Photo by Camille Hunt
Logos Mission Statement We envision a Logos that presents you the finest art, photography, and literature produced by St. Paulâ€™s students.
Editor-in-Chief: Micah McGuire
Co-Editors: Kyle Grace Mills Dylan Gibson Staff: Emma BjĂśrnfot Hannah Fruh Molly Millican Patrick Schulte Joseph Thomas
Journalism Advisers: Dr. Laurie Shorter Mrs. Carrie Stuart
Editors’ Note Ladies and gentlemen: We present you the Logos. The term “Logos,” roughly translated from Greek, can mean “word” or “reason.” The word was first used by the Greek Sophist philosophers to refer to discourse and the fine art of rhetoric. It only seems appropriate that this should be the title of a collection of moving writing and mesmerizing imagery. We believe that this publication holds as much promise as it does literary and artistic work. All great things spawn from humble beginnings, and it is with great pride that we present to you Logos, a fresh start on an old tradition.
Kyle Grace Mills
We dedicate this rejuvenated Logos to Nancy Strachan, the long-time guardian and mentor for Logos.
Patrick Schulte Why, the light’s gone, I’m gone but I’m not gone. How am I still here? I blew out the light myself. Cornelia was there, Doctor Harry was there, Father Connolly was there, Lydia and Jimmy, and I blew out the light, and now I can’t see. Am I in my grave? Have I been put in my grave already? My, it seems like it is only a short time since I blew myself out! I guess it’s a comfort that my children know not to keep an old lady out in the open for all to parade by. Goodness, wouldn’t that be embarrassing, left all for all to see. Oh bother, I never went through my silly old letters in the attic. Well, nothing could be done about that. Oh, I wish Haspy had been there, it would have been such a comfort. I wonder what will come soon. I wish I could have seen Haspy there. I hope I see John. I’ll prove to him hen what a fool he was. I managed everything so well. Lord knows I did.
Well, I wonder what there’ll be now. Just this darkness or something else? I’ve be jilted again, this time by my rock and foundation, my shepherd. Amen. I was foolish in love. Oh bother, I left my letters in the attic. Now I know I’m a fool. I can now see how foolish I was when I couldn’t see the ways I was dying. The strange feelings, the weird way everything looked, being unable to hear. I hope the children but my flowers on my grave. I hope they know what flowers I like. Wait, what’s that? It’s so small… can it be? Is that heaven? Is my Lord and Savior coming for me now? Have I not been jilted again after all? It’s growing! Or am I shrinking? I can’t tell. If that is the Lord, he looks so much like a lamplight. Like when I lit the lamps with the children. The slow growth, the soft gleam. I wonder if I’ll see John in heaven. Granny Weatherall embraced the light in front of her, and she forgot all she knew. Photo by Virginia Bender
It was a dark and cold night in the town of mobile. Tmoore317
It was a dark and cold night in the town of mobile. There were some ppl who were talking and then one of them disappeared and then another and next thing you know their was 1 and he was all like “WHO DID THIS” and than Edward popped up and said “ME!” The man got scared and yelled YOU ARE VAMPIRE IN MOBILE HOW? And Edward replied because I want to meet a really cool guy so we can be cool friend and hangout and stuff and thren Edward bit the guy. LATER THAT NIGHT, Edward popped up in my house and said “Hey dude” and I was all like “OMG EDWARD WATS UP?” and he was like “I need friends and then he bitted me. OWW I yelled out. WHY YOU DO THIS? I Said. He replied, because you can be friend now and I said that’s sounds awesome cause I am vampire. Later I woke up in bed and I waws like, that was crazy dream. And then Edward said THAT WAS NO DERAM. AND I SAID WHAT? REALLY? I AM VAMPIRE ? And he rpelied yes you are vampire and then we left. LATER I was hanging out with Edward and we saw some realy hot chiks and they was lik lol sup guys? And I was like I am vampire and they say that is really cool and then we hang out and do stuff and it was fun. Later I saw that chik bella and she was like, omg Edward your friend (thjat would be me) is really hot. And then Edward got angry at her and I was like “its cool man” you aint the hottest thing in town any more and he was like ok and then he left and trhan me and bella had a nice tiome and hung out and stuff and Edward was like YOU ARE BAD FREND and I was like “lol sorry brah”
Collsge by Rachel Bickert
Anonymous Photo by Kristen Grenade
You hope, pray, love, and discuss Oh how you feel that you must You wish, dream, laugh, and cry Sometimes you wonder why But only a moment of fleeting, For Friends are what keep the heart beating
