Front Cover Art:
Mother and Daughter
This photo is of my mom and sister’s hands. It looks like the two hands could come from the same person, though they have different qualities. I wanted to emphasize the difference between the textures of their hands to comment on how time changes people and their experiences.
—Ella Joshi ’25
Printer:
Vomela Commercial Group, Springfield Virginia © 2025 by Fire and Stones. We are committed to minimizing our environmental footprint while delivering high-quality print publications.
Printing: 4-color process
Paper: 100# Silk Text
Cover: 80# Silk Cover
Ink: 4/c process
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 free of charge.
Submissions:
Submissions for Fire & Stones are open to all St. Stephen’s and St. Agnes Upper School students. 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 or Google docs 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. For this issue, Art and literature had to be submitted to our faculty advisors by April 3, 2025. 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:
Students interested in learning about marketing lead the charge in promoting the issue. They write the call for entries and create posters and social media content to spread the word. It’s a hands-on learning experience that lets them gain practical marketing skills.
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-run event where the students gather to share poetry, dramatic readings, and music with their peers. Additionally, select copies will be made available to the Lower and Middle School campuses and the Archivist, extending the reach of our publication beyond the upper school.
Permissions:
By submitting their work to Fire & Stones, contributors grant us permission to publish their work in both print and digital formats. We respect the rights of our contributors and will ensure proper attribution for all works included in the magazine. Any inquiries regarding permissions or usage rights should be directed to the editorial team.
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.)
We extend our heartfelt thanks to everyone who contributed to the creation of Fire & Stones whether as writers, artists, editors, or supporters. Your passion and creativity have made this publication possible, and we are grateful for your contributions.
For inquiries, feedback, or to get involved in future editions, please email faculty advisors Kate Elkins (kelkins@sssas.org) or Jill McElroy (jmcelroy@sssas.org.)
SSSAS, 1000 St. Stephen’s Rd, Alexandria, VA 22304, www.fireandstones.org @ fireandstoneslitmag|
© 2025 St. Stephens and St. Agnes School. All rights reserved.
Senior Editors
Gracie Hunsicker ’25
Ella Joshi ’25
Charles McElwain ’25
Junior Editors
Vera Barker ’26
Lilly Purtill ’26
Editing Team
Janney Cooper ’26
Ailsa Greene ‘27
Ramtulai Jalloh ’26
Jackson Sipple-Asher ’27
Sophie Stine ’25
Layout Team
Ava Bell ’26
Caeli Boris ’27
Dava Boyce ’26
Kaia Corens ’27
Ariya Harrington ’26
Grace Laha ’27
Madison McDowell ’25
Claire McMillan ’27
Charlotte Reynolds ‘27
Abigail Taylor ’26
Linden York-Simmons ’27
Communications Team
Mika Aquino ’28
Willa Johnson ’27
Sarah Eisenberg ’28
Faculty Advisors
Kate Elkins
Jill McElroy
Dear Reader,
“To see in color is a delight for the eye, but to see in black and white is a delight for the soul.” —Andri Cauldwell
An array of colors fills our world, sometimes so densely it is hard to see through. When we take away this color, we get closer to our unvarnished truth.
In this black-and-white issue of Fire and Stones we hope to give you the clarity and time to navigate the growing chaos of life and really feel. Each photo. Each story. Each line. Each word. We see life in color, but this issue is a story of the emotions that live in black and white. Enjoy.
With love,
Senior Editors, Gracie Hunsicker, Ella Joshi, and Charles McElwain
A Friend in Times Square
This black-and-white painting is of one of my friends. It is based on a picture I took while we were in New York.
