Literary and Arts Magazine
St. Stephen’s and St. Agnes Upper School 1000 St. Stephen’s Rd Alexandria, VA 22304 (703) 751-2700 www.sssas.org Issue # 36
Printer: Master Print, Newington Virginia © 2021 by Fire and Stones. Authors and artists hold rights to their individual works. Fire & Stones literary and art magazine is published bi-annually in the winter and spring and is distributed to the SSSAS community free of charge. Submissions: All submissions must be emailed to our faculty advisors as an attachment. We only consider material offered for first time publication. Artists and writers can 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, 2020. The submissions were reviewed and selected from December 6 through December 10. We have a blind judging process for art and literature. For this issue, in order to ensure an unbiased voting process, each staff member used a digital form. This format ensures that the staff members’ votes cannot be swayed by the votes of other staff members. Advertising & Distribution: The window for submissions began on October 29, 2020 at our Fall Coffeehouse. Like our magazine, Coffeehouse is a bi-annual event with one in the fall and one in the winter. Coffeehouse is a Fire & Stones-run event where the students gather to share poetry, dramatic readings, and music with their peers. The submission window is announced at Fall Coffeehouse and the Winter Issue is then distributed to the student body at the Winter Coffeehouse. Permissions: No part of this publication may be reproduced without permission. All images are copyrighted. The arts and literature can only be reproduced with permission of the artists and authors. For additional information or how to obtain copies please email faculty advisors Kate Elkins (kelkins@sssas.org) or Jill McElroy (jmcelroy@sssas.org).
Editor Amy Gastright ’21 Communications Director Anna Giardina ’21 Creative Director Lena Weiman ’21 Literary Editors Adrienne Lai ’21 Louisa Treadway ’21 Coffeehouse Coordinator Ana Bach ’21 Staff Sophie Atkisson ’23 Eva Balistreri ’21 Lily Bertles ’22 Charles Bradburn ’22 Zoë Coval ’23 Nicole Cruthirds ’22 Genevieve Cyrus ’22 Amber Dunton ’23 Angelina Egbe ’24 Alex Galdamez ’22 Lily Hunsicker ’23 Kirsten Johnson ’22 Mollie Kemp ’23 Maren Knutson ’22 Victoria Lopez ’22 Ellie Minor ’23 Monty Montgomery ’21 Grace Mykityshyn ’22 Reagan Reilly ’24 Mimi Shea ’22 Lizzie Sherman ’22 Carlin Trevisan ’21 Eliza Young ’22 Faculty Advisors Kate Elkins Jill McElroy
Dear Reader, Over the past year, it seems that we have fallen into a cycle of uncertainty. Our routines have been uprooted, and, with each day, the word “unprecedented” sounds more like “normal.” It is in times like these when one’s vision can be clouded by darkness and despair. That is why, in this issue of Fire & Stones, we invite you to change your perspective. Look past the uncertainty and seek the beauty within the madness. This issue, like the world, is a kaleidoscope full of color, sadness and joy, order and chaos, tragedy and triumph. While these pages echo the pain and indignation felt by so many, they also share tales of self-reflection, humor, love, nostalgia, and beating the odds. We hope that this magazine serves as a reminder that there is light in this period of darkness. You just need to look for it.
