Fire & Stones Spring Issue 2023-2024

Front Cover Art:

Arbitrary

Using a black and white reference photo, I created an acrylic painting in colors that didn’t match the reference, hence the name of the piece.

—Vera Barker ‘26

Aggie (right) is a stained glass piece that I made for my friend for Christmas to celebrate her new dog, our school mascot. I wanted to make something pretty and unique, so I thought it would be a fun gift, and give me a chance to make more stained glass.

—Georgia Neaderland ‘26

Printer

Vomela Commercial Group, Springfield Virginia © 2024 by Fire and Stones. Authors and artists hold rights to their individual works. We are committed to minimizing our environmental footprint while delivering high-quality print publications.

Fire & Stones literary and art magazine is published bi-annually in the winter and spring and is distributed free of charge.

Submissions

Submissions for Fire & Stones are open to all St. Stephen’s and St. Agnes Upper School students. Submissions must be emailed to fireandstones@sssas.org. We only consider material offered for first time publication. Artists and writers may submit 1-3 pieces per issue. Literary entries accepted: short fiction, essays, poetry, plays, and excerpts. We do not have length limits; however, try to keep submissions under 1000 words. Include names on the files: firstinitial_ lastname .doc .txt or .pdf permitted. Visual art accepted: photography, illustration, painting, collage, mixed media, cartoon, graphic design, and photographed sculpture. Please submit visual art as high-resolution, jpeg files. For this issue, art and literature had to be submitted to our faculty advisors by April 3, 2024. We have a blind judging process for art and literature. This format ensures that the staff members’ votes cannot be swayed by the votes of other staff members.

Advertising

Students interested in learning about marketing lead the charge in promoting the issue. They write the call for entries and create posters and social media content to spread the word. It’s a hands-on learning experience that lets them gain practical marketing skills.

Coffeehouse

The submission window and distribution are bookended by our Fall and Winter Coffeehouses. Like our magazine, Coffeehouse is a bi-annual event with one in the fall and one in the winter. Coffeehouse is a Fire & Stones-run event where the students gather to share poetry, dramatic readings, and music with their peers.

Distribution

Spring copies are made available to students after their spring finals. Digital versions are posted to our website: fireandstones.org. Select copies will be made available to the Lower and Middle School campuses as well sent to the Archivist, extending the reach of our publication beyond the upper school.

Permissions

By submitting their work to Fire & Stones, contributors grant us permission to publish their work in both print and digital formats. We respect the rights of our contributors and will ensure proper attribution for all works included in the magazine. Any inquiries regarding permissions or usage rights should be directed to the editorial team.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to everyone who contributed to the creation of Fire & Stones whether as writers, artists, editors, or supporters. Your passion and creativity have made this publication possible, and we are grateful for your contributions. For inquiries, feedback, or to get involved in future editions, please email faculty advisors Kate Elkins (kelkins@sssas.org) or Jill McElroy (jmcelroy@sssas.org.)

SSSAS, 1000 St. Stephen’s Rd, Alexandria, VA 22304, www@fireandstoneslitmag © 2024 St. Stephens and St. Agnes School. All rights reserved.

Senior Editor

Elona Michael ‘24

Junior Editor

Ella Joshi ‘25

Editing Team

Charles McElwain ‘25

Elona Michael ‘24

Lilly Purtill ‘26

Layout Team

Vera Barker ‘26

Ava Bell ‘26

Caeli Boris ‘27

Dava Boyce ‘26

Ariya Harrington ‘26

Ella Joshi ‘25

Grace Laha ‘27

Lucy Perkins ‘26

Charlotte Reynolds ‘27

Abigail Taylor ‘26

Linden York-Simmons ‘27

Communications Team

Gracie Hunsicker ‘25

Faculty Advisors

Kate Elkins

Jill McElroy

Dear Reader,

What happens between our sunrises and sunsets? Some observe mother birds caring for their nests, loved ones re-reading old birthday cards, passengers stepping onto the bustling metro amid city air, or trays of cakes waiting to be eaten by party guests. In this issue of Fire & Stones, we encourage you to take a breath and relax, to let yourself enjoy what seems to be a never ending loop of days, and appreciate the little stories and memories contained within them.

Editors, Elona Michael ’24 and Ella Joshi ‘25

Literature

7 - Waldeinsamkeit - Poem by Anne Louden Kostel ‘25

12 - Sixteen - Poem by Gracie Hunsicker ‘25

17 - Birthday Card - Poem by Tatum Spencer ‘26

21 - live, land, love - Poem by Suri Wang ‘25

24 - Dancing Barefoot - Poem by Gabi Miller Milow ‘24

30 - Battling the Oppressive Animal Behind That Steering Wheel - Prose by Angus Argetsinger ‘26

