Fire & Stones Winter Issue 2023

Winter Issue 2023

St. Stephen’s and St. Agnes School 1000 St. Stephens Rd Alexandria, VA 22304 (703) 751-2700 www.sssas.org Issue 40 Literary and Arts Magazine

Printer:

Vomela Commercial Group, Springfield 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 fireandstones@gmail.com. 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 December 4, 2022. 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: fireandstones.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.)

Senior Editors

Zoë Coval ’23

Mollie Kemp ’23

Communications Directors

Gracie Hunsicker ’25

Mariel Irish ’25

Literary Editors

Elona Michael ’24

Sophie Stine ’25

Layout Editors

Ella Joshi ’25

Anne Louden Kostel ’25

Maddie McDowell ’25

Coffeehouse Coordinator

Sophie Atkisson ’23

Charlotte Hill ’23

Staff

Rose Breckinridge ’26

Kalli Dinos ’24

Lily Hunsicker ’23

Finley Knutson ’25

Katharine Lavayen ’23

Gigi Lisaius ’25

Lauren Irish-Maldonado ’23

August Moon ’24

Lucy Perkins ’26

Anna Strauss ’25

Madeline Wolcott ’24

Faculty Advisors

Kate Elkins

Jill McElroy

Dear Reader,

There are currently 7.888 billion people in the world; you are only one of them. The world is so immense, it can be hard to comprehend how small you are in the grand scheme of things. You can only see the world through your perspective, your two eyes. To glance through someone else’s eyes, and their lived experience, we turn to art. In this issue we present art and literature seen through five different lenses of life: looking inward at oneself, appreciating nature, commentary on the world we live in, the pain and love of family, and looking outward at the little joys of life. We decided to format this issue by content in order to emphasize the individuality of the art and literature pieces. We hope this issue inspires you to look through different lenses and think about other perspectives.

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

Front Cover

Abigail Taylor ’26, False Duplicity

Back Cover

Emerson Dufault ’25, Looking Out

When I was six, my family moved halfway around the globe to Moscow, Russia. My mom got a job at the American Embassy and my dad at the IMF. The adjustment wasn’t easy, nor were things the same. My new school was much bigger, and my friends were from around the world, Turkey, Russia, the Netherlands, New Zealand, the list goes on. Everything was different from the US, different languages, different foods, different cultures. It took time to adjust to everything new, but I found my way, eventually, and started to enjoy having these new experiences.

Because of the weather in Russia, it being so cold, we all wore snow pants from October to April. And it was needed. But this shaped the activities that we did. Three blocks down from my apartment, past the “Two Brothers Cafe,” before the summer ice cream window and the Садо́вое кольцо́ (“Sadovoye Koltso,” “Garden Ring”), there was Патриаршие пруды (“Patriarshiye Prudy,” “Patriarch’s Pond”).

Every winter it would freeze over, and in true Russian style, it became a public skating rink. My sister and I went with our nanny at least twice a week, and it was thrilling each and every time. Starting with the hill on the other side, donned in the heaviest of winter coats, we would sled down a short steep slope until we slid across the ice. Afterwards, it was time to skate. Putting on skates in the dark, dingy tents, overhearing an increasingly familiar language. Then, onto the ice - holding onto each other as we got more comfortable, exploring the swan houses that sat, stuck in the ice, where they would float during the summer, gazing at the massive Christmas tree that was drilled into the ice at the center; it seemed to be infinitely tall from my short stature. Every day, the grooves in the ice got deeper and deeper from more and more people coming and going.

Living on the ice in Russia set me up to love skating when I came back “home.” I started taking lessons at the local ice rink, Mount Vernon Rec Center, but it was a very different experience. Crowded indoor rooms, constant noise as kids ran around with their first skates on, birthday parties and little girls going to ballet classes, and scratched wooden benches that had been stabbed with countless blades being taken on and off. Hockey players putting on pad after pad, friends reuniting for an afternoon, adults talking as if they had known each other since birth. The fog lifted off of the ice, people skated in circles around the sectioned-off center, rink guards made their rounds.

Fire & Stones | 8

Learning to balance was like finding a new way of walking, but it was worth it. Excitement and adrenaline coursed through me as I practiced, spinning, jumping, turning, holding various positions. I got older, and time went by. By the start of ninth grade, I was consistently doing double jumps, competing regionally, and was at the rink at least three times a week. But, as with everything eventually, with high school sports and homework, it was too much to keep everything up. So I had to quit.

