Fire & Stones, Spring Issue 2023

Front Cover:

Media to the Masses

This piece, inspired by the posters of old horror flms, shows me in ominous green lighting as I prepare to mark a sheet of paper, watched by endless staring fgures. The concept was inspired by the role that I have as an artist, in which the products of my creativity––and therefore myself––are judged intensely by the public eye.

Ellie Minor ’23

Printer:

Vomela Commercial Group, Springfeld Virginia

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

Submissions

All submissions must be emailed to freandstones@sssas.org. We only consider material offered for frst time publication. Artists and writers may submit 1-3 pieces per issue. Literary entries accepted: short fction, essays, poetry, plays, and excerpts. We do not have length limits; however, try to keep submissions under 1000 words. Include names on the fles: frstinitial_ 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 fles. Art and literature had to be submitted to our faculty advisors by April 10, 2023. 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 & Distribution

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 & Stonessponsored event where the students gather to share poetry, dramatic readings, and music with their peers.

Digital versions are posted to our website: freandstones.org For additional information or how to obtain hard copies please email faculty advisors:

Kate Elkins (kelkins@sssas.org) or Jill McElroy (jmcelroy@sssas.org.)

© 2023 by St. Stephen’s and St. Agnes School, 1000 St. Stephen’s Rd. Alexandria, VA 22304

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without permission. All images are © the artists and reproduced with permission of the artists.

Senior Editors

Zoë Coval ’23

Mollie Kemp ’23

Communications Directors

Gracie Hunsicker ’25

Mariel Irish-Maldonado ’25

Layout Editors

Ella Joshi ’25

Amaya Nicholls ’25

Literary Editors

Elona Michael ’24

Sophie Stine ’25

Selection Team

Sophie Atkisson ’23

Rose Breckinridge ’26

Zoë Coval ’23

Charlotte Hill ’23

Gracie Hunsicker ’25

Lily Hunsicker ’23

Mollie Kemp ’23

Lauren Irish-Maldonado ’23

Mariel Irish-Maldonado ’25

Faculty Advisors

Kate Elkins

Jill McElroy

Dear Reader,

In this issue you will fnd four chapters: How I See Nature, How I See Myself, How Things Aren’t Perfect, and How I Find Hope.

It’s easy to get stuck in our own heads - our individual lives, problems, and dreams. In our hurried determination to charge toward our futures, we sometimes forget to look up. Things seem to change by the second, but nature offers a quiet timeless beauty that allows us to stop for a moment and even see ourselves more clearly. And when things aren’t perfect, nature offers a reassurance that the sun will come up and the seasons will change. In nature there is hope.

Senior Editors, Zoë Coval ’23 and Mollie Kemp ’23

Gatito’s Ride

—Charlotte Hill ’23

Table of Contents

How I See Myself

6 Codie Campbell ’23, Castle Window, Photograph

8 Charlotte Nichols ’24, My Experience of Life

10 Lily Adams ’24, I Am an Artist

13 Justin Hill ’23, Might as Well, Digital Design

14 Augusta Adams ’24, Like Mother, Like Daughter

16 Sabrina Khanna ’26, My Identity and Me

19 Zoë Coval ’23, Loss of Relationships, Digital Montage

How I See Nature

20 TG Peterson ’23, Bloom, Photograph

22 Marina Gallozzi ’23, The Yellow Lion

How Things Arenʼt Perfect

How I Find Hope

47 Calysta Lee ’23, Miche-Miche, Photograph 48 Lily Hunsicker ’23, !Buen Camino!

Castle Window

Through a window of the Bayeux Cathedral.

—Codie Campbell ’23

I wake up at the same time every day.

I gather my things and I’m out the door like always.

I go to the same place each day to learn, to listen, to sometimes stare into space. But I enjoy it; I enjoy the information that fows into my brain and sometimes my heart.

I talk with others: sharing, complaining, obsessing, sometimes just talking. I feel at ease, leaving the past day behind and starting a new one.

I sometimes feel like the days repeat themselves.

But I enjoy it; I enjoy the routine and the sense of home.

I walk down hallways, sharing smiles with distant friends and close ones, too. I stroll outside between two buildings, and I observe the nature and the sky.

I listen to the music of the birds and the wind.

After a while, I hear the music again, and a weight is lifted from my shoulders. I like telling stories, sad, bad, and good.

