Esse 2024

ESSE 2024

URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS

About the Covers:

Naomi

Barajas

‘24:

Exploring interactions between hands and nature, my portfolio portrays how nature's beauty awakens the soul. Using slightly fantastic elements, I express the soul’s yearning to attain the beauty, enchantment, and wonder found in nature. I also aim to illustrate the inability to attain this beauty and the fleeting nature of it. Through the use of contrasting, vivid colors, and the consistency of blue in my pieces, I present the vibrancy that the soul and nature share yet can never unite.

Throughout my portfolio, I explored multiple different mediums, a couple of which I had rarely worked with before. This allowed me to mix a more impressionistic style next to my usual realism and achieve stronger whimsical elements in my illustration of nature. Playing with different hand positions and contrasting colors, I also experimented showing emotions through hands. Through my artwork, I hope to share my experiences with the viewer, allowing the passion and care of my work to help them relate to my pieces and move them to contemplate the beauty of both their souls and nature.

“Envolee”

Naomi Barajas ‘24 Oil Pastel on Paper

This year’s Esse publication is dedicated to Dr. Megan Griffin

Dedication

To Dr. Griffin,

You are one of those rare teachers that truly makes their students feel known. You see every student for the individual they are and actively foster their growth. Kindness and patience are among your commendable attributes, but the one that shines through the most is your enthusiasm. Your love for your subject matter is contagious and I’m so grateful to have been your student. You’re a phenomenal teacher and my writing improved dramatically in your class. With your guidance, I found my voice as a writer. But putting all that aside, you are a good person to your core, and I think that’s where I learned the most from you. The understanding and empathy you approach every student with are qualities I’ll always strive toward. You are a teacher I’ll always remember and I cherish the moments I had in your class.

Thank you, Mary Borkowski ‘24

Dear Dr. Griffin,

In my years at Ursuline, I don’t think I could say I’ve had a teacher who has changed my perception on literature as much as you have. You were my first English teacher that ever told me to keep on writing. I fondly remember your encouragement to pursue the topics I was interested in, and the way you pushed me to explore the world around me in new and creative ways. I would not be the artist, student, and person I am today without your influence in my life. You taught me the importance of using my voice to inspire change, to approach the world with empathy, and the power of understanding others through their writing. Your passion for your subject matter and care for your students transcends a mere vocation as a teacher. I am extremely blessed to have been taught by you, and I will forever treasure the lessons you taught me.

Thank you, Mary Atwell ‘24

Letter from the Editor

From the moment I became editor, I knew my theme would be movement. In my mind, there was no other option. I wanted to fill Esse’s pages with a vibrant energy that would pull the reader from line to line and stanza to stanza. I wanted the magazine to feel anything but stagnant. I knew this all from the beginning. But what I didn’t expect was how much I would learn about movement through the course of making this magazine. Our brilliant writers and artists introduced me to ways of seeing movement I had never thought of before. That’s one of the great joys of being an editor: seeing the different interpretations of your theme expand and multiply before your eyes. Our writers and artists taught me that movement permeates every dimension of life. Movement can be found in a change of heart or a stone skipping across a lake. It can be found in a frog’s leap or the gesture of a friend. In these pages, our writers explore their own relationship with movement. From one perspective, movement is something to react to– an outside force pulling us this way and that way. Yet, from another perspective, movement is a power found inside each of us that we can harness to create change in our lives. Whether instantaneously or gradually, movement is at work in our lives. It can embody the force of a waterfall or the grace of a falling leaf. Movement is multifaceted as it is powerful.

Looking back on my theme decision, I realize that the main reason I chose movement was because I wanted to fill the magazine with life. I wanted a theme that accurately portrayed the vibrancy found in our community. My association of movement with life only deepened throughout the course of making this magazine. Movement is constantly at work within and around us, shaping our perspectives and realities. Our lives are defined by the movements within them. As you read these pages, I invite you to reconsider how movement shapes your own life.

Sincerely,

Mary Borkowski ‘24 Editor-in-Chief

Letter from the Art Editor

One of the elements of design is movement, which coincidentally is our theme for Esse this year. Movement, in its most literal definition of design, is how your eye moves around a piece. When Mary told me the theme of the magazine, I was excited to explore the various ways movement manifests in each artist and how they find a different definition of movement within their work. Through the selected works, I hope you find the inspiration to create your own works that embody the spirit of movement in one way or another. I believe that movement in art is more than what the subject is doing; movement is shown through the emotion of a piece, through the stylistic choice of the artist.

The artwork featured in this magazine represents the spirit of movement within our artistic community at Ursuline; each girl embodies this power in the work they create and the pieces of themselves they choose to share with Esse. As you view these works, I hope you find your own meaning in what movement is.

Sincerely,

Mary Atwell ‘24

Art Editor

“Ski In, Ski Out”

Jordan Schwab ‘24

Table of Contents: Poetry and Prose

Table of Contents: Artwork

Award Winners: Poetry and Prose

2024 Esse Literature Award

1st Place: “Getting to Know Me” by Alicia Malone ‘25

2nd Place: “a memoir in ashes” by Nina Villalba ‘26

2024 Wild Tangents Creative Writing Club Contest Winner

“There Is Always Something Left to Love” by Keerthana Sargunaraja ‘25

2024 Dr. Anne Freeman Book Award

1st Place: “Eclipse” by Natalie Untermeyer ‘24

1st Place: “They Call Us Birdwatchers: Finding Soulmates in Nature and Literature” by Charlotte Robinson ‘24

Honorable Mention: “Choreographed Sayings” by Mary Borkowski ‘24

Award Winners: Artwork

The Katherine Bolka Endowed Scholarship for Academic and Visual Arts Excellence

Sophia Ramirez ‘25

2024 Esse Visual Art Award

1st place: “Windows” By Madeleine Marlowe ‘24

2nd place: “Peddling Past Childhood” By Laurel O’Brien ‘25

2024 Ursuline Art Exhibition: Best in Show

“Hopeful Neglect” by Gabriela Marques ‘24 - AP

Studio Art

2024 Ursuline Art Exhibition: Outstanding Senior Artist

Mary Atwell ‘24 - AP Studio Art

2024 Ursuline Art Exhibition: 1st Place Artistic Achievements

“My Life as a Teenage Rock: Trials, Tribulations, and Transformations of Stick Johnson (working

title)” by Charlotte Robinson ‘24 - Filmmaking

“Fire in the Hole” by Bella Zanoni ‘24 - Fused Glass

“Green Tea” by Reagan Chen ‘24 - Ceramics

Functional

“Squiggle Wiggle” by Maddox Johnson ‘25 -

Handbuilding Beginning

“Tea Garden” by Elizabeth Alderink ‘26 -

Handbuilding Advanced

“Sunspots” by Annabelle Copley ‘27 - Digital

Photography Beginning

“Musical Magic” by Kaitlyn Troendle ‘25 - Digital

Photography Advanced

“Sun to Me” by Kristen Wharton ‘25 - Printmaking

“Winter” by Aleia Leal ‘24 - Papermaking and Bookbinding

“Wintertime” by Farrah Franks ‘26 - Studio Art I

“Don’t Go” by Leah Osbaldeston ‘26 - Studio Art II

“Peddling Past Childhood” by Laurel O’Brien ‘25 -

Studio Art III and IV

“Head in the Clouds” by Josephine Sloan ‘24 - AP

Studio Art

“The

Race”

Madeleine Marlowe ‘24 Oil on Canvas Boards

A thank-you letter to the frog

Charlotte Robinson ‘24

Kickback like leapfrog left a bruise, my right shoulder, so large my pencil began to question why I did not write. What could I say? I struggle to capture these ephemeral moments in words, but I will try, for your sake and mine.

The night I went blind and unblind (the bruise), the first love I saw was you.

I could not trudge forward with you in my wake, so I cradled you on the side of the road.

I was already soaked— the rain did not change me— so guiding you felt second nature.

I held you, yes, but you brought me out of the headlights and into your arms.

My first nature? Love. Tonight I glanced aside and saw you. I scooped you up, resting you on my right shoulder. I watched you at the playground, dressed you, fed you, used my hands as a roof. You are tough-skinned because you have lost too many. Not me.

You climbed out of my id to hit my heart, to halt this. This was not a coincidence.

Mutually indebted in our lives, I pray the night I meet you again I will be well enough to help you, to move you.

I pray you speak Human else I can never read you this but we can hold each other until then.

“Frog Fuzz”

Margaret McKinney ‘24

Acrylic on Canvas

“Upon

Growing Up” Grace Wooten ‘24 Colored Pencil on Paper

Fire Lilies and the Smoldering

Madison Morrissey ‘25

It was time for the struggle to end. She’d burned enough, endured the swift evolution of the flames engulfing her raucous mind. When fire smolders, it takes something so hopelessly destitute and plants the seeds of rebirth with the delicacy of a simple fire lily. But it seemed as if nothing as tender as a flower would emerge from the gates of her despair. She’d burned for far too long, past any sort of hope of revival. If no one was there to put out the fire, why not let nature take its course? It was natural, anyway. Little did she know, though, that nature was full of surprises.