— Louisa Treadway ’21, Co-Literary Editor
Butterfly Photograph by Anna Giardina ’21
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Table of Contents Poetry
Carlin Trevisan ’21, Before I Hit the Ground 10 Zoe Coval ’23, Just a Toy 12 Amy Gastright ’21, A History of Great Men and Me 14 Maren Knutson ’22, I’m Not Fine 16 Lily Hunsicker ’23, mRNA 18 Grace Mykityshyn ’22, Happiness Was 20 Zoe Coval ’23, I’m Not Ready 22 Carlin Trevisan ’21, Her 24 Amy Gastright ’21, Go and Be Foolish for a While 26 Maren Knutson ’22, the english class poem 28
Prose
Amber Dunton ’23, I Wish I’d Never Learned to Count 32 Amber Dunton ’23, Alone Together 34 Candyce Jones ’21, The Brink 36 Eva Balistreri ’21, Hiraeth 38 Lauren Irish ’23, Aerodynamics 40 Candyce Jones ’21, Hauntingly Beautiful 42 Monty Montgomery ’21, What I Couldn’t Say 44
Artwork
Anna Giardina ’21, Butterfly 5 Lena Weiman ’21, Shabbat Candles 7 Codie Cambell ’23, Where troubles melt away in the reflection of an angel 9 Lena Weiman ’21, The Strength of a Woman 11 Monty Montgomery ’21, Stretched Apart 13 Caroline Grace Butler ’21, Real Change 15 Skye Schofield-Saba ’21, Mask of Smoke 17 Anna Giardina ’21, Up 19 Carlin Trevisan ’21, Screaming Faces 21 Caroline Grace Butler ’21, Rocky Bottom 23 Meghan McCue ’22, Ease 25 Skye Schofield-Saba ’21, Nostalgia in My Corner 27 Sydney Worsham ‘24, Spike and Spunk 29 William Adams ’22, Skate Capital 31 Keith Bolen ’23, Wrong 33 TG Peterson ’23, Snake 37 Nora Fortune ’21, Dancing 39 Laney Harrison ’22, New Dawn 41 Lena Weiman ’21, Based on a True Story 42 Sydney Worsham ’24, Russian Sunflowers 45 Skye Schofield-Saba ’21, Red Thread 46 Fire & Stones | 6
Covers Front Cover: Youth Drawing by Sydney Worsham ’24 Back Cover: Uprooted Mixed media by Alex Galdamez ’22
Shabbat Candles Drawing by Lena Weiman ’21
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POETRY
Where troubles melt away in the reflection of an angel Photograph by Codie Campbell ’23
Before I Hit the Ground —Carlin Trevisan ’21 Life was peaceful. Winter wasn’t as cold and spring tasted like honey. I floated gracefully across the lines of dreams and reality, my body twisting - untouched by danger. The smell of suburbia and fresh cut grass wafted through my nostrils. You might have been there too, although I can’t remember. Then I fell. Out of love with life and the hands I once held, The cruel pavement shredding any dignity I had left. For the first time in years I looked down, catching a glimpse of my bloody hands and broken heart. The sun had set, and I had no flashlight, So I melted into the earth. My bones decomposed as if I were never here. Eaten by worms and trapped under the soles of passing shoes. Forgetting who I was and any hopes of who I could be. I will lie here forever. Wondering why I ever thought I could fly in the first place.
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The Strength of a Woman Drawing by Lena Weiman ’21
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Just a Toy —Zoe Coval ‘23 I’m just a toy to be played with, Even though I’m damaged at the seams. If you pull my string, I’ll sing. I never wanted to be Barbie, I’m more of a third party. But I’ll put on a plastic show and maybe wear some tighter clothes. Be careful with my porcelain heart, it easily falls apart. So please don’t yell ‘cause my glue doesn’t hold well. I lock myself in a toy chest to keep my feelings compressed. But I’ll continue to entertain through the painful migraines. I’ll fill my lungs with plastic and pull my skin with elastic. I’ll shorten my dresses and clean up my messes. I’ll curl my hair and try not to swear. Just to have someone care. But I guess I’m just a toy to be played with, Even though I’m damaged at the seams. Go ahead and pull my string, I’ll scream.
Stretched Apart Painting by Monty Montgomery ’21 Fire & Stones | 12
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A History of Great Men and Me —Amy Gastright ‘21 Their words are painted under my skin. They keep me warm in winter; A thousand stars held tight behind pressed lips. Breathlessly contained just between my teeth. I run the tapes back, Rewind the film, Reread and reread and reread and reread, And wish my words could be poetry— And wonder if my words might be poetry, If only I were like them. If only I was beastly, If only I was a lionheart Like them. They wielded sharp swords They were monsters and gods among men. And their words were poetry, Carved into stone walls by frightened, desperate souls. Worshipped and remembered like they were more than just dust. If only if only if only I was Great. I was a man. My words were poetry.
