The Struan (2019-20)

Struan

2019-20 | Christ School’s Journal of Art and Writing

WRITING 16 35 41 06 07 36 42 33 20 45 29 47 27 35 44 35 35 08 04 10 19 35 33 32 30 38 22 28 33 14 24

1955 | Colin Brazas ’22

The Dead, Decoded | Colin Brazas ’22 Ghosts | Aly Bolton, Faculty Empty Sky | Gil Cooper ’23

Star-Centered | Jackson Fender ’21

The Last Stand at Koblenz | Noah Graham ’23 Clock’s Ticking | Wilton Graves ’21 Once, Decoded | Wilton Graves ’21 Futile Fighter | Wilton Graves ’21 Bite | Tony Hao ’22

Gravitational Anomalies, “Hooked” Story | Brent Harris, Faculty What is a Poem? | Mason Heth ’24

Day 324, “Hooked” Story | Henry Holland ’23

Confidence and Doubt, Decoded | Charles Howden ’22 The Realities of Time | Charles Howden ’22

Your Hope and His Dream, Decoded | Michael Jaber ’22 A Fish, A Man, Decoded | Henry Lytle ’23 My Home | Henry Lytle ’23

Cold Sunsets | Richard Lytle ’20

The Last Stop Key | Chapin Mohney ’23 Clockwork Cheese | Ivan Mora ’22

Love Heals, Decoded | Ivan Mora ’22

Geminis, Decoded | Tobenna Okoli ’22 The Chains of Age | Tobenna Okoli ’22 lindo, lindo mi hijo | Max Redic ’20 How to Be a Poet | Max Redic ’20

Where I’m From | Jack Rheney ’23

The Itch, “Hooked” Story | Oliver Searle ’21 Hope and Fear, Decoded | Patrick Shea ’20 Wisperlite | Patrick Shea ’20 Bridges | Parker Stiles ’22

ART 46 15 13 14 BC 31 05 01 23 48 06 03 18 43 40 25 20 FC 45 37 39 21 09 21 11 29 44 17 34 34 32 26

Canine Possibilities | Mason Atwater ’24 Mountain Tops | Reese Ballard ’24 Ivy | Ty Besses ’22

Elevation Gain | Jack Britts ’22

December 29, 1943 | Jack Britts ’22 (back cover) Golden Spire | Jack Britts ’22 Step Away | Jack Britts ’22 Stingray | Gil Cooper ’22

Brick Walk | Tina Evans, Faculty

Teatime, Obscured | Thomas Doss ’20 Back-to-Back | Daniel Du ’22

Robot in Despair | Daniel Du ’22 Spirals | Daniel Du ’22

Fractured | Aiden Galpin ’21

St. Patrick’s, NY | Tony Hao ’22

Lost in Clouds | Cayden Jones ’23 Tupac | Nate Kelley ’22

Peaches Preserved | Jack Lee ’21 (front cover) Dark Shapes | Gavin Liss ’22

Fly Over | Olga Mahoney, Faculty

Inspiration, Alive | Max Masiello ’20 NASCAR | Max Masiello ’20

Whitewater | Michael Mohney, Faculty Reading the Break | Henry Muller ’20 Night & Day | Ethan Park ’23

Saturn’s Moons | Ethan Park ’23

Christ School Time | Austin Perkins ’21 Racecar #2 | Michael Posse ’22 Big Fish | Brighton Shook ’22

Fish from Above | Coleman Taylor ’21 Family | Donna Wheeler, Faculty A Chapel | Bill Zhou ’24

Robot in Despair | Daniel Du ’22

Cold Sunsets | Richard Lytle ‘20 There’s nothing like mountain sunsets on cold days On top of an overlook Where barren trees Display a clearer view of the masterpiece.

The sun peeps through the thin, gray line of clouds.

The body struggles to create heat.

Hands occupy pockets Or freeze like blocks of ice As the pinks and reds Display the colors we wished we felt.

Whether our hearts are frozen from cold or fear,

The sky remains lit, Preparing us for times When people love Instead of sitting inside, For times when our noses aren’t frozen, When birds lighten our hearts with their song.

These times ebb and flow, But as the sun falls behind the last mountain, God shines constant through the clouds, Showing us our illuminated path.

All we have to do Is leave behind the cold,

There is hope in this sunset,

The mundane,

A hope for a brighter future,

The painful memories,

One which extends past the mountains

And accept the light

And evaporates our shortcomings.

Radiating towards those faraway mountains.

Though life is easier in cozy shelter, Emotions inhibit the cold from moving us.