Every singe, char, broil would take a route unbeknownst to none but the fiery breath of the cosmos. No academic journal could fully capture the whims of nature and the scientific laws that it disregards. Nature has a mind of her own, and that was made abundantly clear. It seems cliché, to have something so breathtakingly beautiful transpire from the mark of no return. But I think that if a fire lily could plant its crimson seeds in the wake of an inferno, I maybe could too.

My Love Nina Villalba ‘26

my love for you grew within my chest without me ever telling it to do so.

as you painted my skin with your tenderness, it seeped into my veins, breathing life into my heart with a new red source of life. with your every devoted touch, the roots of you tangled intricately around my ribs, wrapped vines delicately around my heart, and somehow, you removed the sadness that had been sewn deeply into my soul. and even though i never asked, my organs shifted eagerly to create more space for you.

“Exotic

Capture” Garbriela Marques ‘24

Acrylic on Canvas

A Few July’s Ago

Laurel O’Brien ‘25

A leap of unfettered and child-like faith

Pure as the glacial water of that one stream

We swam in a few Julys ago, when I was smaller,

Less sure, and maybe even a little less broken

We skipped rocks by the shore and chased the geese,

And when the geese chased us, we ran home crying

To the sure familiarity of our parents’ arms.

But a leap of faith is all it takes

And now everything is different, unfamiliar, Free or freefalling, depending on your perspective.

Between the jump and the landing I became someone else.

“Summer Jewel”

Julissa Guardado ‘24

Chalk Pastel on Paper

There’s Always Something Left To Love Keerthana Sargunaraja ‘25

What is alive in your heart and how can you share it with the world?

My father never says I love you

He cracks my pistachios

And without saying a word

He shakes them in his palm for me to take

My mother never says sorry

She pours warm oil on my head

Kneading the roots of my hair

Even when my knotted tresses tire her hands

So with every pomegranate split

A love letter reads in its seeds

And scarlet sap drips down their sorry hands

And red stains the inside of my cheeks

Cracked nuts and oiled heads

The disgusting saliva of a dog’s tongue

The dead bird a cat lays on your carpet

The intimacy of simple things can remind us all

“There is always something left to love. And if you ain’t learned that, you ain’t learned nothing”

1 Hansberry, Lorraine. A Raisin in the Sun. Modern Library, 1995.

“Sunspots”

Annabelle Copley ‘27

Digital Photography

Eclipse Natalie Untermeyer ‘24

Eclipse is a piece that combines handwritten prose with art pieces. Included below are excerpts transcribed from the original notebook paper.

“Eclipses are liminal. They are like me, but more forceful. Like me, they know where they fit and who they are and how they fit. But unlike me, they carve out their own space, stealing it from the day and declaring their presence. They are unafraid. They may be liminal in nature, but they refuse to be liminal in practice. They scream, I am here.”

“Conformity is beginning to crumble, and I fit into the cracks.”

“Perhaps it is time to carve room for myself, and my past selves, and each layer of self which composes me, past and present, future and whatever surpasses future. Because, I realize, it is possible.”

They Call Us Birdwatchers: Finding Soulmates in Nature and Literature

Charlotte Robinson ‘24

They call us birdwatchers as if we passively wait for the undulations of life to unfold before us. Never more wrong a word did exist for myself, and for others like me. Inaction breeds indifference; instead, we are acting constantly to maintain the fire of interest. We are not watchers. We are chasers, or trackers, or adventurers—truly I mean it when I say that this is an all-encompassing lived experience rather than a pastime. It sounds absurd—I know—but hear me out.

Never more wonderful did a love exist than for nature. True goodness lies in the adoration of things so totally beyond our control. Often we love what we can hold on to: our reflection, our accomplishments, our associates. But to seek the fickle, the ever-

changing, the incomprehensible expanse of something so much larger than any one of us tells of good character. I expect nothing of nature when I step foot on a trail (unless we count hopes, of them I hold many), as whatever I may see through glass lenses was determined by the choices of thousands of creatures, of the ebb and flow of the tides. To let go of what one cannot control sets one free.

Why, then, are nature lovers so often written off as insane?

I see it in the media I consume, on the news, from my family. We are stoned hippies who would never understand the politics of the real world. We are child

activists mocked and condemned for caring. We are creeps, freaks, and weirdos, outcast from society because of a fascination with what is not human. My family calls me a “tree-hugger,” inevitably on my way to jail over some silly protest where I will strap myself to a redwood trunk to prevent deforestation. My visions of a better world are reduced to silly anecdotes. Hilarious, of course, and they seem to all imply, why care so much?

Books especially can try to paint us nature lovers as skewed, yet I relate to these kinds of characters regardless. One novel I read vividly as a microcosm of my plight is Piranesi by Susanna Clarke. Piranesi–the eponymous character enveloped in a surreal and fantastical world of infinite

quartz, hallways of statues, and a violent ocean. As he watches the Albatross fly overhead, no doubt the large shadow of such a creature fully enveloping him for a moment, I found myself there in the House with him. The beauty of such a moment makes me mistyeyed. The salty ocean splashes the stone, breaking upward, just in time as the Albatross perches with its wings outstretched; the behemoth takes on the water as if it is only a drizzle. The sailor of a thousand seas chose to home here, where the seaweed drapes over rotting flesh in the perfect circle of life, out of all other places in its domain of the Earth—here it chose to honor us with its presence. Piranesi’s joy radiates from him. He smiles infectiously— naively, yet also all-knowing.

Yet he is unstable.

Yes, he only fixates on nature because he has become numb to the pressing issue of his imprisonment in such a foreign

place. He has lost his mind. He is off in some fantasy land and needs to be grounded in the real world. Stockholm Syndromed by his cage, his adoration cannot be validated.

Why must he care so much?

I remain sure someone read Piranesi as the inane boy who lost it. He spends far too much of our time describing the algae, the seagulls, and the tides. He is annoyingly obsessed. Peers will say this to my face as my eyes glaze over.

Recently, I had a dream.

I am in a field of tall grass brushing against my knees (presumably, if I was there physically). In this clearing enveloped by tall pines on all sides stands a wooden fence running through the center of the field, from tree line to tree line. In the light of dawn—or dusk—exists nothing but the gentle breeze at first. Then suddenly, exploding from nowhere and everywhere, a murmuration of Great Horned Owls; perching on posts, flying wildly through the air,

locking talons with each other and diving toward the dirt. Though impossible behavior for owls I am instead suspended in the wonder of it all as thousands of some of the earth’s rarest creatures make themselves known.

I woke up.

Today my reading is due for Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead by Olga Tokarczuk, and still I have not yet done it. I find time in a corner on campus to quickly read the perspective of a protagonist I find horribly insufferable. As I crack the novel’s spine, I land waist-deep in snow, lashes freezing to my face, my eczema no doubt flaring up. I trek to the yard of the narrator—who will remain nameless, as per her request, no matter how much I grit my teeth when hearing her talk. The wooden gate is easy to unlatch, and as I swing it open snow falls off in slabs. To my surprise I find her there toward the back, creating a mound of

snow with her woolen hands. She buries the remains of a poor deer. She buried others, too. Here I am angry at myself for finding her exhaustingly relatable. A character who understands the importance of animal life enough to honor their death, to love what the world provides, and to appreciate the beauty of—

My eyes stop on the words. Finally, a character who gets it. Finally, there exists a character who values all creatures, who cries upon their death, who honors them, who cares for them. I am here, in this book, attached to the most unbearable protagonist I have ever read. I am attached to a woman who puts bloodied fur on the desks of police. I am attached to a woman who murders men for their trespasses against nature. I am attached to a woman who locks herself in her basement so that the police cannot find her. Why does she care so much? How lucky am I to be associated

with a character that is the definition of nuance? Only minimally so, I’d argue, as most students are not reading into this as much as I am (because they have better things to do). If not careful when reading, the narrator becomes another boiled down example of a nature obsessor. Crazed. Detestable. Vegan. I am sick and tired of being unjustified.

Not tired enough to sleep, though. I lie awake this time in anticipation of tomorrow where I will have the opportunity to hike. What will I see? I am giddy with the possibilities of witnessing species I care so much about. I memorized all four-hundred pages of the guide book so I could be ready. A Hooded Merganser? A Spotted Towhee? The narrator of Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead would applaud my perseverance instead of advising me to stop the obsession.

I blink and I am asleep in another dream, and in the snow again.

I walk on an icy road with the fingers of tall, barren trees hanging over me. Shaggy Ravens scavenge through the white and hop about the frozen grass. I spot him—a white Raven, completely albino, stands among them, unmoving. An angel allowing itself an appearance to the traveler, we meet eye to eye. I would follow him to the ends of the Earth. I would kill for him.

I wake up.

