2024 Struan Literary Magazine

struan

2023-24 | Christ School’s Journal of Art and Writing

WRITING

Life Sentences Contest | Parker Abernathy ’27

The Gift of Aphrodite | Johnny Barlas ’27

Life Sentences Contest | Johnny Barlas ’27

The Gangster Baker | Owen Beardsley ’27

Life Sentences Contest | Owen Beardsley ’27

The Eternal Question (Rebuttal) | Jameel Brenneman, Faculty

The Mistake | Norwood Bryan ’26

Life Sentences Contest | Jerry Chen ’27

Life Sentences Contest | Joseph Chen ’27

Reconnaissance | Sean Chen ’26

A Young Hero | Thomas Cook ’26

Life Sentences Contest | Ambrose Ehlers ’24

Assignment… | Mary Dillon, Faculty

Falling | Will Gordon, Faculty

Life Sentences Contest | Garin Gosnell ’27

The Cosmic Virtuoso Visits | Brent Harris, Faculty

Fleeting | Mason Heth ’24

Smile Lines | Mason Heth ’24

I Apologize… |

John

’25 Life Sentences Contest | Sawyer King ’27

The Eternal Question | Cole Lewis ’25

Timing | Lansing Lewis ’26

Life Sentences Contest | James Lilly ’24

Ode to my Nalgene | James Lilly ’24

Even Better than the Real Thing | Olga Mahoney, Faculty

Memories | Alex Mercer ’26

The Son I was Supposed to Be | Urijah Miller ’28

The Middle of a Solstice Day | Jack Peterson, Faculty

The Monument | Zachary Price ’26

Life Sentences Contest | Emily Pulsifer, Faculty

A Pilgrim | Evan Reich ’26

Dead in the Granite | Bowen Scheurer ’26

An Excerpt from A Friday in May | Henry Stuart ’24

Rehabilitation 4.0 | Tyler Thompson ’24

Life Sentences Contest | Cam Walker ’27

Life Sentences Contest | Jack Walker ’27

Life Sentences Contest | Nash Weinzapfel ’27

Life Sentences Contest | Bill Zhou ’24

Photography | Mason Atwater ’24

Photography | Nick Banker ’27

Photography | Johnny Barlas ’27

Photography | Whitford Birthright ’24

Photography | Leighton Blount ’24

Drawing | Pete Boatwright ’25

Photography | Henry Chapman ’25

Photography | Mr. Christopher W. Childers, Faculty

Photography | Mr. Christopher W. Childers, Faculty

Photography | Buck Duggins ’25

Photography | Carter Fitzgerald ’25

Photography | Owen Gillespie ’26

Photography | Easton Hoffert ’26

Photography | Jakob Iwanek ’24

Photography | Jimmy Jones ’25

Photography | James Lilly ’24

Photography | Olga Mahoney, Faculty

Photography | Olga Mahoney, Faculty

Photography | Tony Murphy ’24

Drawing | Pablo Neme ’27

Photography | Caden Paradine ’25

Photography | Byron Park ’24

Photography | Luke Parrish ’24

Photography | William Paschall ’24

Photography | Erin Price, Faculty

Drawing | Garrett Schmidt ’27

Jewelry | Mr. Steve Stay, Faculty

Photography | Dawson Thompson ’25

Photography | Ladson Walker ’26

Photography | Spencer Vande Weghe ’25

Photography | Arthur Wang ’26

Photography | Patrick Wang ’24

Photography | Patrick Wang ’24

Photography | Donna Wheeler, Faculty

Photography | Keenan Wilkins ’24

Photography | Noah Wood ’25

Painting | Kevin Xue ’26

drawing, garrett schmidt ’27

The Gift of Aphrodite | Johnny Barlas ’27

To the happy place each of us has,

A place to escape from the chaos that surrounds us;

To the little branch on top of a tree where one could find refuge from the anger below

To the vast prairies and the mountains above, our shelter from all troubles

To the place where the sun never sets

To the place that darkness never met

Where dreams seem to glow as brightly as stars

The sanctuary that bid problems afar

For me it may be an island

Small and isolated

A place to enjoy the beauty of the water, so clear, so enchanting

A safe haven, so pure, so young

The place where family is always together

The place where problems are unfettered

To the place where you belong

Where it may be,

Only you may know...

johnny barlas ’27

Students in Mrs. Mary Dillon’s Honors World Literature class read Yusef Komunyakaa’s “Facing Off” and responded to his work with the poems on pages 5-7.

The Mistake | Norwood Bryan ’26

I walk toward the black void, Only to realize it’s a mirror. It’s a window. It’s a list. It is the list.

Gazing through it for hours on end, Finally, I found him, My brother, from so long ago, Only to realize I can’t get him out. He is stuck there. Forever. Just a name and nothing else, And for some reason, I am there, too. I am in the window, but I escaped the void. How?

So unfair, I got out. While others are there, perpetually motionless in granite.

A Young Hero | Thomas Cook ’26

In Vietnam, a hero stood Don Curtis, brave and true He faced the hostile, unforgiving ground, With courage, he pushed through.

Mortars and rockets that filled the sky, remained steadfast and strong and fought for freedom, fought for love

In the face of danger, he carried on.

On April 8, 1967, a solemn day, With artillery roar, his life was taken A ground casualty, so young. Years later at the Vietnam Wall A stranger’s eyes, filled with tears, traced his name upon the wall Their ghostly memory reflecting sounds, smells, and fears of war

Remembering the same dream but Different like a fog drifting into a valley He fought but did not die.

Stuck like the wall right in front of him

In that hallowed place, they stood Reflecting on his bravery and sacrifice.

Reconnaissance | Sean Chen ’26

A dream,

Waking in the hospital, No recollection of any memory As I slowly get up, Stumbling as I try to stand And hold onto the wall for balance. I try to find the exit.

I see many people looking at me, Mouths open to speak, Yet no words are said. I get outside and look around. I see something, a memorial, The only thing I remember, The memorial of those who died. I go to see the names on it. As I see my name on it, as one who has died in that war, Panic ensues as I fall to the ground, my eyesight fails as darkness engulfs me.