For, while everything fades behind us,

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cold sunsets richard lytle ‘20

step away jack britts ‘22

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Empty Heaven | Gil Cooper ‘22 I looked up to the stars, imagining the world without them.

The light they emit, comforting and creating life, gone.

The universe from an onlooker’s eye, empty.

All it knows is the infinite it occupies – no heat in sight, no fire to feel.

Its famous crackle, silent.

All warmth has disappeared.

There is nothing but the cold death of life that never existed.

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back- to-back daniel du ‘22

Star-Centered | Jackson Fender ‘21

A freckle staining the sky,

an aura of joy,

combatting the dark and evil of the world, giving light to a planet in desperate need.

Loud as the sun,

quiet as the moon,

it hides in the shadows in solidarity.

Lurking in a still ocean of night,

creeping in the corners of space,

bright as the newborn’s smile, hope is new life born.

Despair is a dying star.

Loss. Life. Rebirth and rejoicing.

Beauty of a star, elegance unmatched.

It breathes,

illuminating this dark terrain.

back-to-back daniel du ‘22

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My Home | Henry Lytle ‘23 I am from rain,

from gasoline and fish.

I am from a long fly-fishing rod –

Shiny, sparkly –

It smells like air.

I am from moss, the white pine, with needles and pinecones ready to defend at all costs.

I am from ramen and ESPN,

from Rich and Kelly.

I am from the summer camp and the iPhone.

From Go clean your room and Stop lollygagging.

I’m from talking with friends.

So, if you don’t know what to make of this,

then we won’t relate.

I’m from Brevard and Birmingham,

grits that taste like solidified air.

From kayaking down rocky, steep waterfalls,

and nights sitting on mats.

In my trunk is a notebook filled with information gained in the past, a combination of numbers and letters

to be protected by a safe.

I am from being crazy with the friends –

who dissolved into thin air – as the car moved to the end of the line.

Inspired by George Ella Lyon’s poem “Where I’m From”

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my home henry lytle ‘23

whitewater michael mohney, faculty

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The Last Stop Key | Chapin Mohney ‘23 “Jumpin’ Jiminy!” Mark yelled. “Why do they always lock the door?”

Mark had just finished one of the worst days of school. Not only had he failed two tests, but his midterm project was due on Friday, and he hadn’t even started it.

“I’m doomed,” he thought and found the spare key to unlock the door. He decided he would just start the project another day.

Mark put off sleep until 1AM and awoke to the dreaded sound of his annoying alarm clock. He got dressed, combed his hair, and located his left shoe.

He looked at his watch: five minutes until he had to go. He looked everywhere for that darn right shoe but eventually decided to wear one Croc and one dress shoe. Better than nothing.

He cruised through his classes, not really paying attention. Finally, he got to his favorite class, American Literature. This was the only class he actually cared about because Mr. Brenard was giving the class plenty of spooky stories. That day, Mr. Brenard decided to read an extra-scary short story instead of assigning it for homework. This story, “The Key,” intrigued Mark, who volunteered to read first. The story genuinely scared Mark.

It was about a mysterious blue-tinted key that appeared every October. This key opened any door it could fit into, but as soon as somebody walked through the unlocked door, the person’s worst fear waited on the other side. This could be anything

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the last stop key chapin mohney ‘23

from drowning in a pool of molten lava to giving a speech in front of your whole school. Even if you were opening the front door of the world’s smallest building, the inside could be a massive football stadium. The worst part was, once you walked through the doorway, there was no way to get back to the normal world.

When Mark got home, he found his house locked.

“Gah!” he said.

After fruitlessly hunting for the key, he gave up and started searching for an open window. When he couldn’t find one, he checked the last place he could think of: his backpack. If his key wasn’t there, he’d have to sleep outside. Mark’s parents were on a business trip, leaving Mark no way to get into his own home. Just as Mark was about to have a toddler meltdown, his fingers brushed something cold in his bag. A key. He pulled it out and slid it into the front door without looking at it. Strangely, the key didn’t fit.

“What?” he said. This time he looked at the key and noticed something strange: it was blue. “Nice prank, Jose!”

After laughing at his friend’s joke, he realized the garage had a different keyhole, so he walked around the side of the house. On the way, he tried to avoid thinking about the story he’d read in Mr.Brenard’s classroom. He procured the creepy blue key from his pocket, raised his trembling hand

to the lock, and slid the key in. This time, it fit. He turned the key and the door creaked open.

“Oh, gosh,” Mark whispered. He remembered that you had to walk all the way through the doorway to become trapped. But that was just a stupid story! Jose must have stolen his garage key, painted it blue, and placed it in his backpack. The sun was just starting to set. With a sudden burst of courage, Mark ran through the door, looked around, and was relieved to see his regular garage. As far as he could tell, nothing was different.

