2020-21 Struan Magazine

struan Christ School’s Journal of Art and Writing

Front Cover Art: Dreams vs. Reality, Digital Photography | William David ’21 Title Page: Perspective, Digital Photography | Austin Perkins ’21

struan

2020-21 | Christ School’s Journal of Art and Writing

WRITING 04 Family-Made | Sam Bassett ’22 06 College Essays | Alyssa Belcher, Faculty 08 a thought | Colin Brazas ’22 13

In a Hollow of Sound | Jesse Breite, Faculty

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The “Greenie” | Max Brodeur ’21

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Casting Time | Lennox Cummings ’21

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Life in 17 Syllables | Faculty

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Dream Killers | Coker Ford ’21

46 Hollowed | Aidan Galpin ’21 22

Knotted | Wilton Graves ’21

24 Life Cycle | Noah Henthorn ’24 24 Gehenna | Noah Henthorn ’24 25

They Say | Charles Howden ’23

26 Fiction | Caleb Kurihara ’24 28 Abrupt | James Lilly ’24 30 Companionship | Henry Lytle ’23 31

Agape | Tobenna Okoli ’22

44 She Should Stop | Tobenna Okoli ’22 10

Daybreak Approaching | Ethan Park ’23

36 Football Sunrise | Emily Pulsifer, Faculty 43 Stone, Lichen, and Hemlock | Ron Ramsey, Faculty 34 Thackston Smackdown Volleyball Game, Summer 2019 | Billy Thackston ’21 45 Farm Life | Billy Thackston ’21 35 Carolina Blue | Wesley Thomas ’22 32

Jacob and His Grandfather | Bruce White ’24

ART 21

Every Step She Takes | Jimmy Belcher ’22 39 Dirt Road | Jack Britts ’22 15 The Distance | Jack Britts ’22

01 Perspective | Austin Perkins ’21

44 Relax and Focus | Brandon Brown ’25 41 The Center Point | Brandon Brown ’25

50 Modern | Drew Redmond ’21

05 Sleepy | Carson Campbell ’21 35 Overlook | Havilah Cooper ’23

43 Tulip Tree | Brighton Shook ’22

00 Dreams vs. Reality | William David ’21 29 Serenity | William David ’21

19 Hope | Donna Wheeler, Faculty

22 Cobra in the Dark | Michael Posse ’22 37 Nature’s Engine | Michael Posse ’22 49 Veiled Theatre | Ollie Searle ’21 23 Canopy | Michael Wang ’24

24 Cyberpunk II | William David ’21 13 Homesick | Daniel Du ’22 34 Brenna | Joshua Edgecomb ’22 18 Perch | Tina Evans, Faculty 47 Reality’s Edge | Aidan Galpin ’21 07 Tide Pool | Aidan Galpin ’21 05 Album | Luke Gardner ’22 31 Fire | Tony Hao ’22 51

Lucid Dreaming, Bishop, CA | Henry Holland ’23

33 Asheville Sky | Michael Jaber ’22 05 Spaced Out | Nate Kelley ’22 03 Perched Upon Past Centuries | Mason Lamb ’21 25 Stare | Jack Lee ’21 20 Surreal | Jack Lee ’21 27 Pastel Mountain | Sam Ludington ’23 17

The Edge | Matthew Luke ’22 04 Tile Mosaic | Matthew Luke ’22 30 Sunset | Henry Lytle ’23 45 Josie | Jake Matthews ’24 14 Winter | Daniel Newman ’21 11

Ruins of War | Ethan Park ’23 12 Silo | Austin Perkins ’21 09 Rust | Austin Perkins ’21

perched upon past centuries | mason lamb ’21

Family-Made | Sam Bassett ’21 What is your substance, whereof are you made, That seems to control your daily life, work?

Could be your mom who urges you to stay, Or even a friend who drives you berserk.

The idea of growth and maturity, Seemingly tends to drive the common folk.

I’m made of the substance called family, Which helps me to clear the confusing smoke And pave the way for what my future holds.

Family, a blessing bestowed upon, Not by choice, but lucky like striking gold.

My loving family can’t be redone, Which is why it’s hard to get up and leave.

I must embark on life’s journey and see.

(Line 1 borrowed from Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 53”)

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tile mosaic, drawing matthew luke ’22

top left: album, painting | luke gardner ’22 bottom left: sleepy, pen and ink | carson campbell ’21 right: spaced out, colored pencil | nate kelley ’22

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College Essays | Alyssa Belcher, Faculty College University seeks a talented, engaged student body that embodies the wide range of human experience; we believe that the diversity of our students makes our community stronger. If you’d like to share a perspective you bring or experiences you’ve had that would help us understand you better, perhaps a community you belong to or your family or cultural background, we encourage you to do so here. Real people are reading your application, and we want to do our best to understand and appreciate the real people applying to College University. (300 words maximum)

One of my main goals over my lifetime is to collect experiences. If an opportunity is presented to me that is safe, reasonable, and positive, generally I take it. This means I have performed hundreds of times to audiences of 2000+ as a Sugar Plum Fairy, a tutu-ed snowflake, a rat in pointe shoes, and a flying Bride of Dracula, among other roles. I have eaten donkey burgers and cow intestines in Asia. I’ve lived in Texas, North Carolina, China, and California in the last ten years. My first dorm room proudly displayed the Lone Star flag, and now I consider myself an Appalachian American. I earned my master’s from Stanford in International Education Policy Analysis. I have driven and camped from coast to coast eight times in five years. I almost immigrated to Canada (specifically Vancouver). I am a circus artist training in silks, lyra, rope, and contortion, but I also enjoy hot yoga, snowboarding, and occasionally mountain biking in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I haven’t seen my parents in 1.5 years. I eloped with my best friend in a courthouse in San Jose and ate bratwurst with our one witness for our first married meal. Since I was 18, I’ve worked two jobs more often than not. I’ve spent the last 7+ years working in education.

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What I bring to every community I enter isCollege my collection of experiences.

I can shareFaculty Essays | Alyssa Belcher, my stories and inspire others. I can bond and empathize with those that have also had similar experiences. Every opportunity is a chance to grow and develop, learn more about humanity, the world, and myself. Now, I spend my days helping high school students figure out what experiences they want to have as they embark on their next chapters, their burgeoning collection.

What brings you joy? (30 words) I am tickled by the challenge of choreographing aerial silks routines to classic 2000s pop and current electro swing. Upcoming: … One More Time by Britney Spears.

We’re in your hometown. Where should we eat and what should we order? (30 words) Buxton Hall BBQ – fried catfish, green beans, and hushpuppies. White Duck Taco – molé roasted duck and Thai peanut chicken. Moe’s BBQ – squash casserole and pulled pork sandwich.