It left me empty. Life went on, sports continued, I even joined the school musical. Schoolwork was time consuming, so I didn’t know what I was missing, everything I had grown accustomed to. I didn’t know just how empty I was until I returned about three months later. Once I got to the rink, putting my skates on again, I heard familiar voices, everything seemed to be normal. I couldn’t stop smiling. After getting on the ice, my smile didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop gliding around, feeling the wind and humidity on my face as it started to go numb. Going through my normal warmup, feeling the edges as they dug into the ice, everything felt right, like a balance had been restored. Even when I went to start jumping, I went for it all, even though my mind wasn’t in the right state. My body knew it could do it, but my brain kept saying, you’re going to get hurt, we shouldn’t be doing this, it’s too soon to come back. But I kept going. Falling on everything, obtaining a gallery of bruises, but my smile still didn’t leave. Even spinning was harder, the balance wasn’t there, but my smile didn’t leave. After an hour of practice, I got off still smiling, talking about all that I had missed, and everything I was remembering.

—Ella Joshi ’25

Issue 40 | 9

Shapes and Sizes

This piece can be used to show how many ways the human body can be viewed, with or without modifications. I played around with different silhouettes without making the focus a human face. I also aimed to represent human bodies of all shapes and sizes.

—Ella Joshi

Fire & Stones | 10

’25

Issue 40 | 11

Loss of Innocence

By layering photos of hands on top of my baby picture in photoshop, I demonstrate my experience with loss of innocence. Child me tries to cover her ears to protect her oblivious and pure mind from the hands pulling at her arms. The hands try to infect her innocent mind, forcing her to listen to the cruel world she lives in.

—Zoë Coval ’23

Fire & Stones | 12

Issue 40 | 13

Igor

This piece is based on my love for my hair and jewelry. I remember the first time I actually decided to “fade” the sides of my hair. I almost missed my haircut because I wanted to switch the necklace I was wearing, and it took a half hour to find it.

Fire & Stones | 14

—Justin Hill ’23

Issue 40 | 15

Fire & Stones | 16

I can never die. Do you know why? Because the world is only visible Through my eyes.

So if I cease to exist, so does it. The entire planet becomes An empty abyss.

Bird calls turn into silence, Flowers no longer have a scent, The sky loses its vibrance, And there’s no one left to lament.

Then would the whole universe Collapse, full of woe? I don’t want to know.

So I’ll continue living Under this great boulder, Carelessly yet blissfully. Just my thoughts and me, For all eternity.

What blasphemy.

—Janney Cooper ’26

Issue 40 | 17

Portrait in Color

—Rose Breckinridge ’26

Fire & Stones | 18

Issue 40 | 19

Two Beetles, One Leaf

“Can you move over a little?”

—Sophie Atkisson ’23

Fire & Stones | 22

Issue 40 | 23

Fire & Stones | 24

She sprouts alongside her brothers and sisters, blazing in a cherry mist that can be seen from miles away. The emerald green of her vibrant stems turns rose-colored as they gently kiss the speckles of light from above. Spiders gather and evolve around her, making her their beloved home. They carry instruments essential for habitation. She is surrounded by pea green leaves, and below is the terrain of chocolate mulch, which provides a base essential for her livelihood. She is crawling with life. As vehicles surpass her, the gentle breeze of 3 o’clock flows against her petals, and soon the cherry mist dances along with the wind, casting her anatomy away from life. And soon, dim and vast roots grow around her, creating a shadow that slightly darkens her vivid complexion. Now the speckles of light do not shine upon her. And the previously cherry mist of her petals is now a brown decay, that lays lifeless on the ground. The once chocolate mulch, is now sprinkled with deceased residue. And every time the breeze comes, the residue accompanies it. The microscopic spiders have now vanished, leaving behind their rotten webs, which bridge the beaten wine-colored stems. There is no life around apart from her, because even from miles away, the reminiscence of cherry mist petals beguiles the human eye. Now, there is no cherry mist, no rose-colored stems, no spiders, not even a speckle of life. Running Postman is gone.

—Elona Michael ’24 Issue 40 | 25

Soul Crushing

This piece is a representation of stress through the presentation of pollution affecting sea creatures. The crushed can represents the pollution of the ocean while also conveying the feeling of being crushed by stress. Whether that’s the stress of pollution or just the stress of life. The interpretation is open to the viewer.

—Codie Campbell ’23

Fire & Stones | 26

Issue 40 | 27

Saturated scarlet, Plush persimmon, Opulent ochre, Leaves composed of thousands of different shades and hues.

