The Struan (2018-19) by Christ School

Struan

2018-19 | Christ Schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Journal of Art and Writing

ink wash mountain yilin â&#x20AC;&#x153;danielâ&#x20AC;? du

O, Yosef | Wyatt Gildea O, Yosef How you swung your great jabberpen Walking in the cave of the sleeping tabbernackie The one that wraithed its wrath and spewed its spat The king came to your arnoplasherie He begged on his benders Pleaded with his planters He cried, “O, Yosef, I pray you please slay the sleeping tabbernackie” So, Yosef, You clasped his planters and kissed his brightylum You sureshelled to go to the cave where the tabbernackie lay Where the twilling light ceased Where the rolery night seemed to seem the same You grabbed your paddersnash and stuffed it with supplies that griened and snoped Resting your quanings and picking your jabberpen You began to wane your wumblings Tussling with the vaneplants and the tubling tubbadeaus To sight your eyes on the cave of the sleeping tabbernackie You creeped in with your jabberpen in grasp For the tabbernackie slept beside the sighing sores You raised your jabberpen with a might of ten swansbucklers And your brought it down to the poor beastie’s head But Yosef, O Yosef, You forgot that the tabbernackie always sleeps in pairs of threes o, yosef wyatt gildea

Mom? | Kobi Selby My dog barks at a blaring volume. She doesn’t even bark that much, only when I come home from

school. Could I blame her? To witness such an event would have me shook as well. I’m a novice to such a situation because my mother always sheltered me from the dangers of the world. I wasn’t even supposed to take the dog out. Mom said wait till she gets home. She said, “Don’t leave the house when I’m not here.” So why didn’t you just stay at home? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I dial 911, shaking and distracted. A dog’s bark. People screaming. A lifeless body. I’m scared, to say the least. “Okay, calm down, sir. Can you give me the gender and race of the individual?” I approach the crash. “Sir? Hello?” Mom?

car conversations samuel bassett

insight ethan park

Colonel Sanders from the Great Beyond* | Jacob Dowler Colonel Sanders from the Great Beyond, Everything’s coming, everything’s gone. KFC is the almighty God, We are just people, plodding the sod. Who are we to challenge these beings? Greater than us, greater than kings? Colonel Sanders from the Great Beyond, Everything’s coming, everything’s gone. He came before time, and created the earth, Our god wears: a plain white shirt. One twisted smile to rule them all, Our lord of chicken, he can never fall. Colonel Sanders from the Great Beyond, Everything’s coming, everything’s gone...

dream of flight ollie searle

* Once, on a road trip, Jacob overheard his brother, Eli, singing radically incorrect lyrics to Donna the Buffalo’s “The Call.” Those misunderstood lyrics inspired this poem.

Glancing Through a Journal | Wyatt Gildea

The moon wrestles the sun for a glimpse – of her heels The ones that tread lightly in a storm – and bolt at the resolution Lead echoes in her water – only to dissolve at her lips White geese cloak themselves as swans – to vye for a passing glance Trees bare their reddest fruit – to feel her touch She glides to the ocean – it yearns to swallow her whole She accepts. apocalyptic sunset william david

Pine Lanes Gone | Jacob Dowler Days have passed under the pines, Listening to the singing lines, Wandering aimlessly, waiting till My father finds me lying still Against the trunks of pines unknowing My passing, minutes, their years of growing. I know the places, the ways they bend Under a pressing, evil wind. How the ice and splinters grow! Or a cold, bitten snow, Daintily falling, pressing down Beloved branches to the ground. Lanes of pines, now long gone, Rows of trees and trees upon. My child, I know the truly sad, The pines again, the pines I had.

pine lanes gone jacob dowler

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As Always | Porter Thompson My mother, Shannon Worley, like me, was born and raised in Asheville, North Carolina, with hair as brown as the soil of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She is a very strong-willed, greeneyed woman. She has an affinity for running, and her small 5’7’’ frame has maintained great physical condition even into her 40s. My parents are no longer together, and haven’t been since I was little, but they still keep a very compatible relationship. On the days when I was with her (Friday through Monday), she was a single mother. She worked as a waitress at Outback Steakhouse for the first 10 years of my life while she pursued her Master’s degree in psychology and social work. Busy all day and much of the night, she still woke up every morning to make sure she made my breakfast and packed my lunch for school. Through all her accomplishments, she has battled the feeling that she has let me down. This woman has done quite the opposite of let-

as always porter thompson

ting me down; her persistence and determination have served as my inspiration to push through any obstacle that has ever reared its ugly head. My mother has been a comforting hand at all turns throughout my life, no matter the occasion. ••• I was driving my toy, electric Ford F150 in the backyard of our green, one-story house in East Asheville. The yard extended all the way to a small creek flowing through a ravine. The

Her short brown hair blew back in the wind as I rolled toward disaster. exact measurement of the drop to the water is something I can’t exactly remember (given that I was only four years old), but it seemed really deep. It was a particularly warm summer day. I was picking up rocks, large and small, and putting them in the bed of my toy truck, as if I were headed to a construction site with a delivery

of stone. My mom was tending to the flowers, not paying much attention to my actions. Every day, my mother had told me, “Be sure to keep away from that bank,” and I always assured her I would. With the fresh summer air in my nose and the sound of the truck’s engine humming in my ears, I had not a care in the world. Then I heard, “Porter, stop! You’re going to go off the bank!” In my carelessness, I looked up to find I was certainly headed directly for the steep drop into the creek. I thought this was hysterical, driving away from my mom while she was in a frenzy. Her short brown hair blew back in the wind as I rolled toward disaster. I did drive right off the cliff, crashing my precious F150. Miraculously I was unharmed, other than a few scrapes on my arms. My mother pulled me out of the ravine and carried me back into the house. She was also crying, tears that undoubtedly arose from her helpless-

ness as she watched me disappear over the edge of the creek. “What have I told you about staying away from that cliff?” she asked. “Now you see what I mean.” She took me inside, handed me a Dum Dum sucker, and held me, in the safety and security of her arms. ••• It was the summer leading into my freshman year, and I was attending Duke University’s annual basketball camp. My mom was in Myrtle Beach at the time, enjoying a small vacation with family while I was at camp. It was the final night and my team was in the middle of our last game. We were playing on Coach K’s famous court inside the historic Cameron Stadium. I leapt for a lay-up, and as the ball went through the net, I landed on the defender’s foot. My ankle rolled, it sounded as if

a gun had gone off with the pop of my foot. Immediately, I was down on the ground in excruciating pain. I couldn’t walk, or even stand; my foot was numb and the pain was shooting all the way up my leg. I looked at my ankle as I was carried down to the training room, and it was already the size of a baseball while my swollen joint protruded beyond the boundary of my shoe. I knew this was going to be serious, especially based on the extremely negative reactions of the training staff as they were feeling around my foot. The slightest touch felt as if

