Fire & Stones Winter Issue 2023-2024

Winter 2024

Front Cover Art:

Back Cover Art:

The Tree, Ink drawing by Sydney Worsham ‘24

Reaching, Digital photograph by Caeli Boris ‘27

Printer: Vomela Commercial Group, Springfield Virginia

Size: 5.5 x 8.5

Stock: 100# Silk Text 80# Silk Cover

Ink: 4/c process, bleeds

Bindery: Perfect bind along 8.5

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

Designed by students with Adobe Creative Cloud, image edits through Photoshop, Layout in InDesign

Typography

Copy text: Cochin

Cover text: Desdemona, Adelle Sans Devanagari

Submission Process

All 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. Art and literature had to be submitted to our faculty advisors by Dec 3, 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 & Stones-sponsored event where the students gather to share poetry, dramatic readings, and music with their peers.

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

Website: www.fireandstones.org

Instagram: @fireandstoneslitmag

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

© 2024 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.

EDITING TEAM

Elona Michael ’24, Senior Editor

Charles McElwain ‘25

Lilly Purtill ‘26

LAYOUT TEAM

Ella Joshi ’25, Co-Editor

Vera Barker ‘26

Ava Bell ‘26

Caeli Boris ‘27

Dava Boyce ‘26

Sophie Breckinridge ‘24

Ariya Harrington ‘26

Grace Laha ‘27

Lucy Perkins ‘26

Abigail Taylor ‘26

COMMUNICATIONS TEAM

Gracie Hunsicker ‘25, Communications Director

Charles McElwain ‘25

FACULTY ADVISORS

Kate Elkins

Jill McElroy

Dear Reader,

It is common to find ourselves at the crossroads of the natural and urban worlds: from the oldest trees where Red-Eyed frogs roam, to the tallest office buildings in Manhattan where digitized and printed media birth unnatural beauty standards each day. Oftentimes, these two worlds may seem far apart, but within the following pieces, our artists and authors explore their similarities and guide us through the places where they collide. In this issue of Fire & Stones, we encourage you to buy your train ticket and travel to two contrasting but familiar worlds through the immense creativity of our students.

Editors, Elona Michael ’24 and Ella Joshi ’25

Nearsighted Pier

—Matthew Smith ‘24

Jack Skellington

8 The Garden, by Ali Rouse ’26

A Lemon, by Lily Adams ‘24 12 Black Ant, by Ian Niemira ‘25 16 The Sun Fell, by Lilly Purtill ‘26

18 In Another Life, by Lilyrose Golden ‘25 20 Fraying, by Anne Louden Kostel ‘25

22 Mindset of an Optimist, by Gracie Hunsicker ‘25 25 Trek Poem, by Theo Weiman ‘24 42 Idol, by Janney Cooper ‘26

Life is a Race, by Ali Rouse ‘26 STORIES

30 Into the Unknown, by Jack Murphy ‘24 36 The Night Trains, by Ella Schneider ‘27

46 In Lieu of Petals, excerpt by Ariya Harrington ‘26

50 Channel 7, by Carlos Alexander ‘24 ARTWORK 4 Nearsighted Pier, Photograph by Matt Smith ‘24 6 Jack Skellington, Clay sculpture by Georgia Neaderland ‘26 9 Peony, Colored pencil drawing by Willa Johnson ‘27 11 When Life Gives You Lemonade, Digital design by Sophie Breckinridge ‘24

15 Peaceful Pangolin, Watercolor painting by Kaia Corens ‘27

17 Red-Eyed Tree Frog, Colored pencil drawing by Suri Wang ‘25 21 Fractured, Glass mosaic by Ariya Harrington ‘26 23 Subconscious, Drawing by Sydney Worsham ‘24 24 Desta, Acrylic painting by Charlotte Barnes ‘27 26 Reflection, Photograph by Theo Weiman ‘24 27 Bhai, Photograph by Theo Weiman ‘24 27 Morning Meditation, Photograph by Theo Weiman ‘24

28 Boudhanath Stupa, Oil painting by Ella Joshi ‘25

33 Migration, Digital design by Jonathon O’Bryant-Graves ‘24 34 Black Bird, Acrylic painting by Grace Laha ‘27

38 Hometown, Sculpture and video still by August Moon ‘24

41 Scrutiny, Collage by Charlotte McNamara ‘24

44 Piecing it Back Together, Mixed media sculpture by Madeline Wolcott ‘24

45 The Pink Lady, Glass mosaic by Augusta Jay ’27

48 Blushing Blue Flames, Digital illustration by David Rhind-Tutt ‘24

56 Senior Citizen, Digitally enhanced photograph by Luke Rapallo ‘24

A boundless garden

No walls

No restraints

Just moving, growing

A bed of roses

No dull colors

No wilting petals

Just swaying in the wind, growing

The garden

Wild and free,

A breath of fresh air and yet

The sweet, sickly scent of the flowers disguises rot

Thorns clutched by each rose ward all off

This rot

Barely showing but with an unmistakable presence

The scars of the undergrowth peering through the dainty leaves scattered around the garden, The garden still grows

This thorn

More to the story than can ever be seen

Afraid in ways more than one

Sharp as a needle, prepared for the worst

All the while, the roses grow

This garden

Each piece of rot covered with an inviting petal

Each thorn disguised with personality

Every little secret pushed six feet deep

Everyimperfection weeded out

This garden grew up

Still free

Wandering aimlessly as the wind

Still wild

Confusing and confounding

This garden

Grew Up

But somehow still learning to grow

Somehow still full of rot

Still full of thorns.