The trees: Stuck in an awkward phase, Like a middle schooler on her pubescent journey At the flush of a first kiss, Enter exhilaration beyond the bounds of reason.

A story is told

As a bystander on the soft, luscious, living grass, A natural pillow that brings a different comfort than the one I frequent. The trees whisper as they pirouette in the wind, “Ssssssssssss…”

“Enter Autumn.”

They seem to know, too, contemptuously flaunting ruby and amber-colored flora (Righteously so).

Can you break down chlorophyll at the rate of a NASCAR driver? Since early September, Dale Earnhardt-ing toward the fabled fall.

The symmetric, spiraled leaves draw me closer, Fiery red and warm orange, Like the embers of a meticulously crafted fireplace. Surrounded by lime-colored, unlit logs Patiently waiting their turn to ignite.

With the promise of a new form, Always about the next lap.

Fire & Stones | 28

Do they remember Crying as August departed?

Lamenting the Sun’s sudden secession, Their God, Twenty-seven million degrees Fahrenheit warm.

A dark-gray, four-legged creature scrambles up the jigsaw puzzle, Discolored and uneven, Heather gray overlapping charcoal, The flesh of these fiery beacons.

He scaled the same rock wall in July, Scrambling for footholds

Like an amateur alpinist attempting Everest.

Despite its transition, the same mountain.

—James Brabham ’24

Issue 40 | 29

—

Fire & Stones | 30

Brandon Jack Sibbald ’25

Issue 40 | 31

The Rooster

Fire & Stones | 32

—Maddie Moore ’25

Issue 40 | 33

A girl is sitting in her room and fighting with death. She knows that death is coming but instead of filling her remaining time with life, she stays by herself, consumed by the fear that death is closer than she anticipated. She disguises herself with youth and beauty and shields herself with health. But finally, after a lifetime of surgery, trainers, diets, medication, and make-up, she seems to have beaten death. And when she looks to see what she was fighting for, she finds herself alone. The task of beating death is very time consuming. So time consuming that she forgot to live.

A girl is sitting in her room and waiting for death. She knows that death is coming so she fills her time with life. She eats food that she likes, she exercises when she feels like it, and she is happy with how she looks. In a fast moving world, she doesn’t have time to feel unhappy with herself. She makes friends, spends time with her family, and lives in the moment, not wanting to miss anything. She knows that death is near, but she doesn’t run. She has lived the life she wanted.

—Sophie Stine ’25

Fire & Stones | 36

Carl —Sydney Worsham ’24 Issue 40 | 37

Green Raincoat

—August Moon ’24

Fire & Stones | 38

Issue 40 | 39

Fire & Stones | 40

“She’s one of those girls,” They say as they turn and stare They look in disbelief

As she’s cut off all her hair.

“She’ll grow up,” But I hope she never does I hope she lives young And dies for a cause.

“Her father wouldn’t approve,” And I hope he doesn’t I hope that she’s a rebel Not a dime for a dozen.

“She’ll never get a man,” So I hope she never heeds

To a man who says no I hope she gets what she needs.

I too was told

“Don’t be one of those girls,” With a look of disapproval And a head of bouncing curls.

But one day when one girl

Asks me who those girls are I’ll tell her that they’re strong And that they’re true stars.

“She’s one of those girls,” Is what I want them to say As I turn the other cheek And walk the other way.

—Sarah Kotulan ’24

Issue 40 | 41

In Women We Trust

My decollage conveys a disconnect between revered leaders in history and women. Many heroes dismissed women in America’s history, like President Abraham Lincoln, famous author Norman Mailer and even Biblical figures, yet they are not remembered for that part of their leadership and influence. Today, true feminism and female power comes from the average person standing up to the patriarchy regardless of their current status in society. And finally, the title is a play on the phrase “In God we Trust.”

—Ali Barrow ’23

Fire & Stones | 42

Issue 40 | 43

Fire & Stones | 46

Nintendo dog daysOur volume down, their screaming up. A sweet heat that seeps through the window

Coercing sweat out of the pit of the arm I’ve got around you. Let’s play another game; You don’t have to listen; I’ve got you.

We are both coffee and cream, But we can reject the milk even with sugar skin. A girl’s supposed to have a good relationship with her father, But I saw the cut corners like deals without a compromise. Even as my vision blurs I see the clarity that you can’t: Our time will be cut short and curt. We’ve got to pick a side; I’m not going to leave you

But as he embraces me

The hurricane of sleek and sour rushes into my nose, Like the summer storm that flashes its ivory lightning. And as fast as the light moves I can see itI can see your face in that elegiac light, That burning sugary sonder Reveals itself in sticky caramel thoughts. Only one thing has changed: I can’t talk to you anymore.