Memories | Alex Mercer ’26

As I come up to the solemn wall, My heart stops and my breath stalls. Amidst my comrades, my name stands

Engraved in mirrored stone, Carrying both honor and terror. My eyes start to water, Overflowing with memories.

In the black granite, I see their faces Staring through me, Reminded of their sacrifice. I vow to carry their memory, their flame.

Hours later I get up to leave, Promising my friends I’ll return to their side, Day after day, night after night.

06 photography mr. christopher w. childers, faculty

Dead in the Granite | Bowen Scheurer ’26

Here I am, At the Vietnam Wall. Looking through the names I see mine nearer, Letters on the black granite. Someone must’ve known I was dead at heart. I stare at the mirror

Seeing myself not living. I can’t comprehend. I guess I am dead

Like those names on the granite. I can’t accept it, My time isn’t complete. I should tell someone, Tell them they made a mistake, But I know I won’t do that.

My time eventually will come to a halt, What’s the worth of seeing my name or not. Eventually no one will recall Everything we had to see and do.

College Essays | Alyssa Belcher, Faculty

The Monument | Zach Price ’26

Simply put, I was there. Lifeless bodies littered the ground. Bodies with families. Bodies I knew were not my own. Why am I on the wall, An inescapable prison

For those who died in ‘Nam, Soldiers unable to escape?

Am I truly alive?

My body stands and walks around. My mind, stuck at the flash. My own death that failed to happen. My name that thinks I died.

“Assignment - Write a poem in an inverted form.” | Mrs. Mary Dillon, Faculty

Start…

Write a poem

With one line Then two lines and tercet.

The middle of the poem will be a quatrain –you understand?

As you fall to the end repeat the pattern backwards.

Done. photography mrs. donna wheeler, faculty

Ode to My Nalgene | James Lilly ’24

My favorite Nalgene water bottle died a tragic death in the rowing parking lot. “Rest In Peace” to a close friend of mine. My water bottle was won in a fierce set of 5 ping pong games with my neighbor, Mrs. Ibby Jones, at the Falling Creek Camp ping pong tables. This was a set of games I will never forget, and I collected my prize with glee.

Since then, I wrapped my blue Outward Bound Nalgene with stickers, peeling back layers would show different eras of my life, revealing friendships, and stories. A mountain khaki sticker given to me by Jez Jeez, an Australian kayaking instructor. An original yellow French Broad River Academy sticker, a discontinued relic, won during a game of trivia in Mr. Byer’s science class. A Costa sticker offered by mom when she bought a pair of Costa sunglasses to use at Rainbow Springs (which she quickly lost). A “Live like Maria” sticker, given to me by a classmate when his mom passed away. Or a Vineyard Vines sticker from the first time I visited the King Street store in Charleston, South Carolina, fascinated by the stern of the boat which was imbedded into the wall.

I have taken it to the top of mountains, to Costa Rica, to Canada, to Alaska, down the Grand Canyon for 14 days in the bottom of a kayak, skiing in the back country of Utah, and everywhere in between. It has rolled down hillsides, been scratched and beaten and bruised. Yes, that water bottle has seen more than most will see in their lifetimes.

When looking back, I reminisce about countless memories with it. Like when my older bother lined the rim with Tabasco so my water tasted spicy for days. Or when it had a colony of mold around the lip which I spent hours removing with Q-tips and soap and bleach. Or when it was used as an impromptu urinal while on the water at rowing, after which it was washed three times in the dish washer. I can still see it bobbing down the river when my canoe flipped because I was negligent and did not clip the bottle into the boat’s interior. Yet it still lived, as resilient as ever.

My water bottle died in a place that felt like home, outside of Asheville Youth Rowing, where it served me well for many brutal practices. Though it died a tragic death, falling from only waist-height next to my car where the bottom shattered into two pieces on the faded asphalt, it lived a good life. Now, sitting on the top of my desk collecting dust, it reminds me of the adventures my childhood held, and the ones to come with my next favorite bottle. Here’s to the beginning of a new era, and the death of my favorite Nalgene.

Falling | Mr. Will Gordon, Faculty

Paul didn’t just watch the leaves fall from the Gingko tree. He held out his right hand and actively tried to catch one. The wind he created from moving his palm around pushed the leaves away. He grunted in frustration. Around him, leaves piled onto short brown grass, and a migration wind swept through the countryside.

He focused on one leaf at a time. Dangling, dancing on invisible strings, a leaf would separate from its pack. It was all that mattered, despite so many others falling. Paul would find his target, only to watch it whoosh away, again and again.

When a leaf landed on his head instead of his hand, his frown grew. His eyebrows, furry and thick, sharpened. They looked like two groundhogs nesting above his eyes, scrunching into a grumpy stupor. Pouting, he sat on the earth.

Gingko trees let their leaves fall all at once. Leaves fell on and around him, a slow blanket. Knowing this, Paul only felt more defeated. He’d been waiting for this moment ever since Auntie mentioned they could fall “any day now.” She’d want a leaf – or all of them – while she rested in hospital.

He, the hopeful boy Paul, held his head to the floor while keeping that right arm extended, a search for just one. He’d seemed to have given up on catching them at his will. The autumn sun beat onto his leather cap, and feeling the heat, Paul took the cap off.

It was then that Paul realized something. He must have because he threw his hands in the air in exclamation and giggled. Turning the cap over in his right hand, he held the open side towards the sky. The hat’s open surface was at least three times the size of his palm. That would be it!

Standing up once more, a joyous smile rested on his face. The leaves still fell at a steady pace. Maybe 75% of the tree had come down. Cap in hand, the boy moved it around like he did with his open hand, and like before, he pushed the leaves away with his effort. He yelled out in frustration again. What would work?

He set the hat down on the earth, seeing if a leaf would even fit inside. He nodded to himself that it would – he was quite good with shapes in class – but he just needed to see it. As he picked up one of the many Ginkgo

photography arthur wang ’26

leaves from the ground for his little test, he noticed a leaf fall perfectly inside the hat on its own. He shouted. Some sort of blend of fury and excitement spilled into his arms, flailing and waffling about. He picked up the hat and examined its new resident. He took it and placed it onto the floor with the others. That wasn’t his leaf, not yet. Sticking his hat out to the sky above, Paul sized up his moment. He yearned for the biggest leaf, his eyes fixated with pure yearning in their amber-tinted hazel.