—Grace Laha ’27
7 Silence—Poem by Ella Joshi ’25 9 Summer Days in Springfield—Poem by Sophie Stine ’25 11
Sincere and Honest—Poem by Vera Barker ’26 14 I Wish You Were—Poem by Janney Cooper ’26
17 Letters—Poem by Greer Mallos ’26 18 The Beach—Play by Ramtulai Jalloh ’26
29
Screams of the Silent—Poem by Tatum Spencer ’26 32
Submarine—Poem by Lilly Purtill ’26
39 smile—Poem by Gracie Hunsicker ’25 41 Mirrored Reflection—Poem by Mika Aquino ’28 44 A Musing on a Potomac Cruise—Short Story by Jackson Sipple-Asher ’27 49 Hereditary Collage—Poem by Olivia Grace Cushman ’26
50 Schlupy and Bathroom Gremlin vs. The Police—Comic by Lucas Aronson ’26 54 Type B—Poem by Nabeera Yasir ’26
59 I Wish I Could Write a Poem—Poem by Anne Louden Kostel ’25 Artwork
Paper Dragons—Print by Dava Boyce ’26 8 Sisters—Drawing by Margaret Gangi ’28 10 Escobar—Drawing by Sam Catlin ’25
12 ashes—Photograph by Gracie Hunsicker ’25 16 Flowers in a Vase—Print by Rose Breckinridge ’26 28 Sanctuary—Photograph by Sam Brock ’26 30 Checkmate—Print by Vera Barker ’26 34 Infinite Pour—Ceramic by Indira Brown ’25 36 Komorebi—Photograph by Micah Gura ’25
Decieve—Digital Illustration by Ariya Harrington ’26
42 Graffiti Tunnel—Photograph by Caeli Boris ’27 46 A Game of Chess—Drawing by Eva Pollard ’28 47 Volumnia—Drawing by Lucas Aronson ’26
48 Stitched Up—Digital Illustration by Maddie McDowell ’25
56 Fireworks—Painting by Suri Wang ’25
58 Enjoying Natures Gift?—Collage by Willa Johnson ’27
Paper Dragons
A print of two origami dragons sitting next to each other. Are they enemies? Friends? Lovers? You will never know.
When we sat out on the splintered dock in the midmorning sun and we talked and talked just to fill the space then quieted to a still we sat, watching the bass drift by below our feet as they swayed circling the chara that reached towards the glistening surface we sat, your head resting on my outstretched legs as we stayed together in silence but together nonetheless your face a peaceful smile looking out towards the other side talking about the future and what it might bring sitting there with you basking in the silence of us my love for you growing evermore.
—Ella Joshi ’25
Sisters
This charcoal drawing is of my grandma and her sister on a farm in southwest Virginia in the late 1930s.
—Margaret
Gangi ’28
On hot summer days, we would work.
We’d build fences, weed gardens, clear out old, moldy furniture.
Nana would teach us how to paint walls, fix a blown fuse, and cook the perfect meal.
Black beans and rice with collard greens and clementines on the side.
On hot summer days, we’d go walking
Down the boulevard, by the apartments, in the alley way, past the abandoned candy store, and Into the Baskin’ Robbins.
Nana always would bring us.
The shop was always filled with the most mesmerizing treats.
A little clown cake with a cone for a hat, a fancy monster ice cream cup that came with a cookie.
On hot summer days, we’d get ice cream.
We would get two big scoops and a topping and if we begged maybe two toppings.
Nana always let us have two toppings.
We’d rush outside to the back of the shop where the brick walls were painted Bubble gum pink, sprayed with graffiti.
We’d quickly inhale our frozen delicacies.
On hot summer days, we would climb wooden fences with sticky little hands. We would shout and run around, he way “good children” should not.
Nana always thought we were good.
The sky would turn orange, letting us know it’s time to go home and Trudge down the beaten path, hand in hand, laughing about nothing.
We’d stay up late hearing stories of Nana’s life in Brazil and the States, Of Mom growing up under the house we stayed in.
Nana always told us the truth.
She and Mom never had days like this.
But it was worth it if we never had to worry about the things they had to growing up.
We still worried but On hot summer days, We could just be kids.