Name three songs from your perfect playlist. (30 words) Booty Swing. Lazy Place. Dance Monkey.

tide pool, digital photography aidan galpin ’21

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a thought | Colin Brazas ’22 i often feel that i am in the peculiar position where my best qualities are those least easily expressed and that lends itself to a host of issues now if you were to ask me what those issues were what those qualities were i couldn’t tell you and that also lends itself to numerous difficulties and really makes the whole notion rather frustrating i should or at least i feel i should be able to pinpoint those things which i feel so strongly about and the regards i have already put forward yet i can’t and perhaps that in truth only adds to the frustration in when i go to express myself and my frustration in some way or simply yearn to look at what i believe these qualities are i can’t and that only becomes increasingly more frustrating with every time i strive for those answers which i believe if i could reach would greatly benefit me so perhaps this and my constant retelling of this to myself and the debates i host in my own internal dialogue are missing the point entirely and that the goal is not to know but rather to strive to know that said an entirely new issue gets opened up when the question of why is posed to this dilemma and almost certainly the addition of questions rather than the furthered attempt to answer any existing ones only perpetuates this cycle and digs its own hole deeper and deeper although at the very least i am least i am forced to question myself through these exercises and perhaps that is healthy and perhaps that is the benefit of all of this the why of all of this yet while that may be true it does not necessarily untangle the mess which i have presented myself now of course to stop these exercises would be the clearest answer but i believe that would only strip it back to the original issues of qualities easily expressed and vice versa or rather not so easily expressed and i suppose that again this raises the question of why and now i begin to fully realize the scope of the box that i have placed myself in in this exercise and the scope is discouragingly small then again to expect much more than that out of a topic initially so inconceivably deep seems oddly paradoxical and thus i am resigned to repeat this exercise ad infinitum until i reach a conclusion which will only satisfy me the next time i venture down this rabbit hole and that perhaps is the true dilemma of it all not the original issue posed but the hunger for an answer to that dilemma a solution to that dilemma rather and how impossible that is regardless of how badly it is wanted needed

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rust, digital photography austin perkins ’21

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Daybreak Approaching | Ethan Park ’23 (The following passage is a small excerpt from Daybreak Approaching, a story about 16-year-old Kahlo, a survivor of the pandemic apocalypse. The government has transported all those who are immune to California, where bases are being set up. At the moment, Kahlo and his new friends are travelling to ACXEN-30, the base soon to be their home.)

We talked for a little while longer but eventually got bored and became silent, keeping to ourselves.

I grabbed a pillow from my duffle and leaned it against the bench near the tail end of the truck, folding my arms. I looked out behind us at the desert as the mountains rolled by, dust spitting out behind the tires as the stars began to brighten in the sky. My eyelids felt heavy, and I started to drift off. A voice woke me up.

“Can I sit here?” I looked over and found Alaska standing there, clutching a pillow in one hand.

I nodded. “Sure, why not?”

She smiled and plopped down next to me, setting her pillow next to mine and slouching over.

She looked slightly uncomfortable, and an idea came to my head.

“Hey… do you want to lean on each other?” I offered the words a little nervously, thumbing over my back. She looked up at me. “You looked a little uncomfortable.”

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“You won’t mind?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Nah, you’re fine.”

Alaska smiled. “Sweet.”

We both sat up, situating ourselves so we could lean back-to-back. I chucked my pillow underneath the hard wooden benches, kicking up dust and sand that had snuck in from the opening in the back.

Alaska did the same with her pillow, carelessly tossing it under the bench, making a muted thump as it hit the hard surface. I sniffled as the dust made its way into my throat.

Alaska sighed. “You ever watch Forrest Gump?” she asked.

“Yeah, the Vietnam scene?” I chuckled. “When Bubba tells Forrest to lean on him so they can sleep without getting too uncomfortable?”

Alaska nodded, leaning her head back. “That’s what you were thinking of when you asked to lean on me, wasn’t it?”

I held up my hand and rung an invisible bell.

“Ding ding ding, you’re a winner.”

She chuckled, shaking her head.

I smiled, looking back out into the stars. “You remember that scene? The Vietnam scene?”

“You’re talking about the rain one? That’s one of the scenes I remember distinctly!” She emphasized the last word.

I turned my voice over to a nasally southern accent, recounting the lines. “And while we’s wuz in Vi-et-naem, it rained. An’ it rained fer’ a munth!”

Alaska laughed as I continued. “An’ by d’end of dat week, we’d had seen all kinds’ a’ rain! There was lil’ bitty’ stingin’ rain, an’ big fat rain!” I smiled between lines, listening to Alaska’s laughter filling the empty space.

She snorted and punched me between giggles. “Kahlo, stop it!”

I kept going. “There wuz th’ rain that came atcha from th’ side,” I paused, smiling.

“And rain that seemed t’ come from th’ ground up!” I completed my impression.

“That was good!” she said. “’Not gonna lie, it was pretty accurate.” Her head was turned to me again, surprised and impressed at the same time. I shook my head in disagreement and let out an embarrassed chuckle.

“It was!” she protested.

“Eh, it needs some work.”

I said smiling.

The hum of the engine occupied the space once more, and we were left rocking around in the bed of the truck. It was a cloudless night, the moon a crescent in the distance. Stars shone everywhere, and I studied them, looking for familiar constellations. Orion’s belt, Ursa Major, Scorpio, Pegasus. My favorites.

I stuck a hand in my pocket and sighed. “Forrest Gump.” I paused. “Bubba.”

Silence lingered in the air, not the kind of silence that created tension, but just silence. The silence of thought. “Quite a way to die.”

“Mm.” Silence again. …

“What do you think they think of?” I turned to Alaska.

“Before they die?”

“Who? The soldiers?”

“Yeah. What do you think they think about before they die?”

She shrugged. “Maybe the thing that means the most to them. For the guys with the wedding rings, maybe it’s their wife. For the guys with the ruins of war, collage ethan park ’23

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little crayon drawing in their back pocket, maybe it’s their kids. I dunno.” She paused. “For Bubba, it was home, that shrimping business he was always talking about. It was his family.”

I nodded. The silence came back again. The truck rolled on.

“Are you going to miss home?” I asked her.

She pursed her lips. “We’re going home,” she said.

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silo, digital photography austin perkins ’21

In a Hollow of Sound, | Jesse Breite, Faculty we devote ourselves to small things— brief glimpses of light through the blinds.

The flora gives answers to every silence.

The afternoon cherry tree blossoms dissemble mid-air. We walk down the street, fill our hands with what the curb collects.

My son throws petals back into the air, if only we could toss them back into bloom as light does with so much decay, offering daily matinees in April.

We give small things all our attention.

Emily and I sit at the table looking at a thousand puzzle pieces, try to shape them back together by color, likeness. You can almost forget yourself completely. Each piece a small, quiet misunderstanding blurring to frame, islands to something before. It’s small, our devotion—we hold it in our hands.

homesick, chinese brush painting daniel du ’22

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The “Greenie” | Max Brodeur ’21 He stepped off the plane feeling like a fool His parents didn’t tell him it was an all-boys school The first step was to move into Cuningham Pretty soon he’d meet his smelly roommate Sam Day after day Honors Geometry had him slaving away And the worst part was school on Saturday Too many sports to play, he couldn’t choose But the more he worked out, the more he grew Sophomore year was the year he thought would be his last But halfway through he realized he was having a blast And after the moms finished their glasses of wine They sent money to their boys who just want to fine-dine When his hair got long, Hyche had him chopped During job, the proctor made him mop The cross-country team ran Wetmore Hill for fun That’s when he realized he didn’t like to run

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winter, digital photography daniel neuman ’21

Junior year hit him with double the workload But he was organized, he cracked the code His journey to becoming a gentleman wasn’t over His friends gave him rides home in a Range-Rover Senior year he earned the respect he always wanted Even during AP-exams he remained undaunted When he left Christ School, he was sad and blank He wasn’t a boy anymore and Christ School was to thank

the distance, digital photography jack britts ’22

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Casting Time | Lennox Cummings ’21

Upon starting this essay, I found myself trying to brainstorm about very serious concepts and ideas. However, when I actually started writing, there was only one topic that kept rising to the surface of my mind. A topic that is 500,000 years old. One that everybody knows about, but few can master. My heart would object if I chose to write about anything other than fishing. There is something about the uncertainty of what every single cast may hold that keeps me coming back, over and over. Fly fishing specifically has been the passion, coping mechanism, bonding activity, and joy of my life since childhood.

