Fire & Stones Winter 2024-2025 by St. Stephen's and St. Agnes School

Cover Art:

Back Cover Art:

Front

Goddess, Ceramic sculpture by Makayla Jones ’25

Looking Up, Photograph by Cooper Spies ’28

Printer

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 .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. For this issue, Art and literature had to be submitted to our faculty advisors by December 3, 2024. 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|

Senior Editors

Gracie Hunsicker ’25

Ella Joshi ’25

Charles McElwain ’25

Junior Editors

Vera Barker ’26

Lilly Purtill ’26

Editing Team

Janney Cooper ’26

Ramtulai Jalloh ’26

Jackson Sipple-Asher ’27

Sophie Stine ’25

Layout Team

Ava Bell ’26

Caeli Boris ’27

Dava Boyce ’26

Kaia Corens ’27

Ailsa Greene ‘27

Ariya Harrington ’26

Grace Laha ’27

Madison McDowell ’25

Claire McMillan ’27

Lucy Perkins ’26

Charlotte Reynolds ’27

Abigail Taylor ’26

Linden York-Simmons ’27

Communications Team

Cassie Aquino ’28

Willa Johnson ’27

Sarah Eisenberg ’28

Faculty Advisors

Kate Elkins

Jill McElroy

Dear Reader,

Life is filled with ups and downs. Sometimes we flee from them, sometimes we adapt to them, and sometimes we brave them. When life gets hard, no matter what you choose, we hope you find comfort in knowing that you are not alone in your journey.

So relax, grab a snack, and enjoy this issue of Fire & Stones.

Senior Editors, Gracie Hunsicker ’25, Ella Joshi ’25, and Charles McElwain

Roadtrip

Inspired by Nam June Paik’s Electronic Superhighway, this piece is representative of a type of road trip that does not happen much anymore. I have always liked the idea of going on a drive down Route 66 in a classic wagon, and I got to incorporate a bit of the history of where the car has been, as well as some humor in the stickers on the rear glass. — Ian Niemira ’25

’25

Literature

9 Today – Short story by Ramtulai Jalloh ’26

11 The Figure – Short story by Ella Joshi ’25

15 Lessons in Glass – Poem by Ali Rouse ’26

18 The Street Corner – Poem by Lilly Purtill ’26

20 Boys Won’t be Boys – Poem by Janney Cooper ’26

23 October – Poem by Tatum Spencer ’26

25 Backstage Black – Short story by Grace Laha ’27

29 Ode to Pentheus – Poem by Jackson Sipple-Asher ’27

33 The Spirit and the Mines – Short story by Ailsa Greene ’27

39 sunsets – Poem by Gracie Hunsicker ’25

40 Ode to Green Beans – Poem by Anne Louden Kostel ’25

46 Trapped Words – Short story by Caeli Boris ’27

Artwork

4 Roadtrip – Digital illustration by Ian Niemira ’25

6 The Unfamiliar – Painting by Kaia Corens ’27

10 & Oranges – Drawing by Willa Johnson ’27

12 Willow Pattern Blue – Print by Georgia Neaderland ’26

14 Repair – Ceramic sculpture by Indira Brown ’25

16 Done, Undone – Painting by Ariya Harrington ’26

17 Woman with Bird – Painting by Charlotte Barnes ’27

18 Búðakirkja, IS – Photograph by Sam Brock ’26

22 Rainbow in the Night – Photograph by Lilly Purtill ’26

24 A Place of Greater Absence - Inside – Drawing by Micah Gura ’25

28 He Loves Us Not – Drawing by Vera Barker ’26

30 Enclosure – Drawing by Emelie Edwards ’26

32 Fissure – Photograph by Caeli Boris ’27

37 One With the Ivy – Drawing by Ailsa Greene ’27

38 44.58614° N, 71.44180° W – Print by Ella Joshi ’25

41 Lemons or Grapefruit – Painting by Suri Wang ’25

43 Paris 2024 – Digital illustration by Linden York-Simmons ’27

44 Butterfly – Jewelry by Sophia Skidmore ’28

49 An Older Venice – Painting by Grace Laha ’27

50 Lemons and Apples – Painting by Dava Boyce ’26

The Unfamiliar

This piece depicts a scene that is meant to feel familiar but foreign. I go to New York City almost every year and love the city, but I also love nature and mountainscapes. This piece is a clashing of the two, meant to bring a sense of comfort, but evoke a sense of unfamiliarity through strange colors, symbols, and any strange little things you manage to find. From a cityscape meeting beautiful mountains, to the familiar city vibe with unfamiliar writing, the meaning of The Unfamiliar can change from viewer to viewer, depending on your world views and experiences.