—Sophia Stine ’25
A drawing of a soldier in my neighborhood during Jan. 6th
—Sam Catlin ’25
A moth fascinated by light
A bug inside waiting to be squashed
A cat on its ninth life
A dog mindlessly following its favorite person
With no realization this might be bringing it towards its doom
A friend of the main character
A show on television
Trying to appeal to all audiences
But in the process is sincerely loved by none
A musical almost cut short
By its director due to hatred for their creation
An album with no songs coordinating
A blank canvas
Frustrating even the most talented of artists
An eraser smudging the sketch
A brush losing hairs in the painting
A pile of masterpieces given up on too early
Waiting for the day to be a loved pet
For the day to be someone’s favorite character
For the day to be an artist’s breakthrough
For the day to be human—
Sincere and honest
—Vera Barker ’26
Life
grows through the harshness of the world.
—Gracie Hunsicker ’25
i wish you were despicable, a callous jerk whose cruelty knew no bounds. i wish you were an undeniable dickhead, deliberately ruining people’s days like a malevolent hellhound. i wish evilness accompanied your every move, that you committed baseless bad deeds like you had something to prove.
i wish you were a raging misogynist, or an arrogant asshole, at least. i wish you were antisocial, judgmental, impossible to please.
i wish you were hideous, with neon purple skin and spiky green hair that caused others to stop and stare everywhere you went.
i wish your teeth were brown, buck, and chipped— making every smile turn into a snarl— and your fingernails were long and gnarled, curling grotesquely around your skin and unable to be trimmed.
i wish you were cold and unfeeling, toxic and untrustworthy. i wish you constantly insulted others, and never showed mercy. i wish it were easy to hate you, easy to not want to date you.
i wish you were gay because at least then i could say that it’s not me, it’s you. but that isn’t true.
i wish your laugh were a villainous cackle comparable to nails on a chalkboard, that it didn’t fill a room with its warmth. i wish your presence didn’t feel like the relieving spot of light following a storm.
i wish you were the worst person to every grace the planet so horrible that no one could stand it, that there was no possible good you could do. at least then, maybe i’d have a shot at getting over you.
most of all, i wish you weren’t so infuriatingly perfect, so lacking in sins.
i wish you didn’t have the tendency to make even a great loss feel like a win.
but, alas, you are who you are and i am who i am and one day it will all be fine. until then, however, i wish i was yours, and i wish you were mine.
i wish you were— i wish you— i wish.
i wish our stars aligned. maybe in another lifetime
I wish.
—Janney Cooper ’26
Flowers in a Vase
This is a black-and-white print from my Advanced 2D Art class. I initially sketched the print on paper and traced the drawing by etching it onto a plastic sheet to copy onto canvas paper as the final result.
—Rose Breckinridge ’26
Letters.
Not the one on the top of that paper, Not the one in the mail, But letters. How basic A to Z can seem. So basic a kindergartener can understand. Letters form words, but not always good ones. I want to be those good words.
Words can bring us together, like LMNOP. Words can build relationships, Words can express feelings. But words…
Words can also break us apart like y AND z
h a t e has 4 letters but so does Love d i m has 3 letters but so does Sun e n v y has 4 letters but so does Kind e n e m i e s has 7 letters but so does Friends
I want my words to be kind. I want my words to reflect love. I want them to show patience, And be as bright as the sun.
It only takes a few letters to stir up hatred. And it only takes a few letters to spark a light-
—Greer Mallos
’26
EXT. PARK - NIGHT
Two men, ACE and DANNY, are walking down an empty road at night, although the exact time is uncertain. They walk side by side, each the other’s solemn confidant. Their walk seems shiftless, but the conversation they carry alters this perspective of the walk into a reflection of a ruminate mind. The road is lined with tall lamp posts and even taller trees behind them. The moon is shining bright on Ace and Danny, as if it were another lamppost, and the stars are as present in the frame as are the two men.
DANNY
Do you have the time?
Ace turns his head over to look at Danny.
ACE
Do you have the time?
DANNY No.
ACE
Then I don’t have the time. A beat.