they were repeatedly taking a full baseball swing to my foot. It was late when and I called my mom. “What’s wrong?” she asked as soon as she heard my voice. “Mom, I think I’ve broken my foot.” Without any hesitation, she said, “I’m on my way”. Four hours later, I was lying in my bunk bed when she arrived. Even though it was 1:00AM, she packed all my clothes and gathered all my belongings. She had somehow already acquired a wheelchair for me. I knew everything was going to be okay the instant my mom showed up. I was crying because the pain, without any real medication, was mounting. She repeated, “It’s going to be okay, sweetie. I’m here.” And she was right. ••• Even with my mom’s conhands of love dale sparacino

stant support, she and I have had some major conflicts in the past. Once I left a pack of open gummi bears in her car during an especially warm summer day in Raleigh. Before we got out of the car that day, she said, “Porter, do not leave those gummi bears in my car.” “I won’t, Mom,” I replied, slightly annoyed. We went inside our cousin’s house where we were staying that weekend, and went about our night. I knew that I had forgotten to grab the package of candy, but not thinking of any possible consequences, or the extreme heat that was blanketing Raleigh at the time, I didn’t bother going back out to the car. I went to bed that night with the gummi bears far from my mind. We woke up the next morning, and began our morning as usual, preparing to head out for my baseball game. “Do you have everything?”, she asked. Forgetting my belongings is something I do very often. “Yes, I have everything,” I

night as always andy su porter thompson photography

replied. We went out to the car on a morning that was already approaching 90 degrees. I knew that I had left the gummi bears in the front seat, and based on the temperature, a feeling of dread began to creep in. I was going to be in deep trouble if those Bears had melted. I opened the passenger side door, and lo and behold, my worst nightmare was confirmed: The candy had melted all over the leather seat. The seat had become a collage of melted sugar. My mom walked up to the door and looked in, and my heart dropped all the way into the earth’s core. She stared at the river of molten sugar, and her emotions poured out like molten rock from a volcano. Not long after, she exploded, using more profanity than I have ever heard her use at any point in my life. “Go inside and get away from me! I told you to bring this damn candy in the house!” she screamed. There was nothing for me

to say; it was my mistake, and there was no getting around it. She wanted me to clean up the mess, so I ran inside to grab a few towels. The next thing I knew, she was in my face yelling at me to go back inside because she was too angry at me. She cleaned up the mess I made, and then found me. “You know I’m upset because I told you to bring those inside, and you did exactly the opposite”, she said calmly. She had defused quickly, as she always does. As upset as she may have been, her patience with me, through all my blunders, is everlasting.

The Curse of Beauty | Max Redic

the curse of beauty creamsicle max redic zack grella poetry

modern soul, pt. I luke stone

Middle School Crushing | Aaron Chen I’m middle school crushing Not the smashing kind of crushing But the lovin’ kind of crushing The way she flips her hair so majestically And flutters her eyes with those luscious lashes Like a scene from a romance movie But in this case, She’s in my algebra class

I’m middle school crushing Not the smashing kind of crushing But the lovin’ kind of crushing I configure a resolve To write her a note And pop it into her locker Yours truly, Aaron Chen

I’m middle school crushing Not the smashing kind of crushing But the lovin’ kind of crushing The way she speaks in a silky tone The way she acts ever so elegantly The way she stares with those blue pearly eyes I don’t really pay attention When all of my focus Is on her Wondering if she feels the same way I feel

Days go by I ask her if she has seen my note “I lost it” (ew) My heart is in the crushing Not the lovin’ kind of crushing But the smashing crushing

middle school crushing aaron chen

sky in grayscale elliott bell

I Am a Gravedigger | Mac Gortney I am a gravedigger.

Once my dad gets the call, we go find the plot and begin to dig. It takes two things to dig the hole: a spade for the shape and a red-handled shovel for the depth. I’ve dug enough graves at this point that I know the dimensions without a frame – approximately 12 inches by 12 inches. We first cut out the sod, so we can keep it to put back on top. The initial stick with the spade tells us a lot about how long it will take us to complete the hole. On 80 acres of rolling hills in the Blue Ridge Mountains, you can get many different types of dirt. Down by the pond, the dirt is softer and more fertile, which translates to 15 or 20 minutes. If we’re in the section we call “The Upper 40,” where the soil is dry and compacted, it’ll take us around 30 or 40 minutes. The dirt up here isn’t as soft because the rain doesn’t soak in as quickly. Digging isn’t always straightforward. Sometimes the dirt is hard, or there are rocks we have to remove, or we are near a tree and we have to cut past roots. Removing these obstacles, we have to keep the shape of the hole – that’s the spade’s second job. To see if I’m done, I step in the hole. If I am knee deep, I am done digging. I then pull the dirt mat out of the family’s view for when they have their service. Finally, I place a wooden box over the hole and drape a turf mat over the box so it looks natural. Then I step away. For the past six summers, I have worked in my family’s cemetery. Over 23,000 people have been laid to rest since my great-grandfather founded the cemetery in the early 1900s. My job seems pretty simple: I mow, weed-eat, and dig graves. Ashes To their loved ones, these ashes go in these holes – just pulverized bone fragments – but they’re also tell a story of a life once lived. the remnants of a life. To their loved ones, these ashes tell a story of a life once lived. A life full of possible success, or sickness, or joy, or depression, or an ending that came too soon. The story that lies within the urn is one I may never know, but I feel the responsibility of helping it conclude with grace. I am not eager to talk about myself, but I’m ready to do a dirty job. It’s a quiet job, too. One that takes time, but it needs to be done right. So, I do it carefully. The details matter, not because anyone’s watching, but because the grave I dig will hold somebody’s loved one. Helping others makes me happy and doing so when people are in a vulnerable state makes it more rewarding. When the family is gone, I step back into the hole to make sure no dirt has fallen in. I then rest the urn in the hole and begin to cover until it is no longer in sight. I cover the grave. I tamp the sod, throw the spade and shovel on my shoulders, and walk back to the shed. Everyone needs a gravedigger. i am a gravedigger mac gortney

Loss | Aly Bolton Listen, I have lost you over a thousand times – beneath extra blankets, in the middle of homemade forts, under dirty back porches, among pillars of sunlit trees, at the loaded kitchen table, within teeming concert crowds, behind our mother’s eyes, across our father’s face, in your room, in my head, in that parking lot on November 10th, in the furnace soon after, and every day since.