Unable to dream Unable to breathe Unable to laugh Unable to cry Unable to wish Unable to hope Unable to love Only nothing -Anonymous
Photo by Kayliegh Hudson
Descriptive Essay Anna Rogers
I was awakened by the ear-ringing buzz of my alarm clock. It was November 12th, 2009, a normal day of no particular significance, or at least so I thought. I began the day performing my every day routine; getting out of bed, getting dressed for school, going to school, and then attending anything that spontaneously presented itself for the afternoon. It was not an extremely cold day, but it was certainly cold enough to provoke thoughts of lying in my warm bed sipping hot chocolate, enjoying every last warm flow of liquid that eased down my throat. School was okay, nothing out of the ordinary, just school. At the end of the day, I received a phone call from my jubilant mother while struggling through the rush hour of students mingling near the lockers. I answered the phone and she exclaimed “Guess what today is?” unaware of what she was referring to, I answered sarcastically “Christmas?” She laughed and said “Well, actually it is the Christmas Jubilee!” By hearing the tone in her voice, I could imagine the look she had on her face. The Christmas Jubilee is one of her absolute favorite activities to attend in November, and I honestly consider whether she looks forward more to shopping than actual Christmas day. I remember her picking me up from school and with an extra jacket in hand, we made our way to the fair grounds. Lights, paintings, jewelry, clothes, etc. oozed out of merchandise stands. Everywhere I turned there were countless numbers of fabulous items for any occasion. For me, it was complete chaos; Mom, on the other hand, lived for it. We finally made it to an open vender and Mom was in her own world picking up anything that sparkled eloquently. I was just browsing, not too interested, but still keeping a smile on for my wonderful Mom. Well, little did I know, what would occur in the next five minutes would change my life forever. I glanced down as my phone continued to buzz against the table I was standing near creating a very awkward roar. I received a text message from my close friend Lexie Green saying that Mac Chatom, also a good friend of mine, was hit by a car while
running that afternoon and to please pray for his recovery. My initial reaction was shock,” Mac Chatom, hurt? No, certainly not Mac.” You see Mac was the type of guy that anyone could call their best friend. Nothing bad ever happened to Mac because he was so busy living his life to the fullest and dedicating his time outside of school to baseball and cross country. Mac had been a brother figure in my life since I was about 13 years old. Thirteen years old, yes indeed the glorious awkward stage. Braces, chubby cheeks, and “to cool for school” outfits was the stage when Mac and I first became best friends. We instantly clicked after being introduced. It was not the type of fairy-tale “I think I am head over heels in love” with a boy connection; it was the instant sensation of friendship and sincerity that moved me to love Mac the way I do. As I began to type a reply to Lexie, my Mom noticed my changed expression from blissful to grave. She asked what was wrong and I read aloud the message. Her face immediately went somber and she remarked “Oh, no.” Mom and I rushed towards the exit through the crowd of what seemed like bees swarming around fresh honeycomb. We walked to her car and I was continuously playing phone tag from one friend to another about the news concerning Mac. My mother drove to meet Lexie and her mom right around the corner from the Christmas Jubilee so we could be together and decide what do to next. I soon hopped into Lexie’s car and before I knew it we were on the way to the Children’s and Women’s hospital off Springhill Avenue, a place I could never imagine going to visit a close friend. As we were making our way down to the hospital, I received the phone call. The phone call that would forever alter my life. The phone call that sent me into a flow of tears so strong that I never knew could be humanly possible. The phone call that marked the beginning of one of the hardest times in my life. Yes, this was the phone call that informed us that Mac, my beloved friend, did not survive the accident. Lexie’s mom continued driving to the hospital. Lexie, who was sitting in the front seat, was at a loss for words. It was like someone had