In English class my entire body shakes in happiness, in hopefulness. I see the Great Egrets in my mind, standing on the other side of the chain-link fence, nipping at my fingers. I want to join them. My eyes are glued to the window for when some Chickadee gets close enough for me to identify it. I switch my tabs between bird ID quizzes and the latest eBird sightings of American Kestrels. I can hold my own in a conversation. I can refrain from murder. I can keep a sane mind. I can function. I can even write a compelling essay. Yet I feel

that, through what literature has taught me, I can still lose all credibility if I talk about just how much birds mean to me.

“Changing of Time”

Sarah Muck ‘27

Digital Photography

Choreographed Sayings Mary Borkowski ‘24

Out of sight out of mind

I listen to the basketball hitting the ground. Its rhythm isn’t standardized or planned. The sounds originate from beyond my window. I do not turn my head to look. The curtains are drawn. Who is out there? Whose hand directs the basketball? Is it the small hand of a young child? Or is it a wrinkled hand with paper-thin skin and overtly visible veins? Has that hand ever been held? Has that hand ever inflicted pain? How would I ever know if it had: out of sight out of mind.

I hear the plane in the sky. If I turned my head I would maybe catch a glimpse of the trails of smoke it leaves behind. But my curtains are drawn, and my door is closed. Though I can’t see them, I know dozens of people are on that plane. These dozens of lives hold hundreds of stories and thousands of memories. But perhaps not.Perhaps this plane holds hundreds of packages to be shipped to hundreds of people. Very shortly arriving on their doorsteps in New Mexico and Indiana, as though these precious parcels hadn’t just been thousands of feet above my own doorstep.

But I don’t really know this. Or that or the other. I haven’t seen inside that plane. And I don’t plan on looking in the future. (out of sight, out of mind). I can feel the slight currents of air that flow past me with each rotation of my ceiling fan. I keep the light off but the fan on to ward off the heat that slips imperceptibly through my walls. This fan was produced in a factory somewhere. Probably far away, across oceans even. In a place I’ve never seen and never will see. Someone designed this fan, wrote out all the measurements for it, sketched it out, built a prototype, and chose all the materials. I’d like to meet this person, shake their hand, and congratulate them on creating something good. Perhaps I should venture outside, and travel to a grocery store because everyone goes to grocery stores. Then perhaps I could greet each person at the door and ask them if they are the designer of the ceiling fan. Maybe I could even bring the fan with me, just to be sure. But then again I won’t do that. That’s strange. I don’t desire to be stranger than anyone else. So it remains out of sight out of mind.

Better late than never

There are small piles of rocks dotting the ground where I sit and I watch the sunset on the water. And I look down at my hands and trace the lines with my thumb. I find that they are worn and spotted with age, with lines deep set and meandering. Each wrinkle is a scar earned from a battle on the journey to this place. This place. Which I’ve longed for and dreamt of and fought for. On starlit nights I dreamed of this place, whisked away to feathersoft sand and cool water. With each lash of my sword and with every drop of blood spilled, my mind glazed over, and I thought only of the hazy reds of the sunsets mixing with the ethereal cerulean sea. As a child, I listened to stories of this place with wide eyes, my small fingers, which gripped my mother’s skirt, clung to every word.

And now I am in this place. The breeze is cooler than I even expected and feels nice on my sunburnt shoulders. The crimson sunset and deep blue waters dance around each other in a way more ethereal than I ever imagined.

The gentle gray sand stretches out before me and feels like powdered sugar on my hands and feet. I think of all the time it took me to get here. Better late than never. That’s what I told myself at every setback. That’s what I reminded myself during every century-long delay.

I’ll make it.

I must.

I’ll make it.

I must. I’ll make it.

I must and I did.

My head aches and I feel weary. I lay my head down on the sand. My eyes close in such a way that I know they will never open again. In this place of eternal sunsets, the sun sets on me.

What is more true?

Before me sits an orange peel. Its sweet citrus aroma makes my nose run. I sneeze.

Once inside that orange peel, there was (or perhaps still is) an orange. With little, even sections that I peeled apart and ate on my way to this room.

To my left is my backpack, gray and dull except for the small keychain on it. My keychain is a stuffed dog with white fur and a black nose. It has four legs, a small tail, two ears, two eyes, and a nose. It connects to my backpack with a silver chain. That’s what it is, but not all that it is.

If you looked a little closer, perhaps by squinting through a magnifying glass, you’d see that my keychain holds on to my bag in a way not un-similar to how I hold onto the memories of the person who gave it to me. You’d notice perhaps that it’s attached there as a trophy and a reminder of the accomplishment and the fact that someone cares. That is what it is. That’s the truth.

So the dog is also a memory and a trophy and a reminder and a fact.

And now we must face the age-old question: what is more true? The dog’s white fur or the value it holds? I’ve been told that the value is more true. I’ve been told that the fur is more true. When I put them on the scales, they seem about equal to me.

Looking back at the orange peel I am faced with the same problem. What is more true? The fruit that was or the peel that is? I’d always argue that both are equally as true. I don’t see how one could be more true than the other. There isn’t any rule against simultaneous existence. Why can’t two truths coexist? Why must we always search for what is more true?

The fruit of the orange sustains me.

The peel of the orange makes me sneeze.

Neither experience feels more true to me.

Let it be

My name is Teresa. I live in section 2A unit 3-447. I have 2 dogs, 3 cats, and 600 bees. Which I know isn’t much, and you’re probably jealous of me. I have it a lot easier than you. But there’s a reason why, of course. So don’t let your envy darken into hatred.

When I was called to collect my bees for the first time, I had been assigned the regular amount of 6.2 thousand. The sweet red-haired lady at the registrar’s office put me through the typical screening questions. Needless to say, I did not pass with flying colors, which is why I did not end up with as many bees as you did, dear neighbor. On that first day, I was sent home without any bees at all. When I was brought in on a later day the red-haired registrar was accompanied by a large man in a dark suit. He sat in the corner, while the lady asked me the same questions as the day before. I responded with the same answers. I was sent home with a significantly cut number of bees. Now don’t take this story as advice. My lack of bees is made up for by the amount of surveillance installed by the suit-men around my house.

See, when I went into my first bee appointment, I had opinions. I had thoughts and ideas. And I wanted these thoughts and ideas to be heard. I thought my appointment would be the appropriate place to voice these ideas– It was not. I’ve never agreed with the bee policies here. I blamed the government for the overpopulation of bees. Their “Let it Bee” policy, though catchy, was a horrible way to respond to the situation.

They should have taken measures to keep the bee population from exploding, way back when it first started to grow. Instead, they assured us that the population would decline, and our troubles would pass. The troubles did not pass, and now every citizen is the keeper of 6.2 thousand bees.

I told these ideas to the sweet red-haired lady twice, and to the suit man once. That was enough to put me under surveillance. I wish I didn’t say anything at all. I’m tired of being watched. I’m tired of being judged. I’m tired of being distrusted. My neighbors judge me for my lack of bees and I am isolated. I used to be a person of action. I used to really care. But now I understand the government’s nonaction: sometimes it’s better to just let it be.

Take it with a grain of salt

I think that one day I’d like to turn around and see what lies behind me. I’d like to toss my glance over my shoulder and feel the southwest wind on my brow rather than on my back. Before my eyes, I see only the rubble of a destroyed city. It looks like a little scorched pit in the middle of the open desert, blackened by flames.

If I squint my eyes really hard I can see small bones rolling in the wind along the long-vacant alleyways. The wind blows ferociously but that’s of no consequence to me. I think that one day I’d like to feel the sand in my eyes again. I know that it’s not a pleasant experience, but it’s an experience. I crave experiences.

I want to feel something, whether that’s rain from the sky or sand from the earth. I’d do anything to feel this ferocious wind again. I’d climb mountains just to feel my feet burning on this sand.

“Head in The Clouds”

Josephine

Sloan ‘24

Digital Photography

It’s been so long that I can’t remember the last time I felt the rain or the sand or the hand of my daughter. I think that one day I’d like to hold my daughter’s hand again. I’d like to feel her small fingers wrap around mine. Though I suppose they’re not so small anymore. When I return to her she will have longer hair, longer arms, and a longer stride. She’ll have stretched out in the same way my sense of time stretches on the dunes. I’ve lost so much time here, but I’m unable to turn my eyes away from the city.

I think one day I’d like to be less skeptical. If I were more trusting I’d find myself in a better state. My grandmother raised me on that saying: take it with a grain of salt. I never believed anything I heard once, or twice. Even ten times was not enough for me to fully accept anything as a fact. I thought my cautious nature would protect me. I was sure it would keep me from falling into the traps set by cruel people. In my opinion, and I’ve spent many immobile years reflecting on this, trust and skepticism are both necessary things to carry in your purse.

If you take everything with a grain of salt, you become salt. My years of accumulating salt got the best of me. Each day I piled more and more upon my shoulders until no part of me was left uncovered. I think one day I’d like to abandon the grain of salt.