Real Change Photograph by Caroline Grace Butler ’21 Fire & Stones | 14
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i’m (not) fine —Maren Knutson ‘22 i’m not fine Chipped nail polish Bitten fingernails Scars bleeding from picking Doodling on assignments Shaking out limbs Stumbling over words Talking to myself Sitting oddly Sleepless nights I can’t explain Can’t stay still Can’t meet their eyes Can’t be like everyone else I am Me Who am I? Who am I? I am Me Be like everyone else Meet their eyes Stay still Explain the sleepless nights Sit normally Be quiet Think through my words Keep limbs calm Don’t doodle Ignore scars Don’t bite fingernails Touch up nail polish I’m fine Fire & Stones | 16
Mask of Smoke Digital Art by Skye Schofield-Saba ’21
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mRNA: The Light at the End of the Tunnel —Lily Hunsicker ‘23 This pandemic is never ending. So don’t be tricked into thinking that There is a light at the end of the tunnel Know that Our lives will never return to the way they were before. So although some might say We are adapting to create a new normal. The truth is It will stay like this forever. So don’t be misled by thinking The mRNA vaccines are on the horizon. Instead, remember The high case numbers—which continue to rise every single day. So don’t focus on Having hope. The answer lies in Pessimism—Oh, when will this madness end?! Sometimes we just need a different mindset in order to grasp the bigger picture. *Now read from the bottom line to the top*
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Up Photograph by Anna Giardina ’21
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Happiness Was —Grace Mykityshyn ‘22 happiness was the morning, the illumination and warmth as it glistened through the trees and danced across the walls for everywhere I looked, I could see a bright place happiness was the quiet, the only sound I could hear was the thought “I’m thankful for today” for a new day promised me a new start a never-ending opportunity to be better my world was filled with wonder and hope everything untouched, seamlessly waiting for me to breathe life into it I could see the beauty within the deepest places that most left abandoned and made peace with whatever I encountered until I felt that my choice was taken for now my eyes are blinded by light and I only feel pierced like one thousand needles penetrating every pleasant thought the quiet now blares at me because the silence screams at me to remember what I have lost there’s no starting over when you’re not willing to accept what has already happened so when I saw the storm clouds roll in I no longer knew how to push them away for maybe this time the flood could erase the sorrow of my newfound emptiness
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Screaming Faces Drawing by Carlin Trevisan ’21
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I’m Not Ready —Zoe Coval ‘23 I was diagnosed with depression some time ago. But my parents have the impression that I’m back to my happy glow. I still worry that they’ll start to recognize my gloomy expressions with woe. I’m not ready to confess that the mess in my head is far from healed. I don’t want a conversation about how I should return to taking medication. I don’t need to be sympathized and drugged, I just need to be hugged. My workload is crazy, but I’m called lazy: no aspirations, lacking motivation. I’ve always tried my hardest to have passing grades. But it’s tough to stay on task when all you think about is sharp blades. I’m not ready to talk about my pain and the blackout in my brain. I don’t want to tell other people, it’s like they see me through the eye of a needle. I don’t need protection and inspection, I just need affection. I don’t need my parents obsessing and guessing why I’ve been stressing. It’s been hard to approach people for help, I always feel like I encroach. I’m scared to ask for mental assistance, so I keep myself distanced. I’m not ready to speak about my feelings, I’m afraid I’ll break down and shriek. I don’t want a tissue for my tears, it won’t help my issues I fear. I don’t need a break, even though I ache and shake from my stressful life. I was diagnosed with depression some time ago. But my parents had the impression that I was back to my happy glow. Now they know my smile was only for show.
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Rocky Bottom Photograph by Caroline Grace Butler ’21
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Her —Carlin Trevisan ‘21 She smells of love and glue. Glue she spent hours using to put back together the tiny pieces of yourself you forgot were there. A smile that stays warm no matter how frigid the winds that come to sweep you away may seem. She is surrounded by people who need her, people who might die if she were taken away. They clutch her so tight to their grief-filled hearts, absorbing all her light and waiting to be healed, she begins to break. Shattering like a teacup stained with leftover coffee, until you are left with an empty tub of glue and the girl you loved so much you killed her.