Not many leaves were left on the tree. A huge leaf, just about the size of the boy’s cap, began to swindle down from the top of the old wood. It was perfect. It swung from left to right, hammocking towards Paul. Something inside of him lit back up. His smile couldn’t have been bigger.

Then, a small gust hurried along. Just out of reach, the big Gingko leaf shot forward by a few meters. Startled, Paul lowered the hat and tried to adjust his positioning. This newfound wind continued pushing the leaf, and the boy ran, arm out in front, to catch what was his. After a few more meters, the wind suddenly settled, but Paul, in his excitement, ran directly into the leaf, hitting it with his chest. It fell, then, slowly onto the ground, and Paul took his right loafer and slammed down onto the fallen Gingko leaf.

The Cosmic Virtuoso Visits | Dr. Brent Harris, Faculty

An excerpt from The Tragedy of the Great and the Deep: The Fray of the Tether

There is a beat of crunching ground growing louder every second, so I start a visual sweep of the forest around me. My senses are acute, my reflexes and coordination advanced, but it’s a jumble of sensation in this moment as a blurred figure bolts past me, yanking at my attention. He’s fast. My eyes track as if tethered to him, and I become entrapped by the spectacle of a sprinting human. All the power and purpose of this human is singularly channeled into his propulsion. With the pulsing of his calf muscles and the rotation of his torso, I imagine every flexing muscle and springing tendon of the limbs that are a part of this fierce, yet graceful theft of gravity and friction. His tunic and wood-colored hair trail in the wake of wind behind him as he cuts through the otherwise invisible air. The sight of it is my first feeling of wonder. The shockwave of a forming star is enormous by comparison, but in this space, he is wielded lightening compared to the woods. He takes no pause in tracing the fastest path ahead of him. Without apology or request, the air and the wood yield to him, enveloping him out in the distance after a few seconds. The other half of his chase must be behind me somewhere, but I hear only the bristling of trees.

My kind exist in the ebb and flow of events like these. On the grand scale of the universe, once-ina-million happens here and there all the time. We are arbiters of chance towards the paths of least resistance working on the fringes of statistical probability. We are not the spark, just the gentle suggestion. This world has called what I do “miracles” and “magic,” but I merely make use of what’s there to nudge things in another direction. Just like plucking the right strings, I can amplify the harmony and proliferation of wonder in this universe. This time, the string is that human bolting through the woods. I’ll get to him before the others do and help him carry the mystery of the universe he just plucked from the depths of history.

Fleeting | Mason Heth ’24

They say you can never walk in the same river twice

Once you cast the die and enter that powerful stream

All the water that was in it the first time

Has been swept away

Spread to the deltas

In the clouds we gaze at

The cells that line your stomach die

And are replaced within a week

White blood cells have five days

Red blood cells swim for a few months

Fat and muscle will be gone after a decade

Skin will change before the season

Can you ever talk to the same person twice?

Or will the sweetness you once found also escape them

The softness of their eyes eventually elude them?

Will you be able to find them

Dancing in the clouds?

The Middle of a Solstice Day | Dr. Jack Peterson, Faculty

The middle of a solstice day and again we are in a field in a dip in the mountains Something to the east is disturbing the crows In the same direction trucks sing of their struggle to climb the parkway

You keep mentioning the magic of the solstice –how it will make you faster how it will guide the ball into the upper ninety how it will make a Messi out of us

And I believe you, that something is pressing on us more today than others –a clearer call a poem under the surface a blossom coiling through tender shoots a machine-stitched ball becoming a miracle at the strike of a boy’s foot a hunched crow murder squawk swooping and syncing into melody the truck finding the apex of the mountain climb

The light we see rules the day but we feel another light direct, older than the sun and tastes like the stillness of deep, dark-pressed water brought just to the surface for us to sip

The light we will see on the other side of this solstice when it is darkest has been moving toward us this whole time uninterrupted and maybe tonight more than others we can feel the still, steady journey of a long-held gift arriving at last

wood ’25

16 photography byron park ’24

The Son I Was Supposed to Be | Urijah Miller ’28

The son I was supposed to be works hard and stays focused. He’s the straight-A student everyone said I should be, not stressing over schoolwork, not bringing that stress home, not tearing the family apart but bringing them together.

The son I was supposed to be had everything together. He comes home to a perfect family to be a top-notch athlete and the leader he was born to be. Everyone was supposed to look to him as the final product, the final goal. Instead, I felt as if I was the broken one, the failed one.

The son I was supposed to be had high expectations. He had the talent and the skill, as was proven, but then why did it never show? The other one wasn’t as “blessed” as he, but then why was she everything he should be? I do hope one day the son I was supposed to be, will one day be a reality.

An

excerpt from A Friday in May | Henry Stuart

’24

Jack sat alone on a chair in the corner of the room, loud rap music shaking the walls and floor around him. Alexander was nowhere to be found; he had disappeared with Analise 15 minutes ago, and Jack had no idea what to do. He sat, Dr. Pepper in hand, watching the party in front of him. He wished he could get up and talk to these people, but he just couldn’t.

Mary Elizabeth Carter walked into the den from the kitchen and smiled his way. Jack’s heart began pounding. He took a swig of his drink and a deep breath. He stood up and walked over to Mary Elizabeth, heart beating a thousand times with every step. The music suddenly got louder, and a mob of people suddenly swelled between them. Jack froze. He couldn’t see Mary Elizabeth anymore, and the drunken mob banged into him from all directions.

Jack stood still, his mind and heart racing. “I gotta get out of here, right now” he thought. He saw the glass sliding door to the patio. No one was in his way or outside, so he turned and bolted for the door.

A voice behind him called, “Jack! Come back!”