A Letter from the Choreographer:

I can not write a change because change is not something I am willing to accept let alone create. So continuity becomes my friend, someone to lean on. Or perhaps it becomes my first love, someone to obsess over. Or maybe it becomes my ruler, someone to bow down to. Either way, each movement of my fingers lays down another stroke of the same kind. Another image I know, another person I know, another idea I am far too familiar with. In this way, my writing is my own, and can only be my own. Who else would read a story that doesn’t move? So the words only dance for my eyes, because I am the choreographer.

Bailey Purcel ‘24

Digital Photography

“Apollo’s Muse”

Cast Out

Genevieve Lumpkin ‘27

They were two of fire and salt, In the matters of others they had no fault, Sure, the world was against them, But of the world they ignored, They the Eagle and the Sword, But unprepared were they, And far too blind to see,

The fall that loomed ahead, So they turned their minds and fled, And the fall they could not withstand, For they learned to jump but not to land, And now the sun sets for them, And the night does fall,

Still cold and grim.

“2nd Stage: Anger”

Claire Eder ‘25

Acrylic on Panel

a memoir in ashes

Nina Villalba ‘26

we were two splintered girls born of birdsong and starlight armed with the sort of freedom youth bestows only to the brave promises of sanctuary between each other (and all the lies you told your mother)

astronomical twilight held nothing to our candle flickers in the dark for every myth that grew entangled shadows danced like secrets between teen girls at sleepovers

I think unforgiving might just be part of growing older.

yes, I’ll concede, I bought the matches but no one asked you to strike them, ignite them // ignite me, feed the truth to the fire—cremate it within me.

“Your Clothes, Your Body, Your Mind”

Mary Atwell ‘24 Oil on Wood

in honor of all my lifetimes spent chasing down every infernal twin-flame you set here’s to the fable years, and here’s to each and every artful violence—I’m only sorry I’m not sorry for it.

when the flowers went to seed you torched the gardens all I knew was to leave, so I torched the veneer and let this time be the last time, let it smolder without smother let these ruins be our sacred peace, let them haunt you forever. four eyes stared at the ceiling as the heat cracked the windows watched it all go up in smoke, the wallpaper wept like willows at last, there was quiet—bar the pelt of the rain and I knew a fresh foundation would entomb where we laid. you were the house I grew up in until you burned it down.

“Strangers” Mary Atwell ‘24

Acrylic on Gessobord

Witch Trials

Cora Mahaney ‘25

Dust clings low to the Earth as we decide life’s worth; There’s an endless search for truth by nail and tooth.

A noose swings in the wind as they call for the next of kin

While Death marches past pews in light of the news

Toward the stage as we disregard logic for rage— More like a show than any sort of justice, though. (Or More like putting on an act than a case cracked)

Sounds of necks snapping drowned out by thunderous clapping. They line up in the queue, all based on something untrue.

Moving a broken body as what we hate is what we embody,

Dancing in circles looking for a fact, all the while we distract

From how the search for security leads to more and more impurity.

Deny the truth or die a liar as we set the world on fire.

“Overcast” Sara Diestch ‘24 Charcoal on Paper

Esse Visual Art Award Winner: Windows

Madeleine Marlowe ‘24 on her portfolio:

I want to explore flight, not just as a way to get from one place to another but the feelings it insights in me, both negative and positive. I also want to share that doing something new, although inherently scary and unknown, is on the whole positive because you begin to do something that you love.

In my first piece, I took the rhythm of the TAC chart lines and put them in the background. However, on further viewing, I decided to incorporate that into more of the piece to create more unity in the composition. In several pieces, I also used the canvas shape to further my conversation about flight by using woodworking to shape the canvas into plane windows.

Throughout my works, I focused on using a similar color palette to unify the entirety of my portfolio. If the color palette is different, it is meant to convey a different set of feelings about flying, specifically the more lighthearted piece with the buildings and Cessna. I importantly conveyed movement in my pieces, through shape and line because of the nature of flying and the fluidity of my feelings about flying as they fluctuate with time.

I’ve always seen the world in black and white, at least that’s what my mom says. It means that I think of things in extremes, all or nothing, right or wrong, straightforward. I think that is why I like math. There is always one right answer. The numbers fit together perfectly, like puzzle pieces or a key in a lock. When we moved last year, it was like someone came and wrecked my puzzle and changed the locks. At a new school I had to start over, put together new pieces. I didn’t know my identity anymore. I was the fastest girl on the playground, but suddenly I was on the cheer team. I just needed to finish the border, place the edge pieces. If I did that, the inside pieces would be easier. I went on like this for the first year at my new school.

Life in Color Audrey Nims ‘25

Friends came and went. I still loved math, but nothing felt right. I watched my older sister, who struggled in our old town. She was never truly able to hit her stride. Moving was everything to her. A new start and a fresh perspective were all she needed to find the sparkle that I remembered so well. And my younger sister, well she just made it wherever she went. Always adored by each new person she met. I didn’t understand. These were the times my mom would tell me about black and white.

Things stayed the same as life just seemed to meld together. Every day brought on the same challenges. I was still good at math. In my 8th grade year, I had to take an art class. I never loved art. The teachers always said, there’s no right answer or be creative.

I was hesitant as I sat down at the table and looked at my partner for the year, Halley. Her hair was curly and kinky, and her clothes were bright and mismatched. I ran my fingers through my pinstraight hair, and looked down at my trendy, coordinated outfit I stole from my older sister’s closet. I already knew this year would be a long one. We didn’t speak much at first, although she would try to make small talk every once and a while. As she got more comfortable around me, she talked more. She would blab on and on, and I would just listen. After learning the basics, it was time for our first big project. As the teacher announced that we had to do a portrait of our partner, I saw a small grin form on my partner’s face.

“Colorful Collision”

Bailey Purcel ‘24

After class, she came up to me and invited me over to her house to work on it. I didn’t see the harm and knew that we would have to get together at one point or another. My sister dropped me off at her house and I stalled as I walked up the front steps. All of the sudden I was nervous, unsure of what to expect. My heart raced and my palms became sweaty. Before I could knock, the door swung open, and Halley’s face was bright and eager. I saw that she had already set up two easels in her kitchen with a variety of paints, oil pastels, and pencils. We sat down and started to paint, I made careful, calculated brush strokes. Halley started her usual blabbing, but this time I decided to blab too. We got comfortable as we talked on and on, sharing gossip and cracking jokes. We laughed so hard our sides were hurting and we were rolling on the floor. As we got up, I took notice of our paintings side by side. Her painting of me was vibrant. Lime greens, cerulean, and shades of pink splashed the canvas.

I looked happy and content in a way that I hadn’t seen myself since the move. Her carefree brushstrokes made the portrait look almost abstract. As I took notice of her painting, she noticed mine.

“Wow,” she said in amazement.

“Do you like it?” I asked.

“It’s beautiful,” Halley exclaimed.

As I examined my own painting, I noticed that I had painted her using only black and white. It looked like her, but her essence was not quite there. I grabbed the color, and immediately got to work. I added salmon and lilac, even red. When I finally stepped back and looked at the final product, a rush of emotions came over me. The brush strokes were messy, but they perfectly encapsulated the tangle of her curls and the shine of her eyes.

I turned around to see that she had been watching me paint the whole time. A wide smile was stretched across her face and no words were needed to convey her enjoyment. This was just the start of what would become a lifelong friendship. Through Halley, I learned how to see in color. She was yellow, a color that means warmth, positivity, and happiness. My sisters were blue for loyalty, trust, and purpose. Life became a rainbow of new opportunities. It was like I found the key to the lock, and the puzzle pieces fit, but instead of doing the edge pieces first, I started in the middle. Halley and I decided to take an art class every year from there on out, and we got pretty good. Art became our outlet, as we experimented with new mediums and colors. It became the foundation on which we built our friendships, relationships, and memories. But don’t worry, I am still good at math. “The End!!”

Mary Atwell ‘24 Oil on Canvas

winter mornings

Sarah Muck ‘27

winter mornings remind me of ice-cold lemons on the rim of water glasses. they have a sharpness which is light but awakening, and the shock they bring is welcomed, not returned.

winter mornings remind me of daisy fields covered in morning dew. they are crisp and white while soft and bright, and there is warmth hidden behind petals.

winter mornings remind me of tall, straight birch trees crowding a forest, stiff trunks, greening needles, a whisper of wind between branches, and light from a sun that comes peeking behind snow covered mountains.

winter mornings remind me of peace in a beautifully crazy world. they are a constant amidst uncertainty; a clearness reflecting across the sea of life, but above all, winter mornings are whatever you make them to be.

“Snow Day” Julissa Guardado ‘24

Chalk Pastel on Paper

“Change”

Sarah Muck ‘27

Digital Photograph

Waves

Keegan Patnode ‘27

Crashing onto the shore, the powerful waves release all the secrets the ocean kept in store.