Ease Digital Art by Meghan McCue ’22
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Go and Be Foolish for a While —Amy Gastright ‘21 “I love you.” I laugh and push your shoulder, Turn my cheek and sob into my hand. I know. One day, when we’re ready, I’ll smile and take your hands, Press them into my cheeks and soak you in my tears. You’ll be a warmth I’ve never felt, And I’ll be the ice that melts. One day I’ll look at you like you’re the moon, A gentle glow against the desert sky. I’ll clutch you when glass shards pierce my eyes, And whisper to you when you cut your fingers Trying to pull them out. “Don’t be ridiculous.” You’re not ready yet, darling. I’d consume you. Crush you under a love so great you couldn’t stand it. You’d run from it. You’d resent it. You’ll resent me, Until Death do you part. But one day, love, I promise When you say you want to love me, I’ll smile and laugh And teach you how to slow dance with no shoes on. Nostalgia in my Corner Drawing by Skye Schofield-Saba ’21 Fire & Stones | 26
Petition for a Home Epidemiologist — Maria Simpson ‘20
the english class poem —Maren Knutson ‘22 let’s put a metaphor here, and add a simile there any astonishing alliteration? heck, y’know, i don’t care everything has a deeper meaning, or so the teacher said it’d be nice if we could just read a short story instead dissect it, piece by piece figure out what’s going on find the theme for extra credit half of class time is already gone you may think I’m trying to trick you by using this simple meter here’s a secret, it’s ABCB hope they don’t think you’re a cheater be careful of cold-calling, make up something on the fly yeah, i know no one wants to talk bs something random, don’t be shy so next time you have to analyze or pick a poem for your class grab this one, it’s easy just some rhyming with some sass maybe there’s a deeper meaning heck, I wouldn’t know but remember, “everything’s an allegory” and this poem’s just for show
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Spike and Spunk Painting by Sydney Worsham ’24
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PROSE
Skate Capital Digital Art by William Adams ’22
I Wish I Never Learned to Count —Amber Dunton ‘23 I wish I never learned to count - that when my elementary school teacher wrote those first 10 digits on the blackboard, I had averted my gaze. I became an addict, and those 10 digits were my month’s supply. The whole world was 1s and 0s, and I was cold and calculating. We ingest this code, our blood becomes the product of its calculations. The world tells us: No more than 2,000 calories a day or you’ll get fat. No less than 1,400 or you’ll snap like a piece of chalk. Eating disorders have a 20% death rate, didn’t you know? Be a size 0 or 2, a 23- to 24-inch waist, but you’ve got to at least be 34C. Oh, you also don’t want big feet, no more than a size 8. That’s not part of the equation. Why listen to your body when numbers can’t lie, don’t lie, they’ll never fail you. Our eyes and ears vacuum the variables up. 3009 people died today, 300 thousand in total, and they tell us it’s all because we couldn’t stand 6 feet apart. The cops have killed 781 people just this year, but it’s ok because each time it’s just one life lost, and if we stopped and changed it, hundreds of thousands of people would lose their jobs. (Really, it’s ok, the powers that be just don’t care that 28% of those who were murdered were black, even though they only make up 13% of the population). It’s perfectly fine; The media reports a bright side: a 100% decrease in school shootings from last year’s 25, 43 injuries, and 8 lives lost. Only 14.7% of people don’t have a job, but it’ll be alright because we’re “a bunch of hard-working people,” at least, that’s what the President says. One wonders where he got the information from, he’s already spent 140 million taxpayer dollars playing golf. 6.7 million acres of land have burned, turning trees into ashy statistics and our lungs into smoky shells discarded after war, but let’s be honest, climate change isn’t real. Millions of Uyghur Muslims are going missing and dying in a genocide, and none of us blink. The numbers just go in one ear and out the other, running through our updated processors. The grating of chalk on the blackboard teaches us new ways to count, to recalculate our value. It works. Our perfectionist minds scream: “Got a ‘B’? You’re a failure”; all we’ve ever known is to exceed excellence. What percentile did you score on your HSPT, SSAT, PSAT, SAT, ACT? 73, 86, and 99.
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What’s your GPA? Is it over 4.0 yet? 3.95? That’s pathetic. Try harder. “I only got 6 hours of sleep.” “6? Try 4 and a half.” “I’ve had 5 cups of coffee today.” “I’ve had 8 mugs of tea.” “I’ve had 3 caffeine pills and 20mg Adderall.” 1s and 0s swirl around us as we laugh, falling into the abyss. Our backs hit the ground, and our necks snap, our perfected blood pooling around our bodies. The remnants of our ghostly laughter echo against the void and we take our last breath, we wish we never learned to count.