The morning starts early, right around 7 a.m. The Montana world is covered in dew and quite cool, even though it’s the middle of July. I eat my bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats and my father whips up some eggs while I fight the urge to fall asleep in my bowl. I finally finish and my father tells me to start loading our gear. It’s probably 7:30 now, so I hustle to assemble fishing vests and rods. My father and I get in the truck, and away we go on the cracked and weather-beaten Montana roads. We ride South on US 191 for roughly 20 minutes until we get to our favorite spot on the Gallatin River. The river is freezing cold, but it is home to Rainbow, Cutthroat, and Brown trout. We study the submerged rocks with insects crawling over them, as well as the ones floating downstream. We’ve been preparing for this day for months, researching hatch patterns and schedules. It’s like a game, trying to figure out what insects or nymphs the fish are eating today. We tie on different flies, trying to mimic the insects. I like to use the Parachute Adams, my lucky fly. Each cast I make, there is a chance to catch a fish. Hundreds and hundreds of casts may fall between each fish caught, but as time passes, I forget all about time.

It’s been an hour since we started fishing, or maybe two – I’m not really sure. I think it’s about 10:00 a.m. I’ve already caught a few trout, so I am happy. I look downstream and see my father fishing. He is a master.

His cast unfolds over the water like a hand extending to greet someone.

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I watch in awe as he elegantly casts and catches fish. He learned from his father and mastered it with decades of practice, just as I will. His knowledge of the art is abundant, and so is my grandfather’s.

Another hour or so passes. Maybe it’s 11:30 now – I don’t know, but I don’t care. The heat of the day creeps in and the fish stop eating as usual. We walk the bank back to the truck. We peel off our wet gear. I hop in the shotgun seat and check the time on my phone; it says 1:00 p.m.

That can’t be right, I think. But then again, I wouldn’t know.

the edge, digital photography matthew luke ’22

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Life in 17 Syllables | Faculty Haikus Roots in the Midwest And Middle East. Barbecue, Sports, Contra, Crosswords.

Mr. Jameel Brenneman, World Languages & English

Pandemic panic Have to teach anyway, now!

Great fun had by all Mr. Mark Crawford, History

Colors, shapes, patterns.

Lavender mist. Mosaics.

Loves to learn. All ways.

Mrs. Tina Evans Director of Academic Resources

Day in and day out, fixing things around campus for cash to travel.

Mr. Reed Fornoff, Maintenance

A brand new teacher, whose age will never be known, enjoys English class.

Mr. Will Gordon, English & Learning Resources

Captured by quantum Mind, matter, more than their parts I sing, dream, play, teach.

Dr. Brent Harris, Science

A Hoo from Hooville.

Now a Greenie in Arden.

Hopes and dreams with you.

Dr. Sean Jenkins, Head of School, Elect

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perch, glass mosaic tina evans, faculty

Run with me at dawn, Talk books, pies, weeds over lunch.

Bedtime? Ice cream, please.

Ms. Emily Pulsifer, English

Ten years a Greenie: Will I ever graduate?

Yard A, let me stay.

Isaac Rankin, Advancement

Family Seeds of truth and care Lots of love without much money Memories that last Parents A man of integrity A woman of lion grit and strength Blessed with family values Mrs. Dale Sparacino, Learning Resources

With a shaven head And a frame that is quite tall He says Spanish words Mr. Stephen Kramer, World Languages

Science is a tool A journey to grow and know Life and her splendor…

You may not know it But science is a true gift To know is to love Mr. Jeremy Jacobs, Science

“Old Schooler Uhler” twenty years easy be Green next score more nicknames Mr. James Uhler, History

I am a fine wine.

I get better as I age.

Fear not the future!

Mr. Les Thornbury, World Languages

Fort Bragg Army brat, Then Florida boy, not Man. These mountains are home.

Mr. Greg Townsend, English

child of cleveland snow, eagle(s), jacket(s), and polish slinging maths and discs.

Mr. Ken Tyburski, Math

My Eyes Beech gifts rich learning Fraxinus delves divine realms Redbud brotherhood Mr. David Williams, Science

Twice author sings, acts!

Trail walking, world traveling, Tired father to four.

Mr. Steve Stay Assistant to the Headmaster & Registrar

hope, digital photography donna wheeler, faculty

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surreal, pen and ink jack lee ’21

Dream Killers | Coker Ford ’21 Imagination is a place with limitless possibilities, but your imagination deteriorates with responsibility.

Everyone has an imagination of who they want to be.

As a kid you grow up completely carefree – When you grow up that disappears.

But have you ever wondered why it disappears?

Is it because you grow up and start being realistic?

No, imagination is too complex to find an answer so simplistic.

Come on, just use your imagination – there is a better answer, Or is it too late, you already have the imagination cancer?

Who did you think you would become as a kid?

Did you lose it because no one gave you a bid?

I could be wrong, but maybe someone was just mad – you reached for something they couldn’t achieve and it makes them sad.

“Don’t go for that. At some point you need to grow up and be realistic!”

Maybe they were right – I guess at some point you do need to grow up, Or is it too late for me? Were my dreams killed when they were just a pup?

Is being realistic just another way of saying “give up and settle”?

I have a dream so because of that you shoot it down with bullets made of metal

every step she takes, 35mm photography jimmy belcher ’22

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Knotted. | Wilton Graves ’21

Suddenly, I am awake. This is how my days begin. I don’t dream. I don’t bound out of bed, put on some slippers, and have a fresh cup of joe. I lie on my back with my arm crooked beneath my head until I feel the pins and needles telling me I’m numb.

As I sit up, my head feels like my chest against the seatbelt when brakes slam: forward momentum, then pressure and a dull pain that fades quickly. The difference between my head and chest is the time it takes for the pain to go away.

Once I get started, it isn’t so LOUD. After I have a shower, brush my teeth, and do my exercises, I’m ready to face the day. I almost forget to look in the mirror before I leave, and with a cursory glance I determine that my appearance is, well honestly, subpar, but I don’t need to be anyone today. When I’m Tangled, I’m more concerned about how I appear to myself.

I used to have this tape. It was a meditation tape, and it was my father’s. He played it hundreds of times, and the only piece of wisdom I remember is the warning before you were asked to clear your mind. A foreign guru told his listeners not to operate machinery “under the powers” of the tape, as they could drift off to sleep during meditation. To this day, I don’t understand that warning. When I try to Untie it takes all of my focus. How could I ever sleep?

I underdressed on purpose today: I needed to see if I had made any progress. Smiling with satisfaction, the familiar bite of winter air nips at my exposed skin. Should I try to drive? Today has already made its significance known, but I can’t push too hard. I’ve learned that being too hasty can lead to an even bigger Knot.