Danny reaches around the front and back pockets of his jeans, looking for something. Noticing this struggle, Ace tosses over a set of keys from his jacket pocket into Danny’s wandering hands.
DANNY (relieved) Oh, I was beginning to think she took them.
ACE
With what happened, I would’ve taken this set and the ones for the Corvette.
DANNY
It wasn’t that bad, really.
ACE
You drove your car through the house. A slight pause. Ace then turns his head towards Danny, while Danny continues to look ahead.
ACE (CONT’D) ...and then told your kids it was Mommy who was controlling the car.
DANNY
The brakes weren’t working.
ACE You fixed them the week before.
DANNY
I guess they weren’t fixed the right way.
A slight pause
ACE Ok.
DANNY I didn’t lie.
ACE I thought you loved her.
DANNY I do... And she still loves me.
ACE But she left.
DANNY I know. They both stare solemnly ahead.
DANNY (CONT’D)
Y’know, I have a story to tell you. Listen, okay?
Ace nods his head yes.
DANNY
So, a couple weeks or so ago, Sophie and I were driving the kids to school... like we do every morning. Me and her are in the front, and the kids are in the back. And she turns on the radio, and Bob Dylan starts to play. She goes, “You used to love this song.” And I did... used to love the song I mean. But then, for some reason, I said, “I did used to love this song” and turned it off.
ACE The song?
Danny nods.
DANNY
The rest of the way was silent. Except for when Lucas asked me, “Why did you turn the music off?” And I said, “Because Daddy wants to hear you breathe.”
ACE Did she say anything after?
DANNY No. She just kinda looked straight ahead.
ACE What’d you do that for?
Danny simply shrugs his shoulders, looking as if he truly does not know the right answer.
Suddenly, Ace spots a rock on his side of the road. He stops, inspects the rock, picks it up, and then jogs back up to Danny, who is still walking. He then hands it over to him.
DANNY (inspecting the rock) What’s this?
ACE A baseball.
DANNY For me?
ACE Sure, why not?
DANNY Why thank you, Ace.
ACE
How far can you throw it?
DANNY
About a couple hundred feet.
Danny winds up, as if he is the pitcher for the Mets. He then throws the rock, though it tragically hits the ground hard just 20 feet ahead of them.
ACE
Not enough time to warm up, eh?
DANNY
(smiling) Needed five minutes to stretch and all that.
ACE Yeah, ok.
A slight pause. A breeze passes through them.
DANNY
It’s calm out here tonight.
ACE
And clear. You can even see the stars.
A beat.
DANNY
What’d they say?
After registering the question, Ace puts his hands in his pockets, and tilts his head slightly to the side.
ACE
Nothing.
Slight pause.
DANNY
What’d they say?
ACE
About a month.
Danny starts to look at Ace, but instead lands on the decision to continue looking forward.
DANNY
Only a month left?
ACE
That’s what someone, or something, whispered in his ear.
DANNY
You think it might’ve whispered wrong?
Ace simply shrugs his shoulders.
DANNY (CONT’D)
We should get ice cream to celebrate.
ACE
As long as I get to have sprinkles.
DANNY
We’ll both get sprinkles. Then I’ll put my sprinkles on top of yours.
A beat.
ACE
We have to take the trip to Italy.
DANNY
With what money, Ace?
ACE
I’ll use my credit card. (chuckles) Like I’d have to pay it off...
DANNY
Tuscany first. Google says it’s the most beautiful.
ACE No, Crema.
DANNY
Alright. Crema then Tuscany.
ACE (smirking) Alright. You can bring your wife, too.
Danny turns to look at Ace. When Ace looks back, realizing that Danny does not find the remark humorous, he turns away.
DANNY
She didn’t tell me where she was going.
ACE
Maybe her parents.
DANNY She hates them.
ACE
Did she take the kids, too?
DANNY
No... And she didn’t say goodbye either. Not to me. Not to the kids.
ACE Then that means she’s coming back. A beat.
DANNY You wanna hear something? A slight pause.