Wrong Digital Art Keith Bolen ’23
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Alone Together —Amber Dunton ‘23 Today I realized I didn’t have any friends, not really. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it sooner, but being stupid can do that I guess. I was sitting with these people that I know, who associate themselves with me, who to most people would seem like my friends - I mean they look like friendly people and we should be friends, but we’re not. Well, I guess we look like friends: we eat lunch together, we go on stealth missions to figure out if a guy likes one of us back, we do all the stuff that friends do, but we’re not friends, not really. We even go to the mall on Saturdays. Today was Saturday. We were sitting in the food court and I went to throw out my Diet Coke, but there was this guy. I could feel his eyes following me. I don’t know why he was interested in me. It would make sense if he was interested in one of the people I hang out with (again, not my friends), but he was staring at me. I sat back down at our table, and he was still staring, but then he walked up and started hitting on me and being all gross. I told him I wasn’t interested, so he got all annoyed, but I ignored him and he left. Stacey gave me a sympathetic glance, Amanda said, “Ehhh he’s not that cute,” (Amanda’s boyfriend agreed), Ellie said that he was cute, but kinda creepy, and Brittany said I should have given him a chance. None of them stood up for me. None of them ever want to get too involved in anyone’s problems. Why would they care about me? They don’t really care, but I guess I don’t either. Don’t care about myself, I mean. It all makes sense if you look closely. I look closely. I’m the one who sees the things that we don’t dare to say out loud. Amanda and Stacey are the closest to being friends, I guess, but Stacey just wants to eat lunch with Amanda, but not as friends. It’s because of the way Stacey looks at her when she gets her hair done, or she’ll tell a joke, staring at Amanda, wondering if she thought her joke was funny, because Amanda’s smile is all that matters to her, and if Stacey can’t make her smile then maybe she’ll stop making herself smile and then we’ll see, too, and her world will start crashing down. Then everyone will see. Amanda eats lunch with us because she likes to hang around Brittany. They like to talk about boys and makeup, and whoever Amanda’s boyfriend is that week sits to her left, because she has to keep him away from Brittany, because every two weeks Brittany gets jealous, and she makes out with him, which is kinda Amanda’s fault for picking such trash guys, but it’s also Brittany’s fault for having a compulsive need to kiss all of Amanda’s boyfriend’s, but it’s also none of their faults. It’s Amanda’s dad’s fault for screaming and going through her phone when she’s two minutes late to curfew, so she tries to hold on to any chance of “maybe this guy will be different,” but he never is, and Brittany makes out with guys because when she was 14 her mom told her that “If a guy asks you out you should say yes, because you’re ugly and you don’t know when someone else will come along,” and maybe if Brittany can find a guy who will stay and do the whole boyfriend thing, then her mom will be proud of her, just maybe. Ellie sits across from Brittany, to the left of Stacey, because Ellie’s older sister dated Brittany’s older brother, until her sister got pregnant and they both dropped out of high school, and no one saw them after that. Ellie’s sister wrote her a Fire & Stones | 34
postcard with a picture of the baby on it two years ago and she told her they eloped, but she has to keep the postcard in her locker so her parents don’t find it and take it away, because they like to pretend their oldest daughter doesn’t exist, but Ellie remembers her sister. That’s why she hangs around with Brittany. To the right of Stacey, across from Amanda’s boyfriend, is where I sit. It’s weird when Amanda doesn’t have a boyfriend, because then there’s just me, at the end of the table, by myself. I don’t mind, really, I’ve always been the awkward one at the end. I sit and eat my PB&J, sometimes I have an apple or a carton of milk, but mostly I just sit and watch, laugh when everyone else does, agree to go to the mall on Saturday, but I have to drive myself instead of sleeping over at Ellie’s house and getting a ride with her like everyone else does, because the first time we had our mall trip in 8th grade, 3 years ago, I slept over and it was weird. We played truth or dare but the only question I got was a dare to go steal a snack from the kitchen. I stole a piece of bread. I could tell everyone else thought it was pathetic even though they didn’t say it. I didn’t sleep that night, I almost never sleep now, but that night I just looked up at those cheap dollar store stars on her ceiling - they were the kind that glow in the dark - and thought about how there are billions of stars that we’ll never even know about or see and how we’re just one tiny dot in the universe stretched out beyond our comprehension and how our existence is so trivial, and we are all so far from everything but so close at the same time. So nothing matters. I don’t matter; none of us do. After that guy left, we went to a few more stores. Stacey secretly bought a headband for Amanda’s birthday that’s in a few weeks, Amanda made out with her boyfriend in the Forever 21 dressing room, Brittany tried on all of the red lipsticks from Sephora (because she read in Seventeen that guys like it when girls wear red lipstick), Ellie bought a dress for her parents’ barbeque party that’s in honor of her academic accomplishments or something, and I just window-shopped because I don’t like trying on clothes or spending money on myself or the mall at all really. We waved goodbye in the parking lot, blowing air kisses, and all went home. Back to the place of unrequited love, flawed parents, hopeless expectations, broken families, and the fact that nothing we ever do will matter in the long run because we’re not even microscopic dots in the universe. So no, they’re not my friends, they’re not friends with each other, none of us are truly friends at all. But that doesn’t matter. We’ll sit together in the cafeteria on Monday with our unspoken secrets, and do it all again, as the universe passes us by.