— Kaia Corens ’27

Tonight, I need the music to go to sleep. There are noises in my head and I can’t. I can’t seem to drown them out. But he comes in and turns off the music and I have to go to sleep. But then again, I can’t. I just can’t. In the dark, isolated, I close my eyes. And I hear. I hear the things that I heard or did accidentally or accidentally on purpose and I hope to anything and everything that I don’t have to hear them tomorrow... Or today since it’s past twelve and that means that it is a new day so that “today” now means yesterday. But I don’t want it to be another day, because then that means I have to try again at making the day worth living. And is a day worth living only then called “today”? Would everything else bleed through the weak borders of “yesterday”? Into the “day befores”? Into the generalized past. Those days where I say to myself, “Yes, that was a day worth living,” are only then called “today,” and are further cemented as “that one day.”

That one day, I sat with my father on the balcony, and watched the rain pour.

That one day, I finally was involved in the conversation. That one day, I was told that I could be something. On those days, I can go to sleep soundly, being settled enough to convince myself that I can have a future where those days are continuous. Where those days can become all of the days. But, when those fleeting moments pass, everything starts to fade back into its monotonous gray. The clouds start to roll in and I have to begin the heedless search for what will lead that day into possibly becoming “that one day.” On the nights where the search comes in as inconclusive, the noises return back to me, and the music comes on again. Tonight is that kind of night. And it has been that kind of night for a long time.

— Ramtulai Jalloh ’26

& Oranges

— Willa Johnson

Tearing my way through the rows upon rows of trees, I was engulfed by the looming branches and rotting fruits. The trees seemed to move of their own accord, swaying and taunting me as I ran past. Away, away from everything. Reaching out, I snatched a ripe-looking peach to use against my pursuer. Looking closer though, it was already spoiled, teeming with ants and mites. Tripping over the browning, decaying peaches, I stumbled onto a dead end. Surrounded, I was stuck. The shaded Figure that had been chasing me came to a stop right in front of me as if staring me down. My eyes darting around, I spotted an opening in the twisting boughs in my periphery. I dove for it. The Figure dove after me, seemingly melding with my body for a moment, though I felt nothing. Running further, faster, I gasped for air as I tumbled down a new row of decomposing peaches that looked the same as the last. Glancing over my shoulder, the Figure was no farther than it had been this whole time, always seeming to follow my every move. Every step, heave, and lunge that I took, it took too. This dance continued as we sprinted, now along the fence of the orchard. To my right was freedom, a chance to run away and trap the Figure behind the wiry barrier. I clambered over toward safety, but the Figure stilled, watching me to decide its move. As I bounded in the direction of the moon, the Figure trailed, connected to my feet. But I never looked back, not once more.

— Ella Joshi ’25

Willow Pattern Blue

Things are made, destroyed, and then made again. A never ending cycle.

Glass It breaks, Fractures.

Inflexible and resists any and all change. One fall too long, one hammer too heavy and A spiderweb of cracks Turn into a maze of shards, Rendering something of use useless.

Yet now the glass is whole; No crack running across it, Just the sunlight.

Just waiting for the cycle to circle back. But for now, it shimmers. Ordinary as it lets in the light, As it refracts a million colors That dance across the room. But it’s all an illusion, A waiting game.

You know what’s coming. That crack, that snap, that break Comes someday, one day. Maybe tomorrow. Ever looming.

All that’s left to do is to Break that illusion, that waiting game. Maybe with a better frame the glass might try more, Might try harder. The glass might bend, might crack, Might break into a thousand pieces, But those shards

Never forget those shards. There’s always a time to fight back. Who liked the cycle in the first place?

