it takes every effort to raise my arm and hold up the certificate.

Click

It’s just a piece of paper, yet it weighs heavy with the truth.

Click

But I will never voice the pain that earned me this certificate –Click –

Because, as they say,

“A picture is worth a thousand words,” But those thousand words are never good enough.

Screenager

Ellie Mentgen ‘ 23 Ellie Mentgen ‘23

Mixed Media

Beyond the sea

Phoebe White ‘23

Mallory reshuffled the deck.

She was halfway through her shift, meaning she got 30 minutes to eat, relax, and not talk to anyone. She had 6 minutes left, meaning she could squeeze in one good game. Honestly speaking, she could go over her time limit, they don’t get many customers, and a bell would ring when the rare buyer walked in. It’s not like James was strict about it. As long as people were happy and purchases were made, Mallory would get a paycheck and a polite smile.

And the paycheck was really all she needed. A paycheck is her one-way ticket off of the Georgia coast. It didn’t take much time to realize this shuffle was futile—she was stuck in a loop of cards that didn’t fit her tableau. She grabbed her dad’s old Walkman and took it to the cashier’s desk, where she would be re-sorting rubber bait for the next few hours.

But not before the bell chimed, and James gave a gruff, “You busy?”

“Just with my job.”

He looked at her with nothing but exhaustion. “You’re gonna help me catch bait. I’ll give you time and a half for it.”

Cameron, who usually helped James with physical labor, was out at Georgia Tech that week. Mallory couldn’t imagine she’d be much help out on the docks, but for time and a half, she would certainly try.

James walked like he was sailing on an undercurrent of pain. A sharp stab from the opposite leg prompted each new step. Granted, he tried his best to not be a haggard old thing. He lived as much life as he could on his boat, which was no easy feat. He probably needed more help than Cameron gave him. He probably needed 4 extra hands. And it’s not like he didn’t have the money to pay for the extra help. Mallory always theorized that he liked the struggle against the ocean, the same way her younger brothers liked to wrestle with each other.

Mallory stood on the docks, being as useless as she felt. It wasn’t entirely her fault though; her family was one of the only ones in the town without a boat. And whenever she was on a friend’s boat, it was much more “here, have a beer!” than “help me hoist the sails.”

James held out his hand to escort her off the dock, “All right kid, hop on.”

“I’m sorry I’m not much help,” Mallory said as she awkwardly stepped onto the deck.

“Oh, don’t worry, I didn’t need you for that part,” James limped to the bait box sitting on the bow of the boat, “You know how to fish, right?”

dramatic. But I was on the docks with an old buddy of mine, and in all honesty, we had a few beers, and he swung his line back and hooked me in the calf.”

That she did know.

“I’ll sail, you’ll fish” James confirmed as he passed her the fishing rod. ~

After about thirty minutes of sailing, Mallory started to get antsy. Because the two people had so much in common, they talked the whole time, obviously. Mallory could barely stand fifteen minutes of silence on a good day, and she was reaching her limit of memorized No Doubt lyrics. What she was really itching to know was what caused James’ limp. James wasn’t a private man per se, he just wasn’t very talkative either. She didn’t want to be rude or offend James, she was just curious. And honestly speaking, bored.

“Sorry to be nosy, but what happened to your leg?” She surprised herself with the vocalization.

“You don’t have to apologize to me every time you ask a question, Mallory.” He smiled a little but kept his eyes on the ocean ahead of him. “And you should know that old men love questions.”

She considered telling him that he wasn’t that old, but he answered her question before she could make a decision.

“How does that turn into a long-term injury?” Mallory had accidentally stabbed herself and others with fishing hooks before, no one had permanent pain so far.

“When you don’t go to the doctor afterward. Even if it gets all gross and infected.” James gave a genuine laugh, despite the memory. “I wasn’t the brightest in my 20s.”

“It was a fishing accident. Or ‘accident’ is a bit

Mallory politely giggled as well, or at least she thought it was polite. She wasn’t quite sure what the vibe was. “At least you have a good story to tell.”

“Kid, I got plenty. I was to the brim full of the bullshit you kids are made of, especially when I moved down here.”

“I thought you were from here.” And she really did. She was also grateful for the easy route to keep this conversation alive.

“Nope. Chicago born and bred.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me every time you ask a question, Mallory.” He smiled a little but kept his eyes on the ocean ahead of him. “And you should know that old men love questions.”

Chicago? “Chicago? Why the hell did you move here if you lived in Chicago?” Any real city had to be more interesting than Mallory’s hometown.

“I fell in love.”