taken her vocal cords completely out of her body. I was in the back seat, sobbing a never-ending river of tears. The feeling inside of my stomach churned with confusion. I was not fully aware of what happened. A part of me questioned why I was crying, but at the same time, I knew I was crying because something terrible had occurred. We arrived at the hospital and I remember looking out the car window to see my best friends mourning in the parking lot among one another. After seeing this, every hope that I was going to be woken up from the nightmare I was having crumbled; I knew now I was not asleep, I was living in reality. The first person I reached in the group was Mitchell, another “brotherly” figure, but most importantly, Mac’s best friend. We held one another for what seemed like three hours. I could not let go. The way he trembled with tears running in every direction transferred the shock of the situation into my body. I knew this was an unbearable situation, but I did not want to face it. Between sobs, Mitchell looked me in the eyes and said “Mac, Anna. Not Mac, I was just with him Anna. It’s Mac. He’s not gone.” I tried to make sense of Mac’s death at that moment and I could not even begin to wrap my mind around it. Even today, as his presence follows me around every corner I turn and obstacle I face, I cannot fathom his death. The night of November 12th, 2009, certainly took a “normal” day to a polar opposite level. Mac Chatom’s death has proven to be one of my biggest hardships in life, and while the suffering is surreal, hope is everlasting. The days that pass are precious gifts to me and I am a true believer that we are not promised tomorrow. Mac was not promised tomorrow, his 16th birthday, or a spot in the marathon he was training for when he was killed. His spirit impacts my life every minute of every day. Mac Chatom finished his race, and now it is time for me to run my own race; remembering that the finish line appears when least expected.
Photo by Virginia Bender
The Hope of a Morning
Danielle Williamson The hope of a morning A baby’s first breath Not knowing of horrors Of pain and of death
His mother tries to shield him From the cruelty of the world But the covering over his eyes Becomes slowly unfurled It starts in school As they call him names He frowns, befuddled Confused by their games He tells them to stop “It hurts me inside.” But they proceed to mock And tear down his pride And so it continues Through his academic career Each trip to the schoolhouse Bringing torment and fear And as time passes The jeers become blows His body blemished by bruises One eye swollen closed Of his pain, he tells no one Choosing to bear it in silence His refusal to whimper His sole form of defiance But the beatings continue Until his mother’s heart is crushed When the ominous ring of a telephone Breaks the early-morning hush She rushes to the school Her boy lies broken on the grass And the hope of a morning Never comes to pass.
Photo by Samantha Leach
Throngs of trees, tranquil, in torpor Trace the horizon, a trenchant orange on red, Against azure, afire in autumnâ€™s quiet and consistent apogees. His head plays retrograde rhapsodies Reverberating against the roof of his mouth As he rests on the pedals and represses his urge to retch. He sits by the bicycle on the side of a hill A minor continental shelf in oceans of zephyrs And trails the clouds, majestic beasts ever transmuting And ever traversing the truculent tides of air. He notes that the universe is the only ideal machine, Ever pulsing, never ceasing, under the power of fire and stardust Itself a majestic beast untouched by limited logic and all at once ubiquitous. The spokes of a bicycle rustle through leaves As insect empires retake and conquer his formerly occupied patch of grass blades Their withering ends chilled by temporary cloud cover As majestic beasts move northward.
Photo by Virginia Bender
Golgotha Elizabeth Kim
It is dark. One’s eyes cannot pierce through the surrounding night, And it is futile to wander, For there is no exit. It is only one in this land. He feels a heat upon his soul, And his blood drums against his veins, He feels a creeping horror, But this he cannot accept. The darkness is everlasting, The strength has fled from his limbs, Merely a shell remains. He writhes, powerless to halt The onslaught. A current runs through the red-streaked eyes, His scorched lips rub in silence. The spectators hold their breath in anticipation, But they are conquered by a Herculean strength, crying “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” The weight crushes him. The change is unseen, But the agony has ended, There is harmony upon his visage, Cool hands soothe his blazing skin, The fire is slowly dimming. The endless night has ceased, Rays hound the ghostly silhouettes And the silence rings with the shadow of bells. There is sleep upon purity, And he is alone no more, For Elpis and Pistis Have resurrected within his spirit.