Danny puts his mouth near Ace’s ear.
DANNY (CONT’D)
(whispering) I don’t think I want her to come back.
Danny pulls away from Ace’s ear. He then looks at Ace until he meets his eyes. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, then continue to look forward.
DANNY (CONT’D)
I don’t quite know why though. Or maybe I do, but don’t want to understand it...
ACE
I think you do unconsciously understand... but don’t know how to fully explain it to yourself.
DANNY Hm.
ACE Hm.
Another rock is spotted on the road. But this time, Danny picks it up. He winds up once again and throws it... or at least seems too.
ACE (CONT’D)
It made the distance this time, buddy.
DANNY
Thank you very much, Ace.
Danny pats Ace’s back, then slips his arm over his shoulder. Secretly, he places the rock into Ace’s jacket pocket, then releases him.
They walk in silence, taking a moment to look up at the stars. Danny turns his head back to center again, while Ace continues to marvel at them.
ACE
(shaking his head) I’m not ready to die, yet.
DANNY
I don’t believe anyone is.
ACE I just... I’m not ready.
DANNY OK.
ACE I’m 28.
DANNY And so am I.
ACE
I have a job, but not a career. I have a family, but not one of my own. I have a girlfriend, but not a wife. I have a house, I mean an apartment, but not a home... I’ve had friends that never seem to stay, and even my dog ran away last spring.
DANNY
But I’m still here.
ACE
...I haven’t been to Texas, or Argentina, or England.
DANNY
But we’re going to Italy.
ACE
... I live in Jersey but haven’t been across the bridge to see Central Park. I haven’t seen a film that’s made me cry.
DANNY It’s okay.
ACE
I still haven’t returned my library books from three years ago... (MORE)
ACE (CONT’D) And I’m only 28. A beat.
Both Ace and Danny sit on what was said. They both can’t seem to look forward: Danny looks to his side, while stealing glances at the sky. Ace just looks down at the road.
DANNY
I do still love that song, y’know.
ACE I know you do.
DANNY
When they all leave the car, and it’s just me left, I play it.
ACE
Then why did you turn it off?
DANNY
Because she said that I loved it. And when she said that, I didn’t want to love it anymore. A beat.
DANNY (CONT’D)
I don’t remember the last time I read a book y’know...
ACE
I bought you Catch-22 a month ago.
Although Ace is speaking, Danny is not listening, seeming to be lost in thought. Almost reminiscing.
DANNY
... and I love to read.
Instead of a rock, a book comes into their view on the road. Ace jogs over to it and reads the title.
ACE (O.S.)
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
DANNY
Read me something, will you?
Ace opens the book to the first page.
ACE (walking back into frame) Tell me when to stop.
Ace flips through the pages slowly with his left thumb.
DANNY
Mmmm stop.
ACE
“We’d just shared the last beer and slung the empty can out the window at a stop sign and were just waiting back to get the feel of the day, swimming in that kind of tasty drowsiness that comes over you after a day of going hard at something you enjoy doing -- half sunburned and half drunk and keeping awake only because you wanted to savor the taste as long as you could.”
DANNY Hm.
ACE Hm. A beat.
ACE (CONT’D)Do you think something’s waiting up there? For me?
DANNY
I don’t know. Do you think that something’s up there waiting for you?
ACE Maybe
DANNY
Then let’s leave it at maybe.
They walk in silence a little farther down the road. When suddenly, the sound of ocean waves surges through the silence. To their dismay, it’s a beach... and a beautiful one at that. This beach is the one thing that pauses their everlasting walk.
ACE It’s large.
DANNY It’s beautiful.
The beach engulfs the frame.
DANNY (CONT’D) What do we do now?
ACE
I don’t know, Danny. I don’t know.
Ace and Danny walk down the beach, crossing blissfully through the sand until they reach the grandiose waters. They look at each other, then back at the water. Soon enough, they walk right in... as if the road never stopped.
Fade to black.