“You got me good, Jose,” Mark muttered. Just to make sure he was really free from his worst fear, he walked back out the door and let out a sigh of relief after he walked into the frigid air with no problems.

Safely inside, he worked on his project until it was time to go to bed. But he didn’t fall asleep as fast as usual. Was this because of the massive project due in two days, the creepy story, or the weird lump under his pillow? He reached under

the pillow and froze when he felt something that reminded him of a dead man. Slowly he pulled out the mysterious lump − it was his right dress shoe.

“What’s going on with me?” he wondered. After staring at the ceiling for a while, sleep finally came.

“You’ve got this, Muchacho! Go get em, Amigo!” chirped his alarm clock. Gosh, he hated that thing. He got ready for the day and put on both of his dress shoes. He slung the backpack over his shoulders and opened the front door, making sure it was unlocked. Right out of the gate, Mark tripped on the step off the porch. This was not a good start to the day.

He trudged to the bus stop and plopped down on the cold metal bench. He looked around, but nobody else was in sight. He thought about his blue key. How did Jose know where he lived? And did he secretly follow Mark home?

“Nah, Jose isn’t a psychopath,” he convinced himself. He pulled the key from his bag and studied it. Sure enough, it was blue. night & day ethan park ‘23

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The Last Stop Key | Chapin Mohney ‘23 Eventually, the bus rolled up and opened its doors.

He greeted the bus driver, clomped up the bus’s steps, and walked to his seat. Sadly, Mark noticed, the poor 70-year-old driver had to use a Garmin to navigate the expansive suburbs.

“Turn left on Marygrove Street,” the Garmin’s strangely empty robotic voice said.

Mark counted 13 other kids on the bus. 36 loud high school kids were usually on the bus by now, including Jose, but Mark didn’t recognize any of his classmates. In fact, these kids had unmoving features and blank eyes, almost like mannequins.

He lowered his head against the rough metal wall of the bus and tried to take a nap. No one had said a word, other than the usual “Hello, Mark” from the bus driver.

“Turn right on Forest Drive,” said the Garmin.

“Funny,” Mark thought. “I don’t remember ever seeing a street sign for Forest Drive.” The trip continued in silence.

Mark sat up, unnerved. One of the guys in the back was staring at him. When Mark looked toward him, the kid turned away. Mark glanced out the window to see if he recognized where he was.

He didn’t. He had no idea where they were.

“Turn right onto Dark Hills Road.”

By now, Mark was sure he hadn’t been down this road before. The houses were scarce and most were trailers or shacks. It seemed to be getting

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the last stop key chapin mohney ‘23

darker and darker, too, which was strange at 8AM. Why were they taking this route? And why were there only 13 other kids on the bus?

“Turn left on Black Mass Way.” This time, when Mark looked around the bus, the boy was still staring at him and three other kids were doing the same.

“Where are we going?” Mark asked the bus driver.

“To school, of course,” replied the bus driver.

There was something unsettling about that voice, like she’d been smoking cigarettes for the past fifty years.

“Why are we going this way?”

When Mark got no response, he glanced around and noticed something shiny on the other side of the aisle. He couldn’t quite tell what it was because he had forgotten his contacts.

“What is that?” Mark asked, but no one responded.

“Turn left onto Tinted Key Road.”

The bus jolted from smooth pavement to rough gravel. Mark sat in silence, unsure what to say or do. By now it was almost pitch-black outside. He glanced behind him. The 13 kids had moved − they were a just few seats behind him.

“What’s going on?” Mark asked quietly. No one answered.

Suddenly very frightened, Mark curled into a little ball on his seat.

“Your destination is less than one mile ahead.”

Mark started crying. When he opened his eyes, two kids sat in the seat across the aisle, their eyes vacant and thin smiles on their faces.

A figure rose slowly from under Mark’s seat and reached a hand with long, dirty nails toward Mark’s frozen body.

“You have reached your final destination.”

“Turn lights off in 500 feet.”