Scratchboard by Jessica Knezha
War and Peace, aka why God Cannot, but Must, Exist Benjamin Friedlander
The day broke on that Godless plain Where night saw pious men stand by. Beliefs held broken, none remain. Dawn is drowned, war resumes again. Shot, soot, sulfur smoke shred the sky. The day broke on that Godless plain. Two sides spill righteous blood in vein For God, country, they choose to die. Beliefs held broken, none remain. First youth wounded, struggles with pain To recall the idol served. Why? The day broke on the Godless plain. Such righteous, pious, men are slain Martyrdom under a blind eye Beliefs held broken, none remain.
Scratchboard by Shelley Spires
The fallen gaze upward and claim No God: shattered sun of the sky. The day broke on that Godless plain. Beliefs held broken, none remain. When the day breaks open and dawn light fills that cragged range of forlorn, misty peaks, new light unveils a lone journeyman. Hills around him offer sights of pines, oaks, teaks vast trunks which carry sky like columns of Greeks. He takes pause where a slow, clear river spills through earthy banks until at last it ekes to a crystal lake. Both sides overfill with wild flowers. The whole scene seems to speak of peace â€“ architecture unmatched by will of some divine design. More than a week, surely, of endless planning needed. Still, the traveler cannot see and not seek that truth: such art must have a source, His will.
Where I’m From Camille Hunt
I am from, I love you a bushel and a peck, a hug around the neck, la dee da dee da dee da… without you, without you. I am from energy creates energy and I will never leave you Camille. I am from running on 100 River Bend Rd., bare feet and bruises. I am from small southern towns and big city lights. I am from Nonnie’s roses and Big daddy’s grins from milkshakes. I am from hell, but heaven as well, a demon and an angel. I am from the walks with daddy. I am from the rose cottage sucking on lemon drops. I am from cheating, lying, and revenge and still no one knows my only secret. I am from a different life. I am from hospitals, I was born again on July 17, 2009 a different life, in the arms of a friend and in the prayers of angels. I am from a place as hard as hell, where did I go wrong? I am from church, raise your hands to the Lord so you can feel he’s there. I am from dancing away your pain and showering away your tears, throw your head back, breathe out, he left me, but Jesus stayed. I am from T.B.T.S.R.R and will be for the rest of my unidentified life. I am from unfinished work. I am from the barn, blowing the dust off saddles and watching it fly into the sun. I am from driving around just to go. Laying in the pasture, horses in the lake, horses at Walmart, and warm kisses. I am from the term hug me because I love to feel love. I am from music that makes you feel.
I am from a friendship with Mary Helen, no questions of why, but she only answers. I am from, welcome to reality, welcome to existence, welcome to life, watch out, it happened to me ya know? I am from antiques and anything cashmere, freshly cut grass and morning dew. I am from golfing with daddy but actually climbing trees. I am from; if you hit me, I’ll hit you harder. I am from, tell me I can’t, I’ll tell you just watch me. From dresses to camouflaged, from heels to boots, from cars to horses. I am made from people’s ears but get known with their hearts. Look me in the eyes; tell me that your happy now, would you tell it to my face? Love, sex, and loneliness will take what yours but will leave the rest...I’ve survived. I am from lady bugs everywhere. I am from building tree houses and forts. I am from starting lots of fires, fire in me, and feeling God’s fire burn more into my heart than ever. I am from Baba and Papa Sam. I am from playing with little kids to becoming one. From running around to merry-go-rounds, I could go like that all day. I am from simplicity…but not really. I am from the cobwebs in the corner when it comes to relationships. Lost myself again and I feel unsafe, hold me, wrap me up, I’m needy warm me up. From being the craziest, goofiest, flirtiest, most complicated and obnoxious girl you will ever meet That’s all I will show you and nothing else. I am from having Papillion’s to Great Danes. I am from Dumb Bo. I am from losing baby teeth and a fake fairy. I am from a past, But now I have been given a future. I am from the greatest creator of all time, Jesus Christ.
Drawing by Camille Hunt
The Black Sheep Anonymous
You think it's the end But my fights just about to begin Stress from the seeds you planted deep within Won’t make me lose my way, No, you won't lead this sheep astray. I'll never fall for this, You’ll never get your hands on me Not with the way you lie and smile at me You’ve hidden your face so cleverly But I see straight, I see true, My soul will never belong to you.
Drawing by Camille Hunt
A literary journal produced by high school students in the journalism class at St. Paul's Episcopal School