It was Mary Elizabeth. Jack knew it was, but he kept on moving. He threw the door open and quickly slid it shut behind him. He sprinted through the backyard and vaulted the picket fence that marked the end of the yard. He was on the street now and saw the sign for Jameson Avenue about 150 feet on the corner. He could barely make it out in the dim light of the streetlamp above it as he sprinted down the street, tears beginning to form in his eyes. He passed house after house and took a left onto Jameson. He was headed towards the bridge.

He saw the incline ahead and ran even harder. He thundered up the hill, rain spitting down, mixing with the sweat beginning to pour from his hair and skin. His tears flowed even more, joining the mix. He reached the top of the hill and was greeted by the city skyline. Jack skidded to a stop. He walked over to the railing along the bridge, breathing hard, and leaned over it and began to weep. Jack couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried like this, and he wasn’t sure why he was. Was it for the loss of his childhood? The panic of talking to Mary Elizabeth? The undecided future ahead? He didn’t know, but he picked himself up off the railing and looked at the skyline ahead and the rail yard below. A pair of blinking lights was off in the distance, and then a horn sounded. It was a Norfolk Southern freight train on its way out of the yard.

Jack wiped his face with his t-shirt and let out a shaky breath. He pulled his phone from his pocket and put in his AirPods. He opened up his playlist and put on “Life On A Chain” by Pete Yorn. A few more tears leaked from his eyes as the train’s horn blasted. It was a K5H, an older train horn, one that always reminded Jack of his childhood. He began to cry again; the train began moving, two engines, with mixed freight behind. Jack leaned against the railing, his legs starting to go weak, his cries soon drowned by the sound of the passing train below.

Life Sentences: Struan Writing Competition 2023-24

The prompt: Write two sentences that clearly convey an emotion.

First Prize - James Lilly ’24

I gasp for air, the lactic acid building in my limbs as my body crumbles like a weakened army beneath the failing dictator that is my mind. I catch my teammates’ eyes; “push on” they plead, so I do.

Second Prize - Ambrose Ehlers ’24

It is far too easy for one to wallow in his own misfortunes and shortcomings. Yet, it is only once he realizes that the world is not out to get him that the world will no longer be out to get him.

Third Prize - Owen Beardsley ’27

The world moves in slow motion as she embraces the roses. She is beautiful to him.

Johnny Barlas’27

As the stack of papers accumulated on his desk, he clasped his head and looked up to the ceiling. He was a hopeless professor doing the thing he hated just to get by.

Jerry Chen ’27

I glared at the computer screen, eyes blood shot, and the blurry news article reflected off my pupils. “Thump,” my head hit the table, as I dozed off.

Joseph Chen ’27

The child hid his face with his hands. Faint whimpers echoed through the room as he crouched in the corner, cowering.

Garin Gosnell ’27

He betrayed me out of nowhere. I stood there, staring at him with no expression.

William Hughes ’27

Honorable Mention:

Parker Abernethy ’27

His stomach growled as he thought about the food in Stolz Hall. It was Thanksgiving lunch, and he still had three hours until he would eat with his advisory.

We both crossed the finish line triumphantly. However, the crowd was silent.

Sawyer King ’27

As my cat’s heart stopped, tears flew down my cheeks. They filled my eyes like buckets with water.

Ms. Emily Pulsifer, Faculty

He slides the glass panel aside and stretches a long, sinewy arm into the nearest tub, a puff of fragrant air billowing to chill the summer night. I hold my breath as he reaches deep to mine a perfect globe–then another – to perch on a sugar cone he hands across the sticky counter with a grin that tells me he understands the language of ice and cream and chocolate.

Cam Walker ’27

As I left the house at 4 a.m., I realized just how disgusting the thing I had just done was. I had to do it, though, to get attention and glory – and to be number one.

Jack Walker ’27

As I saw him, I felt an overwhelming amount of anger. I could still feel the bruise he gave me a week ago.

Nash Weinzapfel ’27

His eyes were blank as he stared into the abyss. He seemed to have a million things on his mind, but he couldn’t tell me one.

Bill Zhou ’24

“Birth time - 8:45,” the doctor said, as he held my son in his arms. “Death time - 8:47,” the doctor said, as he closed my wife’s eyes.

Even Better than than the Real Thing - U2 at Sphere in Las Vegas! |

Mrs. Olga P. Mahoney, Faculty

I expected an amazing concert but experienced a revival. Nothing could have prepared me for the surreal, out-of-body experience of seeing U2 at the pinnacle of their vocation. Always ahead of the game, U2 came to play. Sphere is the world’s largest spherical structure – a $2.3 billion, 366 feet high by 516 feet wide venue with a futuristic visual and audio on four acres of 16K screens and 166,000 speakers. There isn’t a bad view in the awesome 18,000 seat-house. U2 is the first band to play at Sphere – it’s as if it was made for the invigorating Irish rock band.

Outside, the Exosphere comprises nearly 580,000 square feet of fully programmable LED paneling with 1.2 million LED “pucks”, making it the largest LED screen on the planet. I first saw it from the airplane as we approached Sin City. Mesmerized, I spent hours looking at it from our hotel window and took a hundred pictures of its many displays: Jupiter at 3:00am, an emoji waking up at sunrise, Achtung Baby calling us to the inclusive concert “There is room for everyone.”

Inside, in the lobby, an ambient mix played on repeat with great clarity and transcendence. “So Cruel” was particularly chilling. The first visual inside the arena evoked the Pantheon – originally a pagan temple then turned church. As the show began, the image of a white dove fluttered near the top. A helicopter flew over the oculus and, within minutes, the magnetic band arrived on stage, stood on a giant turntable and began delivering theological reflections with mind-bending imagery and acoustical perfection.

U2 opened with “Zoo Station” and the Pantheon’s panels gradually separated along perpendicular faults to reveal a nearly blinding cruciform pattern as we sat in wonder. During “The Fly,” ticking multi-colored code digits fell on top of us, punctuated below by flashing words projected at lightning speed: “Everything you know is wrong” “It could never happen here”. “Even Better than the Real Thing,” felt disorienting, as if the

photography mrs. olga mahoney, faculty

stage was rotating up and I was falling back amidst a waterfall of Elvis imagery. Bono exclaimed symbolically, “Elvis has not left this building! Not just an Elvis chapel — an Elvis cathedral we have for you!”