I feel like I’m exercising my soul in ways I cannot otherwise.

I get to care, uncage, and connect in ways that others do not.

After a while, I hear the music again, and a weight is put back on my shoulders.

I enjoy learning, but at my own pace.

I like to dig deep without restraints, without restrictions, without deadlines.

I still try my best to please those around me, and, I think, myself, too. While the weight is on my shoulders, my circle surrounds me, until I allow the weight to be lifted.

I acknowledge their job and appreciate it.

I like how the different shades of my circle blend together to create a beautiful image of us fve.

I spend my night being myself with them. While I know the weight will come back tomorrow, I get to live in this moment, this beautiful moment, and I get to experience life again and again.

—Charlotte Nichols ’24

I am an artist. When the prompt says “self-portrait,” All I can envision is a painting From the shoulders up Of a stiff looking person. I always hated self-portrait projectsI never quite liked the way I looked or the way I replicated my features.

I never thought I was ugly, not really. I just never liked the way I looked, Even if my mom told me I was pretty Or my Nana fawned over my hair, Saying it was so much nicer than hers. Or when someone said I resembled my Nana, Or when someone else said I looked like my mom, Or my dad, mostly my sister though. Or when the cute boy I met in New Orleans called me beautiful.

I’ve never seen what they see.

I guess I am pieces of each of them, Molded into one.

My love for art came from my Nana. My freckles and hair from my dad. I have blue eyes like my mom. Everyone thought my sister and I were the twins. My brother gave me my patienceNo one else could be that annoying. I am smart like my Grandma, And talkative like my Papa. There’s likely impressions of friends And AuPairs, teachers, and other family members.

That makes me a collage, Not a portrait painted to hang for centuries to come. But bits and pieces of each person, Specifcs delicately chosen and combined to make me. Found pieces that have evolved into me. Torn and glued, proud to display. That’s what I am, A collage.

—Lily Adams ’24

Might as Well

A pair of hands (mine) holding a hairspray can representing the “side effects” of growing up.

—Justin Hill ’23

I fnd myself staring at the half empty shelves, this is out of choice. Eating is now my Achilles heel. Don’t enter in or you might get sucked down the hole, I feel like Alice falling into a different world. All I want is to get outthere’s no way out, not for a long time, at least. A mother’s long held wishes will never fail to impress on the next generation. It’s not hate I feel, nor resentment, Not towards her.

Towards the boxes and bags whispering to me like Pandora’s box. I know if I open them I won’t stop. I can’t touch them, not if I want to be like her or please her, that’s all I have ever wanted. I want perfection, I strive for it, I crave it, and need it So why then can I not achieve it with this? I’ll never be good enough. Or less enough, I suppose that’s what I really want. What she wants, to be less. Stare up at the one person you always wished to be: “I hate myself.”

Well now I do, too, I want to do everything you do. I want to be you, I want to look like you, even when you hate yourself.

I don’t sleep, I feel stuck in time and the weights pull down on my feet as I try to be light.

So I can fy away, away from these thoughts and from the bulging red numbers that stare me down and tell me to run, to run away, to run as fast as possible. And maybe one day they won’t torment me like they do now, torment me like they torment my mother, and her mother, and so on the cycle continues.

I’m now faced with how to live my life - to break the cycle. It’s impossible. It doesn’t break.

I look in the mirror, I want to be your mirror image. My feet hit the pavement, the steel bells crash and get picked up again, the fork slows like a train at its fnal stop.

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

Those words dance off her tongue, I know behind the frown she feels proud. Like mother, like daughter, the saying goes.

“I’m done, too.”

So young, so naive, maybe that’s all I’ll ever be.

—Augusta Adams ’24

A stain on a clean white shirt

A crease on a smooth sheet of paper

A wrinkle on a fowing dress

Mere blunders that are seen as so much more

Nuisances, circumstances causing inconveniences or annoyance

Flaws, marks, or imperfections that mar substances and objects

Errors, deviations from accuracy or correctness

Am I these disruptions of order?

Am I these destroyers of perfection?

Am I these disturbances of peace?