— Ali Rouse ‘26

I drew this flower because of its complexity, and even though its size is small, it is very detailed and beautiful.

—Willa

Johnson ‘27

Peony

A yellow fruit.

A summer staple.

A sour citrus.

A color of joy.

A zesty peel.

A porous surface.

A bitter taste.

A sweetness.

A lightness.

A slice like a smile.

A center like a star.

A possibility for more.

A lemon.

—Lily Adams ‘24

When Life Gives You Lemonade

Lemons are my favorite fruit. I wanted to create this piece to show that things that are simple or overlooked can still be beautiful. Lily Adams’ poem is a collaboration with this piece.

—Sophie

Breckinridge ‘24

Looking toward a great life, To serve the kingdom. We go out to adventure, It’s the first one for me.

Out of the hill, Through the trail, New land waiting to be explored. Appreciating the beauty of this world.

Fields of grass left behind, New territory awaits me. Scavenging for the colony, Queen left behind.

Rivals and foes show their faces at every turn; Killer eight-legs, Demonic, winged beasts, Carrying off my fellows.

A sheet of boulders stretches across the expanse, Rocks bigger than me. They seem like pebbles in contrast to the giants, A step out of the comforting grass.

A day of walking, Nothing but hot rock, Scuttle up, down, and through. To get to the other side.

It will be exciting, they said. It will be thrilling, they said. It will be interesting, they said. It is torture, say I.

I dredge the depths of the world, To find an opportunity of ascension, Scavenging the hellish pits of this world. The devilish sun heats the stones to roast me alive.

I approach my destination on weary legsA tiered and looming monolith of absurd proportions. Its long, flat sheets of disintegrating steel towering above rocky gravel wastes on wooden legs. I begin to scale.

Grip is not an issue, The corroded and pitted surfaces make for an easy climb. Though with my weary, exhausted body, going is slow, I ascend the tower.

Up to the top, I climb higher, Can’t retreat now. Execution for failure awaits back home.

I have reached the apex, The pinnacle, the zenith. Unstoppable! Ruler of this world.

Crumbs of discarded meals from the giants fall, Food everywhere and anywhere. Wasting away, just for me. And yet doubt rattles me to my core.

I have survived the demons hunting me, I have braved the boiling wastes of rock. I have scaled my tower of opportunity, To find something I wish I hadn’t.

And what do I find, But the boot of a predator. I am crushed beneath it like a force of nature, For the split second enjoyment of “higher” life.

They said that the grass is greener on the other side, They said that you can prove yourself. They said that glory awaits, They were wrong.

Ended. Crushed on the unforgiving steel. Broken, burned, smashed to pieces. Miserable limbs can now rest, Left to die.

Wallow in misery. Reliving my failures, hopes, dreams. Just a crusting smear to be washed away with the rain. Used as a toy, a pawn in the game, a slave to the machine.

— Ian Niemira ‘25

Peaceful Pangolin

This piece portrays a pangolin, the most trafficked animal in the world. The painting gives a voice and face to a creature who is seldom talked about, despite experiencing some of the greatest pain.

—Kaia

Corens ‘27

Time was up; The sun was falling down.

The day died as the sun plunged downwards, Desperately grasping at the sky, Leaving streaks of its light As it skidded towards the lake.

They touched

The glowing ball of flames reaching the rippling waves. The water swallowed the sun Gulping it down.

Within a minute

The sun was gone.

It left its mark, Smearing the sky with its blood Until the blanket of night wiped it away.

In such little time

The sun was no more, The warmth smothered under the polar sheet of darkness.

Through the stitches you could see the sun’s kin Poking through the blanket, Wondering where their flesh and blood went.

— Lilly Purtill ‘26

Red-Eyed Tree Frog

—Suri Wang ‘25

In another life, A rainforest: vast and encompassing to the inhabitants within. Miniscule specs of life in the boundless forests, Craving sun, water, and care, Completing daily tasks needed to survive.

In the summer,

The scorching heat turns the once cool, humid home of many To a sweltering sauna, inescapable in its fury.

In the spring,

The torrential downfall cleanses the land of good and bad inhabitants, Ignoring the suffering caused by the extensive rain.

Finally some reprieve in the winter, As the days are mild and dry, And the nights, blissfully cool.