“ONE” reminded us that we are “one love, one blood” and that we have “One life but we are not the same. We get to carry each other, carry each other” and are responsible for each other so we must stand up and speak out.

“Until the End of the World” offered a God’s-eye perspective on the earth. We were immersed in images of rising sea levels threatening to submerge the band, “In my dreams, I was drowning in my sorrows.” Then, worsening meteorological effects appeared with urgency all around in multiple screens: Fire, then a single burning red flag that segued into embers raining down during “Who’s Gonna Ride your Wild Horses.”

“Atomic City” distorted time, space and reality. We were surrounded with what seemed to be a thrilling live feed from outside with iconic hotels and dazzling Vegas landmarks, moving cars and pedestrians, then a time-lapse deconstruction of the Vegas skyline leaving us with a vast, empty, original desert.

“Where the Streets Have No Name” began with the burning flag spewing smoke and fire flying in the Nevada desert at dawn, and as the sun rose over the horizon, the flag turned white in surrender – laying down our weapons of violence against the earth and its glorious creatures. “With or Without You” was accompanied by epic video art featuring images of 250 species of Nevada that are threatened by climate change. Then, a body of water appeared in the desert and an ark made its way toward shore (“through the storm we reach the shore”). When it arrived with restoration, it revealed the creatures in monochrome.

The final song, “Beautiful Day” was hopeful and literally the creatures turned to color as Bono sang “See the world in green and blue / all these creatures right in front of you.” The bright white cruciform light returned in reconciliation, and we “See the bird with the leaf in her mouth / After the flood, all the colors came out” – liberation. Bono pointed at the images above joyfully and shouted “Beautiful! You’re beautiful! All God’s creatures, great and small — beautiful! Look at ya! Beautiful!” Grace. (continued)

As the band left the stage, the prerecorded postlude encouraged the crowd, still in awe, to “glorify, glorify,” “let your heart be full,” and “expect a miracle.” Add alchemy to the insane list of U2’s accolades – delivering at Sphere in Vegas something completely new and impressive. I left with gratitude and appreciation. Emotional in reverence and wonderment, I felt fullness of heart with the uplifting call to be kind to each other – “there’s no them, only us”, to cry out against injustice and violence and to remember “this is not a rehearsal.”

photography mrs. olga mahoney, faculty

City Bus 102 | John Jaber ’25

Starving, cold, and alone, the cat seemed devout, unwavering in its quest to survive, clinging to the hope of a meal, food, so that it could live another day. A rat, large and juicy, satisfied all the desires the cat had hoped for. A great leap across a side street was all that was needed. But alas, City Bus 102 had different plans. The cat did not make it.

photography mr. christopher w. childers, faculty

The Gangster Baker | Owen Beardsley ’27

It was my first day, 5AM in the dead of winter, and I walked down the street toward my new job as an apprentice baker. Bitter cold air whipped past me, and I shivered. The bakery had a brown door and awards stacked like pancakes in the front window. When I walked in, warmth wrapped around me like the first bite of a guava and crème cheese pastry, and Joey, NY Baker of the Year in 2007, said, “Hey, Todd, go an’ throw those croissants in the oven, would ya?” Joey was a native New Yorker and big. He had a neckbeard and didn’t pay much attention to hygiene. He smelled like olives and a community pool.

“No problem,” I said.

At 8AM, we had a line out the door. An old woman came in and asked for a blackberry tart. The blackberry tart was the staple of the bakery, and we had sold out nearly an hour ago. The old woman cursed and stormed out.

As noon came on, our customers had dwindled. Suddenly Joey yelled, “Get down!” Confused, I dropped to the floor. That instant, a truck drove by and bullets cracked into the shelves where a few baked goods remained. The small ceramic key lime cups shattered, and one of the morning buns fell on my arm. Horrified, I looked at Joey. “Wh-what was that?

“A rival bake gang,” he said. “They want that blackberry tart recipe.”

Joey explained how his bakery, Downtown Rollingpins, had been at war with another bakery, the EastManhattan Dough Boys. The legendary blackberry tart was so good that it was putting lots of bakeries out of business. The East-Manhattan Boys were looking to make the tart in their own shops.

“Come on,” Joey said. “What are you waitin’ on?”

I followed Joey, hurried out the back entrance of the bakery, and hopped into the company van. The van was brand new with the bakery’s logo on it. Our logo was a baker with big arms, an anchor tattoo, and a comically large rolling pin on his back. As I got in the van, Joey signaled to me to get in the back where there were tons of guns.

“Grab one a’ those would ya?” he said. I felt cold and oddly calm. He looked at me. “Listen. We need to get revenge on the Dough Boys, so move and hand me a gun. They can’t push’ us around like that.”

I was starting to shake. “But I just want to make b-b-b-bread,” I whimpered.

“You can do it!” Joey yelled and slapped me on the back. I picked up one of the already loaded guns and gave it to Joey, and he happily turned off the safety. “Ya’ gonna need one of’ those too, buddy,” he said. It felt cold and heavy in my shaking hands.

Time ticked by and Joey finally said, “Open the sliding door and let’s send some rain on the bakery with the blue awning.”

I opened the door, and we blasted the place. As Joey ran out of ammunition, he yelled over the howling wind. “Wasn’t that bad, eh, Todd? Them Dough Boys will think twice before messin’ with me and my tart again!”

I had regained my composure and said, “I thought this was a baking gig.”

Joey continued to chuckle. I picked myself up and managed to close the door. I lay on the bottom of the van for the rest of the ride and wondered if this was worth it. I remembered how my teachers, classmates, and even parents laughed at me for my dream: to become a master baker for Franz De’Bakeu in France. Many nights I thought about how I would prove them wrong, and in the back of the van, a fiery rage grew in my heart. This was my ticket.

I yelled to Joey, “How about you give me a recommendation letter for Franz De’Bakeu if I eradicate the East-Manhattan Dough Boys?”