34 - Ashen Pages - Short story by Dava Boyce ‘26

42 - 79 - Poem by Janney Cooper ‘26

44 - Blackout Made Outcast - Memoir by Vera Barker ‘26

47 - Eternal Spring - Poem by Tatum Spencer ‘26

50 - Autopsy - Short story by August Moon ‘24

54 - The Mirror - Short story by Ella Schneider ‘27

58 - Bloom and Grow - Poem by Charlotte Nichols ‘24

Art

1 - Aggie - Stained glass by Georgia Neaderland ‘26

4 - Digging for Gold - Clay box by Willa Johnson ‘27

6 - Chasing Sunlight - Photograph by Gracie Hunsicker ‘25

9 - Heritage - Collage by Ella Joshi ‘25

10 - Koi Pond - Ceramic box by Kaia Corens ‘27

11 - Velvet Chic Top - Crochet by Taylor Storr ‘25

14 - Lily - Painting by Charlotte Barnes ‘27

16 - Too Many Pastries - Drawing by Caeli Boris ‘27

18 - Blooming Buds - Photograph by Matt Smith ‘24

19 - Bug Eyed - Photograph by Charles McElwain ‘25

20 - live, land, love - Drawing by Suri Wang ‘25

22 - Always Take the Scenic Route - Photograph by Angelina Egbe ‘24

26 - Grandma’s House - Painting by Caeli Boris ‘27

28 - Life Cycle - Digital comic by Ian Niemira ‘25

32 - Chisel - Drawing by Grace Laha ‘27

33 - El Chapeau - Drawing by Sam Catlin ‘25

40 - American Dream Girl - Digital painting by Ariya Harrington ‘26

43 - The Nest – Digital drawing by Sydney Worsham ‘24

46 - Sweet Life, Frank Ocean - Photograph by Angelina Egbe ‘24

48 - A Light in the Dark - Wire sculpture by Sydney Worsham ‘24

52 - Sunset with Stars - Digital painting by Charlotte Reynolds ‘27

56 - Cat - Drawing by Lucas Aronson ‘26

59 - Find Your Sunset - Photograph by Dia Britto ‘25

60 - Spring Bouquet -Mixed media collaboration

Digging for Gold

—Willa Johnson ‘27

Chasing Sunlight

Good morning :) —Gracie Hunsicker ‘25

Steadily wading through picturesque forest streams, Sleepy yet spirited, placid yet so carefree, Brings me to feelings of quiet tranquility.

Wispy clouds drift across mild skies aimlessly, Mellow as golden sun spills luminosity, Gently embracing with warmth my entire being.

Sweet-scented flowers accompany fresh green leaves, Smelling of springtime, the peak of serenity, Lifting my heart to such lofty heights easily.

Whistling winds speak to patiently listening trees, Tiny birds warble their untiring poetry— Sound fills my ears, yet my soul rests so peacefully.

Certainly, this is how everything ought to be.

—Anne Louden Kostel ‘25

Heritage

This piece is surrounded by a pattern found on Dhaka fabric, a traditional fabric used on Dhaka hats in Nepal. These designs, made using linocut stamps, surround a portrait of my sister when she was a toddler. By placing these two images together, I aim to connect my sister’s Nepali heritage to her directly.

—Ella Joshi ‘25

This is a ceramic box inspired by the serene feeling of sitting by a koi pond. It is meant to be a three dimensional take on classically painted koi fish.

—Kaia Corens ‘27

Koi Pond

Velvet Chic Top

Cute, handmade crocheted top. Perfect for summertime!

—Taylor Storr ‘25

Dear future me,

Remember “surprises” on your birthday,

Remember singing to the wind,

Remember lying on the hood of a car in spring,

Remember drawing caricatures of friends,

Remember eating wild blueberries,

Remember singing away the bears,

Remember sunset barbeques with people you just met,

Remember staying up until 4:30 in the morning reading,

Remember getting up at 7 the same day,

Remember finding four leaf clovers,

Remember inventing a pie,

Remember sneaking out of a dorm room,

Remember watching Barbie four times,

Remember dunking in a waterfall,

Remember biking to the beach before sunrise,

Remember baking blindfolded,

Remember dancing at dusk,

Remember falling asleep outside,

Remember the panic of driving alone for the first time,

Remember singing on road trips,

Remember skipping through fields,

Remember taking pictures of shadows,

Rembeber photoshoots with friends,

Remember bonfires on Halloween,

Remember climbing onto the roof,

Remember road trips alone,

Remember binging tv during midterms,

Remember studying all day,

Remember FaceTimes that lasted for hours,

Remember the snowman who should have been named Pinocchio,

Remember applying for a job,

Remember drawing on shoes,

Remember reading books written in Spanish,

Remember hanging sea shells on trees,

Remember scavenger hunts near the beach,

Remember laughing until you cried.

Remember you are a living nesting doll, and somewhere inside you will always be sixteen.

Yours, You —Gracie Hunsicker ‘25

Lily

A young girl holds not just a flower, but a beacon of optimism, reminding us that even in dark times, there is the possibility of a brighter tomorrow.

—Charlotte Barnes ‘27

Too Many Pastries

—Caeli Boris ‘27

Last time I saw you was my birthday. You were dropping off my gift, which was some money. I still have the card on my dresser. I keep all of your birthday cards with me. I don’t know why, but I do.

We talked for a bit, then you went home. Three blocks away, near the Harris Teeter. That’s probably where you get my birthday cards from.

It’s been a year since you gave me that card. Since I last saw you. But, you still live three blocks away, near the Harris Teeter.

I still haven’t thrown away my birthday card.

—Tatum Spencer ‘26

Blooming Buds

This photo was taken at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, NC. It was my first time working with macro lenses but I like the way it turned out!