—Ramtulai Jalloh ’26
smoke lingered throughout the air illuminating my father’s face and shadowing my mother’s the bud of the cigarette catching fire the somberness of this second fading in the distance a memory being erased the screams gone silent her hysterical tears smeared from her face the look of shock scrubbed from mine but father stayed still and he let the moonlight trickle in through the window reflecting off of his watch the seconds ticking into minutes and transitioning into hours.
we sit for hours in silence in grief, torment, misery letting the sound of shuddered breath and last drags of cigarettes ghostly wisps in the air fill the room.
—Tatum Spencer ’26
Checkmate You lose. —Vera Barker ’26
down down
Too much pressure and I will implode
Too much pressure
And I will implode
My silver lining will fracture
That fracture leading to a crack
That crack
That crack will break me
I’ll crumple like an old tin can
Drained of the fizziness that makes it good Crushed and useless
Nothing but trash
Floating in the dead blue sea Going Down down down Towards the bottom
But what is at the bottom?
The bottom… a place explored By only ones who don’t return
Is there life at the bottom?
Bright, rainbow fish, darting and Playing in the soft, cloud-like coral
Happy and at peace
Or is there just sand?
Dark, grainy, barren sand
Complete with nothing, Nothing at all
No light
No life
No joy
No peace
It will still be quiet…
At the place with the most pressure Is there peace?
A beep brings me back from my doze
Another email
Another task
I look down at my alloyed hands clicking open the email
There’s a fracture
—Lilly Purtill ’26
Infinite Pour
—Indira Brown ’25
Komorebi
I took this photo on a snowy day at Prospect Park in Brooklyn and used it as the record cover for new music single “Revisions”— available under my solo project Drown to Echo.
—Micah Gura ’25
Deceive
—Ariya Harrington ’26
I don’t like what I see when I look into a mirror I like myself
But the man staring at me makes my skin crawl He holds me holds me by my waist His grip tightens, a wedding veil in my periphery
I do not want him, I don’t want him to hold me either. Although I cannot stop him I try to tell myself I want him, I tell myself I do want him, I don’t.
But I wish I wanted him just as much as he wanted my body
It is he that will bring me fullness I tell myself
But that isn’t true, Because it is she who I want It is she who I yearn for But she comes with guilt, guilt of loving a woman
I look into the mirror, I still do not like myself anymore, he’s closer
I am at the altar, a veil covering my face as he constricts me the man of what should be my dreams
But the woman stares back at me, with love that a man cannot give me.
This hidden gem in London, a part of everyday commuting life for some, is also a hangout spot for the artistic community where anyone is free to express themselves and add to the artwork on the wall.
—Caeli Boris ’27
“We have lingered in the chambers of the sea / By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brow / Till human voices wake us, and we drown.” - T.S. Eliot
Tell Weaver, you must know, was not an introvert. He was not an isolationist, seeking solitude. He was not some scab-footed, desert anchorite, listing alone in a cave where the wind whistled through and blew the sand from his uncultivated beard. He was, as a matter of fact, a well-dressed, dark-haired, pockmarked teenage boy. And a clean-shaven one at that.
Tell sat on the uppermost deck of a cruise ship, effectively alone, not because he was adverse to society, but because he was indifferent to the singular microcosm he had been placed in. Below him, the ship ferried the souls of a hundred teenagers. Most, loud-mouthed and boisterous, festooned in black-andwhite, penguinesque trappings and flashy accoutrements. The ship was holding a ball for them, which, as one would expect of a teenage ball, was moreso a rave. The ship’s two floors were flummoxed with flailing, ululating teenagers. The iron floorboard slamming under the thick, glossy bootsoles, and the whitewashed walls reverberating with frenzied, maenadic shrieks.
Teenage balls, despite the name, were a most uncourteous experience. Nevermind the Austenian connotation that pops in one’s brain at the mention of “the ball.” No, there are no Bennet’s or Darcy’s at a ball for high schoolers. Only worthless gimcrackery, sugary candy, and adrenalized, hysteric demi-adults, writhing to the boom of the soundboard.