Done, Undone

This piece is based on Lady Macbeth from the Shakespeare play, Macbeth. The red in her crown and clothing is a representation of her guilt, and she is painted staring out of the canvas at something the viewer can’t see. The title Done, Undone references her own words in the play: “What’s done cannot be undone.”

— Ariya Harrington ’26

Woman with Bird

— Charlotte Barnes ’27

Pulling out of Oak St

Down Westmorland Rd

Turn left on Nautilus

Past the corner of Washington Ave and Beachwood Boulevard

What a random corner

So ordinary in its normality

A perfect perpendicular cross With stop signs and fliers

I only passed by this corner once But it will remain in my memories forever

Not because I passed a person

For this corner was people-less And not because this corner was unique Its normality struck me

Except

The street sign had a poster of a woman flapping in the wind

Like a missing cat flier put up for all to see

Even though both posters are a call for those who are missing

One is put out because they hope she returns home

The other is put out because they know she will never return home

I’ve pictured this corner in my imagination more times than I could count

Picturing this corner as my own

Feet away from my home

Picturing every point of view as my own

Seeing as the driver, the passenger

The other driver, the other passenger

This last seatbeltless passenger

Its only airbag

The thin layers of the driver’s belly

Its mother’s belly

This genderless, seatbeltless passenger

A couple days from getting its fickle knowledge

Of whether it was not an it

But a she, or he, or they

This nameless, genderless, seatbeltless passenger

Would never be named

Because at this corner, this nameless, genderless, seatbeltless passenger Would be motherless

A husband would be wifeless

A mother would be daughterless

An older sister would be sisterless And years, many years later, a niece would be auntless

The corner is Not cornerless though

For that corner still stays characterless Who would’ve thought that one corner Can bring so many mourners?

— Lilly Purtill ’26

Búðakirkja, IS

— Sam Brock ’26

“Boys will be boys,”

Is what the well-meaning mothers say As they witness their sons’ misconduct And laugh it all away.

They watch their precious bundles of joy

Push a girl off the slide, Pull up her skirt to comply with a dare, Make a crude joke at her expense, Callously cut a lock of her hair, Or purposely break her favorite toy, But they don’t care

Because boys will be boys.

A boy will taunt and torment a girl for merely existing, Mocking her clothes, her intelligence, her hobbies— All while never listening to her pleas for him to cease. And even when it drives her to cry, The boy’s mother brushes it aside.

“That means he likes her,” she’ll remark with a smirk.

“Afterall, boys will be boys; it doesn’t make him a jerk!” Little boys will pass gas in the middle of school And be dubbed the class clown, While little girls must be meticulously prim and proper. No use for excuses when you are a daughter.

Then, when little boys turn into teenage delinquents, When they spill whiskey on the satin couch And indiscreetly egg their ex’s house And are rude to their teachers

Because entitlement has gotten them this far, Still, their mothers sing the same tune, One they cling to for dear life: Boys will be boys—it’s just who they are.

But what these mothers fail to realize Is that, eventually, Boys won’t be boys— Boys will be men. Men who think it’s acceptable To mistreat women over and over again.

And why shouldn’t they, When they’ve gone their whole lives With such behavior being deemed okay? The consequences of a seemingly Insignificant phrase and its implications Fly over mothers’ heads through an act Of unintentional self-manipulation.

This is how we get husbands who think abusing is loving, Fathers who think yelling is parenting, Leaders who think destroying is leading; In essence, men who act like boys Because they were never taught otherwise.

A child not taught is like a sponge left dry.

So teach your sons That “boys will be boys” Is a ludicrous lie.

— Janney Cooper ’26

Rainbow in the Night

This photo, taken the day after Halloween, depicts a house on fire. The glowing lights in the background are firetruck lights. Even though the family was asleep when the house caught on fire, no one was hurt. It is surpising that something that looks so beatiful can be so dangourous.