—Matt Smith ‘24

Bug Eyed

—Charles McElwain ‘25

live, land, love

—Suri Wang ‘25

They carry their vibrant calls to herald the imminent spring and brighten the landscape, sweeping away the last bit of coldness from winter.

They carry their flamboyant epaulets on their black body to visit the wetlands and marshes, perching on the higher stalks and showing off their dazzling shoulders –shoulders that gradually change from cerise to orange, with yellow pieces embellished, helping them to attract females.

They carry their vigilant eyes to watch their broadland. Their onus turns into valor, aggressively going after invaders, which marks their never-ceding space and responsibility; a nice space for their family is essential. Choosing a healthy habitat for their offspring rests on their shoulders.

They may also carry their stocky shape to rest on telephone wires. Or, their conical bills to visit your backyard if you spread grains and seeds. As thankful guests, their presence symbolizes prosperity and protection, and will bring good luck to you.

Brownish-yellow females carry mud and grass to refine their nests. They rest on the lower lands to adroitly blend into wilted grass, and forage and weave nests for their chicks. Built with woven grass and wet leaves, their hermitage hides from potential hazards.

They are the myriad, the opportunist, the livelyThey are the red-winged blackbirds.

—Suri Wang ‘25

Always Take the Scenic Route

Subject: Safira Yisrael

—Angelina Egbe ‘24

The rhythmic blare of the guitar, the thunderous cheers of the crowd, drown her, swallow her whole, until she is nothing but a speck of sand in a desert.

Who is she, really?

Another fish in the sea who blindly chases after the others? A bird soaring aimlessly across the clear blue sky?

No.

Among the mass of mankind, she is an individual. She stands, immersed in the cosmos.

She is.

She is the sunflower amidst the faded roses. She is.

She is the lightbulb in the darkness. She is.

She is the voice of a thousand words.

Dancing barefoot in the crowd, she becomes a woman of wonder, independence, exhilaration.

She senses the gaze of inquisitive eyes upon her back, as she raises her arms above her head and sways her body, like ferns in the wind, to the beat of the drum.

Dancing barefoot, intoxicated by insouciance, she twirls.

Her skirt flows around her like a river.

She breathes in air like it’s an elixir of life. With each movement, she becomes.

Lost in her own silver heaven, she becomes.

Dancing barefoot, she gives the world new ways to dream.

When the sky is starless, she radiates light. She is not the muse. She is the somebody.

Dancing barefoot, she chases her individuality like others chase their dreams.

Her fiery eyes embody the passion streaming through her veins. The music pounds in her ears, as she dances barefoot to the rhythmic blare of the guitar.

—Gabi Miller Milow ‘24

This is a painting of my grandma’s house on a bright autumn day. I wanted to play with using color and shapes to explore shadows.

—Caeli Boris ‘27

Grandma’s House

Life

Cycle

Even a Volvo doesn’t last forever.

—Ian Niemira ‘25

When I was about seven years old I went with my mom to a Washington Nationals game and took the local metro system. I had probably experienced the cozy tube before on some other adventure into the city, but it had never occurred to me how powerful a crowd could be. Because on this particular trip into DC on the yellow line towards Mount Vernon Square, I was crammed into a sea of Nats fans - all excited to go to the big game and all excited to reach the stadium.

The feeling that I and hundreds of others were traveling to the same place to do the same thing and reach the same goal, gave me a sense of belonging and compassion for the metro that would eventually carry on to buses, water taxis, and other forms of communal transportation. Standing in that train, nine years ago, I was obsessed. All of the different people with all of their different faces wearing all of their different clothes, you didn’t see that in a car. You wouldn’t be able to see the community or the interactions. In the car I saw nothing. In the car I wasn’t riding next to humans, I was riding next to machines. Machines with invisible faces, soulless entities only serving as vessels to pass things along. The metro was the only thing I wanted to ride, it was the only way I could see real people.

We ride better together, and our path forward should never be centered on ourselves. The path to a better future should surround us with each other, so that one day our problems may be a bit brighter and our issues may be a bit more resolved. Communal transportation is at the core of how we move forward. A world where we know a bit more about each other just from riding amongst one another. Long after that Metro ride, I still remember how close I was with everyone. Standing with the people of the world, we were one.

—Angus Argetsinger ‘26

Chisel

I chose to create a chisel my 2D art class because I wanted to play with the different textures of the chisel like the smoothness of the handle and the rusty metal parts. I went with a simple background to give focus to the chisel and all of its textures, while still having something there.

—Grace Laha ‘27

El Chapeau

When I sat down with my bag of charcoal I wanted to draw something that represents the grace, tact, and class that I feel comes with charcoal as a medium. The lady in the hat represents all of these things for me.

—Sam Catlin ‘25

Shour-Flen, Ploa-Shi, Athya, and Friece are all different countries located in the Shattered Isles, where this story takes place.

The Beacon is a large tree located in the center of the Isles. One of its seasons is New Light, which is similar to early spring.

“Are you sure you want to see this?” Venera Corvan asked, turning to face her old friend. She clutched the folder containing reports of the tragedy that had occurred five years ago.