Throughout the year, Each month brings a new struggle, Disease, death, and the downfall of many come and go as they please, That is nature.

Yet,

In another life, One of luxury, A flower does not need to go through the perilous life cycle, A cycle that so many of their ancestors faced. Hot, humid summers, stripping the flowers of their beauty and life, Wet, unforgivable springs, drowning the flower in an excess of necessity, And winter, a final rest from the uncertainty of the environment around it, Only to be trampled on by another being, An unmeaningful death, after pushing through so much.

In this luxurious life, The beautiful flower, Catharanthus Roseus, Is finally able to be appreciated for its full glory, Treated with kindness and care, The same every day, Escaping the uncertainty left behind, many generations ago.

In this luxurious life, The petals bloom in striking pink, The stems, a vibrant and unchanging green, The flower, intentionally overlapping with its partner, As if rejoicing in the environment that treats it so kindly.

In this luxurious life, They don’t have to worry, The sun shines down abundantly, Illuminating the once miniscule specs of life. In appreciation, the flowers bloom gracefully.

In this luxurious life,

The flowers die with a fulfilled and joyous life left behind, A predictable end to the happy life served.

In another life, There is no suffering, Every day, a blessing, Death, not feared, but welcomed, As the life before will be filled with the full glory of each inhabitant, Nothing left to achieve.

In another life, There is serenity.

Lilyrose Golden ‘25

It might be nice to be an inch less motivated: Free time, enough sleep, newfound freedom from Exhaustion, Expectation—

Yet who would one be, if allowed to make choices That relax the strained fabric of the psyche? The answer: someone who isn’t capable of more— Something that isn’t capable.

So the mind stretches thinner still, and thoughts Slip straight through its threadbare surface; To “learn,” an unattainable feat: Hours of study only result in further Exhaustion, Expectation— Nothing sticks because the flypaper’s Choked with rotting flies already.

Nevertheless, there will always be more to absorb! And thus here I lie, entombed in this intricate web Unwilling to loose its suffocating hold; delicately Woven threads slice my skin till I’m all out of blood, Cradling me in their tender embrace—a mangled Heap of bones and flesh safe in the loving arms of Exhaustion, Expectation—

— Anne Louden Kostel ‘25

I cut pieces of glass into very sharp, stylistic triangular shapes to emphasize the idea of being fractured, or delicately shattered.

— Ariya Harrington ‘26

Fractured

I’m happy.

You can tell

From the way I always smile* *it’s easier than frowning

There’s always a bright side, So soak in my sunshine** **i can’t remember the last time I cried

I’ll make you laugh with a joke*** ***warning: oftentimes self deprecating

Why wallow in self-pity?

Why choose to freeze?

When I could create a blanket of warmth**** ****possible side effects may include mild to extreme exhaustion

— Gracie Hunsicker ‘25

Subconscious —Sydney Worsham ‘24

The mountains guard our passage, As we hunt for the snow.

Rain cools the heart, As I forget what I know.

The gods of the stone Peer down from the hills,

As light turns to darkness Spurring our chills.

Movement within me, And outside me too,

The difference is trivial Between me and you.

A bell cling-clanging, This I can see;

There’s not a doubt in my mind That the bell tolls for me.

Return to the dust At the end of each day;

If only I felt I could live in this way. 7/19/23

(A journey complete Beneath a falling sun

My life has just started Truly, just begun)

— Theo Weiman ‘24

Reflection

This picture, taken at the shore of the highest saltwater lake in the world, encapsulates the natural beauty and holy energy that this pilgrimage site holds for many practitioners. The picture captures the grand tranquility in nature and the innate power within reflection.

—Theo Weiman ‘24

Bhai

A homestay Bhai (little brother) in Nepal says goodbye after our five-day stay in his community. His curious, playful, and somewhat shy pose exhibits universal traits of children, regardless of where they are from.

—Theo Weiman ‘24

Morning Meditation

My dharma friend, Frankie, and I woke up at 4:45 after a day-long vow of silence taken the night before. We started our practices with a morning meditation in one of the most beautiful places in the world, a prayer flag meditation path at the Namo Buddha Monastery. Frankie stands in silent contemplation before a day of reflection and practice.

—Theo Weiman ‘24

Boudhanath Stupa

This piece depicts the Boudhanath Stupa in Kathmandu, Nepal. I am half-Nepali, so I try to find ways to integrate that part of my family into art, and because I have been to this stupa many times with my grandparents it felt fitting for this painting to speak for that part of me.

—Ella Joshi ‘25

“So it’s true,” she said, “My boy is going off just like the rest.”

I look down at the weathered oak floorboards so as to not meet her eyes. I wouldn’t be able to keep it in if I looked up and saw the worried, helpless look on her face. The look of panic and resignation, knowing there was no longer anything she could do to protect her son. I could see tears flowing down her face now, like water seeping through the rocks and crawling down the creek out back behind our house. I can see her out of the corner of my eye, taking inventory of me as if it is her last chance to do so. I will leave in a week, but to her, it’s as if they are taking me away from her tonight. She looks me up and down trying to capture one last picture of me before it is too late.