— Lilly Purtill ’26

my favorite color is october and the crunch of leaves beneath my boots and the goosebumps up my spine whenever i think about you. the apple cider hitting my lips and the sweet smell of cinnamon and the slight breeze that always makes me dream about you. the idea of carving pumpkins and getting spooked by scary movies and dressing up as ghosts would be better with you. so please, share this october with me and my ghouls and my worn down boots and the faint smell of cinnamon and maybe it’ll be your favorite color, too.

— Tatum Spencer ’26

A Place of Greater Absence - Inside

I recently released two albums under my project name Drown to Echo. Although all music is available on streaming platforms, I also made physical CDs, which have mini booklets featuring lyrics and additional artwork relating to the album cover itself (for sale; feel free to contact me). This drawing is the inside cover for my second release, A Place of Greater Absence.

— Micah Gura ’25

I look around at the others, dressed in ninja-black, scurrying like rats backstage, double and triple-checking that everything is where it should be, set for the top of show. Looking down, I check that I too am in all black, besides the soles of my shoes, and the silver band that lets my sweatshirt drawstring out. The warm air is buzzing with excitement and worry as people continue to rush past me, and, for the most part, going somewhere with a purpose.

I on the other hand am sitting, with nothing to do, as the ball of anxiety and worry in my chest tightens its grip. I turn my attention to the actors, lounging onstage on the meticulously planned set. They are wearing all sorts of costumes as well as mic packs, semi-hidden on their backs, with a cord running up through their costumes, ending in a microphone taped over the make-up on their faces. They get called forward one by one to say a few lines and occasionally sing, ensuring that their mics are working and the volume level is okay. My brain stops focusing on the actors, barely processing their lines and lyrics, and then I realize what I’ve forgotten: the backstage lights. A bead of sweat runs down my neck and my palms become slick as I know what I must do. I stand slowly, trying to stay silent as I walk the few feet to the light switch. I continue to watch the actors, but this time I focus on them, waiting for a long enough pause to break the backstage silence. “GOING DARK,” I yell, loud enough for everyone on and off stage to hear, as I cut the overhead lights. “Thank you dark,” a few of the actors say, in a measly response compared to my yell, as they turn their focus back to the mic check.

Taking the few steps back to my seat, I see the incomplete darkness I’ve put backstage. The remaining blue-purple glow off of the tall light entangled in wires beside my table and chair enshrouds the surrounding area, casting numerous shadows against the plywood storage rack and the wall behind it. A string of yellow lights on the floor further backstage provides just enough light for the rest of the crew, and eventually the actors, to make out where they are going, and any props that may need to be grabbed on the way. It is in these faint glows that I boredly start to sketch some of the things around me, while the ball of worry and anxiety pulls ever tighter.

I know exactly what I must do later, what set pieces I need to move during scene changes, what to grab when I bring out things for props, and even when all of the cues I need get called over the headset I have yet to put

on. Despite my knowledge, the fear grows, as I sit, drawing and shaking my foot anxiously, waiting to be called for traditions. Our traditions, both with the actors and just the crew, are sacred. They provide a sense of pre-show camaraderie and help to calm us, and sometimes provide a quick laugh.

Finally, the actors finish, and the curtains get pulled closed from the rope on the opposite side of the stage. I put down my pencil just as we all get summoned, and I join the throng of crew, actors, and pit orchestra as we head down the crowded stairs. Once we arrive, we form an oddly shaped circle, generally in sections within our respective groups, as we just barely manage to cram everyone in. We wait, chatting, for the eventual call of the director to quiet us before beginning our traditions.

Once finished with our all-together traditions, the lead of the crew yells, “TECHIES, let’s go,” so I join the sea of other crew members heading out of the double doors of the room and back up through the stairwell. We are led backstage, our line spread out after the stairs, and go behind the set, instead of the quicker but louder route across the set that some of us built. We crowd into the workshop, where we form a blob because of all of the tables and cabinets that are in the room. Our leader starts and finishes our crew traditions, then we are released from the workshop, with just enough time to get fully set up before the show starts.