“I want to know what happened.” There was a sense of urgency in his voice. Venera didn’t respond immediately, instead turning her gaze to the man who stood near the door of the closet-sized room. He was a detective from Friece. Falk was working with him on a recent case. She didn’t know the details, but according to Falk, the situation was bad. He noticed her staring and met her gaze. The man made Venera uncomfortable. He wasn’t intimidating but seemed watchful. Venera didn’t like that.

“It was bad, Falk. The entire building collapsed. People died,” she murmured. “Noah was one of them.”

“Let me see it for myself, please,” Falk responded, ignoring her last remark. Venera silently handed him the folder. He opened it up and read through the first sheet of paper. It was a newspaper article written about a week after the incident. There were a few more than 20 different papers in the folder Falk was now flipping through, although more existed elsewhere. However, they all had roughly the same contents: The fire that destroyed the Shour-Flen School of Sorcery had started on the 14th of New Light, 10,124, at roughly 5 in the afternoon. It began in the south end of the building and spread to the school’s wooden roof, which led to the building collapsing. Of the 5,400 students and staff attending the school, 209 died and 83 were injured. No one knew the cause of the fire, and no one ever would.

“Gods,” Falk muttered under his breath. The detective glanced at him but said nothing. “How did Ms. Sephtis react?” Falk was referring to Elowyn Sephtis, the former headmistress of the school.

“Elowyn? She took it badly. Obviously. I mean, her son had just died.” Venera answered.

“You know her well?” The detective spoke up, noticing Venera’s use of Elowyn’s first name.

“We wrote to each other a couple times after I came back to Ploa-Shi,” Venera replied, “but never about anything…significant.” She avoided talking about the death of her friend as much as she could. Unfortunately, that topic seemed unavoidable now that Falk had come to visit her in Ploa-Shi. Venera hadn’t even recognized him

at first. They had both changed so much in only five years. Falk was tanner, and his bark-colored hair had darkened. Venera had grown as well, her bird-like, russet wings were properly proportioned to her body now. The bags under her marigold eyes had lengthened as well.

“They never found out how it started?” Falk wasn’t following the conversation; that aspect of him hadn’t changed.

“...No. All we knew was that the fire started in the south end, so it was probably some spilled lamp, or a spell gone wrong.” Venera shook her head, “Some thought it wasn’t an accident. I doubt that’s true, though.”

“Oh.” Silence. “You mentioned Noah earlier? How did he-”

“I don’t know.” Ven cut him off, maybe a bit too quickly. She paused, taking a breath, “I don’t know, but…” She wasn’t sure if she wanted to finish her sentence. Falk seemed to notice her hesitation and moved past his question.

“Here,” Falk handed the file back to Venera, “Sorry for making you do this, Ven.”

“It’s fine.” She responded, tucking the file back into the shelf it came from. Venera, Falk, and the detective left the dimly lit room, and Venera locked the door behind her. They were back in the lobby of the city hall. Venera blinked, her eyes adjusting to the sudden change in light.

“Where are you going next?” She turned to Falk.

“I’m not sure.” He glanced at his coworker, “We had a lead, but we’re not sure how good it is. It barely matched the description of the guy we’re looking for. Supposedly, they-”

“That’s enough,” The detective interrupted. “You don’t need to describe the entire case to her.”

“Sorry.” Falk mumbled. He shrugged at Venera, finalizing his answer.

“Well, good luck.” She told him. Falk was going to need it. With that, Falk and the detective left, having a quiet conversation Venera could barely make out. From what she could understand, it was more of a scolding than a discussion. She watched them go, standing against the door to the archive, tempted to go back inside but knowing that she shouldn’t. She wanted to destroy every piece of paper in that room; she couldn’t let go of that day, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she lied to herself.

The morning of the 14th of New Light was sunny, with only a few clouds dotted against the cerulean blue sky. The Beacon was dimmer than usual, having just begun a new season. Venera rolled out of her bed, her feet landing on the wooden floorboards of her room. She was one of the lucky few students who got a bedroom all to themselves. It was probably because she was so young, and definitely not because her parents had donated extra money to the school.

It was the weekend, so Ven didn’t need to be anywhere. Still, she put on her school uniform - students were required to wear them, even on non-class days. Ven stepped into the hallway of the southern end of the school. It seemed to stretch

for miles. At one end there was the library, its size rivaling even Ploa-Shi’s grandest collections. The other end of the hallway exited into a sort of common room, which connected to the main part of the school. There were no windows lighting up the hall. Instead, lamps placed high up on the paneled, wooden walls cast a warm orange glow across the space. Ven turned and headed towards the common room. She was in the main hallway of the school when someone spoke behind her.

“Hey, Venera!” The voice seemed to materialize out of the shadows. When Ven turned around, she found that it belonged to Noah. “Are you busy?”

“Where did you come from?!” Ven exclaimed. She stopped, recovering from the initial shock. “No, not really. Why?”

He stared at her for a moment before answering. “I wanted to show you something. Just a book I thought you’d find interesting; it’s about the Crimson Age.” Ven and Noah hadn’t talked in several months - not since Falk had left on a boat to return to Friece, so she was surprised that Noah had approached her. However, one of the few things they had in common was a love for history, and Ven was intrigued by the subject of what Noah wanted to show her.