It takes less effort to start pedaling every day. They say you never forget, yet I still have my troubles. I haven’t lost my ability to control a bike, it’s just difficult for me to stay on task. There’s a handlebar, brakes, gears, pedals – it’s a lot. Thankfully, it’s much less than a car, but it tests my limits anyhow.

As the wind pushes against me, my shirt plasters to my body and it feels like an iron chestplate. I am protected and nothing can rip this moment away. I glance down to my feet and see the white lines of the one-lane road whipping by. The frame starts to wobble and shake, and for one instant, I wonder where I would be if I fell.

Where would I be if there were cars today? Bombing the hill is my favorite.

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cobra in the dark, digital photography michael posse ’21

In the fifth grade, my grandfather took me quail hunting. I haven’t been since. When quail hunting, it’s important to lead the bird. If you shoot just ahead of it, it will fly right into the pellets. I hadn’t even shot a gun before, and it took some getting used to. Aiming at trees for thirty minutes left my arm sore and my hopes tarnished – I thought it impossible to hit these birds. Eventually, I found that the lead is just as important as the trigger. That day I bagged twelve. I was a quick study. When I Untie, I know to give those thoughts a lead.

There’s lots of trash on the side of the road. I may have made progress, but I’m not quite there. Soon I’ll be able to make it all the way up without stopping or dismounting. If a car passes, they have quite the sight to see. This gives me a needed chuckle. It’s so much better on the way down.

The door is unlocked as it always is. What would anyone steal? At least, that’s what I ask myself. The water streams over my face and I can’t stop asking questions. I question everything, from the path of my life to the type of body wash I use. Should I even be using body wash? Why’d I switch from bar soap? This is the most obnoxious part. Thoughts seep into my brain with each droplet that tickles the top of my head and I just want it to be QUIET.

It’s easier for me to feel grounded when the room is spinning. The darkness of the room and the burn in my stomach broker a truce in the battlefield of my psyche. Unfortunately, the fighting will resume tomorrow morning. It’s an overwhelming force – I won’t be able to stop them. I take solace in the fact that I can at least slow them down.

REPEAT UNTIL UNTIED

canopy, digital photography patrick wang ’24

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“Gehenna” and “Life Cycle” Noah Henthorn ’24 A small world, torn apart, broken by misfortune Showers of regret and disbelief poison the rich soil Roots of better times hamper the escape Watching as the world falls apart Skies don’t fall like feathers – they crack into shards that hurt Floating into nothingness, clinging to a nonexistent reality Enveloped by an inescapable virus Cursed to wander for eternity Descending into darkness Unable to find sanctuary in a world that doesn’t care Suddenly, a path becomes clear Ascending into the eternal darkness

Born, to a kind vassal bestoweD

Impure, loneliness was his foE

Reprieved from cholerA

Timidus non eraT* He made his living on the plougH

*He was not afraid.

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cyberpunk II, digital design william david ’21

They Say | Charles Howden ’22 They say our lives have become entrapped by phones, and we live in a place where we confront unknowns.

We’re prone to play with others who have different tones

and can’t see the faces behind screens in different time zones,

but we notice some random trend that ascends to cancelation.

We become divided with fake news spreading like infestation.

We’re letting those who hate their bodies doubt creation.

If you aren’t the prettiest, you’re the ugliest in the IG nation.

stare, oil painting jack lee ’21

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Fiction | Caleb Kurihara ’24 I’ve been playing around with the idea of a murderous author who sees the entire world as a blank page for him to write on. The people around him are characters to “scrap” as he pleases. And nothing he does, no matter how horrible, really matters, as it’s all just fiction to him. He has no memory of his past self, but a former (probably fiancé) on the police force recognizes him in this interview. From there, an arrangement is made. Here’s his debut, so to speak.

“I’m Erina Heshleton, and here on the New York streets we have the elusive author Aino, who’s agreed to do an interview with us.”

Next to Heshelton, an older woman in an atrocious mauve, suit stood a taller man with shaggy white hair made to look unkempt. Bangs obscured a pair of calm, almost dead eyes. His frame was covered by a thick, black jacket that reached up to his chin when fully zipped.

“Yo, everyone. I’m here to do a promo for my book, as well.” A microphone was held close to a pair of thin lips.

“Can you tell us a little bit about where you grew up? Does your home provide inspiration?”

He paused, leading to awkward silence. “I don’t know.”

The reporter gave a weak chuckle, thinking that it was some kind of poorly executed joke. “The pseudonym ‘Aino’ is meant to sound like ‘I know’, correct?”

The off-kilter author nodded his head, leading to his stark white mane falling forward.

“If you don’t mind telling us, what’s your real name?”

The response to this one was immediate, but his reaction was a physical one, not verbal. A sleek piece of black firepower was pointed at a head of brown hair, just millimeters away. “Don’t like that question. And you..” His finger pointed to the camera, looking as displeased as one could with half their face hidden away.

“Don’t stop broadcasting. Or I’ll shoot both of them.”

Nothing moved. No one breathed. It was as if all of existence had paused, watching with bated breath as this unfolded in its fullness.

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A quick yank upwards meant the barrel was pointed at the sky now. So, when the gun really was fired, there was no real danger to anyone. A puff of smoke and a loud noise were all that came when the trigger was squeezed.

Aino’s mouth opened once again, an amused laughter coming from the back of his throat. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, everyone! It was loaded with blanks! Expect tension like that from my next novel!”

Erina laughed. It wasn’t as if she was deriving any humor from the situation. It was a laugh that came from an equal mixture of fear and relief, knowing that she had survived this perilous encounter.

“It would’ve been really cliché for me to do that.”

The arm that had curved upwards to form an L-shape came down once again. And like before, the trigger went back, sending the hammer flying forwards. This time, a real bullet right through her brain.

There was no dramatic death scene. Heshelton died on the spot, her body slumping in the direction his ammunition had exited, blood staining the concrete.

Aino immediately looked towards the camera, seeming quite giddy with this outcome.

“Well?! How was it, everyone? The tension! The fear! The relief! And then you’re thrown right back into the wringer! So, what’d you think? Did I successfully subvert your expectations?”

pastel mountain, digital photography sam ludington ’23

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Abrupt | James Lilly ’24 How can my world change so fast?

One day we’re giving presents and the next I’m in your past.

One day the girl who I thought was mine Changed her heart on a dime.

Sunday was filled with “I miss u.”

And staying up on FaceTime till 2.

Monday was a peak to smile on, Tuesday, I wanted a shoulder to cry on.

Waves of emotions fill my mind, While waves of tears filled my eyes.

For the past four months, whenever times were hard, I would dream of you in my arms, And now when I thought I had you closest You told me it was not so.

It was the distance, you claim, the difficulty of time away, But in my mind, I can’t help but say That it’s my fault she walked away.

And at the time I need you most, you disappear like a ghost.

“Be a man,” I tell myself.

Crying is for the weak – stand tall and well.

Hide the emotions you want to let out, or find a bottle to drown them out.”

I cared about you more than I did myself.

I poured out my heart, but now I don’t know if I will ever be well.

But I do my best to be a man, Respect her decision, no matter how unplanned.

Emotions change and you will rise to another peak in life to smile at big and wide.

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Learn from the past and try not to change, Wipe off your frown and tears and brighten other people’s days.