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The Brink —Candyce Jones ‘21 If someone wrote a book about me, to tell the stories of my life, would it lay bare all my secrets and show where my demons hide? Are the pages black like me, bruised and beaten, waiting to be set free? Blue like sadness and unshed tears, deep green envy, and purple fears. And what will those who read my story feel inside their hearts? Will they cry for me with empathy and wish for my success, or will they glance at me with hatred and curse my name under their breaths? And once you’ve read my story, will you understand my plight? Why I do the things I do, and why I lie the way I lie? Some may mock me, scrutinize me, and say that I am weak. But I’ve survived my darkest moments and stood proudly at the brink.
Snake Digital Art by TG Peterson ’23
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Hiraeth —Eva Balistreri ‘21 My mom first took me and my siblings to Party City when I was about four years old. We hadn’t moved out of our old house yet, and my sister, who was eight at the time, needed a Halloween costume. It was late October, and the leaves of the big double tree in the back of our house had finally begun to change colors - a beautiful metamorphosis that was astonishing to me as a young girl. The store was down Glebe, next to where I used to watch my best friend dance. My mom carried me across the parking lot with my two older siblings on either side of us, and there was a man dressed in dirty black jeans and a t-shirt who stood outside smoking a cigarette. He smiled kindly at my mother, and, looking back, I could tell he meant it kindly. The store smelled like rubber - but not the fresh, new kind. It smelled like rubber that had sat in the rain and mud for weeks on end and been brought inside to dry. As I’ve gotten older, the smell has become more pronounced in my trips there, but I’m sure as a four-year-old I didn’t notice it. My sister wanted a Dorothy costume. She hadn’t stopped talking about it for weeks, which is why when we finally arrived she knew exactly what to look for. There was a wall of Halloween costumes in the back of the store, and in late October, there was a line curling around to the entrance just to try on these magical ensembles of firemen and fairies and pumpkins and everything in between. My sister shrieked when she found the costume she was looking for - a checkered baby blue dress with white sleeves and ruby red slippers. Her face lit up as she turned to my mom then reached to pull the package off the messy shelf. My mom, who was just five minutes home from work before she took us, couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her daughter’s excitement over the outfit, and, for the first time that evening, she was truly happy. To be fair, my sister did look pretty fabulous in the costume. The red sparkles on her shoes shimmered perfectly in the autumn evening light, and my mom even helped her put red lipstick on. Now, I can’t say all this about my sister without even mentioning myself. My mom had been working tirelessly for weeks to make my perfect pumpkin costume. She brought the finished masterpiece into my room on the evening of Halloween and helped me into the orange dress. She hummed softly as she painted a jack-o-lantern on my innocent face, and the smell of her sugar vanilla lotion filled my room. I was seventeen when I took her down Glebe to Party City for the first time. It was Halloween and the last night of the year before the sun would begin setting at five o’clock and crippling seasonal depression would kick in for high schoolers across America. She was like me, and I think that’s what I loved about her. She made me feel justified in who I was and how I felt. She made me feel justified for wanting to escape myself, for all those times I became someone else. She loved me for hiding for so long behind my own madness that I became the madness. She embraced my baggy clothes even when she knew what was Fire & Stones | 38
underneath them. She memorized my fake laugh, and how it was only real when my nose scrunched up like a little kid. She painted a dreamscape in my mind where I was everyone and everything I had ever wanted to be. I don’t think I could ever love someone as much as I loved her that night. We had gone because she told me she wanted a wig - and because she wanted one, so did I. It’s not that we had anywhere to wear them, we just wanted the satisfaction of being able to wear them. The wigs were in the back of the store and were sorted on the shelves by color. She smiled vibrantly as she skipped over and examined them, matching the fluorescent hues to her soft, fair skin. The smell of old rubber somehow didn’t bother her, and I loved her for it. She plopped a vibrant pink short-haired wig atop my head. She looked into my eyes as she adjusted it, and I could smell smiles in her perfume. Turning my body to the mirror, she exclaimed, “You look beautiful.” I felt beautiful. I felt more beautiful than I thought was possible standing in the back corner of the Party City down Glebe. With our wigs, mine pink and hers green, we felt unstoppable, even if just for one evening.