Getting caught up in the theater traditions almost loosens the worry and anxiety, but after they are done the ball tightens, waiting for the show to begin. I go back across the stage and grab my headset, hooking it in the pocket of my leggings and loosening the headband, setting it upon my head as I pull the microphone in place, inches from my mouth. I walk slowly back to my seat, looking at actors and techies alike, waiting for their moments, as I listen to the headset earpiece, while the backstage deck manager checks that we’re all on headset. “Do we have stage right?” I hear as it crackles over the headset. They mean me. “Yes,” I respond, holding down the ‘talk’ button on the pack at my hip.

I sit, swiveling around in my chair, watching the curtains, as if I know exactly what is going on behind them as my stomach churns with worry. The chit-chat of the audience reaches its peak volume from the other side of the curtains. “The doors are closing,” I hear as it gets called over the headset. The show starts soon.

I listen to the indistinct noise of the crowd as quickly it dies down, signaling that someone must be on the other side of the curtain, waiting to speak to the audience before the show begins. Even though I can’t see them, the speaker says their part and everyone holds their breath, waiting for a

note. The note. The note starts the show, starting the crowds’ journey as they watch what cast, crew, and pit orchestra have worked so hard to make happen. There it is, almost silent, from behind the curtains, sparking more notes, and eventually lyrics. Hearing the comforting sound that I heard many times during rehearsal calms me and eases my worry, while I close my eyelids, letting the music slowly envelop me.

In the end, my responsibilities went off without a hitch. Flats and furniture I moved went where they needed to, and I caught my headset’s battery pack as it threatened to fall off of my legging pocket while rushing onstage for bows. Instead of letting the ball of worry and anxiety take over at any given moment, I focused on the show by watching as the actors moved about the set, occasionally mouthing along with them as they sang. The show brought me peace in a time that was anxiety filled, even if it was the one that caused the inner panic.

During the chaotic aftermath of the show, I joined the rushing group going downstairs, abandoning all sense of the thrown-together professionalism of the show. Upon arriving, we screamed, as is tradition, then we all split our separate ways. The actors rushed to change out of their costumes and mics, back into normal clothes, though several of them had to be reminded of where they had to put their costumes and mic packs before leaving. I did my part of properly putting away my headset, when a rush of relief ran through me. The show went well enough, I thought, as I calmly and tiredly grabbed my things and rejoined some of the other techies. Together we made the choice to reset the stage before the next show, instead of in our current state of tiredness, and all went our separate ways for the time being.

It’s done. The thought struck me and I reminded myself that it was not truly done, we had just completed one show. There were still a few more shows to follow, and other shows eventually. Despite that reassuring thought, I realized I missed it. Even with the anxiety, I still loved the feeling of being backstage, putting all my focus and attention into something weirdly magical. Hopefully that feeling of joy and passion will overtake the anxiety during the shows eventually, though I know that the worry and anxiety will never truly leave as anything could happen.

— Grace Laha ’27

He Loves Us Not

This drawing is based on Lady Macduff from Shakespeare’s Macbeth, who is murdered right after finding out about her husband’s betrayal and abandonment. The title and flower are based on the children’s game of “he loves me, he loves me not” while picking off flower petals. I used a photo of my friend for a reference in a modern setting.

— Vera Barker ’26

Behold, the King of Sorrow is death-leavened. Fate has cut his thread, has rung out the knell. His soul rests in Hades, to sunless Heaven Or equally sunless Hell.

And tendrils of youth still rosy his face

On a head crudely sewn back to where it was amiss, And legs and limbs sewn back into their place

To entomb the scarred Pentheus.

And what was his crime! O, what did he do

To deserve such a fate as he did?

He was not a tyrant, his heart was still true

For such an impressionable kid!

You! Do you hear me! Who clot up the street

And prattle, avoiding his tomb?

You all were a witness to his life’s defeat. You all played a part in his doom!

When times fell apart and goblets were poured And grapevines depleted for wine, The king never moistened his lips, I’m assured, The king never swayed to a vine.

And while you, the masses, would mock him so crude For abstaining from drink and from pleasure, A crack did appear in his fortitude

And he caved and stooped down to your measure.

I stand at his tomb now alone and tear-clad

Wanting only to succor his pain. His fall did not come from being too good or bad, But because he had not chosen a lane.