Tell was wondering what demiurge or thaumaturge could possibly possess a crowd to howl and leap like baboons after each enervating day. Clearly, it was by no will of the teen themself. Nay, legerdemain must have been at hand to bring such stirring palpitations of furor in their hearts. No godforsaken man could possibly have enough lifeforce in him to rave in such a senseless, Dionysian manner. Nay, not with his flesh, blood, and arteries. There had to have been a spirit, a water sprite, a sylph, a naiad. Sprung from the Potomac itself, who had, by suffusing through the oxygen, bored into their very souls and had galvanized them to hideous contortions like electrocuted frogs, so that the floor slapped under the drumbeat of heels and bootsoles as glossy as the waxy silver of the moon.
There was no other possible explanation for these outbursts of energy. If man had within his flesh and bones the god-granted ability to tap into such superhuman stamina, would he not abuse it every day? Like some Eastern opioid, or Western laudanum? Would he not inhale the presupposed power from his veins and charge himself with enough voltage to survive his day-to-day life? Alas, such a power does not exist under Heaven’s watchguard, and therefore, we are left to the rituals of pagan nymphs and phantasms for our time here on Earth.
Tell mused on these thoughts atop the upper deck, benched and with his hands in his pants-pockets to shelter from the cold. The baleful winds blew hard
against his skin so that, by this point in time, he could no longer feel the flesh of his face. His fingers, while warming in their tight pocketspace, were still well-frozen, and he could no longer motion them flexibly. They were stiff and brittle, like iced carrots, awash in a deep, December frost. His cheekbones no longer stung or bristled in the wind. Being so, Tell Weaver was determined to remain. He would sit there, blue and pensive, like a stonecut, Buddhist effigy, and grit his teeth at the elements. No, he would not kowtow to the will of the sirens, plashing rhythmically below deck. They would proffer ambrosia and nectar to him, energizers all. Designed to keep him awake and sociable. Nay! No Mr. Weaver would bow to the elements that run like ichor through the heartbeat of the universe. The wavelets of the Potomac clapped around the boat sideways, beckoning him to the rave. The heathanish, paganistic, impure, anathematized, impish, apish, aspish, wrothful, abyssal, Acheronic ball below. Sticking like a suckerfish to the underbelly of the upper deck, clinging, and refusing to let go. To leave him be.
Tell listened to the hum of the river, and the calling of the elements. Thin bloodstreams through the world’s circuits. Hyperborean they were. They brought him the wind of the Alps and the Pyrenees, of Oslo, of Reykjavik. They were going to break his willpower and send him below. Bewitching they were. They piqued his curiosity, charmed him with existentialist herbs and Camusian potions, whispered through his ears that he would miss the great ball that is life without seeing. They flicked viperish tongues. They cooed hisses at his earlobes. They tempted him to join the sinful romp below.
Tell Weaver peeked over the ironclad railing of the boat and gazed into the inkblack horizon. The sea was wine-dark, but no Rhododactylos reddened the skyline. Beyond the holding of the cruise ship, a singular mass of Kaos spread black like sheet paper in the beyond. A solid wall of primordial darkness. And Tell Weaver hove off his bench and leered over the upper deck, and he stargazed at the drizzly infinity of black below. And the wind cut against the sides of his mouth until they glowered cherry-red. And as he peered into the soul of the Potomac he saw the unconquerable dark and he said to himself, “lo, it is good. For in the dark lieth the beating answer of answers, and the answer was older than time, and was older than the light. And in thy inky tendrils runs the marrow of all shades. The envenomate Cocytus, yea, the darkflaming Phlegethon; they are but sparring atoms in the everlasting dark. And I see in thy darkness a planet ballasted with the bones of millions of billions of the sunken that the light never shineth on. The sun-blasted Euphrates, the Tigris, the Avernus, archetypes all. Yea, your liquid bleeds of damnation, your riverbeds froth of souls. Your scooped-out river coulees run not with liquid but with spirits of the dark. Everpresent, never seen. Always there, hunting our race, maddening our menkind. Well, Michael’s sword be upon thee! thy black-hearted, almighty, and dark river. For all the secrets of the universe are yours, and not one blip of your wavelets is thine!”