Oh, Mallory was absolutely going to hear the rest of this story. She all but perched on the seat as her eyes widened, almost like she could watch James’ story pan out in technicolor.

“I met her in college. She was from here, obviously, and she quickly became everything to me. She was a couple of years older than me, and when she graduated, she had plans to move back home. Nineteen-year-old me hated the idea of living without her, so I followed her. Chicago was dispensable to me: everything was compared to her. I know hurricanes drag people away from here, but that’s still how I think of her. A hurricane that started on Lake Michigan and carried me all the way down here.”

“What happened to her?” Mallory almost forgot to cast another line.

Georgia taught him that love, often, is futile, but still, he loved a challenge. Or maybe he had nowhere else to go. So, James stayed, much longer than anyone had expected him to. He was tough enough to get through the troubles but soft enough to find happiness in them. Eventually, the world moved, as it always does, and the town shifted. James fell into place, with the sand anchoring his feet to the coast.

And there he remained. He never felt trapped by the surrounding waters or the plague of lost love; he just kept finding new reasons to stick with Georgia.

“You’re not angry with her?” Mallory asked.

“God, no. Not anymore.”

When the pair reached the dock again, Mallory went right back to work.

James walked into the back room and shuffled his deck for a game.

“She got married.” He looked at the horizon for a split second or two. When James first came down to this coast, lovesick and strange, there was no home for him.

She all but perched on the seat as her eyes widened, almost like she could watch James’ story pan out in technicolor.

Breathe Kate Walsh ‘25

Caught between bars, my heart beats rapidly Constricted, wishing for any escape

Starting to crack in pieces. I need tape.

Controlled by my chronic anxiety

In a panic attack, casually With desperation, trying to save face.

Surrounded by a fast, fleeting landscape.

I’m ok, I learned this in therapy: “This too shall pass,” just remember to breathe. Four. Four. Eight. Only human, just afraid

Of the many things that remain unknown

But in the darkness, blazing light is shown.

I am strong, I am brave, and I am me.

Uncertainty certain; I am free.

Stitched Together

Kaia Putnam ‘23

I’ve stolen little pieces of everyone I’ve met, little anecdotes and quirks hem my heart A patchwork quilt, every experience stitched on joining together, creating a puppet.

I’m lost in the mirror, magnetized by a reflection of someone else’s hollow eyes through the glass a distorted maze of characteristics Please identify the original pieces

Are you tried yet? ambition crumbles to ashes traipsing down a road of disbelief Compass broken, the only guide is the winds a tangent of emotions wrapped around my shoulders

I’ve never been autonomous, always wearing the smile pain a mesh of reality and fantasy a bend in the system creates the slant for the rich the node in human convergence

I guess it’s fitting, the ladder of mercy out of my reach, Heaven’s grasp unmade, my entire world crashing It’s a means to the end, a metal clicking echoes resonance of a bounded guide through memories

I drove down to the pier, avoiding arteries of human commotion The water blue and inviting, I chart a path amongst the white caps

The dwindle of days creating panic, when the belly of the beast is inescapable The person who received the directions long gone made to wear the hats of too many others

In Touch With Nature In With Nature

Car yline Bradford ‘ 23 Caryline Bradford ‘23

Digital Photograph

Everyone Has A Dragonfly

Georgia Keith ‘23

Ideas are just dragonflies, Sparkling and beautiful and naïve. Their greatest enemy is the window: Doubt and complication melted into structure; It holds them back. Those dragonflies pile up, but recede, Off to their home to create a nest and spark a Stronger army that can Break That evil window.

Apawllo 11 11

Gabriela Marques ‘ 24

Gabriela Marques ‘24

Mixed Media

ESSE 70

Questions

Cora Mahaney ‘25

Ever since I was born

I’ve had questions for the world. With my curiosity as my guide,

I’ve navigated the past 15 years with What Ifs

I don’t see what’s wrong with my questions

I’d like to think my questions help me

See the world in color,

But maybe I’m colorblind

To other perspectives

What if I could do better

What if I could be better

What if I could make this world better Maybe, just maybe

Something could be better, Because I dared to wonder, Because I dared to ask.

I’ve been told

To “Stop asking so many questions,”

To “just trust.”

Maybe those What Ifs that have guided my whole life

Are a double-edged sword

What if I am nothing

What if I mean nothing

What if I amount to nothing

Those questions have told me

To walk off the edges of cliffs, Into the choppy ocean, Blindly hoping I land on solid ground

They have told me to take risks, To question and challenge

Those people

Those norms

All those things we nowadays are desensitized to Maybe my What Ifs mean a lot to me.