Know that the importance doesn’t lie in what happened, But instead the importance is in your reaction.

Be kind and gentle but strong and willing – Let this be the reason for your new beginnings.

I miss you and I hope we get back together But if not, thank you for the good times we had together.

serenity, digital photography william david ’21

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Companionship

| Henry Lytle ’23

I sit and wait.

Two months ago, I sat in this same position, crossed-legged, my arm outstretched.

Instead of holding this pillow, I was grasping onto you.

The stars whisper, “1:15AM.” My body aches from the pack I carried, yet my mind yearns for more of you.

You blanket me in safety and cuddle me in warmth.

You are adventure.

You are friendship.

You are love.

I wouldn’t have wanted anything else.

But now I wait here, one week, for you to return and reweave the tapestry.

You can check out anytime you like, but you will never leave me.

You are not a physical thing, you can’t be tied down, but if I loosen my knot, you might just float downstream.

You are such a lovely place.

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sunset, digital photography henry lytle ’23

Agape aga•pe \ä’gä,pā\ | Tobenna Okoli ’22 That which enslaves me, enthralls me.

That which is too beautiful to name, remains a mystery.

Do not be defined, lest you be bound by earthly limits.

Oh, you heavenly being, consume me in a rapid fire, set my organs ablaze, for I am awash in your roaring waves.

Soon to be drowned in my thoughts, deliver me from this tormented world, for your power is of the heavens.

Thus your name be from the heavens also.

No word on Earth can conquer you.

So now, power I want but cannot stay, from the heavens you are named Agape.

fire, digital photography tony hao ’22

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Jacob and His Father | Bruce White ’24

A boy named Jacob was trying to figure out what he wanted to do with his life. Jacob and his grandfather, Jesse, were at a golf course in Atlanta having a good ole time.

“What do you want to be when you grow up, son?”

“I really would like to take golf more seriously.”

“Alright. I’ll hire a professional to train you and make you become one of the greatest this world has ever seen,” Jesse said as he smiled at his grandson.

The next morning Jesse woke Jacob up to get ready for training.

“Wake up, son, I’ve made you breakfast. Eat quickly, we have to leave soon.”

Jacob rose from his bed and ate his breakfast of eggs, sausage, pancakes, bacon, and a cup of orange juice. Jacob thanked his grandfather and they set out to the golf facility.

When they walked into the lobby of the facility, they were met by the trainer.

“Welcome! My name’s Mike, and I’ll be your trainer. Why don’t you come in so I can show you around?” They walked into a gigantic turf with many golf obstacles arranged methodically. “We will begin our training sessions together here. When you progress in skill, we’ll go outside and get to work on our practice golf course.”

After his first day of practice, Jacob asked his grandfather if he could create an athletic diet. His grandfather was supportive, pleased by his grandson’s initiative. Jacob searched on his phone for what athletes typically eat. He found many vegetable-heavy diets and was disappointed there weren’t any that included chips or soda. At the store, Jacob picked out a few vegetable plates and a couple cases of water. He decided part of his plan to be a better athlete was to cut out soda.

His grandfather had one condition to his funding of Jacob’s dream.

“I’ll buy everything you asked for but with one condition: you have to promise me that you will never give up on anything. No matter how hard it gets, I want you to keep pushing.”

“I promise, Grandpa. I will push through all of my pain, no matter how hard it gets.”

On their way out of the grocery store, Jacob heard a crash. He looked back and saw that his grandfather had fallen, the groceries scattered across the parking lot. As Jacob rushed to help his grandfather, his grandfather pushed him away.

“I’m alright, son. I’m alright.”

One Month Later

“Jacob, I’m going on a trip. You’ve got to spend a few days at your pal Jimmy’s house. I need you to pack all of your clothes and get ready to go.”

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After he dropped his grandson off, Jesse went to the hospital and checked in. He said it was an emergency and they put him in a wheelchair, rushing him to the back. After a night in the hospital and many tests, the doctor gave Jesse his diagnosis.

“Sir, I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you, but you have stage-4 pancreatic cancer. I won’t lie to you, sir: you may only have a few weeks left.”

Jesse picked up the phone next to his bed, and the first person he thought to call was his grandson.

Jacob didn’t pick up the phone after a few calls, so Jesse left a message.

“Jacob, I have to tell you something. I didn’t go on a trip. I went to the hospital because I wasn’t feeling very well. The doctors tell me it’s pretty bad—it’s cancer. You have to stay with your friend until I find someone else for you to stay with. I love you.”

Jacob was devastated. He never thought that his grandfather would be leaving so soon. He cried for the rest of the night. He started to remember what his grandfather always told him: “Never give up on your dreams and where you came from.”

The next morning, Jacob got a call from the hospital. His grandfather’s condition had taken a turn for the worse overnight, and he had passed away. Jacob began to cry but remembered his grandfather would want him to be strong. He wouldn’t want Jacob to give up on his dreams. Jacob called his trainer and told him that he wanted to have an extra session that coming weekend. Fueled with a new motivation, Jacob practiced all of his techniques and tried out different strategies.

A Few Years Later

A big golf tournament was coming up, one that could change the course of Jacob’s career. College scouts would be there, and he knew he had to give it his all. Jacob told his trainer that he needed to be prepared for the tourney and for him to give Jacob the best workouts he could find. Jacob put in the extra work every day to perfect his craft and make sure he was prepared for the tournament coming up.

The day of the tournament was finally here. Jacob whispered words of confidence to himself before kneeling in prayer: “Dear Lord, please help me play well today. I want to make my grandpa proud and prove to him that I was worth his time. In Jesus name I pray. Amen.”

To begin his day on the course, Jacob came up to the tee box with boosted confidence. He crushed the ball, and everyone stared with awe, watching the ball glide across the sky as it careened toward the ground. The ball began rolling slowly to the hole and everyone began yelling and screaming louder and louder. As it dropped into the hole, Jacob jumped up in excitement and the crowd went wild. Jacob looked up into the sky and touched his heart. Tears ran down Jacob’s face with relief and excitement. “I did it, Grandpa,” he whispered. asheville sky, digital photography michael jaber ’22

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Thackston Smackdown Volleyball Game, Summer 2019 | Billy Thackston ’21 You can hear and smell the creek rushing with water as cold as an ice bath.

Family gathers from Kansas to the East Coast to assemble at one place for one reason: The World Championship.

Tension rises quickly.

“Aim for the fat guy in the back,” says Ty, as he aims for Uncle Stuart.

“They’re a bunch of old hags.”

Dive for the ball and face plant, protect the ball from hitting the ground.

Emotions rise with hands on heads or hands on hips, heads hanging, bruises on arms and pain all over.

Despite the bitter loss of 2-1, despite dehydration for the day, we gather around one table, enjoy one last meal of burgers and dogs, cherishing the volleyball game, with boasting and laughter, laughter, laughter.

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brenna, drawing joshua edgecomb ’22

Carolina Blue | Wesley Thomas ’22 Beauty like no ordinary night White, pink, orange, and blue Makes this night a sight Up here on this mountain with you White, pink, orange and blue Painted across this Blue Ridge Sky Up here on this mountain with you In the morning, I’ll have to bid you goodbye Painted across this Blue Ridge Sky Makes this night a sight In the morning, I’ll have to bid you goodbye Beauty like no ordinary night

overlook, digital photography havilah cooper ’23

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Football Sunrise | Emily Pulsifer, Faculty

When it was over, Sheila May refused to admit the fuss she’d made about me going. After the camera crews showed up with their bright lights and questions, she made it sound like she sent me out that night, like she wrote up instructions on how to be a hero and passed them to me like a grocery list. But that wasn’t how it was. Not one bit.