loss aly bolton

cherry blossoms jack lee

The Dangers of the Jungle | Sawyer Breiter “Please save us,” the co-pi- impact with the trees, the plane began to realize the dangers of would shatter or be impaled the jungle. lot screams as the plane begins to dip into a nosedive. “Don’t let upon the plethora of limbs that ••• spread below us like a tank of us die.” Throughout the jungle, piranhas waiting to be fed. ••• snakes, tigers, and predators I began to think about my that people have never seen I began to focus, pulling up family back home. What will lurk. Cannibals hide in the on the control wheel, all the happen to them if I’m gone? On darkness, waiting for the right while increasing power in a top of that, I hadn’t filed a flight opportunity to strike, while desperate, last-ditch attempt to plan that would have detailed tribesmen have made punji pits, pull the nose up. It seemed as if our route to Rio De Janeiro. 10-foot deep holes lined with everything was moving in slow poisoned spikes. motion as the plane’s Looking into the heart of the tree, nose continued to dip “Sir?” the co-pibelow the horizon, with the branch sticking between my lot asks quietly and until all that showed lightly shakes the co-pilot and me like an ancient tribal pilot. Instead of anthrough the cockpit was the dark expanse spear, I felt a sudden stroke of fear. swering, the pilot sits of the Amazon rainpetrified in his seat, forest. I made a sudden realihands on the yoke, his heart Instead of crumpling on zation that we weren’t getting rate dropping, until he falls into impact, our plane became imout of this one, so I turned to a coma. paled upon a branch. Looking my co-pilot, saying surprisingly ••• into the heart of the tree, with calmly, “Get ready, we’re going Well, there goes my only the branch sticking between my down.” companion. It’s as if the world co-pilot and me like an ancient As we spiraled out of conjust wants me to die. But why tribal spear, I felt a sudden trol, I knew that the odds of our stroke of fear. From where I was me? I decided the best methsmall, two-seater Cessna 172 od of attack was to wait for a perched, I was able to see the surviving the impact with the expanse of the under canopy of couple of hours, go through the jungle canopy were not good. the Amazon Rainforest, a sight plane, and hope my companion, With my knowledge of aviation, who told me his name earlier your average human hasn’t the likely result was that on in the day but I had forgotten, experienced. Looking down, I

the dangers of the jungle sawyer breiter

woke up. As I started to sift through the contents of the plane, I began to realize just how hopeless my situation was. After all, I was just a 14-year-old kid stuck in the middle of the Amazon rainforest. ••• In reality, the young teenager underestimates himself. Looking at our young man’s extensive resume, we see two months on the Appalachian Trail, multiple treks up some of the most challenging 14,000foot peaks in the Western Hemisphere, an IQ of 150, and an extensive knowledge of trapping, geography, and wilderness survival. As our young man begins to look upon the array of tools at hand, ranging from

a machete to a shovel to a .22 Winchester, his chances of survival increase exponentially. ••• Damn, there’s a lot of stuff here. While I organized my re-

sources, I became cognizant of the fact that I would be unable to carry everything without a bag. That will come tomorrow, I thought as I lay under the stars,

stomach grumbling for food I was way too tired to cook. As a pillow, I used one of the seat chairs of the plane, and a gargantuan leaf I had plucked off a bush was my blanket. I woke up sore as a football player after a Super Bowl. My whole body was aching as I looked for a bag. As time went on, I came to the realization that there was no bag upon the plane. I considered my options, then thought of the pilot. No, too gross, too disrespectful. But it’s my only option. My brain was split in half, one side saying I should take his clothes and make a bag out of them and the other fighting against it. I finally overcame my fears and began to attempt the task of removing the shirt from the pilot’s body. As I slipped my over the mountains ferrell lail

hands under his shirt, my hand slipped, and to my horror, my hand pushed in and began to disappear in his body. “What the heck?” I cried, wondering what fresh hell this was. As I sat on a stump, cradling my knees and rocking back and forth, I deciphered that his body must have already begun to rot. I decided that the pilot was no longer an option, so I began to rip up the thin carpet of the plane. Once this task was completed, I slowly sewed together the pieces using a stitching kit I had found in the medical kit. ••• Unfortunately for our young survivor, his experience with the body slows him down. During the time he has spent at the wreck, an ancient tribe of cannibals has been waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. ••• As soon as I finished my sewing, I picked what I thought to be the most useful tools: a hatchet I could wear on my belt,

the dangers of the jungle sawyer breiter

the rifle, a shovel, the first aid kit, all of the food in the plane, and a small camp stove. Lastly, I took something that would be considered frivolous to anyone but me: the last letter I had received from my mom, wishing me luck on my flight back home. As I read it again, I felt tears welling up, tears that came from frustration, sadness at my not being able to see my family, and a strong sense of anger towards the pilot for wrecking. As I sat, I let anger overcome me, and I began to push out the rest of my feelings. I sat up, grabbed my bag, and began to run.

These are the first pages of a longer story Sawyer is writing.

the bluff bobby long

Like or As | Wilton Graves

I’m thinking for a metaphor But it can’t be too cliché On second thought I’m pretty sure it’s cliché to say it’s cliché It has to be just the right amount Of brilliant and thoughtful But also confusing Because it can’t be too easy for the students The search is over, I’ve found one! But upon further scrutiny It is in fact a simile

balloons andy su

Fisher Man | Connor Booher Relinquish your nets oh you fisher of men. Drop them down, turn away and run. Look away from the sin that so easily entangles. Oh you fisher of men.

tide down zack grella

Off the Rails | Clint Thorman The view from the kitchen

window was one of desolation drenched in sunlight. Dirt dappled with clumps of dry grass, a shallow pond, the barren bank of the pond, barbed wire, more parched land, sparse grass, cactus, more barbed wire, and finally, way off in the distance, menacing mesquite trees. Above this, the sky, vastly empty, dry like the earth, infinite, but so close it felt oppressive too. The odds of a nice day in Archer County, TX, were too low for hope, so we made do with hot and windy. It was through a series of fathers and sons, all farmers, all bearing my last name, that I had come to be here, staring at this expanse. I was, six years old, the only son of an only child, tacitly assumed to be the next farmer in line. My mother walked into the house with something new: a “shoebox” tape recorder, Panasonic model RQ-2309, with a handle at one end for portability and a single speaker at the other. Four C batteries, five

off the rails clint thorman

control buttons, and a flip-up lid for loading a cassette. This one was loaded with a cassette single. She set it on the kitchen counter, and my sister and I gathered around, half-sitting on our knees on the vinyl bar stools, twisting the seats back and forth in a 90-degree arc. My mother pushed down the “play” button, it locked into place, and the tape began to turn. What came out of the speaker was an odd cover version of Irving Berlin’s “Puttin’ On the Ritz” by a new-wave synthpop artist named Taco, sung with an affected sophistication reminiscent of an earlier time, juxtaposed against a modern soundscape of cold, electronic, synthesized instruments. I was bewildered. Those opening bars of crisp drum machine and pulsating synthesizer notes bore uncomfortably into my young mind, threatening to knock me off my stool. Then the notes whirled up and around like a carnival ride before settling back into the first verse. A

voice from another world and another time, with a tone I had never heard or imagined, spoke to me in a staccato rhythm, “When you’re blue and you don’t know where to go to…” What was happening? I thought I was going to hear music, but I struggled to reconcile this alien sound with what I thought music was supposed to sound like. Something had gone terribly wrong with this recording. So why was my mother so happy? Had she lost her mind? “When you’re blue…”? Blue? I knew blue. Staring out at the desolate past, present and future, as I had been from the kitchen window, I knew blue. And now I was being assured by this man from another world that he had just the thing to make me feel better? And that involved something to do with “the Ritz” and getting dressed up? Up until that point in my life, my musical experience was limited to Country & Western on the radio, Lutheran hymns at church, songs we sang at

the Lutheran school, “Hee-Haw,” “The Smothers Brothers” and other shows my parents watched on TV. Pianos, guitars, church organs, fiddles, maybe even a jug or a washboard, these were instruments, but I couldn’t identify a single sound I was hearing. I glanced up at my mother.Are we sure this is music? I picked up a few more lyrics here and there… “coats… pants…stripes…a million-dollar trouper…come let’s mix… umbrellas…” It sounded vaguely like carnival music being sung by a vampire, a vampire who was very concerned about clothing. There was a chorus of robot voices, shockingly incongruous and inhuman, followed by tap-dancing sounds over a minimal bass note and odd percus-

sive noises. Then the song went completely off the rails. My sister and I were rapt, half-way out of our stools, leaning over the tape recorder as my mother rewound it to the beginning. We stayed silent, waiting for it to begin again.