—Lauren Irish-Maldonado ’23

Issue 40 | 47

Fire & Stones | 48

I’ve never met my aunt. My mom’s younger sister. The two of them are always described as being two peas in a pod. She was married before my mom. I see her wedding photos a lot. She was a blooming flower, glowing with joy. Her lacy, white veil contrasted nicely with her woven, chestnut hair.

My mother and grandmother describe her as social and beautiful. My aunt, Kimberly, made everyone smile. She was the waitress that you gave the big tip to, even though she might have made a mistake or messed up your order. She was the ice cream worker who would give the children an extra large scoop.

I’ve heard this story many times. If my grandmother tells it, her voice is wet and she starts to cry. If my mom tells it, her face is set. She wants us to know. She wants us to understand. They say that my Aunt Kim was driving to meet her husband for dinner. She was at an intersection near her house. An intersection she had driven past many times throughout her life. A drunk driver was speeding through the neighborhood without caring what laws he broke. He sped through a stop sign right into her car. They crashed. He killed her.

She was pregnant when she died. Three months in, two days away from finding out the baby’s gender. I asked once. She knew it was a girl, my grandmother said, a mother’s instinct. The child would be twenty three, almost out of college now.

My mother grieved. She still grieves in small ways. She prizes taking care of and getting along with your siblings above most else. Who knows when they could be taken away from you?

Kimberly is everywhere. She is the blanket over us. The shield to protect us. Her photo is in the house. Her name lives on in my sister. With my own sister, I am my mother. I am older and similar to my mom. My sister gets compared to our aunt. They both have a free, slightly mischievous, spirit. They are the ones who don’t listen to rules that often. Or their older sisters. I feel like I know my aunt through my sister. The behavioral traits are passed down, and they have never even met each other.

—Lilly Purtill ’26

Issue 40 | 49

It was December 29th, 2011…the last full week of winter break. Everything was going good; I just had my 7th birthday, I got everything I wanted for Christmas, and I waited eagerly to go back to school to tell my friends about all the great presents I received. While I was sitting on the living room floor watching Bubble Guppies, dressed in my all-white long john pajamas and playing with my new toys, I heard the house phone ring in the kitchen. Normally my mom answered the phone, so I wasn’t worried about picking it up. But she was in the shower and never came downstairs, so the call went straight to the answering machine. But before the voice message could be displayed, the phone rang again. This time, I jumped up to answer it. I read the name on the caller ID, which showed up as “Jonathan.” It was my dad. I was happy to talk to him considering I only saw him on Christmas for about an hour before he had to drive back to Fredericksburg.

“Hi Dad!” I answered cheerfully.

“Hey boy. I need you to give your mom the phone, go to your room, and pack your suitcase.”

Though I couldn’t see my dad, I felt tension. It was like his stress levels were being projected through his voice. I asked him “why do I need to pack?” and he quickly but quietly responded “Grandpa Johnny passed away a few hours ago and we need to go to Petersburg for a few days.”

As a seven-year-old, I didn’t truly grasp what that meant. To me passing away meant I’ll see them again. Grandpa Johnny wasn’t dead to me, he was just asleep. So, I packed my suitcase just as my dad asked and put it by the front door. I waited anxiously for him to pull into the visitor parking spot in front of the townhouse, with my seven-year-old mind failing to realize the severity of the situation. Up pulled my dad’s white Lexus with hints of brown on the bottom from the road salt. I called to my mom letting her know I was about to leave. She came down the stairs and told me bye, kissed me on my forehead, and watched as we pulled away.

The car ride didn’t feel any different than usual. Like normal, I sat in the backseat while he drove and played Jay-Z and TI from his Cd collection. But the closer we got to Petersburg, the more I started to notice

Fire & Stones | 50

there was something off about my dad. He had stopped singing along to the music. It wasn’t because the lyrics were unfamiliar, because I’d heard him sing thousands of times while riding with him.

When we finally arrived at Grandpa’s house, I was expecting to see him greet me at the door like always. But he didn’t. I didn’t think much of it of course, so I proceeded into the house. There I saw my Auntie Johnee and my Uncle Garron, my dad’s little siblings. They hugged me, talked about how big I’d gotten, asked about school, sports, and other questions to catch up on my life. But when my dad entered, the mood changed. It went from happy and cheerful to sad and dark. My dad went and tightly hugged his siblings, and they all started crying. My dad, while still holding on to them, told me to go put my nice clothes on while they talked.