Without my questions

And my curiosity

And those stupid What Ifs

My life would be a sailboat

Without any sails

The wind is My ambition, My hopes, My drive, But without my What Ifs? There’s nothing to catch it.

Night Photography is a digital photography skill taught at Ursuline. Ava Taraszki ‘24, the photographer of some of these photos, described her process:

“While driving home, I saw my brother practicing basketball and thought he would be a perfect subject. I had to figure out what time to shoot these pictures when it was dark enough but not too late because my brother had school the next day. I chose a date and time and bribed my brother with ice cream for being my subject. To shoot these images, I had to set up a tripod, make sure the camera settings were correct, then I would run around my front yard with an LED light to create the lighting effects, always moving or changing the colors.”

Midnights | Nika Vahadi ‘ 24 | Digital Photograph Nika Vahadi ‘24

Piano Keys Piano Keys | Nika Vahadi ‘ 24

Photograph Nika Vahadi ‘24

What Lies in the Future Lies in Future | Ava Taraszki ‘ 24 | Digital Photograph Ava Taraszki ‘24 Photograph

Lily Dugas ‘24

Cold.

I feel cold from the tile on my toes. It’s like meeting a new person, The coldness of seeing someone with no emotions; They don’t get warm until I get warm. The warmth of that smile; the warmth of that hug makes me want to stay.

I walk outside. I feel the warmth of the sun, burnt. The cold of the sunscreen reminds me of the tile, which reminds me of the new people. I walk inside and feel the cold air.

The cold air reminds me of the sunscreen, which reminds me of the tiles, that reminds me of the coldness of the new person with no emotions.

But that someone who was cold with no emotions shows the warmth of the sun. The warmth from the sun to the sunscreen— back to the tiles; so the cold tiles make me want to stay.

trees

Victoria Arce ‘24

There is a place between the trees where the grass grows tall and strong where a stone road shrinks between the shadows near a home abandoned by the banished who were forced into the darkness beyond the tree and had to leave it all behind.

I’ve walked there at the edge of the forest, full of fear for those I love, but don’t be fooled this isn’t a third-world problem, this is nowhere else but here, our country moving closer to its own secrets and actions its own ways of making people disappear, “go away.” “go home.” “go back to where you came from.”

I won’t tell you where this place is, the dark shadows broken by a flickering stream of light fighting through the leavesabandoned homes hidden by a luscious green paradise I already know who wants to take it, change it, misplace it, make it disappear.

And I won’t tell you where it is or who they are or why they are gone, so why do I tell you anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these when families are being torn apart, it’s necessary to talk about trees what we don’t see, what uproots lives, hidden in the trees.

My Mahal My Mahal |

Marie Katherine Relucio ‘ 23 | Oil On Canvas

Marie Katherine Relucio ‘23 Oil On Canvas

political divide is an epidemic

Julia Mizerany ‘24

Ignorance is bliss. What a convenient idea?

Ah, the outlet for the narrow mind to be exempt from what is unfavorable. Churchill’s counsel has seemingly been forgotten, so I now feel inclined to reiterate that history repeats itself, our nation’s folly persists

Now, to what or whom, do we pledge allegiance? Not to union, or peace, or liberty but to the suit-clad pawns who claim these are the objectives of their game. Facades, best put, Ulterior motives they’ll never name.

In this age of embracing diversity, Admiring the colorful tapestry

Of human variety, do not let propaganda taint your judgement, nor your perception of the world be infiltrated by bias. Do not stand in opposition against opinions divergent from your own. Ignorance is bliss. What an easy solution! How simple it is to dismiss what is unfavorable to find comfort believing we are unassailable is deceiving.

Our nation is stricken with disease, one of rampant contagion. The symptoms?

Catastrophic, I’m afraid! Corruption of mind and morals, inflicted by obsequious devotion to the barons of our nation’s most corrupt business.

Do not let yourself be blinded nor alienated, but Rebuke the narrow-minded. Stripped of our superficial identities, we are no different by nature and experience. visiting Dylan Weitzul ‘ 25 Weitzul ‘25

Digital Photograph

paid actions

Avery Garner ‘26

Speak love by anonymous mouth

Do not request rewards for unpaid actions

Those who are true to themselves do not ask for attention

They are too bright for unaccepting eyes

Warped in Time in Time

Olivia Dominguez ‘ 23 Olivia Dominguez ‘23 Digital Photograph

Foresight

Savanna Vanciel ‘ 25 Savanna Vanciel ‘25 Digital Photograph

hope

Kaia Putnam ‘23

She was a lighthouse keeper

Like her father before her Forever holding onto the railings Sleet or shine or snow