No two waves are the same; one may pull you under, while another remains tame. When all the waves are gone life seems so calm, no single wave seems to spawn.

But beyond the horizon, the mightiest wave forms, with unfathomable power, transforming the sea in its storms.

The waves you knew before stand as nothing in comparison to this towering uproar. After the wave has passed,

familiar rhythms return, along with the strength that couldn’t last.

Just like people, the waves come and go, But the impacts they have will last. Because of them you will grow.

Some will push you to be the best version of yourself, but others will drag you under and never set you free.

The power of the waves leaves you in awe, like how someone’s influence makes you see your every flaw.

Harness the might of a wave, and let no one sway you: stand tall, always brave.

The Story Behind a Promise

Cora Mahaney ‘25

I was sitting on a bench in a park, dusk dawning upon the trees and sky and horizon. The golden liquid light a hug from someone long gone – warm, flowing over the bench, the trees, the grass. The heat hugged humidity to the body, blanketing everything in sight. Lamp lights flickered on as the world seemed to slow. Watch hands moved through molasses. I watched the world quiet. Silence settled.

There was someone who was still moving, though – a boy. He sat down beside me, the strap of a messenger bag sliding down his shoulder, hitting the dusty ground with a soft thud. It rested by his brown boots, a story untold.

Like everything else in this world, he slowed, too. He slowed to a stop. We sat in silence for a while, side-by-side. He turned his face to mine, tan and sun-kissed, an exhaustion set in his eyes.

“Why are we sitting here in silence?”

I felt myself shrug. He looked tired; I felt tired. Why couldn’t we just sit in the silence? Reading my expression, the boy turned his face away and towards the trees, searching for pockets

of remaining sunlight behind the leaves.

“What’s the bag for?” I heard myself ask. It wasn’t any of my business. It never was. He didn’t look away from the sky.

“I had a message for someone,” he whispered.

“Did you deliver it?”

He lowered his face from the sky, glancing at the bag for a moment. “No. I was too late.”

The sun continued to set. Night bugs began to come out, fluttering and flittering toward the light of the lampposts. A soft breeze blew, a short respite from the stuffy, sticky heat. It felt nice to sit in the silence, unmoving.

After a couple of seconds, “Why?”

The corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards in a smile, looking back at me. His skin was burnt from the sun, hair slightly wavy from sweat that had since dried.

“You gave up?” I asked, when he provided no answer.

“No.” His smile faded.

“So you failed? Trying your hardest and failing is admirable. Not something to be ashamed of.”

“I wish it was admirable.” He scoffed, leaning back and slouching on our bench. Looking

down at his hands, caked in dirt, he continued, “I thought I had been fast enough. Made up enough ground in the first stretch to relax a little.”

He sighed and flipped his hands back over, dusting his hands off his black slacks.

“So you failed?”

“I guess. I wouldn’t have if I had stuck with it a little longer. If only it wasn’t so hot or if only I had... I don’t know...”

“Nothing good comes from Ifs. Trust me, I would know.”

“I don’t know you. And you don’t know my failure.”

I nodded. A couple seconds passed between us. “It’s a new day tomorrow.”

Shaking his head, he responded, “I can live with the feeling of failure. I can’t live with the failure itself.”

“There’s nothing good to come of this?”

The messenger boy shrugged. “I’m tired of moving. I’ve been trudging forward and moving this whole day. Why must I move on so fast?”

I don’t know what happened to that boy.

I left him there, to rest. I don’t know what the message was, who it was for, or why it mattered. All I knew was that he had already failed. Supposedly.

He probably got up at some point, dragging his feet away from a fallen dream. Whether or not he truly moved on, I don’t know; we took different paths.

Walking away from that bench of rest, I made him a promise. The type you make in your head. A vow you swear to follow, a secret to keep to yourself.

Time had felt so slow then. But, it was dark by the time I left. The stars were beginning to peak out behind the tree branches, watching us. Watching what we did with our failure.

Those Golden Eyes

Alicia Malone ‘25

I’ve always had golden eyes for my dad, placing him on gilded pedestals far beyond my reach.

Dusting his office shelves and shining his corduroy shoes and fine tuning his old record ragtime and blues just so he’d lift me high and call me his “little peach.”

And I’ve always loved that name, the way he made it sound, the way it rolled off his tongue with love bounding across the crisp consonance. It almost sounds like biting deep into the sweet delicacies inside, stickiness staining your chin.

Yet, I think my dad forgets while peaches are sweet and plump and colorful,

peaches are known to bruise while still being Beaten and brushed and wonderful. In fact, peaches are the most fragile of fruits, Turning purple and green and brown when baking his favorite lemon bars left untouched, Ironing my clothes to look presentable enough, or studying French history to sparkle in the gilded plaster he holds. But this bruised and battled peach, left spoiled in the apples eye, is trying now to find power in the new colors she holds,

in the spoils left burrowed deep within the toiled golds and standing tall with new self-evident truths to be told

“Birdtown”

Madeleine Marlowe ‘24 Oil on Canvas

to see a star

Sarah Muck ‘27

most people think that to see a star they must see the dark for only amidst darkness can you see an ethereal glow radiating from the sky above. but what most people forget is the greatest of our stars is the sun who shines with a brilliant radiance in the golden dawn of morning and the brilliant blue of dusk no matter the clouds or wind or hail or troubles that come her way. in a sense we are like stars because when people look at us they see an enormous crowd who dims our beautiful light and makes our shine replaceable by the many others shining even more brilliantly than we but this is never true because we are all suns who can be seen shining with a unique brilliance the same on dark days as beautiful ones.

“Frozen in Time”

Amanda Robb ‘25

Digital Photograph

“The Cicadas” Alice Dean ‘25 Mixed Media on Wood

Bugs Still Miss Things

Zoe Schneider ‘26

Just two weeks ago, my therapist Examined the insect wings on the board; And the magnifying glass told me I missed The old life I can no longer afford. I wriggled under the gaze and against the pins in the wall

Stifling tears that didn’t exist until these revelations:

One, that I missed the old friends, who left so long ago, at all;

Two, that my multicolored bug eyes realize devastation.

To the vibrant garden so far away -- I forgot you were gone -I used to call you home. You’re now a rotting gray lawn.

But these cork boards and sticker labels and dead flies

Have the prettiest view of a poster with a sunrise.

Simon Says Disorder

Ava Bradley ‘24

Simon says to blink your right eye. Simon says to now blink your left five times. (That’s six total. A multiple of three.) Simon says to blink left eye twice more. (Seven on the left doesn’t feel right. Move on. Move on.)

Simon says to have an intrusive thought. (I clench my fist and I tense my shoulders. Shake my head. Shake it away.) Simon says to accept, absorb, and forgive. (I am so accepting, and I am so angry.) Simon says it’s not you. (I am temporary and transitory; and I am powerful.)

Simon says to mindlessly tap your leg and pick your blisters in everything but multiples of three. Simon also often says to curve hallways by rotating to the left and not the right. Simon then says to tap the s key and abuse it. Simon says to satisfy your compulsions and to make sure no one notices.

Simon says to not forget your compulsions. (I live in another reality; an unkind marble labyrinth with eroded pillars of steel and countless rooms of decadent statues and a hell of temperamental water and a heaven of prophetic clouds. It’s easy to forget infinity.)

Simon says not to do anything that may jeopardize good luck. (I accidently split the pole.) Simon says something bad will happen, but Simon also doesn’t know what it is. (I remember my trigger: a young girl standing in the elevator of her father’s apartment, wondering where level thirteen went.) Simon says not to think about your good luck, because then you’ll have bad luck. Simon says to delete that sentence. (No.)

Simon says to pray for everything under the sun when it gets dark – to cover every avenue. (Safe, happy, healthy, feel loved, know that I love them, and stay safe. Ginger, Ginger, Gracie, Gracie.)

Simon says to ignore the stereotypes – to keep my mouth shut. (How much power can the misuse of an acronym have over me?) Simon says, “A lot.”

Simon says to be clean in your computer files, but not in your room. (Simon doesn’t know he is a contradiction in himself; an ugly reflection of an even uglier world.)

Simon says to look into the future – far into the future, beyond a blur of menial tasks such as college and marriage and work and everything – and obsessively plan out your purpose, our collective purpose. (Simon is naïve and simpleminded, for it is the “ordinary-sized stuff which is our lives, the things people write poetry about—clouds— daffodils—waterfalls—what happens in a cup of coffee when the cream goes in,” (Stoppard 47). Simon cries at my realization.)

Finally, just before the sun sinks beneath the ocean and long after the tea has gone cold, Simon says you are disorder, disorder, disorder, disorder, disorder.

I say I am free, free, free, and drink my tea anyway. Works Cited

Clarke, Susanna. Piranesi. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 2020.

Stoppard, Tom. Arcadia. Grove Press, 2017.

“Cleansing”

Sara Dietsch ‘24

“Highway” Elena Montenegro ‘25

Never Enough Time Cora

Mahaney ‘25

Movement.