She hit “play.” This shocking anomaly now had the beginnings of familiarity, and I began to come to terms with the fact that this was not country music gone horribly wrong. This was something altogether new from a world with a different set of standards of quality and style, a world that cared nothing for people like us, farm folk in the middle of nowhere in Texas. I inventoried the necessities. “Coats… pants…stripes…umbrellas…sticks…high hats…spats.” Spats? “Dollars…Park Ave-

nue.” Before we knew it, the song had ended again, and I begged my mother to play it one more time.

concentration thomas doss

Across Town | Lux Haney-Jardine Across town, beyond city limits You squirrel away your heart As if it were something to keep For winter. You fool, the heart Is loaves and fish that multiply. A cancer that grows immeasurably.

cold colson etheridge

winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s true love antton wilbanks

With a Wink | Hampton Sexton He counted the sheep as

they pranced across the room. His night light illuminated the back corner of his bedroom, and the young Brandon had yet to fall asleep. Ideas of new toys and endless boxes of candy had prevented him from resting his eyes, as did the droning sound of his room’s heating unit. Brandon glanced to his left, only to see that his clock read 10:47, about two hours past his typical bedtime. He assumed that his parents and siblings, Kevin and Lauren, had fallen asleep ages ago. Brandon was six years old, and, like many children, receiving gifts was the equivalent of winning the lottery. So, as expected, Christmas Day could not arrive fast enough. Brandon continued to count from one to 50, occasionally skipping numbers in between. This cycle had repeated itself for hours, but Brandon’s exhaustion was overcome by his excitement. Brandon came to the realization that falling asleep was out of the picture, so

with a wink hampton sexton

he decided to venture off to see what presents Santa Claus had delivered. With the time now reading 11:19, Brandon was almost certain Santa had finished his duties as the “Christmas Mailman.” Brandon put on his slippers and set off on his journey to the Morrisons’ den. Brandon silently crept over to his door and entered the hallway. The floors were submerged below a tangled, white carpet on which Brandon would play Star Wars with his father, while pretending that the floor was lava. His parents’ room was directly across from him, his siblings’ to his right, and the entrance to the den to his left. As he walked into the den, the sound of broken glass startled him, and he fled back to his room. Brandon dove underneath his bed like an Olympian diving into a pool. Minutes passed, and Brandon’s curiosity got the best of him. As he stepped into the doorway of the den, Brandon noticed an ominous shadow rummaging through the oak

cabinets of his family’s home. Brandon was unfamiliar with the man crouching before him, or what he was doing, but his natural instinct told him to speak. “Are you Santa Claus?” Brandon asked. Brandon’s voice came as a surprise to the man, and he jumped back a little. Brandon turned on the lights to the den, and the features of the man were more distinct. He had a long, tangled beard, the same color as a thunderous sky. His eyes were blue and beady, like drops of rain, and his nose was slightly crooked to the left. His outfit wasn’t what Brandon expected Santa Claus to wear, but he was wearing the famous red Christmas hat that was so familiar to children all around the globe. He was also wearing black gloves. This Santa was a little chubby, but not as fat as Brandon expected him to be. The man looked straight into Brandon’s eyes as he pondered his response. “Why, of course! Ho, ho, ho!

Merry Christmas, my child!” he said in a cheery whisper. Brandon’s face lit up with glee, and he darted over to give Santa a hug. The smell of cigarettes and alcohol rushed into his nose, and Brandon gagged. “Why don’t you smell like cookies?” Brandon asked. “What presents have you brung for us? What is it like in the North Pole?” “Slow your roll there, kid,” Santa responded in a less jolly voice. Santa noticed that the expression on Brandon’s face saddened. “Uh- I mean, I’ve left lots and lots of gifts! The North Pole is quite chilly, and the reason I do not smell like cookies is because you didn’t leave any for me, silly!” Santa said happily, as he gave Brandon a light pat on the head. “Now, will you please bring me some milk and cookies, and a can of mystical reindeer juice, also called, Bud Light?” “Anything for you, Santa!” said Brandon, as he led the man

into the kitchen. Santa sat down at the table, and propped his feet up. He reached his arm over to grab the remote sitting on the counter and turned on SportsCenter. Brandon shut the door of the refrigerator and carried Santa’s requested meal over to him. “Do you want to play a game?” Santa asked Brandon as he finished his food. “Of course!” Brandon blurted. “It’s a scavenger hunt. Do you like scavenger hunts?”

“Do you want to play a game?” Santa asked. “Yeah!” Brandon shouted. “Shush, my friend. If your parents wake, the game is over, and I will have to leave,” Santa told him, and placed his index finger over his lips. “There are two locations in this scavenger hunt,” Santa explained. “The first is your mother’s jewelry collection, and the second is your father’s wallet.”

Brandon led Santa Claus to both locations, and he collected his bounty in what Brandon noticed was his Harris Teeter grocery bag of toys. “What is your name, young one?” Santa questioned. “Brandon Morrison,” he replied. “Well, Brandon, I will be sure to put you on my Nice List. It’s been a pleasure spending the night with you, but I am afraid it is time for me to leave. You are a good kid, Brandon, much better than I was at your age. Stay out of trouble. Merry Christmas, and have a Happy New Year, too,” Santa said. “I will,” Brandon replied, with tears streaming down his face. He gave Santa Claus one final hug. “Will I see you again, next year?” “One can only hope,” Santa said with a wink. Brandon watched Santa climb through the broken window and dart away. Then he went back up to his bedroom where he had no trouble falling asleep. No sheep were needed. with a wink hampton sexton

After the War | Lux Haney-Jardine

After the war, the rumors of war. A grain of sand but not a beach. At home, a widowed cat curls round a leg. Shh: Here there be tigers Shh: A cat is a drop of a tiger And the dove a paper boat that took flight And after great war, the rumors of war.