I retreat back to my bed and collapse into the soft and familiar comfort of the place I had seen as my refuge for the past 16 years, knowing that I will do anything to feel this safety once I am oceans away from home. My red tie and blue coat fall to the ground as I begin to free myself from my school uniform, the same one that many of my more fortunate classmates will continue to wear until they graduate.

When the letter came, my heart dropped. I gripped its emotionless and eerily perfect edges in my now damp and shaking hands as I read the neat address at the top: United States Army. I recognized this letter, as did my mother. My older brother received the same one earlier last year. As I reluctantly peeled it apart to reveal its orders I began to feel lightheaded, dreading to read what lay within. Its words were so impersonal, as if this wasn’t someone’s life they were commanding, but just a pawn they were moving into place, someone’s reality which they were uprooting from its proper place in a peaceful existence to be thrust into the evil and horrors of war unfolding worlds away.

My brother is my hero, my idol, the one I looked up to, or at least he was, until we got the news last Christmas. A holiday season to remember for sure. When he went off, my family was excited, their little boy, all grown up and ready to honorably serve his country. They had seen the posters and read all of the romanticized tales of war. “I want YOU” they read. When we saw him all dressed up in his military uniform we were beyond proud. That was before we understood the hell that would follow.

My brother and I were very different. Strong, passionate, and confident, all the things I was not. He was preparing to work in the factory before he went off. All day carrying out the monotonous tasks of the modern assembly line, over and over again, the same process, day after day, all with the hope of one day graduating to manager, a white collar job. What an honor. I could never confine myself to something as constricting as that. I want to go out West and spend time

with nature, maybe even photograph for a living like the ones who have their pictures in National Geographic – copies littering my room and posters lining the walls. Now I am being ordered to venture far from home to carry out the barbaric and brutal duties for men who stay behind. They’re calling us to serve our country, knowing the only ones who we are serving are them.

I have read about the atrocities being committed over there. I have seen the protests. Last week I was shopping in the city for new boots since my old ones had deteriorated due to the wear and tear of my adventures, and I saw groups of students organized in the city square. They were united in their cause, chanting “bring the troops home” and “we won’t fight in a rich man’s war.” However, I stood there conflicted and confused. Part of me knows my parents are outraged and mortified by the anti-war sentiment, seeing it as disrespect to my fallen brother, but I disagree with the war and this inequitable draft. I would much prefer to live my life, climb the highest peaks, navigate the uncharted territories, and experience the wonder of nature.

As I lay down on my bed, reality begins to set in, and I suddenly process the past few minutes. I begin to shake and feel the familiar feeling of panic taking over. I take a deep, tentative breath and lift myself up from my bed. Slipping into my muddy boots, I pass through the doorway trying to look down and slip past my mother who is frantically tidying up the kitchen, although she already cleaned up the house this morning. I can’t talk to anyone right now. Making my way out the door, I trudge through the overgrown grass still wet from the rain earlier today. I breathe in the cool moist air and my shaking slowly begins to stop. I continue into the forest and further up the hill, entering the shade and confines of the canopy above, feeling the leaves and pine straw crunch with every step I take. I pass the tree house my brother and I made when we were younger. I make it to the clearing at the top of the hill. I sit down on a fallen tree and take in the world around me, a refuge where I am alone with my own thoughts and with nature.

I begin to think about how my friends will react to this news; most of them are privileged enough to attend college. My best friend, Samuel, was talking about the war and disgusted with what I told him about the protest I had seen the other week. He began to spew out these talking points about “patriotism and the threat of Communism.” He was surprisingly passionate for someone who didn’t have to fight. How could he feel this way when he is fortunate enough to afford college and avoid this draft? He said it was “our duty to protect the world from communism,” and “we must fight to preserve democracy.” He threw around the words “our” and “we” as if he was somehow part of this war, as if he wasn’t going to college and would never have to face the horrors unfolding across the world. I have heard these same sentiments being thrown around by my other classmates too, calling protests and dodgers disgraceful and treasonous. A couple of months

ago my classmate, William, was the unfortunate recipient of another draft notice. One day, he broke down in class crying “I don’t wanna go off and fight!” The tears poured down from his face, and someone who we had all respected came tumbling down in front of us. My friends and classmates began to berate him, making his last weeks before being sent off miserable. I witnessed these acts and felt sick to my stomach. How could they have any idea what it is like? How dare they act so just and patriotic while sacrificing nothing in return. My classmates who have no horse in the race were the most passionate about this wretched war, acting as if they will ever have any idea what it is like to be far from home and forced to risk their lives for a pointless cause.