“Please don’t hurt me,” Mark whispered. The only light came from the bus’s dull overhead lights.

ivy ty besses ‘22

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Wisperlite for ellie and Austin | Patrick Shea ‘20 Blue reflective starlight presents a sky unconcerned with the presence of headlight sailing across the trees to set a stove flames snickering, shrieking atop a ridge which sparks dawn as he fills up a water canister, while Kian unzips a tent-fly Distant from heat and the buzz of a fly the undaunted endless Idaho sky recovering from twilight’s rainwater the day’s shadow of impending light The trail’s artists awake on a ridge moving to warmth because Pat lit the stove The whispering through the snickering stove of a breeze and its wake on a tent’s fly the ocean of chill and frost on a ridge pinks turn to golds turn to blues in the sky and hues to golds turn to pinks by the light boils bubble and brew out of water

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elevation gain jack britts ‘22

In plunge the cups for oatmeal in water ignited by the lite whispering stove completely oblivious to the light without a hint of the day’s heat to fly through the window of unexpecting sky upon Idaho and Montana’s ridge.

Backpacks are packed headed west of the ridge carrying Nalgenes and jugs of water through lodgepole pine forest a simple Sky but we›ve forgotten the heat of the stove now wishing to wonder, wishing to fly stopping just past a tree once struck by light Oh! To mattocks and hoes, tools which delight us by day yet by night, we hope the ridge will hold us all. So, I don’t have to fly to escape tears of mountain spring water Because of that feeling when I set a stove that strength belonging to Idaho’s sky And as early light fails to set the stove.

We leave the ridge and take our filled water To the planes, to fly away from the sky

mountain tops reece ballard ‘24

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1955 | Colin Brazas ‘22 I was there when the first car flew, when they were barreling down the straight, and when the Mercedes took off.

I was there when they collided, when Macklin became a ramp, and when all hope was lost.

I was there when Pierre flew from his car, when he landed on the track, and when he was killed in front of his wife.

I was there when the Magnesium chassis exploded, when the car split in two, and when the retaining wall failed.

I was there when the car kept going, when it rolled through the crowd, and when eighty-three spectators fell.

I was there when the race went on, when the marshals fought the fire, and when nothing was ever the same.

This poem depicts the events of the 1955 Le Mans Disaster. On lap 35 of the 24-hour Le Mans race, Mike Hawthorn, the Jaguar driver, veered to the right and began braking to enter his pit box. Lance Macklin of Austin-Healey could not slow down in time.

Thus, he swerved to the left to avoid Hawthorn. Pierre Levegh, driving for Mercedes, could not avoid Macklin and shunted into the back of the Austin-Healey. The crash sent Macklin to the right, where his car hit a wall and killed the first spectator. Levegh ramped off Macklin and was thrown from his car, while the Mercedes landed atop the retaining wall, exploded, and, rolled through the crowd. At least 82 additional spectators were killed. The race continued, although Mercedes would retire later on.

This accident prompted Mercedes to withdraw from all motorsport competition until 1989.

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1955 colin brazas ‘22

racecar #2 michael posse ‘22

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spirals daniel du ‘22

Clockwork Cheese | Ivan Mora ‘22 I am money.

I am time.

We have our limits.

For most, I am greater.

For few, I prevail.

You can gain me, You can lose me.

We have our limits.

I am always running, For you or against you, You may want more of me but We have our limits.

You work for me, I work for you.

I am like a waterfall, My flow never ends.

I am like a merry-go-round, Always spinning.

We are necessities.

I am objective, I am conceptive.

I am, I am.

Time is Money.

clockwork cheese ivan mora ‘22

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Futile Fighter | Wilton Graves ‘21 I can sing until my voice strains Write until my pencil breaks And fight until I’m knocked out But it doesn’t matter Because you’re not Hearing Or reading Or in my corner.

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tupac nate kelley ‘22

top: nascar | max masiello ‘20 bottom: reading the break | henry muller ‘20

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Where I’m From | Jack Rheney ‘23 I am from forests, pine sap and wood smoke.

I am from campfires (shining, shimmering, you can almost taste roasting marshmallows).

I am from hydrangeas, a weeping willow, its branches curved and bent, as if to hold an umbrella for those under it.

I am from pot roast and old books, from Catherine and Theodore.

I’m from the scoldings and the praise.

From Thou shalt not lie, Effort is mandatory, and The hardest choices require the strongest wills.

I’m from Atlanta and Asheville, dog fur and hot cocoa.

From my grandfather’s military uniform, Torn by bullets.

From the brother who has injured me countless times.

In my room there’s a small book given at birth, filled with stories, written by the man for whom I was named.

I am from those stories – destined to be forgiven – before I was even an atom.

Inspired by George Ella Lyon’s poem “Where I’m From.”

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where i’m from jack rheney ‘23

brick walk tina evans, faculty

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Bridges | Parker Stiles ‘22 My family has always taken vacations together, whether it was out west or to the beach. Regardless of the destination, we always wound up driving on, beneath, or beside a bridge. As my dad was a civil engineer, he forced us to look outside the window, no matter how famous the bridge was. After we heard “Okay kids, put down your screens and look left out the window,” we would know exactly what was coming. We would continue to stare at our screens and say “ooh,” and “ahh,” which, of course, was the tell-tale sign of distraction. My father would get a little annoyed but stayed persistent in his efforts and would try again at the next bridge.