Mammoth exaggerations that don’t seem great to me

Because of the stares that have pierced me like bullets

Because of the words that have stabbed me like knives

Because of the realizations that have hit me like punches

An outsider who tried to get on the inside

An insider who tried to get to the outside

An intruder who has gone to both

My identity is a question that I will never cease asking Changing, with every breath I take Affected, by every experience I gain Indescribable, because I don’t know what it is

How do I break this endless cycle

Of not knowing, being in the dark, without a clue

About things that seem so simple, but truly aren’t

I send out this plea to anyone who is willing to listen

An SOS for who I am

A message in a bottle from someone stranded

From my identity and me

—Sabrina Khanna ’26

Loss of Relationships

This piece was inspired by a song I wrote called “Window.” The song compares me to a window and talks about how I always feel like people see through me: “I’m just a window, for you to see through.” My eyes are looking at the beginning of the song, gesturing and suggesting the viewer read the song, asking someone to understand how used and lonely I feel.

—Zoë Coval ’23

Bloom —TG Peterson ’23

The Yellow Lion

Polar graphs. The symmetry and simplicity of the petals so perfect they seem to have stemmed from An equation.

Sines and cosines, A trigonometric tell becomes this tenacious twirl of yellow. Graphs and equations are orderly, precise S, But the dandelion sows disorder. These beautiful weeds romp throughout manicured lawns year after year like choruses of cheerful, chaotic children.

Bloomed and bred in the wild, untamed and untended, Unyielding to mowers and chemicals seeking to destroy the dandy lion.

The “dent de lion,” Tooth of the lion, Is ferce.

Jagged petals bite the air with shining teeth. Bold, exuberant yellow overshadows the pale lavender feld, Foreshadows the relentless, boiling, bright sun of summer that will overtake the tentative warmth of spring.

A single ant comes to wander atop the fower. Now, the sharp teeth are golden wheat felds to the tiny creature. The lion’s mane, a soft bed that the ant disappears and reappears within as it moves along.

As spring wears on, the dandelion’s petals fade from vibrant yellow to a luminescent moonstone Until they are so wispy and frail that they can be blown away by a small passerby with a wish to make and a breath to take. The child blows gently, then harder, sending a snowfall of white off into the wind and extending the fower’s reach, Whispering wishes to the watching sky above.

—Marina Gallozzi ’23

Something for your Mind

—Madeline Wolcott ’24

Like dolphins coming up for air, your roots weave steadily above and below the ground, breaching the surface a mere handful of times before promptly converging at the base of your freckled trunk.

Splotched a faded blue-gray, your dark bark forms zig zag patterns similar to that of zebra stripes, creating a never ending maze that braves the journey up over your bumpy knots and into the depths of your wooden cavities.

Ivy and moss, too, creep up your sides, clinging almost desperately to your grooves so as not to fall while creating a path that leads to a most curious sight:

In the crevice where your branches diverge rests a bashful squirrel who, for a suspended moment in time, inquisitively peers down at the world before retreating back to the cover of your safe nook.

In such a space, twigs, leaves, and grass swirl lollipop-style to create a modest abode for the tiny creature.

Just a hop away, your branches narrow out and then, suddenly––all at once––a million tiny hands stretch out towards the warm, welcoming sun, beaming down at you from the untouchable, crystal-blue sky.

It is here, high above the earth, that is the most lively:

Here, your ovular leaves grow recursively along your branches in alternative patterns, obscuring new buds forming from any prying eyes.

Here, concealed at the tops of your canopy, birds frolic about, chirping and chattering from their perched peaks as they gaze down on the earth as unknown spectators.

Here, attached to your branches, a spider web glistens and blows in the wind as if it were a kite soaring high above the world below.

Here, your tendrils fap in the breeze like fags while your sturdy branches remain unmoving underneath.

Here, illuminated by the sunlight, your leaves cast a vibrant, green hue upon the forest foor, creating an enchanting atmosphere akin to that of a fairytale...

And one in which light and shadows dance across your trunk in time with the swaying of your leaves, setting the scene for a serene summer slumber under your inviting shade.

—Lily

Hunsicker ’23

Sanctuary

This piece is a representation of the way that sea creatures interact with pollution in the ocean. The sponges have grown into a water jug, creating a new, safer home for themselves.

—Codie Campbell ’23

Flip, Flap, Fly

A white wildfower meadow dancing in the wind, Swaying left and right.

Blue and black wings prancing from petal to petal, Drinking up the sweet golden liquid sitting in the center of the pale bloom. One Two Three Four sets of wings

Flip Flap Flying.