Dancing Photograph by Nora Fortune ’21
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Aerodynamics —Lauren Irish ‘23 “Do you know what aerodynamics is?” I remember you asking me, interrupting the game of tag we first graders were so fond of. Out of breath, I turned to you; your hair was glowing with dappled sunlight, turning shades similar to the honey locust trees that lined the side of the turf field. I recall a clump of golden leaves hanging askew from your locks, and I would have laughed and said something if your eyes held the childish warmth I was hoping to see that day. Curiosity and a desire to remove the turf residue from my shoe rose steadily as I processed what you had said. I searched my memory for any knowledge of the foreign word you had mentioned. “No,” I answered quickly and steadily. You scoffed, and your haughty arrogance reared its hideous head toward me. “Of course you don’t.” Something burned in my stomach, and I could not tell if it was anger or shame, but I suspected the latter, as I was barely capable of understanding the former at the time. I cocked my head to the side like a confused parrot, awaiting the definition you would so kindly grace me with. You rolled your eyes and continued, but your definition fell on deaf ears. I asked an empty question to give you the impression that I was listening, but instead, I was thinking about why I was so stupid that I didn’t even know what such a simple (you made it out to be so) word was. Your words struck not fury, but competitiveness inside me; I was so naively convinced that I would learn things before you did and enlighten you as an equal so that our conversations could carry real meaning. Two days later, and I had managed to grasp the idea of multiplication, spending my recess not with friends, but at a wood and metal desk with a calculator and thirdgrade math book, memorizing equation after equation. You passed me and I glanced up expectantly awaiting a slight smile or perhaps a few words of praise. You instead snorted and said, “Doing it that way is stupid, you’ll never learn it if you use a calculator instead of your brain.” I wonder if it was the way you said things with gusto; your words carried such an importance that I found it impossible to argue. Looking back, I suppose I should thank you for the seemingly useful knowledge I have accrued over the years, gained from free time wasted studying things I didn’t care to learn much about, but felt as though I had to. Another part of me despises you for stealing my peace and self-esteem and commanding them so easily with a simple word or action. Indeed, I wonder where you are now. We have not spoken or seen one another in years. I wonder if the reason that I thought of you recently is because of a sense of deja vu I felt the other day. I had said to her, “Do you know what a quadratic equation is?” and she, being honest, answered, “No.” Unconsciously, I uttered a response that you drilled into my head, that made me ashamed and yet motivated to achieve higher intelligence. Fire & Stones | 40
“Of course you don’t,” I scoffed arrogantly. “Don’t get your underwear in a bunch,” she said with a smidge of sarcasm that made me laugh. It was such a childish reply, but a flash of that day had implanted itself into the ocean of my thoughts, the nostalgic mental picture of honey leaves wove its way there for weeks as I pondered one possibility. If I had said the same thing to you, would you have stuck around just a bit longer, or would my stupidity have bored you just the same?