— Jackson Sipple-Asher ’27

Enclosure

This ribcage and bone structure study was surprisingly fun–a stark reminder that beneath every layer of flesh lies an intricate framework, both fragile and somewhat comforting.

— Emelie Edwards ’26

Fissure

— Caeli Boris ’27

In Huntersville, there wasn’t the regular hustle and bustle of city life. Instead of endless luxury studio apartments, ramen shops, and Sephoras, there was a quaint town of no more than five hundred people. It was nestled in a valley between two mountains in the Appalachians. Great evergreens and oak trees covered the area from head to toe, except for the small area cleared out by the townspeople. Here, the Dollar General and Mama’s store were the main attractions, other than the massive coal plant a few miles down the road. May hated that coal plant. It made the air smell bad, and the water of the little creek would sometimes run black. Despite this, those in Huntersville were hard-working and kind. May’s family was a perfect lineage of miners, spanned over many generations. Her brothers, father, uncles, grandpas, and great grandpas all had worked in the mine. It was in her blood.

Given the history, it wasn’t surprising when May’s father. Jonathon Olds asked his daughter to start learning the basics from him. Normally girls didn’t work in the mines, but Mr. Olds had wounded his leg in the army and needed someone younger to bring money in. Everyone in Huntersville had a job in the coal plant or was related to someone who did. When fathers told their sons to start working, they did.

While her older brothers Mark and Georgie went off to work for the day, May ran off behind their house until she reached her fort in the woods. She felt at peace there, surrounded by the creek and the birds. She dreamed about whizzing dragonflies in summer and sticky toffee from the general store. Ahhh. This is nice… She thought to herself.

“Huh?!” May gasped.

“Come on May! What the hell are you doing out here alone in them woods like this? Grab yer jacket and come on with me” yelled her dad as he shook her awake.

He stomped back through the woods with an ugly frown smeared across his face. She reluctantly followed her father back towards the house. The next morning, May found herself in a very unlikely position. She was

thousands of feet below the Earth’s surface, surrounded by rock and mining equipment. Her father had brought her into the mine for the first time and showed her all the shafts and tools they used. Her job was to shovel the coal into piles along the shafts so that it could be transported back to the surface. The sound of machinery clanking rang in her ears and she coughed from the dusty air.

“I HATE IT HERE!!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. Her voice echoed vividly against the shaft walls and soared through every corner of the mine.

“That’s it!” Mr. Olds hissed through gritted teeth.

That afternoon May wasn’t at dinner. After the mining incident Mama had let her take some alone time. Filled with anger, she rammed through the grass and over the rocky woodland floor. The stream by the fort guided her deeper into the forest. At last, she stopped and caught her breath as the water pooled into a lake before her. May fell to her knees and listened to the sounds of the forest. She had been to this spot a few times before, but it was never like this. Suddenly, she heard voices nearby.

“Are there people here?” May whispered under her breath. She followed the sound a few steps further. The mine is close to here… she thought. Maybe some people are still working? She came across the source not long after. About five or so men dressed in hard hats and tacky yellow vests stood before her. There were red markers lined up around them and into the woods.

“You sure this here’s the right spot Joe?” one asked.

“Yep. This here’s the one. Even confirmed it with the mayor” said another.

“How much we clearing again?”

“Says here in the document just an acre. Heading up near Jonathan’s place” responded the man. “We’re expecting a pretty easy job. Just need to clear the woods and pave it for the supply trucks. Company is excited about them lots for the coal transports.”

“Alright then” replied Joe. “We’ll begin construction next week.”

May held her breath. No. This couldn’t happen. This wouldn’t happen. Not under her watch. She sat beneath the grand oak tree that shaded her that hot summer evening.

“Please- ” she called out. “God if you’re out there. If anybody is out there. Save this forest from the evil men. If the spirit of these woods exists please come help me now!” she pleaded. The maple leaves whistled as the wind shoved them left and right. Bullfrogs croaked a low and sad song. It seemed everything was out of place.