Everyone seems to feel this way except for me. I soon start to think of what I will do when I am deployed, and my anxiety begins to return and engulf me. I close my eyes and try to imagine life there. The stress from being shot at from all sides, the scorching jungle heat, and the lonely sleepless nights wondering if you will survive the next day. My panic builds as I think about the dangers and uncertainty that await. I am expected to go and serve my country. It is what my parents believed with my brother, it is what my friends would expect of me, and it is what I have been ordered to do. But I don’t care for this war and I don’t care for the opinions of my friends and family. I do not want to put my life on hold and risk everything to stop the spread of some invisible foe. I am not going to listen to the opinions of those who will never have any idea of what I am going through right now. I want to live my life however I choose and explore the world that God has given me.

A breeze sweeps through my hair, and I look up at the canopy above. The leaves sway in the wind, and the little flashes of sunlight slip past the trees. I take a deep breath in and feel the cool air that fills me with a sense of calm. I look out over the land, and something suddenly clicks. I rise from the forest floor and begin walking, pinestraw still stuck to my jeans. My walk turns to a jog and then into a run as I go forth with my back toward home. As I bound down the mountain I can feel the refreshing breeze softly blow against my face. I am suddenly at peace. I will chart my own course. I keep going and going, down the hill and across the pastures, nothing can stop me now. My life and that letter wait back at home as I set off for new horizons.

I am FREE.

— Jack Murphy ‘24

Migration —Johnathon O’Bryant-Graves ‘24

Black Bird

This piece was inspired by a Laurie Anderson exhibit at the Hirshhorn Museum in DC. The exhibit is a room full of things written and drawn on the walls, with several different art pieces in the middle. I was inspired to make this piece because I wanted to capture the energy of the room in a single painting, and I included the bird sculpture because I love birds.

—Grace Laha ‘27

They pass, day by day, hour by hour, drinking away the minutes as they screech through linoleum tile: headlights rising with the sun, chasing the moon. The sun-streaked backs gone before the second-hand twitches as the train cars clamber behind them. People crowd the station, silent commuters sipping coffee in the early hours of the morning, returning as the sun settles beneath the soil, home before dark. Hello and how much echo against the walls, and the windows, and the glass-paneled ceiling held by copper rivets greened with age. They fill the space, bounce from each other, ask where? And then, in the dark blue hours of night, visit me and I miss you dance through the empty station, scattering sunlight’s lost warmth to the stars as the trains mumble away.

He sits, as he always has, on a wooden bench at the far wall, a statue carved of corroded stone. Age and midnights spent awake have pulled at the space beneath his eyes, chipped away and stolen by the moon. He wraps his wool jacket tighter around himself, watching the ticking of the clock, the trains, the people milling about. He does not move as the morning sun brushes its fingers through his hair. He does not move as the afternoon’s warmth seeps through the station’s corners. He does not move as the evening light fractures through the glass and bleeds back into the ground. Only when the last embers of day have turned to ash does he stand. Guided by nightfall, he limps across the platforms, searching, searching, searching through the remnants of goodbyes long past.

There are few who stand at the station under the blanket of dark, few who wait for the night trains. Handprints and footsteps and I love you haunt the space, mutter to themselves, hide from those who do not stay. Starlight blurs with headlights as the moon hums the whispers of fragmented memories. The details are faded, lost to the greed of time, but something remains—hand against hand, hand against glass, the smell of gasoline and salt, wait for me. It is that something that he chases after, that something that pulls them all to stand on the platforms and watch as the night trains pass and go and disappear into the corners of recollection.

— Ella Schneider ‘27

Hometown

This still frame was taken during the filming of a short film I made with the mask that explores the concealment of identity versus who you really are. The mask itself uses themes of home being a state of mind rather than a physical structure.

— August Moon ‘24

Scrutiny

In this collage, images of models in fashion magazines are distorted with disproportionate features that I cut and pasted over their original faces and bodies to represent the pressure to change one’s features to conform to what society deems beautiful. It also looks at body dysmorphia and seeing yourself as different than you actually look. All of this is exacerbated when there are other eyes on you, demonstrated by adding the eyes that surround and cover the women in the piece.

— Charlotte McNamara ‘24

Your #1 fan, That’s what I am.

Have been since before All the press, paparazzi, publicity; Since your life was filled With nothing but simplicity.

I loved your work from the beginning; Your talent, the stories, The way your characters consistently Ended up winning.

And I loved you too; Your charisma, your grace. Your passion never failed To put a smile on my face.

No matter what, I knew I could always count on you. If I had a bad day, you’d be there On my TV, my computer, or my phone. With you in my life, I wasn’t alone.

I wanted to be like you. No, I wanted to be you— Live your extravagant life With its fame and fortune, Wield your extraordinary power In my ordinary hands, Surpass my enemies’ success By the largest of margins.

I’d gladly watch everyone gawk As I walked down the street, Aware the most accomplished Individual among them Was me.

Though we’d never met, You were my best friend, My ride-or-die. My admiration and adoration Were never in short supply.

Until I found out you lied.

You acted so kind, so innocent; No one in the world could even invent A convincing claim speaking ill Of your personage. Yet it was just a front. You fooled us. But more importantly, You fooled me. You caused my support To shatter at the seams.