He taught us about truss, cable-stay, suspension, and many other types of bridges along with how they held their weight. Although this commonly occurred when we got in the car, we never truly appreciated his adoration of the structures.

Nevertheless, he was truly in love with his job as a civil engineer and tried to get us to admire the bridges as he did.

One year my siblings and I gave him a T-shirt with a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge, slightly as a joke, but he loved and wore it regardless. After seeing a bridge or when we felt crazy, my siblings and I would play the song “I Love It” by Icona Pop, which included the line, “I crashed my car into the bridge, I watched, I let it burn.” Jokes like this would often occur on road trips or vacations.

Even when we poked fun at each other, the relationship between my father and me and my other siblings was quite profound. Not only did he (try to) teach us about bridges, but he also taught

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bridges parker stiles ‘22

us how to play football, basketball, and helped us with our math and science homework. He was the quintessential father who had the perfect balance between seriousness and humor. Even in all of his 6’5” glory, it seemed like he loved our extremely tiny puppy the most when we got it. His spirit was like a bridge, as his quiet strength supported all of us while growing up. He always joked around doing handstands on paddleboards and repeatedly falling in, as he loved the water. He loved sprint triathlons and was crazy-good at many water sports. Teaching us sports and skills was usually pretty easy because he had already mastered how to do them.

When my father passed, it created a rift in my family and my own identity. Along with disrupting the balance my family was used to, his death also disrupted my daily life. My brother was in college, and I no longer had someone to throw a ball with or help me with my science homework. Somehow, I grew to push myself more during this time in school and refused to let my family crisis get to my schoolwork. Although I immediately made this separation between emotions and academics, it made it easier to reconnect them both after I had mostly healed since school was one of the only constant things in my life. Our trust had been shattered, as someone who we deeply loved was taken from us in an instant.

Although we had no idea of what had happened, it felt like everyone in the community was ready to support us and become the foundation that my father had been. As time continued, we started to heal from the pain and grieve together as

a newly unified family. I learned to be independent with my homework and continued to play sports with my peers, and eventually started to have some of my own hobbies. I built a new schedule that didn’t revolve around my father. While he is still a huge part of my identity and life, I have grown to love many more things while keeping him in my memory.

This past winter, my family made the trip up to Kentucky to spread my father’s ashes where one of his big projects sits. Eggner’s Ferry Bridge is in the western part of Kentucky, and my father is the Engineer of Record on the supported arch bridge. After a long car ride, we slept at a state park lodge and woke at sunrise.

We drove for twenty minutes to the bridge and parked at the start of the pedestrian path that crosses the bridge.

It was cold, but we braved the twenty-degree weather as best we could. The bridge spanned a great distance over the Kentucky Lake, and it felt even bigger as we walked out to its center. The bridge’s big arch made it feel as if it might come crashing down at any moment, yet it was supporting the bridge itself. We had kept my father’s ashes in a wooden

box for over two years by then, and I had never touched it. I carried the ashes and walked with my family. I stuck my arm through a railing to spread the ashes. Immediately after the ashes scattered, the wind picked up and carried them away from us.

Walking back to the car, we admired the beauty and strength of the structure our father had created. Two years and three months after his death, I had finally seen the piece of work that he had spent most of his career on while I was alive. I had seen the design plan, I had seen him leave for a week to go up to Kentucky, I had seen him working late at night, and now I had seen the actual bridge. I had seen the piece of architecture that he had poured hundreds of hours into, and, after seeing its inherent strength and ability to support, I finally understood why my father loved bridges.

lost in clouds cayden jones ‘23

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Hooked: The 2020 Struan Writing Competition The Struan Board cast the following “hooks,” or opening lines, into the Christ School sea, and the community responded with 350-word (or shorter) stories inspired by them. Here are the four hooks written by board members and the award-winning stories inspired by them: “I slammed my textbook on my desk as I came into class and didn’t even notice no one was there until I sat down.

I didn’t know if I had missed an email from my teacher canceling class of if a mass flu outbreak had occurred, but something was up.” Parker Stiles “Suddenly, I saw a man floating in the river. His head was out of the water, but his body wasn’t moving.”