That was how she remembered it anyhow. The following morning May woke up lying against the oak’s trunk. She questioned whether what happened last night was reality, or just a wild dream. May ran past the pond where the construction workers had been last night. Nothing. There were no red markers, instead the oak’s leaves replaced them. Two yellow vests lay on the ground. How odd… she thought. When May finally returned home, she asked her brother James about construction for the mine.

“Funny you asked. Everyone’s panicking about it. Apparently some workers were just out there surveying when a ghost left them shaking in their boots. Whole town’s talking. The project’s off for now.”

“It’s not happening?!” May exclaimed. She couldn’t believe it. Maybe it was just a coincidence that she was there last night. Or maybe not. I wonder…those oak leaves replacing the markers like that, maybe the spirit of the forest really does exist”

May decided to leave it at that. She was happy, excited, and a little confused. All she knew was her forest was saved, her dad was mad at her, and she still hated that mine.

— Ailsa Greene ’27

One With the Ivy

For this piece I took inspiration from the brick wall on the side of my house, which despite my parents’ best efforts, continues to be taken over by English ivy. I associate brick walls with history—things that have been around long enough to witness constant change around them. I believe the eye represents this idea, and the ivy is just one stage of the wall’s life.

— Ailsa Greene ’27

44.58614° N, 71.44180° W

This piece depicts a view from Mt. Madison in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. It is the place where I was introduced to the outdoors for the first time, and to all of my favorite outdoor activities, like climbing, hiking, and just wandering in the forest. With its texturing, I wanted to capture what it looks like to have fresh moss growing atop the millennia of erosion that the Appalachians have endured.

— Ella Joshi ’25

I like you, but you don’t like sunsets.

I like you, but You think dandelions are weeds.

I like you, but You wouldn’t dance with me through a field until the world is spinning and the only things that matter are laughter and the ground beneath our feet.

I like you, but You would probably look at me weird when I stop to run under bridges and think of a bad riddle.

I like you, but We would never kiss under the stars and stare at the sky as we tell stories of our own constellations until we are blurry eyed.

I like you, but When I look at the sunset I see the world crescendoing as the sky sings with joy; You see something that happens every day.

I like you— I like the way when you smile my heart fills with glee—

But I know I could never fall for someone Who doesn’t fall in love with the world like me.

— Gracie Hunsicker ’25

Those vibrant stalks spring forth from loamy earth

Form waves of green, like misty grounded clouds, And whistle in the wind their tuneful mirth

As sparrows sing in turn among the boughs; Yet nature’s fate diverges from its course, As metal chokes the yet unripened beans, And living plants are strangled with cold force

While humans reap the profit of the greens. Green beans, I wish you could yet live in peace, Among your gentle, rolling, leafy waves

But man has taken over, will not cease To drain your soul until it meets the grave.

I hope one day the world will show you love, Sweet, sacred plant, a guiltless, martyred dove.

— Anne Louden Kostel ’25

Lemons or Grapefruit I prefer Lemons.

— Suri Wang ’25

Paris 2024

This piece is a graphic design drawing of the Eiffel Tower. I took the inspiration photo for this when I was on a vacation in France. I loved the view looking up at the tower, so I decided to use it as a reference for my first graphic design project.

— Linden York-Simmons ’27

Butterfly

I wanted to create a pendant design that creatively used both negative and positive space. I thought a butterfly would be a good idea because of the pattern on their wings and how that intricate pattern is so striking and beautiful. I also chose the butterfly because the body would provide a space to display the centerpiece of the pendant: the stone. I wanted my pendant to model how the intricate beauty of nature can be transformed into a simple necklace.

— Sophia Skidmore ’28

I was a mouse. “Speak up, you are as quiet as a church mouse!” was a phrase my Montessori teacher loved. I was constantly being told to repeat myself or speak up, and I tried. I really tried. The words were in my throat just waiting to come out, the thought wanting to be spoken aloud, to be released into the world, but when it arrived on my tongue it froze. Stopped from reaching its dream by doubt and worry, ending up stifled and quiet.