She was a lighthouse keeper A smile on her face Brightening another’s day With a kind word or phrase

She was a lighthouse keeper

Long after she left the choppy waves Just off the point of the harbor Warning ships of the sharp rocks

She was a lighthouse keeper

No matter how heavy the rain fell She shone bright as the lamps She grew up caring for

Mantanda Na Sila Na

Marie Katherine Relucio ‘ 23

Marie Katherine Relucio ‘23

Oil On Canvas

Letter from the Editor

Dear Reader,

Thank you for exploring your humanity with us. I hope you have found inspiration in our work and have a changed (or solidified) understanding of your own humanity and humanity’s greater purpose. At Ursuline, Esse is both a pillar of and an opportunity for student creativity, and we greatly appreciate the time you have taken to spend with us. I would now like to thank those individuals who have made this magazine possible.

To our moderators and Ursuline faculty—thank you for making Esse possible this year. I have truly enjoyed the time spent and the obstacles overcome that were required to bring Esse into existence, and I understand how impossible it would be without your support. Thank you for always inspiring us and enabling us to keep creating. I would also like to thank Mr. Diebold, Esse’s publisher, for his immense help in this process. You would quite literally not be holding this book without him.

I would lastly like to thank all the Ursuline students who submitted to Esse this year. Reading your works has been an utmost honor, and it is a privilege to help you share your creativity and ideas with the world. Esse is a student showcase, and your contributions are what keep Esse breathing, year after year.

Phoebe White ‘23

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 lacal 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 magazine 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 a part of that legacy for future generations of the Ursuline community.

How To Be Published

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

Colophon

Esse 2023 was constructed using Adobe InDesign CS 18.3 on a PC. The font utilized for titles and the front and back cover is Perpetua Titling MT Bold. The front cover is set in size 80 and 25 and the back cover is set in size 16. Titles are set in size 31. The font for the spine is Perpetua Titling MT Bold in size 12. The font for authors’ names is Sitka Banner Bold and is set in size 16. The font for page numbers is Engravers MT, size 11. The font for body text and pull quotes is Garamond, sizes 12 and 16. The font for art credits is Constantia, size 10. The cover is on 100# Maxcote Satin Cover paper, and the content pages are on 100# Maxcote Satin Text paper. The pieces included in Esse 2023 were chosen by the Selections Committee, and the magazine was laid out by Phoebe White. Esse 2023 was produced by Ursuline Academy’s Literary-Art Magazine Club and published by Diebold Productions, Inc. Five hundred copies were printed for 800 students and 150 faculty and staff at Ursuline. Copies are provided free of charge. The magazine is published every summer. Esse is a member of the following organizations: the American Scholastic Press Association, the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, the National Council of Teachers of English, and the National Scholastic Press Association.

Esse Leadership

Editor-in-Chief:

Phoebe White ‘23

Art Editors:

Marie Katherine

Relucio ‘23

jana elawar ‘23

Selections Committee

Lili Alderink ‘23

Brooke Bergin ‘23

Ella Kate Dewitt ‘25

Elizabeth Jiede ‘24

Georgia Keith ‘23

Jordan Malone ‘25

Jordan Schwab ‘24

Celestine Theriot ‘25

Katherine Walsh ‘25

Copy Editors

Megan Nuchereno ‘23

Teah LeBlanc ‘23

Nika Vahadi ‘24

Sofia Velesiotis ‘24

Madison Morrissey ‘25

Laurel O’Brien ‘25

Moderators:

Monica Cochran

Jocelyn Holmes

Kyle Lee

Assistant Editor: Mary Borkowski ‘24

Assistant Art Editor: May Atwell ‘24

Public Relations Officer: Margaret O’Neil ‘23

The Esse 2023 Editorial Team would like to give special thanks to Kate Walsh ‘25 and Georgia Keith ‘23 for going above and beyond in their dedication to Esse this year. We would also like to thank Kyle Lee and Monica Cochran for their incredible care and dedication to Esse in the past and present. We will miss you next year!

About the back cover

Gabriela Marques ‘24 on Tangled Growth

Inspired by my experience of personal development through high school, Tangled Growth represents the barriers I faced and the ways I worked past them. Freshman year brought emotional and physical obstacles with Covid, represented by the lines in the background. Despite that adversity, I have formed new connections with new people and even animals including my dog Chiky whose leash I referenced for the purple lines around the flowers. The flowers themselves remain unfinished as I look forward to the person I will continue to grow into as a senior, and the leaves surrounding them represent my family and friends who have always supported me.

ESSE 2023

Volume LVII

THE LITERARY-ART MAGAZINE

URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS