Cover: ‘til 3005 —Xander Chiaramonte ‘20
Back Cover: Aura —Gummy Nichols ‘19
Fire & Stones
Issue 32
Table of Contents Literature 5 6 8 10 12 16-17 19 20 23 25-26 27 28-29
Evelyn Perfall ‘19, An Elegy, of sorts Eva Balistreri ‘21, A Brief Message Before You Use the Bathroom Bette Vajda ‘19, Reflection Helen Sweeny ‘19, Ode to the Firefly Bette Vajda ‘19, Death is Lena Weiman ‘21, Morning Bette Vajda ‘19, Beach Aaron Miller ‘19, Conversation Skye Schofield-Saba ‘21, Wrath Gatsby Olsen ‘21, East Lerwick Ashlyn Lee ‘20, Okra (Abelmoschus esculentus) Jessica Lopez ‘20, Insomniac: A Ballad of Heartbreak
Art 2 3 4-5 7 9 11 12-13 14-15 16-17 18-19 21 22 24 26 28
Andrew Knops ‘20, Origami Butterfly Zak Zeledon ‘19, Chalcosoma Xander Chiaramonte ‘20, Solitary Vastness Lena Weiman ‘21, Homage to Audrey Skye Schofield-Saba ‘21, Slight Chance of Showers Skye Schofield-Saba ‘21, Euphoria Catherine Owens ‘19, Reminisce Xander Chiaramonte ‘20, When the Smoke Clears Makeda Melkie ‘19, Hummingbird Andrew Knops ‘20, Underwater Lena Weiman ‘21, No Spectators Catherine Owens ‘19, Hydra Skye Schofield-Saba ‘21, Silver Diner Dances Catherine Owens ‘19, Ruins Wendy Buendia ‘20, Octopus
Cover Back Cover
Xander Chiaramonte ‘20, ‘til 3005 Gummy Nichols ‘19, Aura
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Origami Butterfly —Andrew Knops ‘20
Chalcosoma —Zak Zeledon ‘19
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Issue 32
An Elegy, of sorts Heaven’s eyes played witness to our fever dreams, Those moon-drunk songs of life and sin, Confessions of fear, promises of forever, lunacy As we bared our naked souls, But when perfect light crept with an accusing glare To the glory of our moment, We relented, believing Our brokenness was better left unseen; Still, Hallelujah beat in my blood, A breathless aubade. I do not regret those years of madness, And I defy you to forget them; We fought with consummate cruelty And wounds born of shame crowned our delirium As deceit gilt our tongues, But I choose to raise up our exposed selves From my head and heart to a mantel untouched, Empyrean, sacred, For the old days are dead and gone And the unsung needs a tombstone. —Evelyn Perfall ‘19 Solitary Vastness —Xander Chiaramonte ‘20
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A Brief Message Before You Use the Bathroom I stepped out of the dim hallway and into the fluorescent lighting of the school bathroom. She shook the rusted bottle of black spray paint, awakening the metal ball inside. It leaped from wall to wall in the can, hurtling back and forth like a boomerang. The clamber of metal against metal rang in my ears as she handed me the can, revealing her paint-stained fingers. It was weightless as I held it up to the wall. The smallest bit of pressure atop the can allowed black paint to spew out. I formed the words quickly but precisely as the peaceful silence of the empty school was disturbed by the pressure of the paint. I thought of girls seeing the words tomorrow. The slight possibility that they might look in the mirror and actually be satisfied with what they see propelled me to finish what I had started. When it was done, she asked me what I wanted at the end of this. I replied in a whisper, “a change.” —Eva Balistreri ‘21
Homage to Audrey —Lena Weiman ‘21
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Reflection I am the stupidest person I know. And I don’t mean this insultingly or offensively to myself, because I’m really the only person I know—know intimately, I mean, know the thoughts and hopes and deepest dreams of. And my dreams are very stupid, but at least I know they’re mine. I own them, birthed them—I’m fairly sure no-one else did—and I can be fairly sure, because I know I am, and I know I’m not someone else. And unless you’re staring at a mirror wondering whether you or your reflection got there first, you generally know you are and are not someone else. But to be someone else—imagine it, imagine being Not You. Imagine that. Maybe you already are Not You, that you’re Me, and I’m You, or we’re both Someone Else Entirely, but we’ll never know it because we’re both too busy being each other and thinking we’re being ourselves. I’m confused. Me, too. No, that’s not right—it’s me one, it’s one me, it’s me and my reflection—what? We are large; we contain multitudinous thoughts and hopes and deepest dreams. Dreams? To die, to dream. To wake, to reflect, to start the cycle over, to row, row, row your boat gently down the stream—merrily, airily, warily, scarily, death is but a dream. Or maybe life is? When you die, do you become Not You, become Not? Do you unbecome? Or do you become? Do you surface, cast off the Not You and become the You? Do you get a grade? A-through-F on the life scale. No, a thorough F on the life scale. An F--that’s a problem. A bigger problem than dying, in fact, and there are bigger problems than dying, if dying is to be considered a problem and not a price. If dying is to be… Dying is generally considered ‘not to be,’ but if you’re dying, aren’t you dreaming, and if you’re dreaming, aren’t you doing, and if you’re doing, aren’t you being? Being or dreaming, dreaming or doing, doing or dying, dying or living, living or loving, loving or thinking. The problem with the dreaming and the doing and the dying is not the dreaming and the doing and the dying, per se, but rather that you can’t come back. From any of it, because the being and the living and the loving and the thinking are irreversible, too. The problem, quite simply, is that you can’t come back—unless the problem is that you can’t go forward, in which case going back might well be the preferable option. But you can’t be in reverse. You can go backward, but you can’t be backward. You can undo, but you can’t unbe—not while you’re alive, anyway. And therein lies the great appeal of death. I think. Do you think you think after death? Do you think now? I sure don’t. I am the stupidest person I know. —Bette Vajda ‘19
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Slight Chance of Showers —Skye Schofield-Saba ‘21
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Ode to the Firefly
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I apologize for the poets Who solely praise your Flickering light And your impulsive flight over emerald blades. I apologize for those who admire Your loyalty to the creatures that Empty, crush, tease you Because honesty must be important to you, As it is to me. I do not apologize to Lift a burden off my joints Nor to appease your Fickle emotions I apologize because I wanted you to watch my children grow up, as you watched me. I wanted my children To chase you as you zigzag through the air, rising Up Up Up Until my children’s toes lift off the ground and they outstretch their blubbered hands to you. And After they have soared over mountains and streams and jungles with you, you dance on their hands, allowing your entrance into a glass jar. Even from the cylindrical walls hold their unweathered hands and float them down towards me where I will be waiting to peel their sticky fingers from the reflective surface and set you free. I will explain to them your addiction to freedom, but I apologize if I am wrong to limit your freedom to words. I will explain to my children that if nothing else, they are as full of freedom as fireflies, as full of motion as you. —Helen Sweeney ‘19 10
Euphoria —Skye Schofield-Saba ‘21
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Death is walking around your house closing every window turning off the air conditioning It’s trying not to sleep on a subway if it’s you and a man and you know if your eyes close he’ll put his fingers on your knee then your thigh and then upwards death is unfastening a seatbelt, getting out of the car. Death is breaking the surface Of air and breathing water. It is finishing the end of the beginning of a book Or singing a song in reverse. —Bette Vajda ‘19
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Reminisce —Catherine Owens ‘19
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When the Smoke Clears —Xander Chiaramonte ‘20
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Morning We wake up On our own In our own time In our own beds We throw on our clothes, Look in the mirror, And decide This outfit Doesn’t work, Not for today. Today is different. The expected sloping “o” Has company today. A stubby “u” wedges its way Into the middle. So this is not A normal morning After all.
We change Into something darker, More somber, For this somber occasion. We chip the frowns Off our faces And plaster On smiles. No one Can know How we feel. We commute, Staring out the windows Of our cars, But not truly seeing The world around us. The buildings Dark smudges On the horizon. Everything A blur.
We step out Onto the wilted grass And merge Into one. We sit In perfectly straight lines, Staring straight ahead. The silence consumes us. There are flowers, Too white and delicate. They stand out Against the muted black. We can’t look at them. Too bright. Too perfect. We struggle To keep the smiles Plastered on, But tears Slide silently down our cheeks.
We stare At the dying grass. At the somber sky. At our shaking hands. At anything But the box. We try not to think About what is inside, But how can we avoid Its heavy presence? We wake up On our own, But we mourn Together. —Lena Weiman ‘21
Hummingbird —Makeda Melkie ‘19 16
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Beach Plastic pallor pouring sticky Out and out across the day, My thoughts move alone and listless, Boats unmooring at the quay. Summer heat is growing longer Ripples waving to the sky, Flags are flapping over windows Earth turns onward, toward July. Inner-tubes and children’s laughter Diving, splashing, silver light, Sun to wave to sand to seabed Seagulls straining into flight. Now again I’m floating, drifting Lost within the water sound, Far beneath, my mind is sinking Tangling under ’til I’ve drowned. —Bette Vajda ‘19
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Underwater —Andrew Knops ‘20
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Conversation “Mom, can I go to the movies tonight?” “Sure... but I need to tell you some things first.” “What’s the problem? I have my license now.” “Well, if you get pulled over, you always—” “I’m a good driver! Why would I be stopped?!” “I know you can drive, but you need to know this.” “What have I not already learned?” “You just need to be taught the protocol. Difficult situations will come up. Your life depends on knowing how to act.” —Aaron Miller ‘19
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No Spectators —Lena Weiman ‘21
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Wrath you’d like to think you broke me. tore me down and beat me into obedience. “stay,” you said. “never,” you scolded. “useless,” you spat. you’d like to take credit for my triumphs. smiled while you made me thank you for all the pain you’ve caused me. and maybe i liked it. liked to feel the lovely lies you told me when you said you were proud. you’d like to keep me forever. hold me in a glass-mirrored prison, so that i could watch myself wither away like a plant deprived of water. you’d like to think that i am weak but you didn’t notice the devastating fire in my eyes and the blood that runs ice cold in my veins. you foolishly overlooked the white-knuckled fists at my sides and the lightning that erupted from the heavens each time i told you no. Hydra —Catherine Owens ‘19
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—Skye Schofield-Saba ‘21
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Fire & Stones
Issue 32 East Lerwick
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Silver Diner Dances —Skye Schofield-Saba ‘21
Noon dawned in East Lerwick, wet and dark. The clouds, which at sunrise had clustered on the horizon, had grown steadily until they covered East Lerwick at midday. Fog was to come next, the townspeople knew. Fog always came after the clouds, after the sun. It was a pattern, and this was the best part. Jameson Brooks regarded the dun clouds with a furrowed brow as he sipped his tea. The people of East Lerwick glanced at him once or twice, then continued on with their day. Whatever the odd man was doing was none of their business, they decided. Foreigners often wandered through on their way to the city and stopped for a spot of tea or a photograph. It’s just how things were. Once. The first droplets fell just as Jameson finished his tea. It was pitiful, he decided. The town, the rain, the tea. An unholy trinity of half-assed things that came together in a hideous display of hospitality. Or a lack thereof, he mused, ducking under a faded awning. Not one person from the whole town had shown him the least bit of kindness. No ‘hello’ or ‘are you lost?’ All there was, was rain, and this horrid gas station tea. “You there,” he said finally. “Where’s the nearest cafe?” A boy looked up from the shoelace he had been tying. “Over there, sir. The Lerwick Pigeon.” Jameson rubbed his face with his hands. “That’s a bloody tavern, boy.” The child got to his feet and shrugged. “Does it make a difference?” Whistling an off-pitch rendition of “God Save the Queen,” the boy inclined his head and strolled away. “It does make a difference,” Jameson said to the wet pavement. “It does, you foolish boy.” He squinted against the flurry of drops to the stores across the street. Neon signs turned the rain into futuristic art, their messages distorted by the odd refractions. Pulling his jacket over his ears, Jameson ran, ducking into the dirty alcove which housed a tired “Open” sign. Jameson tugged on the door, which, despite the sign, stayed closed. He peered into the window, eyes narrowing at the cluster of townspeople passing beers around. One lady, in her forties, Jameson assumed, detached herself from the group and strolled to the door, tossing words over her back like coins. She opened the door, shoving Jameson back into the rain. A cigarette was procured, then a flame, the woman watching the group inside with an aloof interest. “That’s the Lerwick Pigeon?” asked Jameson. The woman took a long drag with an eyebrow raised. “What’s it to you?” “I would like a cup of tea. This is the Lerwick Pigeon, yes?” Strands of smoke dissipated into the fog as she considered her response. “For some.” He sighed at her strange words and lifted a hand to the doorknob. “But,” she added, dropping the cigarette to the ground and grinding it, “not for you.” She pried his fingers off the knob then went inside, the lock clicking once the door shut. 25
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“This doesn’t make any damned sense,” he said. “None.” “It never does,” a voice replied. Jameson turned. A man sat huddled in the shadows. Jameson stalked over to him. “Enough with these riddles. I saw you earlier today. Talking to the boy.” “Is it just me, or is that anger rather uncharacteristic of a man who just wants a nice cup of tea?” Scowling, Jameson squatted beside the man. “Everything here is uncharacteristic.” “Reality has been altered,” sang the man. “And you are altered with it.” “How charming,” huffed Jameson. The man shifted, avoiding the few beams of light that peeked through the overcast sky. “Why don’t you leave then? There’s a town twenty kilometers away. Go have afternoon tea at the Bramble Cafe, like the posh gentleman that looks back at you in the mirror.” “I wish to have tea here,” Jameson replied, an uncanny feeling coiling in his stomach. “And thus, the gentleman in the mirror frowns.” “What does he say to you?” Jameson lashed back. The man guffawed. “The mirrors are empty for me.” Two eyes, gleaming in the dark, focused on his jugular vein. “You’ll understand one day. Everyone in this town does.” —Gatsby Olsen ‘21
Ruins —Catherine Owens ‘19
Okra (Abelmoschus esculentus) Pale flowers sit perched up high like an ethereal crown, Frosted glass trumpets announcing their presence in the garden. Shy rays of sunlight glint through the petals and leaves, Intensifying the contrast between the two. Leaves appear to glow: neon, bright, Stalks stand sturdy, blocking the light. Young lime leaves ready to assume the throne, Barely translucent, their veins thin yet visible, Growing greener, growing larger, held proud and high. Their ancient predecessors near the ground below, Browning, aging, crisping, crumbling, erosion eating at their sides, Shaded by their successors, they’ve let themselves go; Delicate webs spun by neighborhood knitters Give the plant a luxurious cape that drags on the floor, Delicately woven by diligent eight-legged artisans. A thousand feet high, the royals peer down, Swaying in the wind, imagining a different perspective. The buds at the top flirt with a tree Planted across the way, reaching, reaching over. The youngest, most tender leaves of each just barely embrace, A pleasant marriage of color. The yellow-tinted leaves on the tree give a bluish impression to the other, Mingling, then floating away, as the wind decides. The sun again shines through the leaves, Shooting orbs of brightness parting the plants. The vegetable itself is tucked away By the stalk - it’s barely visible within the leaves Not trying to steal the spotlight. —Ashlyn Lee ‘20
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Insomniac: A Ballad of Heartbreak My lovely, my sweet, why have you abandoned me now when I need you most? We have been apart for hours, and yet I now have hours to spend with you alone. Why must you forsake me? The bed is comfortable, but without you, I lie awake all night. All I want is to doze off into your sweet embrace once more, like we’ve done so many nights before. Octopus —Wendy Buendia ‘20
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