“Oh, really? Where is it?” Scarcely any books from the Crimson Age still existed, considering it was one of the first major time periods in the Shattered Isles. Not many had survived the Crimson War anyways, and fewer wrote about it.

“In Elowyn’s office.” Noah gestured to the general direction of the stairwell and began to walk towards it. The lamps surrounding the two caused Noah to appear as only a little more than a silhouette. Ven could make out his horns, a common trait of Athyans, poorly hidden in his dark, messy hair. They matched the color of his eyes, which were cobalt blue. He was the only student in the Shour-Flen School of Sorcery who did not possess any magical abilities.

After climbing an endless amount of stairs, they reached the highest floor in the school. It was a small, quiet room made of cobblestone, unlike the rest of the wooden school. Two windows, which were barely more than slits in the wall, lit the space with a cool, blue light. Across the room, next to the door to Ms. Sephtis’s office was a small table; a vase containing yellow carnations sat on it. The pale yellow of the flowers stood out against the room. Ven walked through the door, Noah trailing behind her.

Ms. Sephtis’s office was only a little larger than the room that was now behind Ven. Although it lacked size, the room made up for that in grandiosity. Several bookshelves lined the entrance of the room. A couple of the books were written in Athyan, but Ven knew most were about history or the study of magic, thanks to Noah. Past the bookshelves, to the left, was a door that led to Elowyn and Noah’s home. Ven had been inside it a couple times. It was compact but cozy enough. Toward the back of the office, a small staircase led up to a raised platform where Elowyn’s desk was. Ven promptly collapsed on the stairs, exhausted from the climb. The most impressive part of the room, however, was the large stained glass window that took up the entire back wall. Venera loved to look at it. It depicted Arctos, the god of the moon that the Athyans worshiped. The mural was beautiful, a whirlwind of blues, purples, and pinks

that bathed the room in those same colors, serving as the only light source. In the center was Arctos, a blue dragon that coiled around the circular window. Both Elowyn and Noah were Athyan, but only Noah talked about Athya. Or, to be more accurate, the disputes between its draconic founders that came after the Crimson War.

“Found it!” Noah yelled, pulling out a book nearly as large as Ven’s head. A cloud of dust followed. Noah, after waving away the dust, looked at the book more closely.

“Oh,” he said, “It’s just the first volume.” The statement almost seemed like a question, probably due to the size of the book.

“Are the rest not there?” Ven asked.

“No, they might be in the library though. Sorry, Ven.” He chuckled. Ven sighed and prepared for the journey to the library.

Ven was exhausted after climbing up the stairs, but now she was certain she would die having come back down them. However, Ven trudged on, and they finally reached the library where Noah fished a key out of his pocket.

The grand, arched doors to the library swung open without a creak. Even from the doorway, Ven could see the splendor of the room. In the back of the library rectangular windows lined the wall. Amber light passed through them, causing the wooden room to glow with a rich brown color. Filling the rest of the space were several bookshelves. Ven had tried counting them one time, and had given up at 90. There was no empty space to be found in the shelves. Some spaces were taken up by tables and chairs as well, although at times they were hard to find. Noah looked around, then took off towards the left. Ven followed.

They found the rest of the books in the back corner of the library. The section was neglected, and Ven could see several spiderwebs among the crevices in the shelves. She found this odd, as most of the library was well kept.

“How many more are there?” she asked Noah. She was sitting on a table, watching him filter through the different volumes.

“I think three? The second one’s missing though; there’s an empty space here.” He gestured to an obvious gap in the tightly packed shelf. “But I don’t know who’d want to take it.”

“At least there’s the other two.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Ven picked up the third book and leafed through it. “Oh, gross.” Noah looked at her. “It’s all mildewy or something.”

“Really? Let me see.” He took the novel from her, “Yeah, it must’ve been too damp back here.” Venera could see the darkened, torn pages of the book reflected in his eyes.

“Do you think we could find a copy somewhere?”

“You wouldn’t be able to find something like this anywhere but Athya.”

Ven sighed, “I wish we were able to fix it.”

Noah started, “That reminds me! There’s something else I wanted to show you.” He seemed much more animated now, and Ven was beginning to feel a bit

nervous. Still, she followed as he led her into a more open section of the library.

“I just realized we haven’t actually talked in months.” She laughed, trying to distract herself from her nerves.

“That’s because you had your other friends.” Noah said, his voice was tense, as if what Venera said had upset him.

“Yeah, but still, I don’t think I’ve seen you. At all.”

“I didn’t stay in the school as much. Explored the city a lot more.”

“Really? That’s more of a Falk thing to do.”

“I guess I missed him.” Noah was definitely annoyed now. Ven looked towards the ground, feeling a little cross herself.

“What’s the thing you were gonna show me?” Ven changed the subject, deciding to push back her anxiety.

“It’s a little easier to show you than explain.”

“What, is it some kind of illusion trick?”

“...No. I need you to do your light thing in order for it to work.”

“Why?” Ven was at the school due to her magic having the ability to heal minor injuries. However, the most she’d ever been able to heal was a bruise Falk had gotten after falling from a tree. It manifested in the form of a soft light coming from Ven’s hands.

“Just do it.” Noah demanded. Ven obliged, although reluctantly, and held out her hand. A faint sphere of light began to glow above it, as per usual. “Don’t freak out, alright?”