How beautiful is she, streaks of blue painted along her Flip Flap Flying wings. Do my wings look like hers? Do they capture as much attention as hers? Are they too big or too small?

Too dull or too dark?

I foat away, fnding a shimmering fower rooted in a pot in front of a window. The blue fowers matching my Flip Flap

Flying wings.

I rest on my sofa,

My eyes glued to my phone as images of beautiful models light up my screen. Her waist as small as a needle, Her lips as plump as a pillow, Her stomach fat as a pancake. I feel my stomach grumble, Pleading me for another meal. Enough water will make me full, Won’t it?

I walk over to my kitchen, stopping by my window sill. A beautiful butterfy sits herself on my blue fowers, Nourishing herself with the sickly sweet nectar. Does she know how beautiful she is> Has she been given the gift of seeing her beautiful blue Flip Flap

Flying

wings?

She moves from one bloom to the next, Filling herself up with the nauseating elixir.

—Sierra Gutierrez ’24

Not One, Not Two

This piece is an exploration of humanity’s place within nature. We often try to differentiate ourselves from the natural world, but this piece pushes us to question how separate we truly are from the Earth. Not One, Not Two is a Zen Buddhist idea that rejects the notion of complete separation between beings while acknowledging the distinct nature of each being.

—Theo

Weiman ’24

Cathedral

—Codie Campbell ’23

the endless marathon

the perpetual tedious drives

the hoping, wishing, praying that day you’ll thrive

the crisp dawning mornings

the “you’re late” warnings the roaring yawns fll the hallway

the teacher scolds you, “it was due yesterday” the aroma of coffee billows, a fragrant warm sensation the frst period started fve minutes ago; a tough realization the anxiety about what to come next the disputes erupting without context the tests, piling, mesmerizing you with letter grades the telling yourself, “you knew better; that’s not what you should have made” the feeting lunches coming to an abrupt end

the scanning of the hallway, awaiting the arrival of a good friend the students warped eyes the, for some, silent cries

the desks scraped and distorted by sharp yellow sticks

the never-ending hallway high-heel clicks the tapping... cracking... pressure erupting...

“WHY DO YOU NOT GET THIS!”

the feeling of fnally understanding, pure bliss the treacherous evening training the stress paralyzing, overwhelming, draining the masks that obscured identities, the endless screen time the many wishes to go back to simpler times the being stretched as thin as hair

the “man o’ man being a high school student just isn’t fair” the months jog past as the years run by the do the best you can; all you can do is try the thought of the future, apprehension, quite frightening... the clock ticking, turning, dragging along the reassuring of others, you got this, you know it, you’re strong: this. this is high school.

—Garrett Butler ’24

A stain that only I can see, A careless dribble of yellow on the pure white sweater. The complex weavings and textures make it visible only from the top, But it’s there.

Only the wearer can see the faw, an impurity, Something that should have been erased, possibly decades ago, But it’s too late now.

This yellow mark of life is now a part of the article, Woven into its identity, as much as the fbers of wool.

—Theo Weiman ’24

Coffee

I stretch and reach for the glass coffee pot. On my toes, I catch hold of the handle, Inching it, dragging, squeaking in protest. I place a mug beside the coffee pot, The mug I struggled for, climbed counters for, Nearly broke my neck to get a hold of. My elbows propped on the counter, I tip. Streams of dark liquid fow freely around Bitter fumes rising from the rich brown mess, But by a miracle, it’s somehow full. I lift it, wobbling, from its puddle, Dripping across the beige linoleum, Making stains as I slide it towards my mom, Her head in her hands at the kitchen table.

—Emma Lacy ’23

a shattered heart. a broken promise. a saddened little girl. a set of sorry parents. a valiant effort. a courageous battle. a passive ending. a woman who deserved more. a man who deserved less. a lost golden soul. a blackened charcoal heart. a faithless family. a future of uncertainty. a realm i never thought i’d have to know. a world in which my life is not my own, my fate already decided. a twisted world. one in which you are let down by those who are supposed to love you the most. and they do. but, not enough to stay together.

so they build a lifeless tower of priceless stone, and they try their hardest to mold me a home. i’m a child of such fortune, the sun and moon shining for me.

however, the tower cannot protect the aching blow of the past. the knowledge that life will always be a little bit harder because that heart was never glued back together. and that little girl never grew up. she stayed young and scarred. by a set of sorry parents who never stood a chance.