cloud dale sparacino

Beneath the White Cross | Olga Petrovich Mahoney Peaceful, solemn, dignified rows of crosses mark where heroes lie. Sergeant William M. Goodrich enlisted at 18 and served with Company C, 38th Armored infantry Battalion, 7th Armored Division from 1943-1945. Fighting in the Battle of the Bulge and the fateful Crossing of the Rhine, he was awarded the Purple Heart, the British Military Cross, and the Silver Star “For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action against the enemy…in action in Marburg, Germany, on 29 March 1945.” The tank came to a halt, and a he pointed under the bridge where “Surrender!” yelled Butler, but shot in the chest. His legs crumpled to be surrendering, came close and Goodrich and injuring Harrison be amputated later). Goody lay on McCracken pulled him towards hands with his friend’s blood. Goody seemed determined to pulled his friend closer. But he had died. The sassy little guy from being Irish, Catholic and a Yankee died in the arms of a Baptist from days before the war’s end.

soldier yelled “Krauts! Krauts!” as several Nazis scrambled. one German kept going and took a beneath him. Another pretended fired twice, hitting Sgt. “Goody” in the shoulder (the arm would his back in the center of the road. the tank, soaking his mittens and tell him something, so McCracken heard nothing because Goody Boston who liked to brag about (not necessarily in that order) had the South. Goody was killed just 42

Butler, Harrison, and McCracken, those men who fought with him at Marburg, remembered Goodrich with great fondness. One man said Goodrich was “one of the best friends I ever had” whose death “could not have hurt me more if it had been my own brother.” Goodrich was a “brave man and one of the bestliked men in our company” willing to befriend privates “even though he was a staff sergeant.” There was no doubt that everyone loved the boisterous Bostonian. For 70 years, a Dutch family in Maastricht has visited William M. Goodrich’s grave at the Netherlands American Cemetery in Margraten. Honoring a hero from a distant land, they decorate the site with flowers and an American flag. Our great uncle lies beneath the white cross.

in memory olga petrovich mahoney

Catch a Sunrise: Why I Go to Summer Camp | Richard Lytle Many high schoolers spend

their summers in internships or studying for the ACT or SAT. This helps them appease colleges when they read applications. Summers spent in internships and school years spent working your tail off can create a cycle, much like a machine. People tell you it is for your future and benefit. This is a disservice to the person, and humans who are stuck in this cycle feed our toxic culture. What humans need is time to be human: time to find their identities, make mistakes, and find people whom they can trust. We live in an era of selfishness. We are told to be the best at the expense of others. Ever since I was a young boy, I have been surrounded by competition. As I got to high school, this competition became my life. I was told to do this and that for college, and so I could succeed later in life. But I wanted to find satisfaction in the here and now. Why did I have to sacrifice happiness now for supposed happiness later in life? The satisfaction I was seek-

catch a sunrise richard lytle

ing came in an unexpected place. In 2014 when I was becoming a whitewater kayaker, I tried a camp called Camp Chosatonga. Chosatonga was a catalyst for my paddling career, and I spent most of that summer working on my kayaking skills. I was the youngest, and thus was teased by older campers. The next December, my mom asked if I wanted to return. I thought about it for a few days, and something drew me back. I imagine it was the kayaking and the people who could push me as a kayaker. The word chosatonga means â&#x20AC;&#x153;One who accepts and understands nature, fellow man and his spiritual self.â&#x20AC;? That summer, Chosatonga became who I am. On the first day, I met many new people who were excited to be at camp. My counselor seemed so interested in my life. I met one of my best friends, and he encouraged me to go to the camp mass the next Sunday. The priest told how he was kidnapped and was released because of his faith, and he shed tears multiple times during this story. I saw

how this priest was invested in God. He challenged us to find ourselves during the summer. I began to attend faith-related events that occurred during the session. While I changed as a person, I was kayaking across the Southeast. I began to listen to what the older campers were saying. They talked about life with an understanding unrivaled by Buddhist monks. One trip, we journeyed to Columbus, Georgia, where our van was infested by ants, and all of the butter melted in the 90-degree heat. One night, we camped next to a cow pasture. While we unpacked, the sun set over the Georgia lowlands. One of the guys decided to trespass to get a better look at the sunset. As he returned, a bull noticed him and began to strut over. My friend ran as fast as he could, but the bull closed the distance. Finally, he jumped a barbed wire fence to escape. Everyone else was watching and doubled over, laughing. That night, I felt the brotherhood radiate from the warmth of the pita pizzas.

The kayaking and the kayaking group that summer helped me understand nature as something beautiful and a blessing from God. That summer, I changed into a man who understands his fellow man and his spiritual self. I kayaked, but I also found a community I didn’t want to leave. Freshman year was very hard, yet I always had camp in the back of my mind. No matter how much I tried, life and people at home were not the same. I was so excited to step out of the car that next summer and reunite with my community. At camp, we live off of cheap food; there are never smores, only marshmallow sandwiches because Hershey bars are too expensive. We spend days at a time in the woods, paddling all day and sleeping all night. There are no cell phones. We wake up at 5AM to catch a sunrise on top of a beautiful mountain. Through all we do, a “Chos” man discovers who he is.

Today, many people would tell me that there is no point in going to summer camp when you could gain a leg up against your competitors, but I would rather wake up to a beautiful lake view than an SAT workbook. I would rather spend hours on the river with my brothers and sisters

than hours doing mindless work for a college application. I would rather spend my nights discussing the meaning of life than doing practice tests. More than ever, people need to experience love and community. Love and community will help individuals find themselves, and discover what they love. People will be happier in

jobs they truly love, and communities they buy into. Employers talk about how many people cannot deal with problems and seem more like machines than humans. Camp helped me learn to cope with problems and sacrifice myself for the betterment of others. Camp challenged me to find my identity and pursue what I love. It is why I travel great distances to see friends. It is why I sacrifice gaining a “leg up” to be myself. Every year, I wait over 300 days to set foot at Camp Chosatonga with my brothers and sisters. I long to travel vast distances in faulty vans in order to paddle amazing rivers. I long for all of the food, camping, and fun. Most importantly, I long for the time when God becomes my friend and helps me to sacrifice and enjoy my life. Although I may not get into the greatest college, I know camp will have made me into a man, and that is enough. beautiful beast antton wilbanks

bird in flight mccauley hardison

in focus william david

It Happened on a Mountain | Eli Dowler It happened on a Mountain I first heard it from the Trees Then the Wind Next the Sky The Cry And finally the Moon It spoke from the Heavens Above or below I could not tell But I heard it And I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t forget the Symphony Of cries from Everywhere and Everything

reflection at medicine lake bobby long

The World Outside the Dirt | Michael Jaber Woah! There’s sunlight, I better dig deeper fast, Says I, a plump earthworm; I’m very aghast. Wait, what is that? I think it’s a hand, A long, extended one that’s panning through my land. Never mind because he plucked off skinny Phil. Phil probably wasn’t making it anyways; I need to chill. Is that the hand again? Indeed, it is that! Belonging to a grumpy old fisherman picking through my scat. Ah! It got me and I’m being manhandled as it is, Yet I refuse to lose to the type of his. But, no! Not the hook! “You traitor,” I cried. Not once, not twice, but three times in the side. Stabbed in the gut, the brain, and finally, my heart, By an old and unstable fisherman of the art. A fourth time to my spirit, for I thought I could trust this person, But certainly not, as my health continues to worsen. Before I can comprehend, I am being launched into a flight. The smack, the splash! It all gravely burns. That way I smacked the water