New Dawn Photograph by Laney Harrison ’22 Issue 36 | 41
Hauntingly Beautiful —Candyce Jones ‘21 It is strange, I must confess, to be back here once more. My heart has again quickened its melody. All at once, I am both strengthened and made weak by this rhythm that overtakes me. Her name is Moon for it is her light that guides my path and brightens my dark nights. Let her be called Sun, as she is the reason I rise each day, her warmth radiating throughout my soul. I won’t be so mundane as to liken her to a flower; her outer beauty is not what compels me to her. Rather she is Teague, the story I wish to lose myself in, time and time again. Her words imprinted on flesh and bone. I flip her pages until I’ve made acquaintance with every letter and phrase that makes itself
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known. This, until we peel back the fabric of time, and it will be as though we have been one since the start of creation. Not merely joined, but bound as that which sinews the earth. Our union is but an oath, our love, the blood that seals and binds our souls so that they may never be cleft apart. Yet, all of this is but a memory. Upheld by me but shared by others thousands of years past. I feel a longing for a dream not yet touched. The mist veil remains hanging heavily over my psyche. It does not lift, choosing instead to whisper sweet nothings and tales long forgotten. It whispered to me this very lullaby, but I cannot sleep for its lyrics do naught but haunt my dreams…
Based on a True Story Illastration by Lena Weiman ’21 Light — Chris Milton ‘20
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What I Couldn’t Say —Monty Montgomery ‘21 A sea of people, balloons, and signs surrounded the airport arrivals area. All around me I heard screams and sobs of joy as people were reunited with their friends or families. I stood silently next to my mom, not knowing what to say or how to break the silence. Suddenly, my Aunt Silvia emerged from the gate, scanning the crowd for us. I tried calling out to her, but still, nothing came out. She spotted us and let out a loud greeting and gave us a warm embrace. After that fleeting moment of happiness, I was reminded of the sad circumstances of her visit. She was the first of my mom’s siblings to visit, all coming to help care for her after receiving her breast cancer diagnosis. The coming days were a roller coaster of highs and lows, filled with earpiercing laughter and flamenco dancing in the kitchen as well as quiet conversations and stifled sobs in the bedroom. We danced and sang to old Spanish music while cooking, just like we used to do every Saturday morning when I was young. The aroma of paella and croquetas lingered in the house, bringing back fond memories of Spain and our family living there. With kitchen scissors in hand and a few hours worth of YouTube tutorials memorized, my aunt and I were able to successfully convince my mom to let us cut and shave her head after she started chemotherapy. As the hair fell to the floor leaving a pile on the ground, I finished the cut with a short bob choppier than a windy day at sea. Nevertheless, she sang our praises and insisted on sporting that cut for a day or two. Finally, it was time for the Full Monty: a complete shave of her head. My aunt completed that part, and later on we went wig shopping. The cheap synthetic hair defeated the purpose of trying to restore that feeling of normality. She ended up trying a wide selection of wigs: ones with bangs, ones with bright colors like pink or blue, ones with a much shorter cut, and ones that flowed past her waist. With the help of my aunt, she was able to find one that was pretty similar to her dark brown, wavy natural hair. After that my aunt left, but one after another, all of my mother’s five siblings proceeded to come to the United States. With each one came relived memories of their childhood, through pictures in family photo albums to singing popular songs from that time. However, each offered a different type of support; Silvia with her ridiculous jokes and boisterous behavior, Blanca with her uplifting attitude, Bea with her positive outlook, Julio with his musical therapy, and Cristina with her nononsense yet good-natured quips. Throughout this whole time, I had trouble navigating how to communicate with my mom and how to express my feelings to her out of fear that I would say something wrong. In the end, I came to realize it was not about what I said or how I said it, but rather about supporting my mom by just being there alongside her during this difficult time. What was even worse, and the scariest part of this whole ordeal, was the uncertainty of the future. Seeing my mom’s health dramatically deteriorate right in front of me left me terrified. The treatment plans changed and dragged on for what felt like an eternity. Fire & Stones | 44
Standing in the airport for the last goodbye of these visits, I felt an indescribable feeling of sadness, and no idea what to do next. Thanks to my uncle and all my aunts, we were able to try to find the best of the situation, through small, shared moments. There were many times when we just wanted to give up; my mom on her treatment or us on keeping a positive attitude, but we persevered and got through it together. In June 2016, 10 months after her initial diagnosis in September 2015, she was finally declared cancer free.
Russian Sunflowers Drawing by Sydney Worsham ’24 Issue 36 | 45
Red Thread Painting by Skye Schofield-Saba ’21 Fire & Stones | 46