Richard Lytle “I have lined the exterior of my house with borax to kill the ants that surround me.” Lux Haney-Jardine “The breathing was deafening. It felt like I was going to faint. Not from the pain, but from the fear – because if I was hiding in the basement and holding my breath…then who was breathing?” Tobenna Okoli

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a chapel bill zhou ‘24

Day 324 | Henry Holland ‘23 I have lined the exterior of my house with borax to kill the ants that surround me. That should take care of them, but the squirrels will climb up the walls and eat the roof. And before I forget, I need to remember to make some more gingerbread cement. The ants are breaking through my foundation faster than breadcrumbs disappear.

“Oh! What is that smell? Is it a child?” I wonder. I cross the kitchen to look out of my round sugar windows. Even my witchy eyes can’t pierce the shadows under the trees. I am walking over to start the oven when I hear voices.

“Two children coming towards me?” I laugh. “I am going to have a feast!” I quickly turn on the oven. “I only have a minute or two until they are here,” I think. “What should I do?”

I whip together the eggs, flour, and sugar for a cake, and am sliding it into the oven when I hear a nibbling sound. “Another mouse?”

Then it dawns on me.

“Nibble, nibble, gnaw. Who is nibbling at my little house?” I call.

“The wind, the wind, the heaven-born wind,” children reply.

I open the front door. “Come in, children. My cake is almost done.”

They walk in, amazed.

“What are your names?” I ask.

“I’m Hansel,” says the boy.

“And I’m Gretel,” says his sister.

day 324 henry holland ‘23

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The Itch | Oliver Searle ‘21 I have lined the exterior of my house with borax to kill the ants that surround me.

Peeking carefully out of the window, I am perched on my dresser with a lighter and my mother’s hairspray. I can hear the ants all around me. The sound of their tiny legs clicking against the earth fills my head. I shiver – I shiver, but I am burning up. Sweat drips from my pores and my tongue is dry.

I haven’t seen the ants yet, but they are coming. This isn’t the first time this has happened, so this time I am prepared. The borax is the answer. It will kill their queen. I want to kill all of them.

Just the thought of the ants makes my skin crawl so badly that my foot itches. I remove my shoe and reach my fingers into my sock. I scratch until it hurts, but my foot becomes more and more itchy. The itch spreads to my entire foot, and it isn’t until the itch spreads to my hand that I look down and see them. The ants are crawling from my sock and onto my hand. They crawl up my legs and arms. I open my mouth and scream, but I make no sound. I scream harder and still make no noise. Instead of sound, ants pour out of my mouth. I drop my lighter on the dresser and hear the clatter of the hairspray as the can hits the wood floor and bounces under the bed. The ants are crawling out my eyes and ears. Their clicking! It is so loud it seems like someone is banging inside my head. I stumble off the dresser and hit the floor hard. I crawl towards my door as my mother busts the deadbolt off and drops to her knees beside me.

My eyes clear. I no longer see or feel the ants. She takes my face in her hands and strokes my head. “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s okay. They aren’t real.”

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the itch oliver searle ‘21

Gravitational Anomalies | Brent Harris, Faculty I slam my textbook on the desk as I come into class and don’t even notice no one is there until I sit down. I don’t know if I missed an email from my teacher canceling class or if a mass flu outbreak had occurred, but something is up. Rough morning for a few of us, I guess. I have to admit my head is feeling especially heavy. I scan the whiteboard for a note, but I only find yesterday’s equations:

If I didn’t know better, someone rounded up the Gs today. “Basic physics works every day of the year.

Not just February 10th.” Where did I read that? My face is heavy. I am sure this situation will work itself out in a few minutes (yawn). So, I let gravity do its job and down goes my head (thump). Ouch. ...I wake. Curious. I feel like I am floating. All I see, inches from my nose, is a white wall speckled with tiny dimples. What is this spongy wall (poke)? Huh. It’s the ceiling tiles. I look over my shoulder, and ... (gasp!). My abdomen stiffens in expectation of a free fall, but I just float there in weightlessness above a classroom with no students. I don’t spot anything awry except a broom in the corner standing straight up – bristle tips to grip, straight up on its own! Now it hits me. The NASA broom hoax, that stupid claim debunked by NASA, that today the planets’ alignments would set up a rare gravitational pull on Earth. They told us “I hate to be that astronomer, but the planets don’t care about your broom.” NASA hubris! It’s all cap now.

(Buzz, buzz). Ugh. My phone is in the box. The ceiling tiles give way when I attempt to push off.

Twitter notifications: 8:03AM – Christ School: “Go outside. See the planets aligned in the daytime sky!”

8:05AM – NASA: “ Emergency announcement. Gravitational anomalies detected all over the planet.

Stay indoors.”