adds to my concerns. I collided with such a force that my insides burst open alike, Like a glass plate onto pavement, like a sledgehammer on a spike. Dear, oh dearest predator, I beg you take a look, Gaze past this misleading façade that yields a sparkling hook You see that disguised fisherman is a ghastly, obnoxious crook. Oh! Those evil eyes, one an amber yellow, the other an ominous green, It starts to move, what I would guess is its normal attack routine. But what am I now to do, how defenseless can I be? I could only wish that I was roaming, fast and free. And here it comes, my attacker descends to remove me from my misery, Once I worked in his garden, was tortured, then thrown into this fishery. While being engulfed, I must conclude my ultimate mystery: My fortune wheel has spun, and this is my destiny.

fish logan easler

Fist Fights and Unwavering Faith | Chad Treadway My eight-year-old chunky

Phillip wanted me to do was put backspin on the ball. This self was in my upstairs living was especially challenging for room. I held a small Asheville me because I had a bad habit of Tourist souvenir bat, ready coming across the ball and putto swing with everything I ting side spin on it. Well, Phillip had. The carpet on top of the really hated when I didn’t do exhardwood floor comforted my actly as he said. It was times like feet as a black ball, full of beans, this when his quick temper and flew towards me. irritation with me showed. To Phillip, who was a young simply put it, when he thought baseball star, threw that small that I didn’t care, he wanted to sack so hard I always worried strangle me. it would bust on our walls, or In horror, I watched him worse, break one of the picTo simply put it, when he wind up, and I knew exactly tures on our walls. Our mom routinely warned us of what thought that I didn’t care, he what was coming. The ball seemed to go 100 miles per would happen if we played wanted to strangle me. hour as it zoomed right in the house, but that was past my shins. The whistle the last thing on both of our of it was almost as scary as the minds. Nothing else mattered The look I saw in Phillip’s but winning. face was not the usual half-side thought of it hitting me. I knew From the earliest of ages, smirk. He was mad at me, really I was done for. When things like this happened, I tried to avoid Phillip instilled competimad. Phillip, but in doing that, it just tiveness in me. I swung right The smell of the fresh-cut through the pitch (as I usually grass filled my nose. I was wear- made him more mad. A quick did) and was instantly mad. I ing my gold Mizuno Global Elite tempered-brother could be quite frightening when a ninecouldn’t help but think about infielder’s glove, readjusting it how many times I’d lost to Phil- constantly, longing for Phillip’s year-old boy is its target. Most of the time, I would just keep lip – too many to count. While perfect form. my mouth shut and listen. everything was racing in my We’d been throwing a He was mad at me again bemind, I heard a loud crack. Phil- baseball in the yard for about cause the shining white ball had lip had thrown the bag right 45 minutes now and all that

fist fights and unwavering faith chad treadway

into the picture of my sister, brother, parents and me from our last beach trip. Our faces in the picture were impossible to see through the shattered glass. The black frame fell onto our hardwood floor and split. We instantly looked at each other in total despair because we knew what fate awaited us. Mom was going to be so mad – and she was.

flown right by me and into the pasture outside our yard where thorns and an electric fence awaited one of us. As it turns out, this was one of Phillip’s favorite baseballs. The threats of what my foot-taller, muscular brother would do to me if I didn’t get the ball came rolling in. “I’ll literally beat you up” he yelled. This was just one of many different avenues to say the same thing – I get the ball, or I pay for it. I ducked way down under the electric fence and walked over to the thorns. This was no new obstacle for a young boy who played outside, but I still hated them. I stuck my hand into the thorns, staring at the glowing white ball, trying to avoid every prick. I finally grabbed it and returned it to Phillip. He knew that I was mad but didn’t care. We just went on trying to get better at the sport we both

loved so much. ••• I looked out past the net that surrounded me. Nothing but black sky was visible. The only light shining on Phillip and me came from inside the carport. The late nights spent in our new slide-out, self-made

cage were beginning to become the norm, and I was always the focus. When balls wouldn’t come off my maple barrel just right, there was something to be fixed – perfection was the

only standard. Were my hands too low? Were my hands doing too much? Did my weight not shift right? Or was I gripping the handle too hard, leading to a stiff barrel instead of the needed whip? The crack of a wood bat can be very different. If it doesn’t sound like it’s breaking when you hit it on the barrel, then you are not doing something right. We even had one of our phones balanced on the Ping Pong table in front of both of us so we could watch the replays in between rounds. Our only goal was getting me to the next level – college baseball. Phillip sat on the bucket, his slim, athletic build perfectly situated behind the new L-screen we had just put together. His white teeth and red stubble beard shined in the light through the black knotted net. He tossed me ball after ball, instructing me after abundance of aviation alex rivera

each swing. His motives were very clear: I was his priority. He always felt as if I had more potential than he, even though he had played for two Division I programs. That is hard to comprehend when you are a freshman in high school trying to make varsity, not be a draft pick. The thoughts that raced through my mind were always the same though. I wanted to be committed to a Division I program and show everyone that I could be what my brother always thought I could be. One after another, he tossed the pearly white baseballs with vivid red seams for me to crush and create the habits of a mechanically perfect and powerful swing. He kept me swinging towards my goal. ••• This scene may seem meaningless to some, but to me, it has a much bigger story behind it. A team is what my brother and I have always resembled. We have always done things together and that has always meant so

fist fights and unwavering faith chad treadway

much to me. I’m his best man at his upcoming wedding, and I think that symbolizes the bond we have always shared. While it can be difficult at times, we have always seemed to pull through adversity. But a brotherhood has so much more to it than just being a team. It is about counting upon one another in times that matter. It is about leaning on each other in times of need. It is about love.

kobi zack grella

Untitled | Daâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Quan Hazel Black Boy Going To Christ School, Baltimore violent: Guns and crime will destroy your time.

College | Andrew Hale

Ice Cream | Owen Riley I Went To the Beach and got Really bad sunburn. Then went to go get some ice cream.

Big Fish | Cade Corbett Big Fish Can eat You alive. Like when someone eats A good ham sandwich at Christ School

top: skyscrapers | andy su bottom: the line | max brodeur

I Learn Each day So I can Get in a college Like Harvard, MIT, or Yale

Fib Poems* | from Mrs. Depelteau’s Eighth Grade Class The End | Michael Drendel Bears Come Toward Everyone, Screaming and running; The end of us is almost here.