A clock’s second hand tick

Tick Ticking.

When will the world just stop?

A text sent

A half a percent

A word of consent

A second-too-late car dent.

The second hand dances

As the world advances

At the loss of chances

As people fight with iron-tipped lances

When will the world just-

The hour hand will taunt

The little time for what we want

The goals we whisper will haunt

The lack of time we have it will flaunt.

When will the world-

A breath will take

One too many Mississippis to break

As we sit down and drink with a mistake

An apple taken from a snake—

When will the

Time be enough to slow and fix

All our numerous conflicts

Of too many stones and sticks

And not enough clicks

When will

We find the time

To solve the crime

And make the endless climb

And solve the world’s problems?

but we can hold each other until then.

taken road Lily Chesnut ‘26

the “taken road” that is where my head drags me— a golden disciple shiny and pretty flaking across the path stepping in the tracks of my blood our blood her blood as my heart runs Backwards Into the trees

The dense, dark forest i am not gold i am not her i am hidden free Breathless and beating beating out beat beat beat beat beat butpulled back by my veins

“what a shame!” they proclaim as they wrap around my Beating muscle

i cannot leave the set way i am tied the more i struggle the more it takes but Still my heart wanders

Dancing with the dark, new ideas new life new me real me butthe mind controls movement and the motor cortex also has sense so my legs trudge forward in someone else’s footprints bleeding into one on that old old taken road.

“Peddling Past Childhood” Laurel O’Brien ‘25 Acrylic on Wood

Visitor Chloe Kim ‘26

A pungent combination of scent: Acrylic paint and Philosophy perfume.

Wafting around Olivia’s room, Substituting her absence

Her drawers-- packed tight with copious awards

Stubborn paint stains spilled across her floors

Surfaces suffocated by thick pillars of books

Below experimental photography draped across hooks

Days I’ve spent examining her room

Pacing around it’s perimeters

As if her room was a beautiful museum

And I-- a loyal visitor.

“Admiration”

Elizabeth Barbero ‘24

Acrylic on Wood

Woman-Ochre by Willem de Kooning

Elizabeth Jiede ‘24

I stare at the chaos of a woman before me. Scattered dashes of lines, arrows pointing one way or another. Once displayed in a hall of reverence, she sat patiently, gracefully before disappearing somewhere one way or another.

I found her shoved behind their bedroom door. People say she was cut, grabbed, and taken quickly one way or another.

I knew them once. It’s funny how they shared the same striking expressions and soft smiles as the cursed sketches.

I know it’s a coincidence that they owned the same sports car, the same red coat as the couple that got away.

A retired speech therapist and school teacher don’t belong on the FBI’s most wanted list.

Just ask our family.

I stare at the chaos of a woman before me. My scattered thoughts of lines, arrows point one way and then another.

The only person who knows the truth is the ochre woman. And though she wears nothing, she knows everything.

Family Game Night

Catherine Compton ‘24

A six-year-old sits at the table, head down.

Feeling the Slam, Slam, Slam of the cards on the table as they are mixed, vibrating on her cheek. Kings and Queens and other strong personalities. Forced together.

Hearing the shh, shh, shh of the cards sliding on the table as they are dealt, whooshing in her ear. A family of kings, queens, and the little ones. Separated together.

Seeing the Flash, flash, flash of quick, eager hands rushing to pile the cards again, flashing across her eyes. All the cards coming back together. United together.

A six-year-old laughs at the table, watching the dance of cards unfold, Watching family mix and separate and come back together, Through the movement of cards.

Apart”

“Years

Shelby Lovejoy ‘24

Digital Photograph

Audio Transcription Service by Ottawa Police Service

[This transcript is adapted to be full verbatim; profanity has been censored]

2023-08-10 6:30 a.m.

[Inside Detective Owens Private Office]

Det. Dench: [door opens] Is now a bad time?

Det. Owens: Only if you didn’t bring me coffee.

Det. Dench: Here you go. It’s your usual.

Det. Owens: You’re a saint, Dench. [pause] I guess you know… [coffee sip] …about why we’re here.

Det. Dench: Yeah… the girl looks pretty shaken up. There are some doctors in there with her. Checking

Who Am I?

Elisa Welch ‘24

her out. I think they said something about the report being out by 7:00 a.m.

Det. Owens: So, we won’t be able to talk to her until 7:30 at the earliest… that’s just… great ****.

Det. Dench: Hey now Carlos, just think about it, we have more time to go over her case.

Det. Owens: What do you think I’ve been doing since my shift started at 6 in the ******* morning. [long pause] I’m sorry Amy… It’s been a long night. I need to finish my coffee.

Det. Dench: Oh… yeah [long pause]

…

Det. Owens: [coffee sip] Ok kid, hit me. What do you have?

Det. Dench: Um— yes, ok. She was found this morning at 4:27 a.m. outside of the Walmart located in the Kanatana Centrum Shopping Center. Identified herself as Isabelle Austin, daughter of Jennifer Austin and Thomas Austin. Oh— she also said that her address was 716 Cravant Grove. I confirmed everything with public records. [papers ruffling] Isabelle Austin was declared missing on July 18th, 2022, so she was missing for about 13 months. Last seen biking near Ruisseau Park.

Det. Owens: Ok… good. [pause] Ok I need genetic testing done first thing after the medical exam.

Det. Dench: Ok I’ll go do that.

Det Owens: Oh, and Amy? [pause]

Can you tell them to hurry?

[End of Recording]

My head hurts… It’s dark, always so dark. Who’s speaking? What is that? Stop! I can’t think— …I hear something, is someone speaking…To me? I can’t see. “C’mon ——, up and at ‘em.” Oh. It’s him. Always him. I’m tired, so tired…

“Stop it!”

Wait. Who is that? Someone new… someone like me? My eyes slowly open— I just want to go back to sleep. I’m waking up more and more…

“Look!” I hear, “We got you a new friend.” I hear locks and chains clanging; it makes my head hurt.

“There you are, g’rl. In ‘ere. ————mhmm.” I feel my eyes slip shut again.

“Get comfortable, you’ll be here a while, we need to figure out what to do with you, just like your lil’ friend ‘ere.”

I feel myself slipping further and further back to sleep. A slammed door. Good, he’s gone. As I slowly

fall asleep, I hear the soft sobs of my new friend…

2023-08-10 7:56 a.m.

[Inside Interrogation Room #4]

Det. Owens: Hello Isabelle, do you know who I am? [pause] No? That’s ok. I am Detective Carlos Owens. We are going to be chatting, ok? [pause] How are you feeling?

Isabelle: Much better.

Det. Owens: Could you tell me what you remember?

Isabelle: My name is Isabelle Austin. My parents are Jennifer and Thomas Austin. I have an older brother, Percy, and a younger sister, Mallory. We have 2 dogs and a cat. I live at 716 Cravant Grove, and I go to St. Peter High School. My birthday is July 24th, 2008… [pause] I don’t… know… how old I am…

Det. Owens: Thank you Isabelle, now do you remember anything about where you were?

Isabelle: My name is Isabelle Austin. My parents are Jennifer and Tho—

Det. Owens: No, Isabelle, no. Isabelle, where you were… [long pause] before we found you.

Isabelle: It was dark… cold. There was someone else…

Det. Owens: Did this person hurt you? [pause] Isabelle?

Isabelle: No… Friend. Yes, a friend. No… gone… no she’s gone. [pause]

Det. Owens: There were other people with you?

Isabelle: No… she went away… [pause] Gone.

Det. Owens: Okay… What about who brought you there?

Isabelle: [pause] Who… I don’t remember. [long pause]

Det. Owens: Isa—

Isabelle: —There was him… I don’t like thinking about him…

Det. Owens: Can you tell me about him?

Isabelle: … I don’t know…

Det. Owens: Tell me what you know, Isabelle.

Isabelle: My name is Isabelle Austin. My parents are Jennifer and Thomas Austin. I have an older brother——

Det. Owens: No! I already know that, Isabelle. Tell me what you know about him.

Isabelle: [long pause] … I don’t know…

Det. Owens: [mumbled curse] … ok, great. Someone will be with you shortly. [long pause] … [door slam].

“My name is—”

I’m awake again. How long has it been since I last woke up? I don’t know; I don’t even know how long I’ve been here.

“I live—”

Who is that? … oh right it’s the other girl. Who is she talking to… Is he back? No! He is dangerous. I feel the fear course through my body. I open my eyes to see… no one, just the girl. She is talking to… the wall?

Before I can stop myself, I feel myself speaking: “Who are you talking to?” My voice is rough… when was the last time I used it?

“Oh! You’re awake. I’ve been wanting to talk to someone else for so long…” she keeps rambling. I tune her out… she has so much energy…not for long…

“Excuse me… Did you hear me?”

“…What.” I don’t even know why I’m speaking…

“What’s your name?”