I had many thoughts to share, opinions to give, but the fear just wouldn’t let them out. Always concerned about whether they were right or wrong, if my classmates would think they were silly or stupid and, because of that, think I was dumb. I could not let them out, to be judged and condemned by scrutiny, made a laughing stock of. So they were kept in, never to reach the ears of others.

One day we were all called together, six-year-olds to nine-year-olds, covering the rug criss-cross-applesauce, knee to knee, waiting. Anticipation and boredom in the air, eyes roaming from the back wall, over the books in the corner, through the smattering of short tables speckled with afternoon light from the windows and the big blue table in the corner, up to our teachers, waiting for them to announce what the musical would be this year. I fiddled with my braid, going over scenarios in my head. I didn’t want many lines and definitely no solos but I also didn’t want what happened last year to repeat, I at least wanted a costume, a few lines would be ok, right, just a small part, yeah that should work. I will survive, I will survive. Madame opened her mouth. “Fairy tales, the musical will be about different fairy tale characters coming up to a jury to resolve debates.” Ok, I can work with this. “List which characters you would like to play and then we will assign roles next week. You are all dismissed, those who are at pick up go to the front, if you are staying for after school go to the other room.” I got up, my sore legs going unnoticed as my head raced looking over the script, trying to see which characters had the fewest and easiest lines. The three dwarfs looked promising, so did the queen in the princess and the pea, so I marked those down and submitted it.

A week later. My heart raced, everything having built to this moment. The moment that would decide whether this play would be enjoyable or torture. “Dakota, Princess and the Pea, Nora...” with every name, every character gone, my heart raced a little faster. “Caeli.” It spiked. “Queen in Princess and

the Pea.” Yes I could do that, it would be ok, inhale exhale. “And the miller’s daughter in Rumpelstiltskin.” Bum, bum, babom, –What? My breath came in shallow waves, I swear others could hear my heartbeat, my ears had played a trick. How did this happen? That part had a solo.

Right after we were dismissed I bolted to Madame and Mrs. Timmons, the words rushing out “Can I switch parts, or not be in Rumpelstiltskin!” my throat so tight the words came out as a squeak. “Calm down. You should give it a try before you panic,” they said and walked away. That night I couldn’t stop fretting about what would happen, what would happen if I messed up, or forgot; would they think I was a fool? That night I tossed and turned, my fear made real.

Rehearsals from there went ok and I could say my lines, but as soon as the solo came the words froze in my throat. It was better with the lyrics in the recording but as soon as they were taken away I was lost, with all eyes on me and a squeak for a voice. I wanted to disappear, hunching in to make myself smaller. A few weeks before the performance I asked Madame if I could take the track home with me to practice, little me wanting to not embarrass myself. She agreed and I proceeded, with the help of my mom, to wear a hole in our DVD player singing myself hoarse for days on end.

The night of the performance arrived, the final hurdle looming right before me. My throat clenched, squeezing my larynx shut. One song down, four to go. Two. Princess and the Pea came and went. One. My turn. Legs shaking as I rose, palms clenched tight, right foot forward then left, throat trembling, microphone ahead, one hand up and adjusted, look out. Out at a sea of eyes piercing me, watching, waiting, waiting for me to fail? Don’t look, please work, come out. The lights glared, drawing all focus to me, you could hear a pin drop. The music started, the rhythm filling my ears, flooding my head, my mouth opened, and my throat moved. A word came out, then another, the syllables forming on my tongue and bursting out unimpeded to greet the world. The lights beaming down on me, I sang.

I barely remember the other plays I did in elementary, but I will never forget my solo in third grade. To this day it is one of my proudest moments ever, not for the praise I received but for the accomplishment I felt, the barrier that had been blocking me finally shattered. I was, and still am, a quiet person, but the fear of others’ opinions no longer constricts my words. The sense of confidence I gained from going outside my comfort zone has led me to try new things. And while I can’t say I am never asked to repeat myself or speak up, no one has called me a mouse since.

An Older Venice

This piece is based off of what the backdrop design would have looked like for the fall play, The Servant of Two Masters, had we had the time to paint a backdrop. I decided to actually make a painting using this design because I did not want all the effort I and other members of the crew had put into the backdrop to go to waste once we realized we could not do one.