The Fib | Jake Britt I Want To go To the beach So I can relax... So I can relieve this school stress. * Fibs are six-line poems that follow the Fibonacci Sequence (a sequence in which each number is the sum of the two preceding numbers). The Fib was created by blogger/writer Greg Pincus. Pincus’s rules for writing a Fib: 1. Syllable Count 1/1/2/3/4/8 (Fibonacci Sequence) 2. No articles in the one syllable line 3. Try to avoid conjunctions top: sunrise lakes | bobby long bottom: strength | yilin “daniel” du

Blink | Max Redic A horn, a frustrated fist on the wheel, a greenlight, GO! a sharp turn, a sudden halt, a wheelchair, a run, an entrance: HOSPITAL, a blue light, a red cross, a nurse in white, a yelling wife, an elevator ride that takes years but really is only minutes but it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel this way, a deep exhale, a quick pulse, another entrance: DELIVERY ROOM, a yell, a doctor, a bed, a gown, an I.V., a lot of handholding, a lot of reassurance, another doctor, a push, a second push,

blink max redic

a few more, a cry from mommy, a cry from daddy, a cheer, a hoop, a holler, one cry from the new life, a concerned look, a grab, another run, another room, the last one: ICU, a scream from mommy, and from daddy, a failing lung, an operation, one more doctor, the news, the tears, not happy, sad, a seven pound, nine month loss, a broken heart, a few of them, a phone call, some more tears, a long, long, long ride home. blur aidan galpin

Lust | Emily Pulsifer I. The cat was very dead. “Dude,” I say. “That’s the third this week. Enough cats.” Hector whines. A sigh. City life is hard on mastiffs. II. Outside the coffee shop, a poster with a picture: Orange cat - Missing. “You’re a criminal,” I say. “A serial killer.” Hector eats a Reese’s wrapper. No remorse. III. Inside, Naomi is an angel in a Starbuck’s cap. When our thumbs touch around my Venti Americano, my heart stutters. “Charlie,” she says. “Howdy,” I say. Howdy? Who am I, John Wayne? She saves me. “How are you?” “Good, good. You?” She smiles. God, her lower lip shines like hard candy.

IV. She eats a tofu taco and talks. She’s a writer. “Grime fiction” she explains. Hector’s head is in her lap. I listen, jealous. “People say you write about your ideal self. Well, my protagonist is a dominatrix.” Guacamole baffles a groan. “Sounds interesting,” I choke. “It requires lots of research,” she says. Hector licks her fingers.

lust emily pulsifer

V. We walk two blocks to her townhouse on Howard Place, Hector loping between us. He whizzes in the gutter, farts. “Can he come in?” I ask. Everything around me is crackling, bright. “Hold on.” She smiles, unlocks, steps inside. In a minute, she’s back. No smile. She looks right, left. “Honey?” she calls. “Honey!” Hector lifts his cinderblock head. The air goes dead. That candy lip puckers. “I don’t understand it,” she says. “My cat – she’s gone.”

flower bobby long

Love | Gavin Liss Love. “Even so quickly may one catch the plague?” Love is a plague, slowly creeping its way into our waxen hearts from birth. Once it catches us, it is like a roller coaster that we have no perception of the end. It puts us in a state where all we can think about is the sickness itself. “If music be the food of love, play on. Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die.” We can try to cure the disease of love, but just like a snake bite, it needs to be treated by the same poison. If not, the poison of love will spread and the heart will break. The wax will harden. Quotes from William Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night

arrows ryan hermann

moses saw promises to come heather bower

broken glass (an adaptation of a modern parable) | Patrick Shea a bright moon beams upon a barren cityscape, touching only that which was once kissed by the

afternoon sun. buildings, black as a dawnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s inception, are contrasted by their illuminated duplicates. the streets, paved by the footsteps of martyrs, visionaries, and dreamers, intersect at 35th and 44th streets, where a figure stands. a beautiful, dark man, whose commanding yet gentle presence is obstructed only by the mirage of a lampost. his face, torched by this light of a waning crescent, unveils a pain hidden by the simplicity of the daytime. the man walks through the busy silence, overcoming the ancient inertia of will. the man wanders through the streets, emerging from and then back into the gaze of the moonlight which reveals abandoned scars, not only those of deep sorrow but also of dreams forgotten and worlds which are long gone. a light wind gently propels him across the city. a step. a block. he passes just out of sight of a police officer. another step. a block. a journey. as he travels through the city, the promises of light and hope resurface. another step. another mile. the figure stands at the bottom of a sign illuminated by red and blue neon: Whitehouse Tavern. the man enters. the door opens to reveal a dark room, lit only by drained red and blue lamps. the room is filled with faces, all different, all white. they turn to look at the black man. instantly, the air seems to evaporate. parched by a newly found thirst, the black man proceeds. each step, so careful, the man advances as if the room itself is conscious of his presence. the beautiful black man waves to the bartender, an equally beautiful man with light skin and a fine yellow beard. the bartender responds with the â&#x20AC;&#x153;i-will-be-there-in-a-minuteâ&#x20AC;? inconvenient wave of a pointer finger.

broken glass patrick shea

he sits down. he waits patiently, undaunted. silvery liquid appears in front of him. he takes a sip. a sweet sensation rushes past his tongue and down his throat. a newfound taste of equality. the man looks up to the naked wall, absent a sign reading â&#x20AC;&#x153;whites only.â&#x20AC;? he finishes his drink. he stands. he tips the bartender. he walks away. he hears the sound of glass shattering on hardwood. the man turns. he glances to the newly defamed bar where his glass lies on the ground. broken. shattered. the way forward is vague. but the message is clear. you have your equality, you have your change, but because you touched this, we will destroy it.

a path in the dark jack lee

Pleasant Things | Aidan Galpin

Mossy stones, drooping willow The bones of statues being swallowed Hidden temples engulfed by time The lake calling to my mind Â River shed, a boat and sail The sky is no longer pale The moon comes up, the sun is down My smile quickly turns to a frown Â I wish for sun and cloudless skies For with the night I have no ties I live for adventure, what discovery brings To sail and swim are pleasant things

dissociation william david

Gravel | Donna Wheeler Sometimes you don’t have to hit Rock bottom To feel the hard places.

Sometimes your heart can ache For lost moments And squandered tenderness.

Sometimes a few brushes with A graveled shoal Can scrape a toughened scab.

Sometimes regret and sorrow Are not enough To mend a mistaken past.

Sometimes an opened wound Can sear the pain Deadened by years of calluses.

But sometimes it’s possible By staying still And letting the river sweep cold truth,

Sometimes the pain can speak Of longing sadness And a child’s need for comfort.