“What do you mean?” Noah didn’t respond, instead extending his own hand towards the sphere. In an instant, it burst into flames. Ven jumped. Of all the things that could’ve happened, she did not expect her magic to be lit on fire.

“Don’t worry, it can’t hurt you. I think. It’s not hurting you now, right?” Noah asked. He clearly had no idea what he was doing.

“No! It doesn’t hurt! But, uh, how are you doing this?” she squeaked.

“A friend of mine taught me.” He answered nonchalantly.

“A friend? Who?”

Noah shook his head, refusing to answer the question.

“Noah, how did you learn to do this?” Her voice was unsteady, hands still trembling from the startle. They must have shaken too much, as the fire that was floating above her palm slipped from her hand and onto the floor. Noah reacted quicker than Venera and tried stomping out the flames, but they only began to spread, much faster than they should have.

“Oh crap.” He exclaimed, retreating from the growing line of fire.

“Put it out!” Ven yelled.

“What do you think I’m trying to do?” he yelled back.

“You can’t control it?”

“I-”

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

“You weren’t supposed to drop it!”

“Well you aren’t supposed to have magic!”

Noah opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t hard for Venera to guess what he wanted to tell her, though. His eyes pierced her, burning, just like the fire dividing them.

“I’m sorry,” Ven began.

“No you’re not.”

Venera fumed, her own anger beginning to blind her. She didn’t process the ashes coating her sweater, nor the smoke hanging over the air. The only thing she was aware of was her argument with Noah, which was escalating more and more. When Noah began to step toward her, she unknowingly retaliated. Venera came to her senses when a thud shook the room. She realized that Noah had fallen to the floor, no, that she had pushed him. All of the sudden, the air was choking her, the heat was oppressive, and she was overwhelmed with distress.

“Ven?” The voice that spoke to her seemed distant, she could barely make it out. Venera panicked, backing towards the doors. The voice shouted something inaudible as she turned her back to the fire. She plunged into the hallway, trying to escape from the flames clawing at her.

As Venera handed in the key to the archive, she recalled what had happened after she fled. She had reached the outside of the school at the same time as a majority of the other students. It surprised her how shocking the cold air was compared to the heat that surrounded her earlier. She had come to a standstill a distance from the school, still holding the book Noah had given her. The smoke rising from the back of the school blotted out the moon, but the light from the fire illuminated the city in a crimson glow. Venera didn’t know how long she had been standing when Elowyn came up to her, asking her if she’d seen Noah. Venera had absentmindedly shaken her head as an answer. The two were solid figures among the crowds whirling around them. Watching, as the roof of the school was coated in flames. Only after the school sounded its final cries did Elowyn begin to sob. The wave of ash following the collapse of the building prevented Venera from seeing anymore, however. She was too busy thinking about Noah, who was most likely lying beneath the rubble.

By the time people began to ask questions, Venera had returned to Ploa-Shi. Still, she was terrified of someone discovering what she’d done. So Venera spent the next five years of her life lying and obstructing to protect herself. In a way she was protecting Noah, too, but that didn’t matter now that he was dead. Yet, with the arrival of Falk, Venera felt uneasy. He asked questions, ones she wasn’t equipped to answer.

Perhaps, Venera concluded, it was only a matter of time before the embers of the past were reignited.

—Dava Boyce ‘26

American Dream Girl

In this digital piece, the American flag is both a backdrop as well as an element of the foreground, illustrating the significance of claiming “American” status.

—Ariya Harrington ‘26

It’s just a number. It’s just a number. So why does it feel like a punch to the gut?

It’s just a number.

So why are my hands shaking like an earthquake is soon to take place? Why can’t I breathe? Why are tears streaming down my cheeks?

It’s just a number. Then why do I feel like such a failure?

Because it’s not just any number. It’s a 79. That’s why. With it, my world collapses.

Everything I am is condensed to those two digits. This was all I was good at, all that mattered; who am I if I’ve Tumbled down this horrible hill, This hill I can’t re-climb?

It’s clear what I am.

I’m a 79.

I know this number isn’t me, And I’m not it.

But that still doesn’t make me feel any less Worthless.

It’s as if the 79 were permanently etched With a knife onto my forehead

For the whole world to behold and mock, My dour badge of defeat always on display.

And no matter how painstakingly hard I try

To wipe it away,

The blood red scar remains.

It’s just a number... But it’s mine.

—Janney Cooper ‘26

Without my permission, my head dropped to my chest and my glasses lens came out. Dang, second time this week. I almost subconsciously put my lens back in the frame, where it belonged. Suddenly, I opened my eyes. Who were these people? What was going on? One of the people I saw in front of me asked, “Do you know where you are right now?” I answered, “St. Stephen’s St. Agnes.” I knew I was at school, even if this all felt like a dream. “You just had a seizure. We’re taking you to the hospital.” The same man said. Oh. I didn’t know what to think. —