Joey looked at me for a second and then said, “If ya do that, I’ll get you that letter and name a pastry after ya’! We’ll call it the Muskrat Special ‘cause that’s what ya look like, a muskrat!” Joey let out a belly laugh, and I began thinking about how I would destroy the EMDBs.

Later that night, I called Joey.

“It’s four in the morning!” he grumbled. “Are ya crazy or something?” Then, his voice sparked excitement: “Todd, I’ll tell ya tomorrow. I’ve got a plan to get you to Franz De -- whatever it is.” I heard him chuckle as I put the phone down. I was exhausted and sore from lying on the hard bakery van floor. I had a kink in my neck as well. So I went home through the icy wind that cut through my overcoat like a knife cuts butter. That night I had dreams of an EMB baker coming to my house and killing me.

When I woke up, I had a text from Joey: “Get to the bakery!”

I grabbed my heaviest puffer jacket and raced out. When I got there, I couldn’t believe my eyes: the bakery was burning, with firefighters, police, and paramedics everywhere. I dropped to my knees, and an officer came to help me up.

“Wha-what happened?” I squeaked.

“Place burned to a crisp. Shame, isn’t it?”

Before the officer turned away, I asked, “Where’s Joey?”

“Joey? He’s in the ambulance. He tried to put the fire out and got burned real bad.”

Joey was unconscious, with burns all over his body, but gripped in his hands was an old delivery slip. On it was an address: “233 BRULEE ALLEY.”

I knew what I had to do. I got out of the ambulance before the paramedics could catch me. A tear streaked down my cheek as I dashed to the company van. I thought, “All of this over a pastry?” I used a map to find Brulee Alley and parked around the corner from the factory at 233. I scouted the place. One guard patrolled the entrance, but I saw a ladder that led to the roof. I opened the side door of the van and saw that beside the heaping pile of guns was a large bomb.

I can’t remember everything I did, but there was a ladder, a heating vent, and a dive into the factory’s central baking room. Quietly, I placed the bomb in a giant mixing bowl and found a keypad to arm the thing. I pressed some buttons, saw the “Armed” light go on, and, with a rush of adrenaline, I bolted.

Just as I slammed through an exit, someone yelled, “Hey!” It was a guard with a gun. I was fast, but not fast enough to outrun a bullet that screamed toward me head. I staggered along the sidewalk, aware that my vision was blurred. I raised my hand to a taxi, and then the world went dark.

I awoke in a hospital bed with a searing pain in my head. I looked to my side and somehow there was Joey. He was wrapped from head to toe in bandages – and he was jubilant. The TV on the wall was showing pictures of the ruined factory.

“You’re somethin’ else, Todd,” he said. “I’ll get you that old letter and we’re serving muskrats as soon as I’m out of this place.”

Once I recovered, I heard from Franz De’Bakeu. They read what Joey wrote about me and they wanted me on as an apprentice baker. I bought the cheapest ticket to France and packed my bags.

“I’m going to miss you” Joey cried as he dropped me at the airport. I would miss him, too. We’d shared a lot of suffering over a tart. photography owen gillespie ’26

Smile Lines | Mason Heth ’24

A byproduct of happiness

Lines that cement near the corner of the lips

Lines that make my crime self-evident

Lines that are only visible when in the right light

Lines that really only I notice

Yet I’ve learned to dread

In order to preserve a sense of perfection

A sense of self that I never had in the first place

I Apologize for Getting You Lost on an Unknown Trail | Mrs. Katherine Hoffman, Faculty

I apologize for not looking at the map. All the trails in my woods from the polar bear freezing waterfalls to the muddy slick salamander caves are safely between the upper and lower dirt road. Once my dogs and I got “lost” in my woods. We wondered on top of the vibrant fall leaves for an hour or so, until we realized the dirt road alongside us and the path in front.

I apologize for not packing extra provisions. In my woods, there are luscious creeks so even if you cannot drink the water can at least relieve the sweat between your toes. The backpacker in me tossed the word ‘prepared’ aside and settled with the words ‘it’s only’ resulting in us running out of water food, arriving depleted back to our car. When we finally got back to our car. But I can walk forever in my woods.

(I apologize to Luna, my dog, forced to hike with us. I killed her energy around hour three when she realized we would have to face jagged uphill back to our first ridge. During the stumbling ascent, I thought if a mountain lion attacked us now I wouldn’t be able to run away. What terrified me was that neither could she and she is a better hiker than either of us.)

photography carter fitzgerald ’25

After Martin Espada’s “I Apologize for Giving You Poison Ivy by Smacking You in the Eye with the Crayfish at the End of My Fishing Line”

I apologize for not turning us back when I realized we had gone too far. Instead, marching on in the hopes that my intuition was off. The marks I followed: all the same color the only color the mountain trails had. I led us to a camp where families played kickball and looked curiously, had they hiked the tall ridge?

I apologize for the way your body drowned in your sweat so it looked like you were in an ocean gasping for air The old men sitting in rocking chairs at the view kind enough to take our photo, even though you cannot see our faces due to the perspiring fog. I apologize that I didn’t tell you the way back was a ninety-degree angle. I apologize for not telling you it was a shortcut. I figured you knowing the truth would only make the journey more oppressive. I continued to tell you, just a little bit further.

I have decided my punishment. I will begrudgingly stomp that trail again, but starkly alone this time, and guard the intersection of right and wrong way like a proud and foolish ringmaster conducting all the adventurers who dare the challenge. Until I realize a sign, late in the evening, will do and place the sign in my stead. Knowing the sign will someday disappear into the woods.

photography william paschall ’24

The Performance | Noah Hunt ’24

We put on a play For them.

You know I wish to rest, I want to be noticed .

My eyes are stale, And your greedy hand grips mine. Will you pick up the flowers, The spoon, her shoe?

The flute, excited as the violin, keeps up. Violently the strings run, catching the tempo. The flute continues - carefree jumping to new melodies. The violin is complacent but jealous.

I want you to sit with me, Sober.

People feast on my labor While you fear your reputation.

Mine is shadowed, Modest.

They glance over my weary grin While cheers boast for your approval.