I went into the bathroom and changed into my white button down with my black clip-on tie and my black dress slacks. I assumed we were going to some fancy restaurant because everybody had nice clothes on, but when we arrived at our destination, we pulled into a church parking lot. It confused me a bit because it was a Thursday, and I normally attended church on Sunday. But what surprised me even more was how many people were in the parking lot. There were at least 200 people, most of whom I’d never seen before, and when my family and I got out of the car, everybody surrounded us saying things like, “I’m sorry for your loss” and, “God is with all of you during this difficult time.” This kept on for about 5 minutes before we all headed into the church. Then it hit me.

When we entered the main chapel area, the first thing I saw was an open shiny white casket, surrounded by flowers and pictures of Grandpa Johnny. I walked up to the casket and there he was: Grandpa Johnny, lying there, eyes closed, hands folded across his chest, in a black suit. It was unbearable to look at my grandfather in his casket, and in that moment, I processed the fact that I was never going to see him again. My body went cold, and I suddenly felt dizzy while my head started filling with memories.

My favorite memory of Grandpa Johnny was when I was around four years old. My dad and I had driven down to Petersburg to visit Grandpa. He was awaiting our arrival, and when we pulled into his driveway, he walked out to greet us with emerald green eyes, contrasting but surprisingly complementing his dark brown skin complexion. I got out of the car, ran, and gave him a hug.

“Hey grandbaby! How you been?” His voice sounded nothing like my dad’s. Grandpa was a high soprano while my dad, on the other hand, was kind of grizzly. They both had southern accents, but Grandpa’s was a lot thicker. My dad made his way out of the car and came over to give Grandpa a hug. To me, they were both tall, but the height difference between the two

Issue 40 | 51

was very obvious. My dad stands at around 6’1 while Grandpa stood at 5’ 7. Grandpa asked if we were hungry, and after the three-and-a-half-hour drive to see him, we desperately wanted food.

It was early fall, and the leaves were changing colors, but it was a comfortable temperature outside with a crisp breeze, so my dad and grandpa decided to cook out on the grill. They made burgers and hotdogs, and we ate together on the deck while listening to James Brown’s “The Payback” album on the stereo. I remember Grandpa sitting in his wooden rocking chair and randomly asking me if I knew how to fight. Of course, at the age of four, I’d never truly thought about fighting, so when I responded with “no,” Grandpa put down his plate, got out of his chair, and brought me under the deck where he kept an old black Everlast punching bag that hung from a chain drilled to the deck. He showed me how to hit the bag and told me, “You’re never too young to learn how to defend yourself. Cause at any moment, someone can swing on you, and you gotta be able to swing back and lay them on they back.”

We spent a few minutes on the bag before he put his palms straight out and told me to hit them. I swung, and I missed his hand, but he laughed. It was a loving laugh that made me feel like it was ok to mess up as long as I was trying. So I tried again, hit his hand, and he pretended like I was so strong I had broken his hand.

We went back up to the deck and Grandpa said “Jonathan, you remember the Army story I told you when you were about 15?” I knew he was talking to my dad because I was only four.

My dad replied, “Absolutely! One of the craziest stories I’ve ever heard.” That caught my attention and made me want to hear the story so I asked Grandpa to tell me.

“When I was in the military,” he started, “there was a dining hall where all the soldiers ate. I went to go stand in line to get my food, and I like to keep to myself, ya know? So I stood with my head down and some guy wanna walk in front of me. Now I don’t like to make scenes or anything, so I just told him I was standing there. But dude wanted to argue, and decided he was gonna put his ugly finger in my face, and to me it felt like a swing. So I swung back and ended up knocking his head straight.”

I asked what that meant and while laughing, he replied, “I knocked his eye out of place and it was danglin’ round and round.”

In my four-year-old mind I thought Grandpa was superhuman, and was in awe at the fact that it was even possible to do something like that. He was my new idol, and though he wasn’t “book smart, he was street smart” as my dad likes to say; I wanted to be just like him when I grew up.

Fire & Stones | 52

Though my time with him was sadly cut short, his life lessons will be with me forever. Grandpa Johnny was and will always be a present figure in my life. One of the ways I keep his presence alive, even after he passed, is a picture that was taken the day I was born. Grandpa Johnny’s face is lit up with joy as he holds onto his first grandbaby. His green eyes gleam as I sleep comfortably in his arms.