After dinner that night, she followed me to my truck.

“No bathroom needs a babysitter,” she said, wagging a pink latex fingernail under my nose. “You spend your weekdays hotfooting after those boys. You’d think they could find their way to the crapper without you on the weekends. Have some self-respect, Tiny.”

I tried to look down at my work boots but Sheila May stepped close and rubbed her stomach below my belt.

“I could get us a pecan pie and some Cool Whip down at Ingles,” she said. “We could watch us a movie, head upstairs?” She blinked her loaded lashes and did some more rubbing. There was a time when this would have had me hustling to the bedroom but not anymore.

“I gotta go,” I said. “It’s the state championship.”

“You think I don’t know that? There’s nothing in the paper except Lions Football and that Hastings kid. I’m sick to death of it.”

“He’s special, that one,” I said. “I’ve never seen any like him.”

Sheila May removed her stomach from my mid-section. She was wearing her favorite Jeff Gordon t-shirt and when she crossed her arms over her DD-cups, her forearms cut off his head. “You say that about all of them.”

“Sure, there’s always a few real good ones every year, but I tell you, Jon Hastings’s different.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t start.”

“He’s the best player I’ve ever seen. I’d bet good money on him going all the way.”

“Is that you’re doing now, placing bets? Doesn’t surprise me. Here I am, trying to keep house on the nothing you make and you go and piss it away on high school football. This isn’t what I signed up for when I married you, Tiny Smalls. If my momma were here, bless her soul, she’d have something to say about this.”

Whenever Sheila May summoned her momma, that was my cue to get moving.

“See you around eleven,” I said and lifted my right leg to the truck’s bench seat. I had to grip my hand under my thigh to get it up there; after my own years of football, my right hip didn’t do all it should.

“Shower before you get in my bed,” Sheila May yelled as I pulled onto Chester Street. “I can’t stand that football smell.”

I opened the truck’s back window and let the cool breeze clear the cab. It felt good to be moving

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away from Sheila May’s disappointment. That woman could argue with her shadow and find fault with the Virgin Mary. She could have come – I used to invite her – but she didn’t like spending three hours on cold metal bleachers for a game she’d never taken the time to learn (she still called the referees “umpires” and asked how many innings in each game). I’d given up asking years before.

Passing through town, I saw Coach Pharr’s wife loading her Explorer. She smiled at me and leaned down to direct her twin girls to wave. They flapped both arms and danced on the sidewalk, blonde curls jigging over matching Montford Lions sweatshirts. Mandy Blevins, Contess DiAngelo and her squeeze of the week, Andy Stills, were leaving Dairy Queen with sodas in their hands. They shouted, “Yo, Tiny!” as I drove by. I was pretty sure I’d see them at the game, along with every other student from Montford High. This was the first time we’d made it to the state championship and everyone (except Sheila May, it seemed) was riding high.

Jon Hastings lived with his mom and younger sister in Serenity Woods, Montford’s only apartment complex, and I often gave him a lift to home games so his momma could take her time. When I pulled in and honked, I saw a banner hanging from the porch next to the Hastings’ place. “Lions ROAR!” it said, with Jon’s face glaring from one end.

“That kid looks scary,” I said, jerking my head toward the banner as Jon hopped in beside me. “I wouldn’t mess with him.”

Jon threw his head back and laughed, a full, nervous bellow that spawned a chuckle in me, too.

“You could take him,” Jon said. “He’s no more than 260, 265.”

“I might have thirty pounds on him, but that wouldn’t do me no good. He’s pure ‘muscle, skill and speed’. I’m a load of lard with arthritis and lazy mixed in.”

Jon laughed again and brushed a hand over his new crew cut. I was quoting a line from his scouting profile in Mainframe Sports and I was sure he knew it.

“You ready?” I asked. We were still a mile nature’s engine, digital photography michael posse ’21

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from school but green balloons swayed over every mailbox, hydrant and lamppost along the route. Another banner flapped over the school’s main entrance, too, only this one read, “Welcome to the Lions’ Den!” Underneath it, somebody had taped a messy handmade sign: “Hastings: 39.” Jon had sacked 39 boys so far that year, just three shy of the state record.

“I’m always ready,” Jon said, his voice suddenly steely, all the anxiety boxed up and put away like wool sweaters in May. This, I knew, was the voice he’d use ninety minutes later to get his teammates riled up.

Trent Pace and Marley Elmes, co-captains with Jon, met us in the parking lot.

“You want to help us on the line tonight, Tiny?” Trent asked as Jon grabbed his backpack and thanked me for the ride.

“Oh, I’d love to,” I said, “but I wouldn’t want to get in Jon’s way.”

My hip wouldn’t let me move fast so I got to watch the boys walk toward the field house. They marched in cinque, Jon at the center, much the way they moved as a unit on the field. They were all good players – Trent at quarterback, Marley running for both offense and defense, and Jon on the line – but there was something different about Jon. You could see it in the bulge of his calves, the rise of his shoulders, the loose tension in his arms. In the few minutes he stood on the sidelines during each game, his eyes never left the play and his voice was as steady as a drumbeat. When he was on the field, he moved as if he’d seen the whole thing before: finding the only hole for a sack, spreading those long arms wide to block two players at once, leaping like an overgrown grasshopper to deflect a field goal. He read the game like nobody I’d ever seen in my years at Montford High or the two I spent at Western Carolina. And he did it like it was just part of the job. No showboating. No smack talk.

At the door to the fieldhouse, the boys paused. Trent and Marley headed inside but Jon turned and jogged back to my truck.

“If you can break away, you think you might come down to the field for the second half?” he asked.

“The team’s hoping you will.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. During games, I kept close to the snackbar and the restrooms above the bleachers. Somebody had to deal with the hot cocoa machine when it fizzed out and the dimwits flushing paper down the johns, and for three decades that somebody had been me. These days, Principal Thomas liked me up there looking out for hecklers and breaking up tussles, too. But don’t get me wrong, I kept track of what was happening on the field. Oh, yes, I kept my ears open, and when I could, I stepped into the shadows by the storage closet to watch a play from start to finish. Watching those boys in uniforms as shiny

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and green as holly leaves, their white helmets striped and splattered with mud, I’d catch myself holding my breath. Only a dull ache under the nameplate on my grey uniform told me to snap-to and breathe again. And when I did breathe, I felt my heart and head fill with that football smell Sheila May fussed about: the smell of ripped grass, sweat, old leather and big dreams. Did I want to be down on the sidelines with Jon and the team? Heck, I couldn’t imagine anything more fine.

My face must have shown my surprise and uncertainty because Jon rescued me from it before I had a chance to patch two words together.

“Come down if you can,” he said.

“It would mean a lot.”

He punched my shoulder hard, like he did every time he saw me wheeling my cart through the cafeteria or swabbing floors in the locker room, and then he was gone.