Based upon the painting “The Dancing Couple” by Jan Steen. From the perspective of the woman in focus.

Timing | Lansing Lewis

Time passes, no matter what, nonstop, every day. Why the clocks never cease turning, I cannot say. The past is long gone, and who knows what the future holds–

All my decisions fit into molds. I could not tell you what I will be in 20 years, But life will bring excitement, not fears.

photography luke parrish ’24

A Pilgrim | Evan Reich ’26

Icy plains stretched in agony over the darkened earth, A banner of starless gloom sprawled across the heavens, Held aloft at four corners by agents from afar, Yet unrevealed in their full majesty.

Time’s weary passage undetected, Save for ancient wind of celestial birth, And the watchfires lit at junctures of the eternal tracks He follows.

Across the heath, his progress constant, Lingering footprints parallel those mighty steel-set tracks, A pilgrim in pursuit of Worlds illumined by the ceaseless Eye. The pilgrim ever seeking truths beyond the lightless banner, Freedom from the prison of the wastelands of his times.

photography mason atwater ’24

QR Code to view Evan’s performance of “Fanfare and Hymn” from the Christ School Alma Mater

Rehabilitation 4.0 | Tyler Thompson ’24

C.S. Penitentiary opened its doors in 1900. The ‘S’ in C.S. stands for “school,” and the prisoners here are called students in a “psychological rehabilitative effort.” This prison specializes in setting juvenile misfits on the correct “4.0 path.”

Andrew Barfind came to the penitentiary after a judge deemed him to be “in deep need of rehabilitation.” He was reluctant but liked the promise of becoming a 4.0 version of himself.

Andrew soon became accustomed to C.S.’s ways and his daily routine. Although he loathed it, he abided by it as if his life depended on it. He thought about what he first envisioned when he saw C.S. – a way to finally set himself on the right path, a way to right his wrongs. These thoughts eventually lulled him to sleep.

Andrew awoke and glanced at his digital clock. The bright red flashed “10:30 a.m.” He was late. C.S. Penitentiary follows a strict, but tentative schedule:

0800 - Roll Call/Breakfast

0830-1630 - Rehabilitation/Instructional Time

1630-1830 - Exercise

1830-1900 - Roll Call II/Dinner

1900-2200 - Roll Call III/Study Hall

2250 - In Cells

Tardiness was unacceptable at C.S. Andrew knew this as this would be his fifteenth point accumulated in the past four months. Each tardy counted as one point. Each infraction counted as one point. If you so much as looked at a warden wrong, you would earn a point. Andrew accumulated his 14 points before this in a variety of ways: an untucked shirttail, a too-loose tie, shoes the wrong color brown, ungroomed hair. Each point counted as one hour of manual labor. Ugh. Manual labor. Every morning, the loudspeakers at C.S. blared: “We strive to correct the misguided youth to produce functioning men ready for society. Remember your commitment to our Four Pillars: Rehabilitative Rigor, Obedience, Discipline, and the Dignity of Manual Labor.”

The dignity of manual labor became the pillar Andrew abhorred. The first time he accumulated a point, he thought the labor was not too bad. He was tasked with moving buckeyes from one side of Yard AA to the other. After his fifth point, he realized the horrors manual labor could entail. Andrew was tasked with more manual labor and was forced to sleep in the cold, dark basement of Wetmore.

Andrew heard only rumors of what happened to those who reached 15 points. He largely dismissed the rumors since these students never returned. Andrew hurried to his third period of rehabilitation and nervously waited to be called to the warden’s office. Andrew became so caught up in his thoughts of punishment and potential escape that he was fifteen minutes late to his thirty-

minute lunch period. By this time, the slop they served was already gone. Andrew could hear his stomach grumble.

At last, Andrew heard his name over the loudspeaker. The warden beckoned Andrew. After ten minutes of walking, the prisoner and warden arrived at a stump, and Andrew was handed a shovel and ordered to dig. It took Andrew six hours to eradicate the stump, as the warden looked on, silently.

Andrew stood back and admired his efforts. He couldn’t help but notice the hole he dug was the size of a coffin. Andrew turned, the warden’s eyes inches from his. The warden smirked, placed two hands on Andrew’s shoulders, and shoved him into his grave.

Lighthouse | Noah Hunt ’24

The two cars bump over the gravel and grass leading to the cliffside, one following the other, both with high beams trying to cut through the fog. The trail to the lighthouse has been unused for years except for a few couples fleeing the mass of suburban life. The men have been following Clara and Porter since late the night before when Porter figured out where their father is being held hostage. He is in the lighthouse built by the siblings’ distant relative decades earlier. Porter grabs the bar above the passenger seat, praying they don’t run off the path. He has never been a religious person like his mom, but now he is hoping it will help. The keys jingle as Clara pulls them out of the ignition. Her dad gave her a small Spiderman key chain with the little figure posing to shoot a web. The wind comes in waves and shakes the car like a child playing in a sandbox. Porter puts his hand on the passenger door handle.

“Porter, do not open the door,” she says as they sit. Both their hearts thump with thoughts of the unknown car following them.

“I have to. We have to go get Dad. That car was so close behind us, but now I don’t see it anywhere.” Porter’s hand is shaking; he knows how narrow the cliff is. The path leading up to the lighthouse can only fit a couple cars sitting side by side. He glances to Clara another time, trying to help her understand the importance of the moment. “Dad has to be in that lighthouse.”

The lighthouse sits on the edge of a hillside overlooking waves far below. A haze has settled over the area as the darkness is starting to ease. A faint carnation pink tints the fog, though gray still dominates. The blue rings of paint around the lighthouse have faded after so many years, leaving the structure bare and blending in with the clouded

photography henry chapman ’25

air. Porter opens the passenger side door, daring Clara to say something. Her authority from being one year older makes him hesitant to step out of the car.

“Clara, we have to go. I think they turned their headlights off so that we wouldn’t be able to see them. By this time, they could be almost here,” Porter says, desperately seeking affirmation.

“Okay, we have to go quick,” she says. They have searched in other places, but the lighthouse makes the most sense.