[End of Recording]

“Name?” I pause. It’s been so long… do I even have a name anymore? “I… don’t remember.”

“Oh, well… that’s ok.” She smiles… what reason does she have to smile?

“What were you saying?” What reason do I have to speak?

“Hm?”

“Before… When I was sleeping.” “Oh, oh! I do that to remember...” Why does she have to remember?

… There is no point. We’ll both be here until we die. I finally zone back in to hear, “I can tell it to you if you’d like.” I feel myself starting to nod…

She smiles at me again… what a warm, nice smile. “Ok, let’s start! My name is Isabelle.”

2023-08-10 11:43 a.m.

[Inside Detective Owens’ Private Office]

Det. Dench: [Door opens] How do you feel about Thai food for lunch?

Det. Owens: That sounds good.

Det. Dench: [pause] Any news for Isabelle’s case—

Det Owens: [loud bang] No! It’s ridiculous. My conversation with her was infuriating, I feel like I got nothing out of it—

Det. Dench: —maybe—

Det. Owens: And the genetic test! We sent it off at 7:30 a.m. and it still hasn’t returned! It has been four ******* hours, more than even. Christ! Apparently, the machines are down, but I call bull—

Det. Dench: —calm down! It’s a hard day in the department. Just focus on lunch.

Det. Owens: There was something off with Isabelle too.

Det. Dench: Carlos, you do realize that 24 hours ago she was in captivity.

Det. Owens: No, it was different. She was almost mechanical…

Det. Dench: I’m sure it will all make sense. [pause] What if I speak to her and you watch in the observation room?

Det. Owens: Yes… I can work with that.

[End of Recording]

I almost feel free with Isabelle. We talk; I found a reason to talk. We stay as close as we can while still staying in our own prisons. There are bars that keep us out from the world and each other—like stable stalls, we are locked like animals—we sit near our shared wall of bars.

We talk, Isabelle mostly does anyway. I listen. When I do speak, Isabelle listens intently, sometimes she laughs; I still don’t know what reason she finds to laugh.

We are sitting together now, and he walks in. I stiffen and so does Isabelle.

I’ve successfully warned her of the danger because that’s what he is— danger.

“Are ye ready for ye beauty days, g’rls” My eyes widen as I look at

Isabelle. I’ve forgotten about this. I curl up on myself… I can feel my hair fall around my head. “What is he talking about?”

Isabelle whispers beside me. I don’t answer; I can’t answer. My hands are shaking, and I don’t feel free anymore… I stop listening. I feel my eyes glaze over…

…

I don’t know how long it has been. I’m still shaking, always shaking. My hair is on the ground. It was so long, almost to my shoulders. Why? I’m still so tired. I have no will to keep going. Not even Isabelle can make me feel free.

“Aw, look at ye g’rls. Ye almost l’ok l’ke the same person.” Him. He did this. He is mocking us. I feel sick. I feel unsafe. I feel…so tired…

2023-08-10 1:04 p.m.

[Inside Interrogation Room #2]

Det. Dench: Hello Isabelle, did you have a good lunch?

Isabelle: It was… very good.

Det. Dench: That’s great, how are you feeling?

Isabelle: [pause] I’m not sure…

Det. Dench: I want to talk about what happened, is that ok with you?

Isabelle: [pause] Ok…

Det. Dench: Ok… I’ve heard mentions of another girl… Your friend?

Isabelle: [pause] I don’t like to talk about her…

Det. Dench: Ok, I understand. It must have been scary. Why don’t you like to talk about it? Did something happen?

Isabelle: It was all my… I don’t want to talk about it.

Det. Dench: [pause] Is there anything else you’d like to add. [long pause] You can tell me Isabelle; you’re safe. You’re free. I’m here to help you.

Isabelle: [pause] … I did it for her… I… never cared about… being free… until…

Det. Dench: [long pause] … thank you, Isabelle. I’ll let you be. [chair scraping on the floor] [door opens and close]

[End of Recording]

Det. Dench: Hey, that’s ok. What about something else? How did you get out?

Isabelle: … It was… a blur.

My hair is still short and itchy. I don’t know how long it’s been since he cut it, but it’s been a while; I feel safe again. She has been helping me so much; she is so kind to me. She taught me, repeat what you know, just to keep sane. She is sleeping now, and I remember what I’ve forgotten. I’ve remembered my name: Isabelle.

I’m sitting there. She was so tired, so I’m letting her sleep. I’m saying what I know: “My name is

Isabelle—”

“’Ello you g’rls, ‘ow are ye’s” I freeze, he’s been gone for so long… I was starting to hope…

“Which one is ye” he just keeps talking… why am I shaking. “So, which one is ye?” Breathe. Just remember what you know, just like she told me.

“My name is…Isabelle” I spoke, that’s right.

“All r’ght, that means this ‘ovely one is the other one.” Why is he smiling so much, only my friend smiles. I’m so scared, he’s still here, why am I shaking? I watch him with wide eyes. Like if I blink, he will come and attack me. He goes into her cage, what is he going to do to her? He shakes her. I should help; I need to help, but I’m still shaking, I’m so scared. Is she screaming? I only hear the ringing in my ears. I see her wide eyes as he drags her out of the room; we are the same, both wide eyed and shaking. I curl into a ball, just willing her to come back to be with me. Then I hear it.

Oh.

A loud bang; her screaming

stopped.

I’m alone again. My savior is gone, and I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault…

I’m going to be sick…

2023-08-10 1:09 p.m.

[Inside Observation Room #2]

Det. Owens: [door closes] you saw how shifty she was, somethings up. She pauses and looks to her right before answering every question. I think she’s either lying or hiding something.

Det. Dench: I don’t know Carlos… She did just return this morning. Maybe she’s just adjusting.

Det. Owens: I still think she’s lying.

I’m betting about her identity.

Det. Dench: We don’t know that! Not until the—

“A Lonely Walk”

Josephine Sloan ‘24 Digital Photograph

Dr. Morris: [open door] Sorry to interrupt, but we have the genetic tests. It’s very urgent. [paper rustling]

Det. Owens: Look, Amy, do you know what this means?

Det. Dench: It means—

Det. Owens: It means I’m right.

[End of Recording]

I can’t stay. I’ve thrown up everything in my body until I was choking on air. He came back, his smile filled with blood; he sat there, taunting me. I see her, she’s still next to me, but I know she’s gone. Not gone…dead. It’s my fault. I spoke.

It’s late now. I cried and screamed, and he laughed. He laughed— I’m not scared, I’m angry. I still see her, my only comfort. Only now she’s helping me up…

… It’s a blur. I don’t know anything except I am still shaking, but this time my body is filled with rage. I

see her, my angel. Somehow, I got out.

It is dark, and I see stars. She always told me about the stars. She looked just like me… felt just like me… She’s still near me, I can feel her. She’s inside my bones; she merged with me.

I keep walking down a road; I’m cold, and I have no shoes. But maybe if I keep walking, I’ll find my home.

…

I lost a part of me there, it was cold, and I lost myself… But I found something, too… something better… something good.

Many things died there, but I survived. I will carry what was lost and what I found…

I am not Isabelle.

2023-08-10 1:37 p.m.

[Inside Interrogation Room #2]

Det Owens: Do you know why we’re here?

Det. Dench: It’s ok if you don’t, we understand. We want you to feel comfortable… Are you ok?

Isabelle: [pause] I’m not…sure.

Det. Owens: Let’s cut to the chase. The genetic test came back, you are not Isabelle Austin, your DNA matched with another missing girl, Alice McDowell.

Det. Dench: Carlos! We talked about this. She’s not in a good mind—

Isabelle(?): —No… she taught me, to keep me sane. She said to repeat the things you know… She taught me… what I know…

Det. Dench: Alice… are you feeling alright? We can take a break…

Alice(?): I… I can’t remember… We look the same… We are the same.

Det. Owen: How did your friend leave, Alice?

Alice: She’s gone, dead, gone! He took her—me! He killed a part of me, but I will let her live. She was the best part of me. I’m better as Isabelle, than anyone else!

Conclusion of the Events of August 8th, 2023.

Written by: Detective Amy Dench

After questioning the found girl, Alice McDowell, which concluded at 1:45 p.m. Detective Owens

psychologist to help find the man who kidnapped both Alice and the other identified victim, Isabelle Austin.

Det. Dench: Alice, is your friend dead?

Det. Owens: [long pause] Alice, do you know you’re not Isabelle?

Alice: I don’t know who Alice is! I can’t be her if I can’t remember her! … I was taught to be Isabelle. Isabelle is good, and happy. [pause] I want to be good, and happy.

Det. Dench: You can be good like Isabelle, Alice. Alice is full of potential. Alice is good. Please, Alice, let us help you.

Alice: [long pause] Can Alice even exist if no one remembers who she is? [End of Recording]

attempted to contact the McDowell family, however there was no response. He is trying to contact any extended family. Detective Owens also contacted the Austin family, who arrived at 4:00 p.m. August 8th, 2023, for a briefing and additional statements.