Principal Thomas kept me busy right up until kickoff -- parking cars, delivering water coolers, breaking up a fight behind the visitors’ bleachers -- and I was grateful for it because Jon’s invitation had set my mind awhirl. I could be on the field for the second half, maybe see Jon break that record. As I fixed a running toilet in the ladies’ room in the first quarter, I thought about it, and when I rumbled down to the lower lot to retrieve traffic cones midway through the second, I thought about it some more. We were up 21-10 at halftime when the band marched across the field and fans mobbed the snackbar and restrooms.

I patrolled, watching for trouble. I returned a toddler to his mother and shoved a backpack from an aisle where it might trip someone. The hot chocolate machine cut out after too many cups – the November night was chilling down – so I stepped behind the snackbar’s counter and fiddled with its innards until it took to dirt road, digital photography jack britts ’22ghosts

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producing again. Back in the stands, Andy Stills, one of the kids I’d seen leaving the Dairy Queen, passed by and asked if I’d seen Jon’s numbers for the first half.

“He’s gonna bust it, Tiny,” he said. “He had two in the first quarter.”

Contess DiAngelo was right there with him, one of those fancy camera phones in her hand. She flashed a picture at Andy before turning the screen my way.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” she said. “My momma said it’s your record Jon’s gonna break.”

I squinted at the picture.

“Where’d you find that?” I asked.

“Montford High yearbook, 1983. You look so different! Mom showed it to me and I was like, ‘That’s not Tiny!’”

She was right. There I was in my own # 3 green jersey, fifty pounds lighter and a whole lot better looking. And she was right about the rest of it, too: Jon was about to toss me from the record books.

“Pretty cool,” Andy said as he looked me up and down. He seemed to take me for something different now that he knew what I could do three decades before.

The loudspeaker had been playing music with lots of screaming and yelling after the band finished up, but it cut out for Principal Thomas’s voice.

“Tiny Smalls, please report to the Lions’ bench. Tiny Smalls to the Lions’ bench.”

From the top of the stands, the crowd looked like a waterfall dropping to the field’s perfect grid. The players – miniature green and blue figures from that high – spilled from the locker room as insects ducked and dove under the stadium’s lights. I felt that pain in my chest again and took a deep, deliberate breath. No sense in fainting before making it to the field. I hitched up my pants where they sag at the small of my back and tipped my chin up. Above my head, the stars were lost in the wash of light, like they were drowning in a football sunrise.

Easing down the stairs, kids and friends shouted “Tiny!” as I passed. I smiled, waved and shoved that same dang backpack out of my way. I was glad Sheila May wasn’t there to commentate. She’d want to know why, if I could break away to pal around with the boys on the field, how come I couldn’t sit with her in the stands from time to time? She’s make fun of my limp, too; the way I had to grip the handrail and roll my bad hip to find the next step. But she’d save the worst for what she took to be my intentions. “You’re just following the spotlight, Tiny Smalls, like you always did. Hoping for glory you don’t deserve.”

“I’m happy for him,” I would have said to her if she’d been there to listen. “Let Jon break my record and go on to do what I never done. Let him go to college on that scholarship like mine, but let him put more

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stock in it. Let him study more than he drinks and take care of his body better than I did with this tub of lard I call mine. Let him find a girl who really loves him, loves him for who he is and not the glimmer of what he should have become. And let him go all the way. All the way.”

On the grass, I tried to stay out of the way but Jon found me before he hustled onto the field. His helmet was all mussed up and crooked but I could see his brown eyes flash behind its facemask. Few people were tall enough to look me in the eye.

“Thanks for coming down,” he said.

“No sweat. Go break that record,” I said.

“Your record.”

I lifted my Lions ballcap and scratched the thin hair above my left ear.

“How long you known it’s mine?” I asked.

“Since we met,” he said. “I’ve been gunning for you this whole time.”

I laughed. “More power to you, son.”

He smacked my shoulder hard and I pounded his chest pad harder and then he threw his head back and yowled like an animal on the hunt.

“Go get it,” I shouted as Jon and the other Lions filed out to the line of scrimmage. The whistle blew and the game resumed with a draw play for a Lion first down. A few minutes later, Trent made a smart playaction pass to Marley on the five and the Lions had their fourth touchdown and a 17-point lead.

I was hanging back near the bench, keeping clear of the boys as they celebrated on the sidelines. Jon came in to swallow a spray of water and then he was back on the field with defense. I closed my eyes and imagined the way his heart must be drumming, the fiery tingle behind his ears and down his back.

When he dropped to his stance, I could almost feel the wet grass under his knuckles and hear the huffing and cursing from the big fellow marking him. I knew he could hear our cheers, too, the bellows and whistles from the fans, but he’d be too focused to think about them. He’d have one thought as he waited for the whistle’s release: shut them down.

I suppose it was that kind of thinking that kept me from understanding a heartbeat too late. I opened my eyes to the same lights and the same game and the same shiny cheerleaders I’d watched a moment before. I peered past the giddy players, the chain crew and the referees to the same field. The air still the center point, digital photography brandon brown ’25

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rippled with excitement and anticipation. Nothing had changed.

But then it did. A boy brushed past me, a short boy with long, dust-colored hair and a backpack slung over his shoulders. I recognized the backpack from the stands as I registered the incongruity of the boy’s bare head and low-slung black jeans among the boys in uniform. He had no business on the field but he was moving toward it. As the play ended and the teams pushed up from the ground, the boy in the backpack slipped between Marley and Coach Pharr and stepped into the glare of the open field.

They say I started yelling about then but all I remember is fire in my belly and that goddamn weakness in my right hip. I moved as fast as I could, willing my fat, beaten body to run. But I was no match for that silent, angry boy with his grandpa’s service-issue Colt tucked under his arm and nothing but everything to lose. I was five clumsy steps from him when he extended his rail-thin arm and fired into the circle of green jerseys on the forty yard line.

“Thwock!” And then another. “Thwock!”

I was on him then, all my weight slamming down on his tiny, splintery frame. I heard a snap, then a whimper like a kitten’s. But I didn’t care.

From where I lay, I could see feet moving every which way. Cleats, boots, shined loafers. After a minute, hands nudged my back and I heard Principal Thomas’s voice.

“Come on up, Tiny. It’s done.”

I rolled to my side and felt the boy flop away. Not far off, I could see another boy lying on his side.

“Who is that?” I asked, my voice sharp and high.

Principal Thomas gripped my arm and tried to turn me away from the ring of paramedics and police officers but I shook him off.

“Who is that?” I wailed.

Sheila May, when she tells the story, doesn’t tell the reporters what I did then. She likes to describe my fierce dash into the fray. “That crazy boy would’ve killed the whole team if Tiny hadn’t shown up,” she says in her church clothes on our porch with the bright lights on her. No, she has no use for the truth. She doesn’t tell them how I shoved my way to the forty yard line where the boy lay. How, when I saw Jon’s face, I blubbered like a baby and bulled my way to drop by his side. She doesn’t tell how I ran my hand over and over his sweaty forehead, my tears and snot spotting his jersey, or how I watched them wheel him from the field and I cursed God and Christ and the invisible stars above.

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Stone, Lichen, and Hemlock | Ron Ramsey, Faculty Lichen pocked stones Reflect a patience of action Still growing older Hemlock cones dangle Silent church bells in the cove Falls the only organ Ancient Hemlocks line The valley like pool-side slides Would be a bumpy ride Hemlock needles litter The ground with colorful confetti.