“Whoever kidnapped him must know the lighthouse is in our family so we would know where to find him. Do you have a flashlight?”

“Why the heck would I have a flashlight?” Clara snaps. “Are you dumb? Just use your phone.”

Porter steps onto the gravel and runs toward the outline of the massive slender body of the lighthouse. Clara gets out after him and turns on her phone flashlight to its brightest, although it almost matches the fog. “Wait for me,” she calls, though he only hears a muffled voice from behind. Reaching the bottom of the structure, the doors are boarded up, but Porter finds an axe, wet from dew hidden behind a large rock. He takes it and begins to swing at the door. Clara arrives as he breaks through.

For a second, they hear a stampede of muffled footsteps a bit behind them. Slowly Clara walks inside first, attempting to stay quiet. They shine their flashlights into the abandoned lighthouse.

“Hello?” Porter yells. Their phonelights show a dramatic winding staircase to their left.

Clara whacks his arm. “Shut up, someone bad could be here.”

“Sorry, but we have to hurry – the people following us are near.”

Up the staircase is a small light at the top. Porter bounds up the staircase with thoughts of his father trapped at the top filling his head. Clara follows but can’t keep the same pace.

Porter has abandoned fear, now hearing the stampede stomp up the stairs behind him. He would go back for Clara, but there’s no point – there’s no way he could take on the group. Soon he reaches a breaking point, heaving, trying to find air. He comes to a stop. The light near the top is only about one flight above.

He raises his head above the stair level carefully, and he sees a man sitting in a chair on the balcony ring outside the lighthouse. He approaches, realizing it’s his dad. Running to the door, he swings it open. Outside there is an angry clap of thunder, the kind that used to make him run down the hall to find comfort with his parents.

The sea so far below remains greedy, excited to claim anyone brave enough to be out fishing on this early morning. The pink from sunrise is now more visible as his father stands up. Porter runs to him and gives him a hug.

“What happened, Dad? Who took you?”

“I left town myself,” his father says, then pauses. He seems to be searching for the right words, “Someone needed me.”

“Who?”

The doorway is now filled with a group of men, all shorter than Porter. Clara stands behind them.

“I’m sorry, Porter,” his father says. “You were going to cause problems if we told you.”

Clara stares at Porter with guilt in her eyes but says nothing.

“Clara, what is happening?” Porter asks, looking back and forth between his family, unsure who is on his side.

“You’ll understand soon,” Clara says, approaching him carefully. She hooks his head with the side of her fist. Porter crumbles, slamming his head on the balcony’s wooden floor. Clara looks toward her father. “That’s done. It’s time to go.”

photography mrs. erin price, faculty

drawing

pablo neme ’27

drawing

pete boatwright ’25

chainmail bracelet

mr. steve stay, faculty

photography spencer vande weghe ’25

LeBron v. Jordan: The Eternal Question | Cole Lewis ’25

Why LeBron is better than Jordan:

1. Size & Weight. LeBron is bigger than Jordan, and LeBron is faster and more dominant than Jordan because Jordan is 6’6” and LeBron is 6’9” and Jordan is not as heavy as LeBron.

2. Competition. LeBron has been to more NBA Finals than Jordan, and he’s played against better competition. LeBron went to ten finals while Jordan only went to six finals, so LeBron went to four more finals than Jordan. The competition was a lot harder for LeBron. Jordan also had a better team in Chicago then LeBron did in both Miami and Cleveland AND LA. Jordan played with Pippin, Grant, Rodman and many more great players. LeBron only played with Kyrie, D. Wade, and Bosh.

3. Stats. LeBron has 19 All-Star selections, while Jordan only has 14, and LeBron is the all- time leading scorer and all-time leading scorer in the Playoffs. He has more assists and more career rebounds than Jordan. So, statistically, LeBron is better than Michael Jordan.

4. Longevity. LeBron has played well in the league for 20 years, scoring 30+ points every game. Jordan played fewer seasons, and he didn’t play well for his whole career. So, Jordan was done and LeBron is still playing (even though he’s old).

5. Family. LeBron has two kids. So, he has to take care of them while he is in the NBA, and he still is strong, and he is still good at basketball. Jordan didn’t have any kids at all.

photography jimmy jones ’25

LeBron v. Jordan: The Eternal Question Rebuttal | Mr. Jameel Brenneman, Faculty

1. Size and Weight: Steph Curry is smaller than most guards, but that doesn’t mean they are better than him. In the same way, size alone does not mean LeBron is better than Jordan.

2. Competition: Competition is not about making it to the finals. It is about winning everything. Jordan not only has done that more than LeBron; he has done it every time he got to the Finals.

3. Stats: LeBron’s stats are impressive, but he is not as good of a scorer as Jordan. He has more points than anyone, but he does not have a higher scoring average. He is actually 7th in scoring average while Jordan is first. In both the regular season and playoffs.

4. Longevity: If you mean influence, no one has changed the game of basketball more than Jordan. If you mean time alone, while his career was shorter than LeBron’s, Jordan finished his career as a winner (we as a society must agree that those two years in Washington never happened). LeBron is getting worse, meaning he has extended his career but he has not extended his winning.

5. Family: Jordan has five kids. He was a father during his career. I have no idea where you got that information. Clearly your argument can not be trusted.

44 photography patrick wang ’24ghosts

aly bolton, faculty

Front and Back Cover Art: Photography | Tony Murphy ’24

Title Page: Chinese Brush Painting | Kevin Xue ’26

Johnny Barlas ’27

John Barton ’25

Owen Beardsley ’27

Noah Henthorn ’24

Mason Heth ’24

Easton Hoffert ’26

STRUAN BOARD

William Hughes ’27

Noah Hunt ’24

John Jaber ’25

Leo Lagutin ’24

Cole Lewis ’25

Lansing Lewis ’26

Nolan Miller ’25

Evan Reich ’27

Henry Stuart ’24

Jad Traboulsi ’25

SENIOR EDITOR

Patrick Wang ’24

FACULTY ADVISORS

Wyatt Long

Erin Price

Emily Pulsifer

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 both writers and artists.