I didn’t believe it at first. I defended you to anybody Who dared defile your name.

Then the evidence, I fear, Was too concrete To think you weren’t the one to blame.

The disgust I feel At what you did Is imbedded deep into my core. I’m not your #1 fan anymore.

How could you? I trusted you. I looked up to you. I worshiped you!

And I would have sworn there was Absolutely nothing you could do To make me stop.

Now, however… I hope you rot.

Idol Traitor.

— Janney Cooper ‘26

Piecing It Back Together

A compact mirror embellished with paint, glass, and newspaper clippings symbolizes a derogatory article describing the Stonewall riots. Smashed glass represents how they were disrespected and mistreated by police, and how their history has not been properly recorded. The paper, blocking the face of the drag queen and cutting into the eye, shows how queer stories were minimized by Jerry Lisker’s article.

—Madeline Wolcott ‘24

The Pink Lady —Augusta Jay ‘27

Rue watched him strip the room of all that made it hers, as slowly as Osmanthus bloomed on false graves. Wyn worked methodically, carefully, separating his clothes from hers in the small drawer that faced their bed with the same precision he showed in his scientific endeavors. He made a small pile atop the dresser whilst skillfully avoiding her gaze, folding the articles as neatly as though they would not be used again for quite some time. She could not explain exactly what about this process upset her, only that it did.

“It’s late,” she mentioned offhandedly, and he flinched just a little for it. Good, she thought, and felt a sudden pang of guilt. Just his acknowledgement of her presence––that was all she wanted. Then, “You should finish the rest tomorrow. It doesn’t matter.” She paused. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

At that, Wyn took in a shuddering breath. Allowed the shirt he had been folding with trembling fingers to drop, crumpled and half creased. His chest shook, but only slightly. She couldn’t remember seeing him so distressed, and it startled her into suggesting, “Let’s go to the rooftop.” He nodded silently, and she reached out to pull him along.

The both of them, halting the instant her hand failed to reach his, invisible nothingness preventing any tangible contact. Infinity stretched between them. Wyn let out a strangled laugh like the howling of dogs at the death of their master, and Rue retracted her hand as quickly as she dared and guided them carefully, and without touching, to the stairs which led to the roof. They would watch the stars as they always had, and forget.

Stretched out against the chill of the rooftop, hair tousled by the writhing night-time winds, it was almost easy to forget that only one of them was there. Almost.

“Why,” Wyn whispered, “are you still here?” Slowly, as though there was nothing he would change about it.

“You want me to be,” she responded. “I can’t leave. Not yet.” She watched his mouth open, then close around the shape of an apology, and turned from him to face the constellations, glittering in the darkened sky.

Just days ago, they had lain here together, admiring the shape of

Canis Major bounding through the sky like insects glistening in tar. Wyn had laughed, told her that Canis Major was hers, and she had smiled and agreed on the condition that Orion was his. This was more pleasant, she thought. Deceased. Free of sickness.

“There aren’t many stars left in this damn city,” Wyn mourned, something like grief lodged in his trachea, blossoming in minuscule shards.

“There are still some left,” Rue said, but her eyes were fixated not on the graveyard of constellations, but on the azure of his eyes. An allencompassing blue, drowning her in a roiling sea and teaching her what it meant to glimpse worlds. She was once again reminded of her suffocating desire for his happiness. It seemed that this was all that remained in the wicker-cage of her heart.

Though his mind was one captivated by science, he had not been the same since Rue died. Having secluded himself, he had taken to much more philosophical quandaries. Rue suspected it was to find a different question to eat away at him, something that did not conjure to mind an image of her lying too-still in a picturesque depiction of repose, and so she indulged him. He felt an avid guilt, one which she could not understand and tried desperately to.

She offered, “The day we met, I was captivated by your wit. It’s something you haven’t yet lost.”

“You once told me,” Wyn began, “that brevity is not the soul of wit, but its body. That the soul of wit is the love that blooms from it.” He struggled to continue, and she placed her hand over his, no longer with the intent to touch, but to soothe. He shuddered. “Even in the midst of your illness, you were able to look at me and say such a thing. And now I don’t even have you.”

“I’m still here,” she said, puzzled.

“I’d rather you didn’t leave me behind.” She was not surprised by his words, only at the brief flash of agony they caused, her image flickering almost imperceptibly. Souls wish for peace; to stay was practically a plea for suffering, or at the very least, some form of erasure.

“I won’t,” she managed.

He reached for her hand, then, an expression like relief washing over his face. Closed his eyes. The soul of wit, he concluded, must be the hatred that births it. Practically sopping in sorrow.

— Ariya Harrington ‘26

— David Rhind-Tutt ‘24

Blushing Blue Flames

*bringgggg* The final bell rings. It’s Friday afternoon, the last day of school. Everybody grabs their bags with a haste that hasn’t been seen all year. The teacher’s authority seems to immediately dissipate with the final bell, like a curse has been broken. Mr. Johnson’s attempts to tell the class he dismisses us and not the bell prove futile against the armor of excitement all of us are enveloped in with the beginning of summer.