Did I miss the parade?

Angular stones stand Above the streambed and wait.

Youth, not yet worn smooth Needled armada Adelgid infected Hemlock Stand ghostly vigil

tulip tree, drawing brighton shook ’22

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She Should Stop | Tobenna Okoli ’22 Mum thinks she knows best, But she does not. She should stop.

I can dress myself.

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relax and focus, digital photography brandon brown ’25

Farm Life | Billy Thackston ’21 Dark and peace before dawn Working hard and quietly before light No time to stand still and yawn Making sure everything is alright Working hard and quietly before light Excited dogs ready for the day Making sure everything is alright While the rest of the animals get hay Excited dogs ready for the day A special someone on my mind, a brunette While the rest of the animals get hay Long days end with a beautiful sunset A special someone on my mind, a brunette No time to stand still and yawn Long days end with a beautiful sunset Dark and peace before dawn

josie, digital photography jake matthews ’24

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Hollowed | Aidan Galpin ’21

Character 1: 08/15/2017 you guys gonna get uncharted when it comes out Character 3: 08/15/2017 maybe … ive been taking a bit of a break from actually playing games so i can focus more on college

i was starting to spend a little too much time on games…ya know Character 4: 08/15/2017 i feel that… i played games a lot back when i was in middle and high school… it can really affect your grades n stuff if you let it Character 1: 08/15/2017 yup :lul: Character 4: 08/15/2017 i actually failed my freshman year… had to do summer school in order to stay on track Character 2: 08/15/2017

ive actually started writing stories about what it was like from my

perspective (my psychiatrist actually gave me the idea)

Actually you wanna see what im currently working on?

________________________________________ Before I Got Help (Reality through the eyes of a person who can’t tell video games from real life)

You start your day the same way you always do on the weekend. You wake up to the dorm parent telling you to go get your meds. When they leave, you go on your phone, watch some Netflix,

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go on Clash of Clans, and then get dressed. You open the door and head down the hall to the stairwell and notice how dark it is. You just assume that it is very overcast, typical winter weather. You head downstairs and open the side door of the dorm. You notice that it is very dark, not just overcast, like everything is less colorful. The ground is hard and dusty, far from the luscious green grass you had walked barefoot across the previous day. The trees surrounding the school are all dead and in the place of all the buildings are giant Byzantine and Gothic style cathedrals and Renaissance style buildings that make you feel insignificant and fill you with dread. You begin to wonder if it is just a dream, you had spent seven hours playing nothing but Dark Souls the night before and this whole thing could just be something your mind made up. As you head forward, you notice human-like figures that appear to have lost their souls, you know them to be hollows from the countless hours you have spent playing the game, wandering aimlessly around the barren wasteland that once was your school whilst casting despair on the weak for they once were like you, but hollowed because they could not escape.

Surely this was not a dream, it felt too real, but how could it possibly be reality?

You think hard about the events of the previous night.

You remember that you had decided to restart the game, restart it from the beginning.

Everything else is dark, you cannot recall anything else.

You walk to the run-down Renaissance building where the dining hall once stood, and come across a knight with black steel armor that is covered in nicks, scratches, and the occasional patch of rust. On his back, he carries a rusty greatsword with long curved spikes like lengthy barbed wire and the etch of a human skull where the blade meets the pommel. You realize that he was the one who had woken you up, not your dorm parent.

“You were almost gone when I found you,” he said. “ I was beginning to wonder if I was too late.”

He, of course, was talking about you becoming hollow.

“Could you do something for me?” reality’s edge, digital rendering aidan galpin ’21

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Hollowed | Aidan Galpin ’21

You respond with a yes.

“I don’t have much time, could you finish what I have started?”

You nod your head, yes.

“Thank you.”

And with those final words he hollowed, and you set off to finish what he had started. Although he had not told you what it was you were supposed to finish, you know inside that it is to ring the bell and light the Kiln of the First Flame because you have played Dark Souls for thousands of hours. You know that this time it is going to be different and that this time you could actually hollow and never return to the normal world.

You set off in the direction of the dining hall which, like everything else, has grown in size and become a city full of hollows, filled with buildings that are a mix between medieval and gothic architecture.

You find a shield next to a withered corpse and a broken sword on the ground. You make your way through the city, going in and out of buildings, searching for items and grinding for souls in order to level up your stats. That’s how this game works, or at least you assume this because it is Dark Souls just in a new form.

You find a bonfire and light it, healing you and refilling your Estus Flasks. Making your way to the first of the massive structures in the distance, you look to your left and right at the endless levels of streets and buildings climbing high into the sky far beyond what you can see.

When you get to the cathedral, after battling your way through hordes of undead and other creatures, you go inside and light your second bonfire. You think that it is strange that there were two bonfires with no bosses in between, and you assume that every boss will be much harder than in the actual game since there was no tutorial boss or even a tutorial at all, which made sense because it wasn’t really a game. ________________________________________ Character 3: 08/15/2017

so you like really thought you were living the game irl?

and that was sorta a way of i dont wanna say coping but coping … uhh make

sense of it .. or come to terms with just … everything Character 2: 08/15/2017 Yeah. …sorta … you knda gotta understand that those first couple of years… when i was dreaming and stuff.. Like when i slept thats all my brain would really go through...i got very little sleep as well... and thats all i experienced while i was awake… thats really all i knew so it made sense in my head at least to just

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accept it and questioning it caused quite a bit of internal conflict i mean i was questioning how i had viewed everything during that time. i was … it was hard to … yeah it was hard and its hard to explain Character 3: 08/15/2017 hmm

Well i think youve done a good job with it so far.. what do you have planned

for it … like … uh Character 2: 08/15/2017 Thx …yeah itll continue like this a little … then itll kinda skip to the internal conflict stuff …i also wanna talk a bit about how the design of games can be a problem for ppl … games are designed with addictive color schemes and all sorts of stuff Character 3: 08/15/2017

honestly id never thought about how games had an effect on me mentally or

that it could even affect you mentally

hope youre able to finish it and get that stuff out there

gtg Character 2: 08/15/2017 Thx… cya

veiled theatre, colored pencil ollie searle ’21

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top: modern, drawing | drew redmond ’21 bottom: lucid dreaming, bishop, ca, drawing | henry holland ’23

STRUAN BOARD

Colin Brazas ’22 Jordan Edgecomb ’24 Tony Hao ’22 Noah Henthorn ’24

Henry Hollard ’23 Charles Howden ’22 Michael Jaber ’22

Caleb Kurihara ’24 Henry Lytle ’23 Ivan Mora ’22 Tobenna Okoli ’22

SENIOR EDITORS Jackson Fender ’21 Wilton Graves ’21 Luke Stone ’21

FACULTY ADVISORS Erin Price Emily Pulsifer Jameel Brenneman

Struan celebrates the artists and writers who dream and create on Christ School’s campus.

Designed and edited by a dedicated group of students, our art and literature magazine displays select work from students and faculty. Over the years, this annual publication has included every form of writing and art, from personal essays to Post-It poems, charcoal drawings to digitally manipulated photographs. On its pages, the definition of a “Greenie” expands to include those who find purpose, strength, and community in art.

struan 2020-21

Christ School Arden, NC 28704 www.christschool.org