—Reagan Reilly ’24

Every single person has ghosts sewn with strings. They’ll follow you around, watching, murmuring things. They’re people from your past. They’ll break your weakened wings. Or they’re a memory that stains and clings.

Behind me are the silhouettes from each person’s soul. They chain me to this world, and they each have their role. Some keep me safe, and each take their toll. Watching and waiting, which one will control?

I don’t pull them forward, they do that on their own. Their thread wraps around me, their strings become sewn. My skin is littered with the marks from their tone. The more they attach, the more I’m alone.

I look to my sides and who do I fnd? Versions of myself that I left in my mind. These children were broken from the people behind. But sadly for them, they remain intertwined.

The children at my side give me their tool. A pair of scissors to slash away the cruel. But what are scissors against the chains of the rules? The only way to be free is to take away the ghouls.

Then I look at my skin and come to a conclusion. These scissors aren’t for strings, that was only a delusion. There is only one thing that’s a permanent solution. These blades were meant to perform an execution.

—Sophie Stine ’25

Cabriole

A step performed by men quite often; it shows the true athleticism and strength required for a male dancer.

—Jacob Liberman ’23

Miche-Miche

—Calysta Lee ’23

Insignifcant. That frst step is not Bringing you closer to the fnal destination. Your efforts are In vain.

Your strides haven’t been

What’s considered to be large enough. So don’t think about The distance you’ve traveled together Just look at

The distance between you and your friends

So don’t be deceived by The Cola Cao that awaits, The friendly animals, and The other Peregrinos encouraging you on, Instead remember

The endless steep hills, The burning calf muscles, and The blisters,

So forget

About appreciating the beauty along the way.

Instead you should care

That the journey is arduous and never-ending.

Don’t believe

That your pain is only temporary.

Trust me when I say Give up.

Don’t just blindly

Follow the yellow arrows to your Santiago.

(Now read from the bottom line to the top)

—Lily Hunsicker ’23

Choice

Choice; the act of selecting or making a decision when faced with two or more possibilities. Every morning she wakes with a choice. A choice of what to eat, what to wear, what to do. She can choose to wear pants, or she can choose to wear a skirt. She can choose to have her clothing hang loose, or have her clothing hug tight. She can choose. You can choose to do the same. You can choose to wear pants, or you can choose to wear a skirt. She chooses to have her clothes hugged tight. And you choose to stare. You choose to judge. But she chooses not to care. Because she can choose. And so can you.

—Clementine Bourgeois ’26

Strawberry Glaze

The scene of a young girl holding a bright pink donut pillow over her head looks playful and cheerful to most people, but she is covering her face as an act of security, putting on a happy face when she wants to hide.

—Charlotte Hill ’23

**This poem is dedicated to anyone who’s ever felt this way, but specifcally women and girls: you aren’t alone, you’re beautiful, and you matter.

She knows that she’s pretty, Because people constantly tell her so. Her eyes glisten like diamonds, And her skin seems to glow.

She’s aware she’s angelic, Because boys notice her. They stare and smile, starstruck, So she’s always sure.

She has hair soft and shiny, Lips pink and full, Nose perfectly dainty, And a smile that’s hardly dull.

She never feels ugly, Unwanted or insecure. Never worries what others think, Or wonders about her worth.

I’m happy for her, But overfowing with jealousy. Can’t self-love be that simple For me?

Even if I might be pretty, I’m nowhere close to her. My face is more misshapen And my chest is much fatter.

In terms of getting prettier, I really am trying my best. I started wearing makeup, And I now eat less.

Everyone thinks I’m okay, But nobody knows That I suck in my stomach When I wear tight clothes.

It’s unfortunate And unfair but true, That if you happen to have good genes, Life comes easier for you.

They say we’re not defned by our appearances, But then turn around And shove those who aren’t model status Right into the ground.

How can I feel content with how I look In a society

Where the value of women Is often solely based on their beauty?

Yes, beauty is subjective And confdence is key, But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to be The kind of pretty I see on TV.

The kind of pretty I will never achieve.

—Janney Cooper ’26

Together

I know you hate Every little faw, Every crack in your armor. Just know it’s okay, I’ll help you stay together.

Even When you are lost, When your pieces are scattered, I’ll pick up the glue And piece you together.

Always

My arms will be open, So don’t be afraid. Just come here and break, I’ll hold you together.

—Gracie Hunsicker ’25