“LET’S GO CLAY,” Melo shouts to me as we sprint out of the class into a tsunami of students flooding the main hallway to exit the building. Melo is practically my brother. We were born in the same hospital together, on the same day, in adjacent rooms, but to different mothers. I still like to think of him as my twin, though. I love him just as much as my parents and baby sister back home, and we all think of him as family.

We spend almost every day of our lives together. From every birthday party, to doing homework, we are always together. Melo’s father died when he was two years old, so it’s just him and his mom. His dad and my dad were also best friends like us, brothers, but since he’s gone his mother has to work a lot of double shifts. My parents are more than happy to take care of him though, and he stays in our apartment a lot of the time with his being right across the hallway.

“Can you believe we finally gonna be seniors?” I ask him.

“I know man it’s wild. We still gotta make it through the summer first though, one step at a time, Clay!”

We both laugh knowing that the next school year is going to be here before we know it. Finally we make it to the main doors, shoving them open like we just busted into someone’s wedding ready to object to the marriage. After my eyes dilate I see the beautiful concrete jungle I proudly call my home, Brooklyn, NY. The constant screeching of car tires and echoing voices are calming to me as I grow older.

As me and Melo head to our favorite place to eat to celebrate the last day, I see Jasmine. I’ve liked Jasmine ever since I first met her in 1st grade. She moved to Brooklyn from Washington DC, and I have been in love ever since.

I must have been drooling over her because Melo elbowed me right in the rib cage saying, “Clay when you gonna make yo move mane.” I try to play it off like I saw somebody’s car getting jacked in the distance, but Melo saw straight through my lies, almost like he knows me better than me.

“Nah Melo you know I can’t do that, I’m not on that timing. Besides, there’s no way she would ever even look my way.”

Melo starts laughing hysterically, “Clay do you hear yo self right now,” now wheezing from the intensity of his laughing.

“Alright Melo chill on me before I hit you,” I say knowing he knows I don’t mean what I say.

“Clay you can’t be serious, stop acting scary and go talk to her. You’ve liked her for years now it’s time to make a move.”

“Melo come on mane you know I can’t–”

Cutting me off he goes, “if you don’t I will cause Jasmine been looking real good to be honest.” He looks at me with a smirk on his face.

“Now you not finna disrespect me like that Melo, you know I ain’t scared of nothing.”

I walk over to Jasmine, every step feels like I’m walking on burning hot coal barefoot. “Hey Jasmine, I was wondering if… Well what I’m trying to ask you is…” I look back to spot a cringing Melo, hiding his laughter at my feeble attempt to ask this girl out.

“Clay right?” I look back to see Jasmine standing right in front of me looking at me straight in my eyes.

“Ye–Yeah” I say, almost stumbling over my own words. “I would love to go on a date with you. Meet me at the subway tonight at seven o’clock.”

She then walks by me smothering me in a blanket of her beautiful aroma, whispering, “thought I’d make it easy for you.”

“Clay my man, did you really just bag her? I knew my boy had rizz. Matta fact, I’ll treat you to whateva ice cream you want at Hovermales.”

“Preciate it” we both say to the worker as she hands us our ice cream cones. I dap up Melo, “ay preciate you for the ice cream, but also giving me the confidence to ask her out. I love you bro, you really fam.”

We do our signature handshake, “Ay Clay you know you my mans, I gotchu fosho.”

“Man I can’t wait for this date tonight, I’m so ready. I already know what fit I’m boutta wear and my shoes, I’m finna look like a model for real.”

We both laugh, “I’m happy for you Clay, I really am.”

Thirty minutes go by and we’re still talking about Jasmine, with Channel 7 on the TV inside the store, almost like it’s background music. Something about a white tank top and a murder, but murders are so common in Brooklyn that this news feels no different than breathing every day. Just right when we finish our ice cream, some other boys from our school ask Melo and me if we want to go hoop. Melo and I are on our school’s varsity basketball team, and have been since freshman year, so it’s not uncommon for people we don’t even know to ask us to go hoop. It’s kind of like we are celebrities, often getting compared to Steph Curry and Klay Thompson, Melo and I are often joked around to be the “Lil Splash Bros.” It’s funny because Klay and I sort of have the same name, other than he has a K and I have a C, but I like to imagine I’m him a lot of the time.

When we get there everyone daps us up. We love to play basketball, it’s me and Melo’s dream to play in the league together one day, especially on the same team just like the Splash Bros. When I hoop I forget everything else around me. The only thing in my mind is playing basketball and competing to win. It’s something I would do to escape the stress of school, my parents, or just dangerous Brooklyn lifestyles. I’m just a kid and all I want to do is hoop, stuck in my mind like it has been stapled right in front of my eye sockets so I never lose sight of my dream.