It was my first day back at school. Everything was finally back to how it was. Well, most of it was. When I walked towards the front door, I noticed an unusual amount of eyes on me. Watching me as I did something as small as walking. I didn’t predict this, even though I should have. Nothing big happens in my small school, so someone leaving in an ambulance is, let’s just say, a largerthan-normal deal. As I approached the front door, I saw multiple teachers give a forced smile. Maybe it was the way they smiled like old creepy dolls, but something seemed off, even if the teachers didn’t want me to believe that. Eyes stared at me, looked at me judgingly. As I walked through the double doors, which were taller that day than normal, even more eyes were on me. It wasn’t like people were lining up to stare at me, but most people I looked at were looking back at me. Was there something on my face? I felt like I wasn’t supposed to be there. Maybe I walked into the wrong school. One where everyone felt like they had to stare at the next person who entered their territory. It wasn’t like these people were strangers, though. Most of the people I saw staring were people I knew. People who knew my name. After realizing I had stopped walking, I continued my steps forward as usual. Moving across the hall and down the stairs didn’t lessen people’s eyes on me. My sister told me if people ever stare at me, I should just stare right back. I felt too ashamed to do that, though. Maybe I was supposed to feel this way–alone and outcast. I finally opened the door leading outside and was hit with a gust of cold air, a break back to reality.

I continued walking towards CPAC, patiently waiting to see my friends. When I opened the glass doors, they all turned and said hi. Not that they didn’t usually do this, but this time it felt different. Welcoming. As I sat down they asked me how I was doing and how the hospital was. I told them my anythingbut-notable experience at the hospital and they still smiled at me. Some of their smiles felt forced, but these were different. The smiles contrasted feelings of worry with relief and support, unlike the teachers’, who seemed as if they were trying to pretend nothing had happened. My friends didn’t avoid the tough topic but embraced what I had gone through. I, however, didn’t feel like a hero who just slayed the dragon attacking their town, but a regular person who only passed out and went to the hospital. It wasn’t like I did anything spectacular.

Then I realized people were still staring. I started thinking about how everyone thought about me. Maybe the people who stared at me weren’t judging. Maybe their eyes worked subconsciously to look in my direction. Of course it was only their eyes that were staring at me; I didn’t know what the person behind them was actually thinking. Maybe I was the person who misjudged.

—Vera Barker ‘26

Sweet Life by Frank Ocean

Location: Anna Maria Island, FL

—Angelina Egbe ‘24

lying on the prickly grass, amidst dozens of daisies and daffodils, their hands intertwined.

turning towards her, his hazy-green eyes glistened in the sunlight as he quietly asked, can we stay like this forever?

her laugh echoed through the silent atmosphere they had both just interrupted.

she turned to face him, her ocean blue eyes now reflecting the sunlight and her rosy cheeks began to blossom, as she teased, nothing can last forever.

he appeared unsure about how to react to her unexpected response. they had always imagined everything could last forever.

feeling embarrassed, he turned towards the sun, hoping it would conceal his now flushed face. he felt a short gust of wind haunt him while the trees swayed, and the grass moved along with the breeze.

as he turned back toward her, he noticed she was no longer there. the fragments of her vision were no longer in his imagination.

he was now back in reality and realized she was right.

nothing can last forever.

—Tatum Spencer ‘26

A Light in the Dark

—Sydney Worsham ‘24

There is only one button on the ground floor, Only one arrow to push. All I can do is stare at my reflection in the dark silver doors. Then the screen above the gate counts down 6, 5, 4,

And while time gets slower I hear the soft ringing of cables vibrating under heavy weight. The elevator is here.

The doors rumble as they part, I take care to mind the gap between my ship and the earth. I, the unskilled, untrained pilot, will put the key in the ignition and shoot into the sky.

It’s hard to leave, and it’s harder to go back. I almost think it’s never worth the arduous journey, still, every time I go a little farther. For how could you ever look at the earth the same after seeing it from the heavens.

My ship carries me into the dark veil, its vast and oppressive likeness is blinding. However, stars, like twinkling curious eyes, peer through me. An uneasy feeling sinks and settles into my stomach, like sediment at the bottom of an old lake. I press my fingers upwards against the dissipating atmosphere, cutting into cold space.

The water in my body starts to freeze into ice crystals. My hands begin to tingle and ache; they groan and creak like the hull of a ship in the storm. The pressure on my chest snaps my ribs and deflates my lungs.

As I drown, there is a beautiful sound. Even when all other lights are consumed by space, it remains. A lonely match in the ocean, a diamond in a dim room. The final ember to the fire of the universe.

If I could only reach a little farther, if I was a little stronger, it would be mine.

I refuse to believe what may already be true, my fate is not set, but perpetually bound to the strange place between the blistering heat of a star and the cold waters of space.

—August Moon ‘24

This piece is a digital painting I designed using a photo I had taken and Adobe Photoshop. The picture was taken on a summer evening spent with my grandparents, so for the piece I wanted to capture the calm feeling of being with family.

—Charlotte Reynolds ‘27

Sunset with Stars

All too soon, spring and its melancholy came creeping in with the chiming of church bells, the chill of the wind. Bitter cold left over from that winter had settled somewhere deep within the body, unshakable tremors nestled in bone marrow, carried by the slow pulse of blood. The frost clawed away a home in all the shaded places, though pale warmth filtered through each gap, sun seeping into soil. The day, then, was a dance between the memory of winter and the aching bloom of spring.