My eyes drift back in gratitude to the ceiling, and I imagine the miles of open sky on the other side.

saturn’s moons ethan park ‘23

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lindo, lindo mi hijo | Max Redic ‘20 Her shadow in the doorway brought unwanted hugs and kisses and loud singing of Spanish folk songs, desperately missing an ensemble of guitars as accompaniment.

Every Tuesday brought cheetah print and red lipstick which stained my cheek as her hands muffled my hair.

I was the only schoolboy who smelled like cheap perfume and lemongrass those mornings.

She called me her luna and said I was like her son who died in a car wreck many years ago.

Sometimes her eyes would get wet when she looked at me and today was no different when she told me that she dreamt of Colombia every night and her camino was heading there.

For once, I didn’t squirm when she hugged and kissed me, buena suerte were the only words I could muster.

Esperanza will rise upon her return home and on subsequent Tuesdays I will be silent because maybe I will hear her songs in the walls like she never left at all.

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lindo, lindo mi hijo max redic ‘20

golden spire jack britts ‘22

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The Chains of Age | Tobenna Okoli ‘23 Why do the young have restrictions?

Is it to keep us safe and happy − or is it to imprison us?

For the old to retain power over something they have long lost, they, who envy the stretch of skin and color of hair, the strength of muscle, and the movement of hips, maybe that is why we cannot drink, nor can we smoke, until we reach that age of 21, a way for the old to take back control, give the young something to envy themselves.

But, alas, such restrictions are temporary.

The old will wither, the young will grow old, new young will replace them, and the cycle will continue.

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family donna wheeler, faculty

Coded and Decoded Tobenna Okoli Geminis \ twins are \ are bonded \ separated in \ in life \ spirit death \ identity talent \ desire and \ and grace \ ambition Will \ does she \ he hate \ love me \ you when \ because I \ you have \ truly left \ love her \ him

Wilton Graves Once \ Eventually I \ he found \ lost it \ her but \ and I \ they wouldn’t \ couldn’t open \ let up \ go

Patrick Shea I \ They found \ lost it \ him before \ after fear \ hope decided \ abandoned my \ her fate \ soul

These poems were inspired by “Decoded,” a poem written and shared by Jon Sands, Godwin-Hauser Visiting Writer 2019-20.

By Struan Board Members coded and decoded

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top: fish from above | coleman taylor ‘21 bottom: big fish | brighton shook ‘22

Coded and Decoded Ivan Mora

Michael Jaber

love \ pain heals \ breaks those \ those whom \ that it \ it reaches \ victimizes amongst \ during stars \ grief

Charles Howden I \ you can \ can win \ lose the \ the game \ match with \ with confidence \ doubt in \ in me \ yourself

Colin Brazas A \ The dead \ dead man’s \ woman’s power \ pain radiates \ festers from \ within his \ her watery \ earthen grave \ tomb

Your \ His hope \ dream to \ to conquer \ destroy a \ the challenge \ planet that \ which will \ won’t be \ appear larger \ harder than \ than what \ what you \ he assumes \ think(s) was \ is unreasonable \ impossible Henry Lytle A \ The fish \ man curiously \ sadly swam \ wandered near \ towards an \ an ancient \ inviting rotten \ dark shark \ cave coded and decoded

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The Last Stand at Koblenz | Noah Graham ‘23 Devastating firepower from the new Sturmgewehr, the Wehrmacht would prevail once again.

The American forces were cut fewer and fewer, they wanted to eradicate the Nazis’ sin.

The metallic smell of gunpowder, like on the 4th of July.

Back home they saw the rocket’s red glare, but on the front, all they knew were bombs bursting in air.

Howitzers pounded like the Liberty Bell.

Attack, boys, attack! We’ll give ‘em hell!

But the American boys had no illusion of victory, they knew this battle would go down in history as another American defeat.

Fallen comrades, hot taste of adrenaline, the smoking barrels’ heat.

One by one the brave attackers were leveled.

The ground around each one’s feet was shoveled by steady machine gun fire.

Each filthy American − degenerate scum − felt the Fuhrer’s ire!

The American unit’s attack failed, or so the Germans thought.

But one last man, with a BAR in his hand, eternal glory he sought.

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the last stand at koblenz noah graham ‘23

He emerged from behind a hill, rifle at hip, the attack would not end like this!

Pulled the trigger, felt the bolt snap, and the round cracked like a whip.

He sent a Nazi into the eternal abyss.

Finger on the trigger, he finished his mag and reached for his Mark 2 grenade.

Although his brothers would haul his body out in a bag, at this spot, his spirit would be laid.