Tell Weaver stepped off the boat. He never looked back. His father’s car was waiting for him, and he clambered in the car, and buckled himself to the seat. How was it? His father asked. I don’t know. I was not there.
—Jackson Sipple-Asher ’27
A Game of Chess
—Eva Pollard ’28
Volumnia, mother of the titular character in Shakespeare’s play Coriolanus, listens to her son, now consul, speak.
—Lucas Aronson ’26
Stitched Up
Brown roots creeping in, dripping down her maternal blonde locks, from the same place the green in her eyes shadows his brown. The same place her cleft chin was cut from, where the metal was torn from his mouth, rewired, and zigzagged through hers.
Her smile now an exact print of his.
Her chubby cheeks that didn’t melt when she was young. They match her mother’s and her mother’s mother. If you look closely the glue still drips from her button nose and her mother’s still bleeds from where it was stripped.
She is pieces of a greater work of art.
—Olivia Grace Cushman ’26
holding, like, way too many things in her hand when she has pockets. the thirteen year old version of herself. drew barrymore. overly self critical. type b.
existing in the context (maybe to a detrimental degree). thinking worn out converse are better than a clean pair (pretentious). still like kind of believing in horoscopes but refusing to admit it, and angel numbers, and any pattern (like, ever).
an anonymous chat online (they know me better than I know myself), eating tofu, people watching in new york (how do you develop a style that is so unique to your experience?) sensitive. a cathartic playlist, a good tiny desk concert, adolescence, living for the hope of it all, being way too sensitive…(this could go two very different directions), using my mom’s perfume (it has never been about the smell, but is that cheesy?) an anonymous writer (because the story is more vibrant when it is a secret), and the soft glow of dawn swelling over my bed sheets and dark shadows playing a miserable game of tag underneath my bed frame. sensitive. a writer.
midnight colored vines bunched up in the twilight, with sequoia trees calling me forward, blocking all the stars except for a small sliver of light. cheesy. a writer.
scrubbing the creativity off of me like it’s a sin, and letting it bleed through the cracks anyway a single strand of hair coiled against the sink’s wooden paneling sweet sunburns and smile lines and forehead wrinkles and crow’s feet and an endless stream of consciousness that’s gently dulled by an episode of Gilmore Girls sensitive. type b.
drew barrymore.
3333
sagittarius sun, libra moon, cancer rising tracing out feelings with words and holding way too many things in her hand when she has pockets. but, like… can you cope with sensitivity through anonymity? or a movie or writing or a person or a pattern or an excessive use of parenthesis or do you just have to stop dulling down the magnitude of your emotion and actually, maybe, feel it?
—Nabeera Yassir ’26
Fireworks
The canvas is split in two: on one side, two children watch fireworks; on the other, a child watches a firebomb. The stark contrast highlights the unequal realities of childhood under the same sky. This piece expresses my hope for a more peaceful world, where fewer children endure war, loss, and pain.
—Suri Wang ’25
That doesn’t sound like a clunky din Or a dog learning how to swim Or just an unread, dimwit kid
But my youth, my vain and half-cooked brain, It makes me say what I wanna say In a trite or plainly foolish way Despite fervid tries at cool wordplay
I can’t find words for what I mean, Or design a vibrant verbal scene I stew over how each line’s perceived— Youth makes an abysmal poet of me.
Though, Shelley wrote Frankenstein at my age. So maybe youth is not to blame; It’s my lame syntax, and my utter inability to rhyme properly or pick a meter and stick with it,
That’s the real cause of my written shame.
I wish that I could write a poem, truly But it’s a feat impossible for someone like me. Oh, well.
Wait, I’ve just written a poem.
—Anne Louden Kostel ’25