To embrace the terrifying hope Of feeling all of it And never letting go.

trees aidan galpin

Waterline | Charles Howden It was a hot summer day

on the Arabian Sea, about 200 miles away from the shores of Iran. I was on the battleship USS Raleigh, a dreadnought class that was known as the next generation of warships. We were assigned to seek retaliation against the Iranian naval fleet that had intercepted and destroyed our naval ships during training exercises near the Arabian Sea. I was designated as a rear gunman of an AA turret, a small gun but capable enough to shoot down aircraft, missiles and other flying anomalies that might come seeking our naval vessel. Through the intercom, I told my pal Jimmy when I saw the current of the ocean being ripped by a single thin object. “I think we got something on our broadside.” He said dubiously, “Nah, probably a shark.” But it wasn’t. As I looked away, I thought we were safe until I felt an explosion that pierced a hole below the waterline. We were flooding.

waterline charles howden

I suddenly saw ships coming out from the island Hidaybu, Yemen. It was a trap. They started to rain shells on our fleet and other boats around us. Our ships and theirs exchanged fire, beginning a naval battle that encompassed a firing range of at least 12 km. Being on the boat was like a simulator, but not. This time it was real, each of us had one life, and we had to be careful about our decisions. If we made one mistake or wrong decision, our fleet would be at risk. About two minutes into the fight, two of our ships had been destroyed and incapacitated by the Iranian Pirate fleet. One by one we were outnumbered like people being eliminated in a reality TV show. Suddenly, a shell hit the top of the turret making a powerful impact that knocked out half of the men in the control room, including the captain. I was the closest to the control room when the shell hit, so I played the role of ‘captain.’ The best we could do in the situation given was a desperate

retreat. We came out safely, but strange was the fact that the Iranian navy didn’t pursue us. “What are we going to do now?” said Row. “The captain is dead, our fleet is destroyed, and our ship is barely afloat.” The sailors and other servicemen debated what to do next. No one wanted to take over the role of captain, except I felt like I could do it. Since I had to take care of my three little brothers growing up, this seemed like a similar challenge, except that these were not kids and there were not just three of them, more like 150 of them. I yelled, “ALRIGHT EVERYONE BE QUIET!” Their chatter and conversations started to dim after my order. “This was not planned, we weren’t prepared for this, even with the years of training we obtained back at camp.” “But that’s why we improve and do better the next time, and since the captain is dead, and no one wants to step up, I will take

his seat and fulfill our mission.” This almost sounded like a halftime speech that a coach would give, but here we were down in lives, not points. With the repairs done and the malodorous smell of fire on steel, we would arrive in a port where our allies would bring supplies and reinforcements for our team. After a week of waiting, our reinforcements and friends from the U.S arrived and safely repaired the ship with the parts they brought from the steelworkers back home. After the repairs were done, I asked all the captains for a meeting to figure out a plan for us to defeat the Iranian fleet. We stayed in our ship for hours, going through the pros, the cons, and the multiple ‘what-ifs’ of the proposed project. This plan had to be perfect, and hardly any of them were perfect until one plan was suggested by Daryl, a captain from one of the destroyers, said that we should fool the fleet to come to us and then make it an ambush.

“Like a moth to the flame,” Daryl said, with a smirk on his face. We all nodded and agreed that at 05:00 we would deploy our fleet. We decided to launch the attack near the island Seychelles, a small island that our group of destroyers and other naval vessels would be able to hide and begin the attack. The fighters were the most crucial part of the plan: If they didn’t do their job, then the project was doomed. The goal was for the planes to lure the Iranian ships to where we were hiding, and when they came around the island’s far side, the ships would take over. Checkmate. Our destroyers would easily drop torpedoes that headed to their targets, the ones who thought they just cornered the little fighter squadron. All four boats then took out the 3 Iran destroyers, making it 3 against 7, the odds were in our favor. We calculated they would follow or send someone to see the status of their three ships, and that is

what they did. “Don’t do anything stupid, guys! We almost have this,” I said. But soon my reminder was forgotten. One of the naval gunmen on the destroyer, Durham, fired when the ships came in range, missing and reducing the chances of us getting our surprise redemption. I said in my head, “Shoot… God help our souls today!” After that though, what came next wasn’t surprising. In our second naval battle in a short time, we were going to win! Thankfully, every member of the crew was immediately prepared for battle. The last time I was in this situation, I was a rear AA gunman, and now I was the captain of this ship. I then came to my senses, realizing that I had been trained for these pressure-cooker moments. “All secondary and AA guns focus on the destroyers. Rear main gun, focus on destroyers coming in from the west. Main armament, turrets one and two waterline charles howden

focus on the cruisers, come on, men, let’s FOCUS, FOCUS!” It felt like every command was in total control, and with my tone of authority, they responded. It soon became evident that I was meant for this position. We gave everything we had, all our might and training we had obtained was poured onto the monsters we once feared. For the celebration, I finished off the last boat, which was on fire. I got on my old AA turret and fired with anger, joy, and redemption. As we were heading back to where we came from, the deaths of others were soon realized hours after the success, and that while it was a victory, it came with the enormous cost of material and life. I began to understand the men we lost and started to ponder how I was going to address this with the admiral. Since I was assigned as the captain by a vote of my peers, would the admiral accept my leadership? I looked at how far we came with the ships still afloat and officers still alive,

waterline charles howden

and knew that would convince the admiral that they had trusted the right leader for the task. We never gave up and stuck to the plan given weeks ago. ••• My name is Captain Seagull, Smith Seagull, and for over 10 years, I have been the captain of the USS battleship Raleigh. I received high honors for my first time as a captain during the Battle of Arabian Sea. I became somewhat of a ‘naval legend’. The admiral told me, he didn’t fire me because he saw the courage and strength I showed during the battle. He later told me he had never seen anyone so young, yet so intelligent and brave. He said that I had a bright future as a captain, and I fulfilled that request when given. Now that I am retired from duty, I look back at my life, the pros and cons, and what could have gone right or wrong. As captain, I learned responsibility, determination, grit, and guts after the torpedo struck our ship at the waterline.

fields elliott bell

open your ears max masiello

My Pleasure: Chick-fil-A Night | Tobenna Okoli Tobenna: I enter the Student Center, my lips already salivating, My stomach growling from an all-day’s no eating. The smell of spiced chicken fills my nose, and I know true bliss. With dashing courage, I storm the counter, One chicken sandwich and any drink, it doesn’t matter. The meek employee looks as I puff up my chest. “Ok,” he says, “I.D. on the desk.” I take up the sandwich and the sweet cherry drink And prepare the meal in which my teeth will sink. I taste the sandwich (such a juicy breast) And flavors and spice with a wonderful zest. Will: Look at Tobenna with his smug face. The other students watch. Oh, such jealousy! I would’ve been here earlier, but for my shoelace. But I only focus on this sandwich and me. Oh, look now, sandwiches gone in a flash, I only hope, I am not last. Jake and John and Jimmy go by. Oh, why not my turn? Why, why, why? I beg for this line to run its course, So I may taste the barbeque sauce. Sam: Oh, man! Oh, man! They’re all out! “Finally, my turn!” I laugh with victory. Do I go big and cry, or small and pout? “Man, it’s only a sandwich. OMG.” Stupid study hall made me late, And now this hunger, I will never sate. I envy the smell of spiced chicken, As I see the other students all eatin’. I guess I’ll go home, empty-handed, Or steal someone else’s, like a Black Bandit. But wait, the Honor Code I will violate, So I guess I’ll go home, and for next week I’ll wait.

my pleasure tobenna okoli

light movement andy su