I look around, everyone has taken their shirts off, sweat glistening off of everyone’s faces and torsos, like a badge that signifies hard work and dedication. However, before I know it, it’s six o’clock.

“OH SHOOT–” I scream as I quickly throw on a tank top and grab my bag.

“Clay wassup, is everything good?,” Melo asks.

“Jasmine!” I exclaim, “I gotta be at the train in an hour, I have to dip mane!” We do our handshake again. We made this handshake at the start of Kindergarten as a reminder that we will be there for each other for the rest of our lives, like a branding made on both of our hearts. This handshake is something that is a way to silently tell each other that everything is going to be alright, a blessing.

As I sprint home the only things in my mind are making sure Jasmine isn’t going to be at the subway alone, making Melo proud, and how fun this summer is going to be. Not a lot of truly important things, but it’s all I need to worry about as a teenager heading into summer. I enjoy my innocence and it’s something I am grateful for because it means that I don’t have to worry about paying the bills or being late to work. It allows me to have fun and be happy, and right now I am extremely happy and grateful for everything in my life. My family, Melo, Basketball, this date I’m about to go on, and simply being alive… “Always be grateful for being alive,” something my parents always told me to be appreciative of.

I’m now racing to the last crosswalk before I’m on my block, faster than I have run in any game or practice. I know I need to hurry and hop right in the shower so I can make sure I’m on time to meet Jasmine. Right before I get ready to cross the crosswalk I hear an officer shout “stop right where you are and put your hands behind your head.”

Too eager to get inside my apartment building I say to myself “damnnnn someone got caught,” chuckling to myself and saying, “well unlike you, my friend, I have a date to attend.” Feeling even more excited I somehow start to run faster. “Almost there, Almost there” I repeat to myself with every step I take like I’m a broken record stuck on the same line.

*pop pop* My chest begins to burn like it is being held straight onto a stove. I look down, my white tank top now the color of gatorade. The color of Jasmine’s lipstick. The color of death. I immediately panic, gasping for air, I lose balance and fall over in the middle of the cross walk. That’s when I hear, “The suspect has been stopped from escaping. I need back up… Now!”

Laying in the street I notice cars are starting to stop and build up. I tell myself in a sort of delirium “I’m stopping traffic. I need to get out of the way.” Mom and Dad always told me to never hold up traffic. “These Brooklyn Drivers are crazy, Clay. If you ever horse around in the middle of the street, don’t be upset if you get hit.” I try to drag myself to the sidewalk, like a zombie who has lost both of their legs in a movie. Hot, hot, my chest is scraping on the cement as if it’s made out of shattered glass.

“BABY, BABY, OH MY GOD–” My Mom must have come out. “Clay everything’s going to be okay, don’t worry you’ll be okay.”

“Not if I’m late to the train” I try to say, but I don’t think she can hear me.

“Mam get back or we will open fire.”

I look up to see my Dad standing in front of my Mother, who›s holding my baby sister in her arms, shielding them like he’s a superhero, trying to reason with the cops. I roll onto my back, looking at the sky, the sun beginning to set making the sky a beautiful mixture of yellow and orange. The only things on my mind are making sure Jasmine isn’t going to be at the subway alone, making Melo proud, how fun this summer is going to be, and the burning feeling in my chest.

— Carlos Alexander ‘24

Life is a race. Not the track, not the pool, but a competition. You breathe, look around, See those you need to be like, need to be better than It’s hard trying to simply be.

Life is a Jenga tower, Pieces are constantly being taken out and out and out Placed in mismatched spots, Attempts to patch everything together and Afterwards you would hope it would be fine. But no, It can all come crashing down, spontaneously, randomly without warning.

Life is a castle of old Spiraling mysteries at each end, With gilded portraits showing Only the best Facades placed expertly that One day will crumble as they always do.

Life is a mountain With the beauty of nature holding Everyone close Yet simultaneously isolating Everything away Until you’re alone, standing far away on a cliff With just the view and your breath And a long hike back to what you thought you knew, Which, by the way, you don’t anymore.

None of this will ever make sense

Even if you dedicate all your time

All your love

All of you

To anything,

It’s still all as confusing as ever

And who knows,

Maybe that’s the point.

— Ali Rouse ‘26

Front Cover Art:

Senior Citizen

The Tree, Ink drawing by Sydney Worsham ‘24

Back Cover Art:

Reaching, Digital photograph by Caeli Boris ‘27

This enhanced photo captures my brother, Nico, gazing at the sky on Vinalhaven, a small island in Maine that holds deep sentimental value for our family. I wanted to convey the profound sense of wonder and connection we feel when we’re there by heavily editing the sky and water, attempting to evoke the surreal and magical atmosphere unique to the island.

—Luke Rapallo ‘24

We, the student editors of Fire and Stones, decided to create this word art, which includes each of our favorite words in our favorite colors, to represent ourselves in this magazine which we have all worked so hard on.