As my father’s father, Grandpa Johnny has taught my dad a lot of life lessons that have been passed down to me, and I will probably pass them down to my kids in the future. The life lessons that I learned at a young age have helped me grow into the person that I am today, and if Grandpa could come back for a day, I’d tell him that I greatly appreciate everything he did for me and I wish we had more time together. Johnny “Johnny Boy’’ Lee CummingsGone But Never Forgotten.

—Jonathan O’Bryant-Graves ’24

Issue 40 | 53

Deer Isle

When my grandpa took us out on his boat, I never believed he knew how to sail. But we would always return to the calm harbor in one piece and go about our day. I would pick the wild blackberries in his backyard, sell his produce on the side of the road, and repeat the next day.

—Charlotte Hill ’23

Fire & Stones | 54

Issue 40 | 55

Fire & Stones | 56

Her first breath.

They were obsessed.

Chest puffing out.

Then caving in.

She was perfect.

Every single aspect.

Her face smooth.

Her hands little.

They loved her.

Their big hearts.

Her small heart.

Too small heart.

Rubber gloves on.

Some blood drawn.

But they’re late.

It was fate.

Room is quiet.

Her last breath.

Reeking of death.

—Zoë Coval ’23

Issue 40 | 57

Fire & Stones | 60

The smell:

A delicious mixture of new books and toasty coffee, Around and around I twirl through the long aisles, Fingers brushing against the smooth covers, Smooth like an egg under the warm bottom of a hen, A feeling akin to a mother’s hug softens through me.

The rows of books stand tall and mighty, Their bountiful strength and wisdom A shield against the reality of the gloomy world. Farther and farther I sink into the fantastical hurricane of the imagination.

Sabers, sea serpents, and sirens dance along the pages Leaving a trail of inky words, And it’s all protected in this cozy store, With its magic of warm yellow lights and soft twinkling music Casting a spell of comfort and ease. Time is irrelevant. All that matters here is the world’s brushing against my fingertips.

—Katharine Lavayen ’23

Issue 40 | 61

Crystal Staircase

Inspired by Lorraine Hansberry’s, “A Raisin in The Sun,” this photograph attempts to capture the spirit of that play. The title of Hansberry’s play comes from a passage in Langston Hughes’ poem “Harlem,” which discusses a dream deferred. The origin of the title of this photograph has a similar origin. Reportedly, an alternative title for the play was “The Crystal Staircase,” which also draws its inspiration from a Hughes poem (“Mother to Son.”)

—Luke Rapallo ’24

Fire & Stones | 62

Issue 40 | 63

Fire & Stones | 64

Eyes glued to the screen, glued to the field

Colors for us, colors for them

Chants for one, chants for all

—Are you watching too?

Cheers from China, boasts from Brazil

It’s 2pm here, 2am there

7,268 miles away, watching the same game

—Did you see that free kick?

Big crowds, big numbers

60,000, a million more at home

90 minutes in tune, living the same moment

—There is no way that’s offside.

By the same moment, collectively mesmerized

My passion is yours, emotions in sync

Share my joy, share my grief

—How did he miss that?

I know, I know

—How did he score that!

I know, I know

And you know they know. For 90 minutes, they know.

—Nicole Kiama ’23

Issue 40 | 65

Fire & Stones | 66

Antimilos

—Brian Wangel ’26

Issue 40 | 67

Congratulations.

I don’t know why I’m congratulating you, but still. Congratulations.

Maybe you’ve accomplished something. Congratulations for that, then. Maybe it’s something impressive. Something admirable. You’ve broken a record or done well on a test.

Maybe everyone thinks you’re very cool for doing it. You would hardly need my congratulations, then. But still, here it is, anyways. Congratulations.

But maybe it’s something less flashy.

Something you’ve done that’s a little less obvious.

Maybe you’ve persisted.

Maybe you’ve done well enough.

Maybe you just need to feel good about yourself. Congratulations.

Just know, it’s not a mandatory congratulations.

If you don’t want it, you don’t need to take it. But if you want it, by all means, here you go. Congratulations.

It’s not like anyone else is going to take it from you. Congratulations. It’s all yours.

—Marnie Nichols ’23

Fire & Stones | 68

St. Stephen’s and St. Agnes School @fireandstoneslitmag fireandstones.org

Turn static files into dynamic content formats.

Create a flipbook