As he clutched the cold grenade, his eyes fixed on his fate: a sniper stared at him through his lens.

He knew he would not survive the Battle of Koblenz.

fly over olga mahoney, faculty

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How to Be a Poet | Max Redic ‘20 The

size of the page will ↑shift your structure.

The length of each line will bunchyourwords or

spread

them

out.

Do you use white space, as your Or do you pack the page full of information with no room to breathe?

friend?

Rules. Can. Be. Broken.

Punctuation? Makes no sense.

Break up your lines where you want.

Are your words fancy?

You call a kitchen counter an island.

The word floats on its own.

Titles are the tricky part and cannot summarize = the math of add + ing words together is ≠ poetry.

Sometimes you might set the pen d

o

w

n and leave it _____. .sdrawkcab gninaem eht pilf thgim sredaer ehT

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how to be a poet max redic ‘20

the best advice: Drop them like rats into your CrAzY maze and let them find their way out.

inspiration, alive max masiello ‘20

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st. patrick’s, ny tony hao ‘22

Ghosts | Aly Bolton, Faculty These ghosts we leave behind are of a different nature than before.

They are less wispy, bloody, footsteps down the hall, banging in the basement, passing whispers, darkness, groans, cold hands on your ankle.

Or maybe they are still there the old ghosts, waiting for us to notice them beyond the glare of the eternal screen, wondering why we are so much more unsettled by the friend suggestions, posts, playlists, usernames, accounts, profiles, the pictures, pictures, pictures, p‌ of the gone.

These ghosts are independent of the dead and that frightens me most of all.

ghosts aly bolton, faculty

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Clock’s Ticking | Wilton Graves ‘21 Every moment that we stay breathing, Our footsteps fade away in the sand.

We think that existing is being alive But no idea is more deceiving.

Our city is sprawling and untamed And yet we are imprisoned in suburbs.

It’s getting hotter, we don’t have long, So get up to dance with me and hear the band.

Before we’re gone, before we all burn up, I’d really just like to feel the breeze.

But in more than one place, in more than one time.

Or maybe go out at night and just drive.

If only instead of just speaking out Someone would simply act.

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clock’s ticking wilton graves ‘21

fractured aiden galpin ‘21

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The Realities of Time | Charles Howden ‘23 Time is something beyond all we know, Something that was shaped long, long ago.

It takes its role in a basketball game, But time that has passed will always remain the same.

Like a starter’s gun in a track meet — GO! It makes a mark if one can finish a test in time — NO! We can’t ever go back to the fun day we turned eleven, and there will be a time when we ascend to heaven, but the future is something still to be won, and time in the past is something that cannot be undone.

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christ school time austin perkins ‘21

Bite | Tony Hao ‘22 Bite the flesh, suck the blood.

It’s neither holy nor foul, one is neither a saint nor a savage.

It’s the instinct begging − begging − begging your teeth to bite!

Bite the meat still fresh, suck the blood still warm.

Crush it like you hate it, crush it like your favorite.

Bite like this is your last meal.

Bite to taste satisfaction.

dark shapes gavin liss ‘22

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canine possibilities mason atwater ‘24

What is a Poem? | Mason Heth ‘24 What is a poem?

My third-grade self would have told you it was a way of writing.

A poem used Victorian language I couldn’t even understand.

Poems used words to depict mental ideas so vividly that they appeared to be in our plane of existence.

They followed beats and rhyme schemes complex enough that the meaning was lost to me, but most of all I would express how I could not write one.

I didn’t have that creative bone that let words flow so fluidly.

I’m now realizing how wrong I was.

Though I still lack the vocabulary that lets others speak so eloquently, that’s not what matters in a poem.

Poems can come from narratives in your life and ideas in your head.

They can express deep desires and concepts that you are too afraid of sharing yourself, tools you use to reflect your ideas onto another.

You can use a poem to understand something that is troubling you, or just to express an impactful moment in your life and get something off your chest.

And you can never explicitly say what makes up a poem because you can decide that.

A poem can be whatever you want it to be and more, or less.

The hardest part is sharing it because it is often something sensitive.

This leaves you vulnerable to hurt while others tear apart the work you poured your brain into.

Once you get over that, the question remains: What is a poem?

It can be anything.

Maybe it’s something you’ve poured a lot of time into or something sporadic.

Some poets with more “talent” than me can add deep meanings, but to me the beauty of poems is their simplicity.

Dissecting one makes it meaningless.

Take what the poem gives you and cherish that.

Poems are whatever you shape them to be.

That’s why you can never quite answer the question “What is a poem?” what is a poem? mason heth ‘24

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teatime, obscured thomas doss ‘20