Alice McDowell went missing on November 29th, 2021, and has been missing for about 20 months. She is about 15, however, no records have been confirmed by family yet. Her case was not being currently investigated, and Alice was presumed dead.

Detective Owens, Detective Dench, and Ottawa’s Police Services have been working with Alice and her newly appointed trauma

Isabelle Austin was murdered according to Alice McDowell; however, Ottawa’s Police Services are trying to confirm by finding a body.

This investigation was conducted by Detective Amy Dench and Head Detective Carlos Owens; Head Detective Carlos Owens will also be overseeing the next investigations concerning the missing girls Alice McDowell and Isabelle Austin. This case is still ongoing.

for girls who care too much

Adriana Gonzalez ‘26

for girls whose power lies in their words.

words that can build a house up out of love, but tear it down just as quickly out of anger or fear or distress.

for girls who aren’t heard, girls who try so hard to protect everyone, but scream because nobody ever listens.

for girls who are only tolerated, never loved; whose love is only accepted, never returned.

for girls who only know how to push people away or hold them too close

like ivy suffocating a flower. for girls who know the moon is envious of the sun but the stars are just as jealous and in love

for girls who bite the hand that feeds them, who put salt in their wounds, and cry in their closet of shame and regret.

I know how it feels when they don’t care and if they do, you don’t know it when they don’t love you and even if they did, they would never show it

I care

I hear

I love

“Don’t Go”

Leah Osbaldeston ‘26

Mixed Media on Paper

Esse Literature Award Winner: Getting to Know Me

Alicia Malone ‘25

Have you ever been afraid before?

Not of monsters sliding under your bed nor mutant spider heads multiplying in your sheets, but real stuff like college tuition or my grandma’s frozen, grocery-store beets.

These are questions asked when getting to know a friend, when attempting to understand others. But how do I say I’m afraid of so many things-most importantly: how I’m presented to another.

I’m afraid to breathe too deeply, too harshly too inconsistently that I step out of line; I’m afraid of photographs documenting lines burned across my body of swine; and I’m afraid to show my gasping tears, bloodied anger, and hungry envy in front of you.

And it’s not because I don’t want you to be my friend nor that I don’t care for your biggest fears, but I just don’t want you to leave.

So, now do you see? Answer me “honestly.”

Have you ever been afraid before?

[getting to know me]

“Fish on 5th”

Jordan Schwab ‘24

Acrylic on Canvas

Star Girl Mary Borkowski ‘24

You tell me to look up at the sky

You gaze up with those stars in your eyes

And for a second I’m in your magical world and I’m floating lighter than air or feathers or whatever they say and briefly I’m in heaven with you.

You say: How can you not look at the sky? It’s where we all came from, don’t you understand?

But I don’t understand

I don’t belong to the sky. No one does, not even you my star girl.

In reality, I am much heavier than feathers and air. So I fall. Collide with the earth. I melt into the mud. I swim in it. I bathe in it. This is where I’m from. I’m of the earth. I am of imperfections and flaws, of regret and tears and mistakes. This is who I am.

And I won’t pretend otherwise.

“Firelight Sonata”

Naomi Barajas ‘24

Oil on Panel

You ask me why I don’t look at the sky?

It’s because that would be lying to myself.

Stargirl, you turn your gaze upward and see only your ideals, grand words, and promises. Your philosophies all realized. An idyllic paradise where everything makes sense, but nothing is true. You long to be of that place. You lie to yourself, making believe that you belong there.

It took me a while to realize–

But you’re the same as me Of this world

This muddy, filthy, wonderful world

And you are horribly foolish to turn your back on it.

It took me a while to realize–

But the stars in your eyes are only reflections of the sky to which you claim to belong.

Skinned Knees

Madison Morrissey ‘25

I hope that when everything ends, when the stars fall into our mouths because their sparkly spirits need rest, that you will be there to scoop the stardust out of my insides. I hope you take your calloused hands, strangle my imperfections with your divinity, wring out the sin you’ve drenched me with. You’ll push me to the floor. I’ll look at my scabby knees, then at your eyes, and I’ll know that the theologists were wrong all along. You are my religion. You are the one I spend my Sundays praying to, scaly knees leaving imprints like snakeskin on our ancient carpet. I profess my faith to all who listen, but we both know that my whiny voice never reaches their ears. It just lingers around them like a sort of smoke, a signal to take action, the beeps incessant and quiet and fading out of their eardrums. The smoke detectors don’t hear it, or maybe they do, and they’ve all conspired to keep me in this hell. You are my religion. You are what I breathe, in and out, hasty, hesitant. You are my church, my place of worship, where the walls I’ve made come crashing down and the prayers I recite like secret wishes are louder than my heartbeat. I hope you hold me tenderly, the way a god should, pushing the hair behind my ears, wiping my tears with your softening fingers. I just hope when the stars fall out of our mouths, you’ll be there to tell me there were no stars there all along. No smoke. False alarm.

“Anchorite (Think of Me Sometimes?)”

Mary Atwell ‘24 Acrylic and Oil on Canvas

Letter from the Editor

Dear Reader,

Thank you for following the movement in this magazine. I hope you have a better understanding of the role movement plays, not only in your life, but in the world. I’d like to thank our wonderful artists and writers for their contributions to the magazine. Sharing your perspective takes a lot of courage and I commend them for that. This magazine could not have been produced without our selections committee members and copy editors. I’m very grateful for the time and energy they poured into this magazine. Our moderators were just as indispensable. Their support and guidance kept this magazine going. I’d like to give a special thanks to our art editor for truly stepping up and expanding her role. Her enthusiasm and reliability were integral in the production of this magazine.

-Mary Borkowski

‘24

Esse Legacy

Ursuline Academy’s first literary magazine was published in the fall of 1907 as “St. Angela’s Echo” in commemoration of St. Angela Merici, the foundress of the Ursuline order, during the centenary of her canonization. Filled with black and white photos of the old, Gothic-style school building and advertisements from local businesses, “St. Angela’s Echo, Vo.1” included four poems and two short stories. The small pamphlet sold for $1.00. 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 this publication and serve as a reminder that this humble volume too will become part of that legacy for future generations.

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 2024 was constructed using Adobe InDesign 19.5 on a PC. The font utilized for the cover is Bellvoire

Display Extra Bold, sizes 63 and 19 on the front and size 18 on the back cover. The spine font is Bellvoire

Display Extra Bold, size 12. The font used for titles and authors is Bellvoire Display Semibold. Titles were set in size 34 and authors’ names in size 20. The font used for artist credits, body text, and page numbers is Candara, size 12. The font used for pull quotes is Candara bold italics, size 16. The cover is on 100# Maxcote Satin Cover paper, and the content pages are on 100# Macote Satin Text paper. The pieces included in Esse 2024 were chosen by the Leadership Team and the Selections Committee, and the magazine was laid out by Mary Atwell. Esse 2024 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 Press Association, the National Council of Teachers of English, and the National Scholastic Press Association. ESSE 83

ESSE STAFF

Editor-in-Chief: Mary Borkowski ‘24

Mary was published in Esse her sophomore and senior years. Additionally, Mary has been published in the Express Yourself: Dallas Youth Poetry Competition anthologies her freshman and junior years, winning first prize her junior year. Mary was also published in The American High School Poets Holiday Special Anthology her senior year. Mary has been writing creatively since her freshman year and took both creative writing one and two courses at Ursuline.

Art Editor: Mary Atwell ‘24

Mary was published in Esse her sophomore, junior, and senior years, and her art was the front cover feature for Esse’s 2023 edition. Additionally, Mary’s art has been featured in the BluePrint Gallery’s Young Artist Exhibition in 2023 and 2024, and Ursuline’s 2023 Donor Calendar. Her senior year she received Ursuline’s Purchase Award for her AP Art portfolio. Mary has been making art since her freshman year and took Studio Art I-IV and Advanced Placement Studio Art 2-D Design Portfolio at Ursuline.

Assistant Editor: Laurel O’Brien ‘25

Assistant Art Editor: Andrea Nunez ‘25

Public Relations Officer: Gabriela Marques ‘24

ESSE STAFF

Copy Editors:

Sofia Velesiotis ‘24 (head copy editor)

Madeline Butler ‘24

Nika Vahadi ‘24

Alicia Malone ‘25

Kate Walsh ‘25

Madison Morrissey ‘25

Moderators:

Ms. Jocelyn Holmes

Mr. George RodrigueZ

Selections

Committee:

Jillian Lim ‘27

Ella Forsthoffer ‘24

Ella Kate DeWitt ‘25

Isabel Pyle ‘25

Sarah Muck ‘27

Blaire Taylor ‘26

Celeste Theriot ‘25

Jordan Schwab ‘24

Elizabeth Jiede ‘24

Elisa Welch ‘24

Naomi Barajas ‘24

Diana Koon ‘27

URSULINE ACADEMY OF DALLAS