A small village unfurled beneath the mosaic of trees, guarded by bent fence and country road. Scattered stone colonials sat lopsided on crumbling foundations at the edge of town, white paint chipping off like snow. Trees still barren from winter grasped at the air, spindly fingers stretched above the village as if to trap it beneath their tangled limbs, and a heavy mist rested over the ground, shoes and low lying brush lost in smoke-like curls of white. Tilted houses leered over the main street, towering Victorian windows covered in faded curtains, stairs of termite-bitten wood creaking in the wind. Crooked signs denoted mismatched shops in paint dulled with age as flickering lights bounced from storefront to storefront, curtains drawn tight over second-floor windows.

The antique shop was nestled toward the end of the block, wedged between the barber and the boarded-up remnants of an ice cream shop. Wood planks darkened with water stains warped at the corners, swelling from the floor in waves, forced down by nails as their edges splintered outward. Afternoon light flooded in through the windows, suspending layers of dust in time, hanging frozen in the air like star shards. Each clock displayed a different hour, the faint ticking of seconds hands filling the walls of the shop until the whole building seemed to quiver. Kept atop old velvet tablecloths and in rotting vanity drawers were other trinkets—ceramic figurines with paint faded to white, warbling music boxes with missing hinges, stacks of uranium glass vases, brass quails, a singular globe.

Silence found a home at the very back of the shop, clinging to cobwebs like morning dew. The mirror rested against one of the end walls, halfway behind the checkout counter and a dresser with a missing leg. Gilded carvings swirled across its face, dust gathering along the edges, sinking into the shallow cracks webbing its surface. It had sat there for as long as the shop had existed, tucked into the corner and slipping closer to the ground with each sunset.

The new employee came in late the day the mirror reached the ground. Hair disheveled and coffee spilling from her paper cup, she jammed the key into the lock and stumbled through the door with a gust of cold wind. The building shook as the door slammed against the opposite wall, clocks swinging into each other, chipping at their edges. A shrill creaking filled the shop as she scrambled across the floorboards protesting the sudden movement. Leaving the lukewarm coffee on the nearest ledge, she hurried to the back of the shop, to the mirror which laid face-down on the floor.

Though not shattered, large cracks veined across the mirror’s surface, glass sheets separating like fragmented ice. Cursing under her breath, the employee propped the mirror back up against the wall, peering at her distorted reflection. Something caught her attention before she could stand up again—a flash of movement, some dark shape too solid to be a shadow shifting in the top corner. With a blink of her eyes, it disappeared from the corner, materializing towards the bottom of the mirror. She shook her head once, twice, but the figure didn’t move. Rather, it seemed to expand, swallowing her reflection, each strand of hair, the color of her eyes. She forced herself to breathe and the figure warped again, thinning until what stared back at the employee in the mirror was not her own reflection but a mosaic of strange colors and faces blotted behind a gossamer sheen of something like smoke clouding every detail.

Echoes of the past returned in the silken aberrations of the mirror, recognition sparked in blurry cheekbones and irises twisting beneath the billowing haze: faces she had not seen in years, words that bit and stung like shattered glass against tile. Memory was suffocating, desperately digging its nails into her as it pulled itself to the surface. Still, she bent closer to the mirror and the figures staining its surface, begging to be witnessed, to be remembered.

Time itself seemed to pause, holding its breath until finally—sunset. Light crawled across the floor with the last of its dying strength, strips of warmth huddled close to the ground. Inhaling, expanding, then shrinking back against the wall, bleeding into the ground in golden hues, in shifting scales. The last of the day’s light caught on the employee’s eye, scattering sunspots across her eyelashes. For a moment, the mirror seemed to flicker, her reflection fading back in before it was again consumed by the tempest of memories, herself eclipsed by that which was.

The antique shop sat empty for many days, a shell collecting dust. A single coffee cup—half-emptied, algor mortis—teetered on the edge of an old dresser, stuck in the place between falling and resting. By the time the shop owner entered, spring had burst from the ground, leaves tearing themselves from bark, flowers breaking through the hardened ground. A lark hid somewhere behind the cover of green, singing with the clocks’ shaky rhythm. The shop owner gazed into the shards of mirror, swore he saw a flash of movement, then went to grab a dustpan and broom, grumbling something about declining profits.

—Ella Schneider ‘27

This is a hand-drawn picture of my cat, Roux.

—Lucas Aronson ‘26

Cat

To bloom and grow, That’s what they say. Move on, move out It’s almost May.

Go climb the hills To what’s ahead Forget the past, The life you lead.

So long, farewell, Goodbye old home. I won’t forget Those words, this poem.

I’ll bloom and grow But still hold tight. Bless my homeland, Forever mine.

—Charlotte Nichols ‘24

Find Your Sunset

This piece emulates the intangible feelings you feel when you slow yourself to fully appreciate the little things. The moments that we’ll look back on and remember fondly will be those outside of work with the people we care about. So find your people, find your sunset, and maybe along the way you’ll find your peace too.

—Dia Britto ‘25

Celebrate our spring issue’s collaborative spirit with this bouquet of our team’s favorite flowers.

Back Cover Art:

Nature’s Reflection

This is a small acrylic painting I made inspired by the poem “Don’t Bother the Earth Spirit,” written by Joy Harjo. It is meant to represent the connection between humans and nature.

—Kaia Corens ‘27