2021-22 Struan Magazine

2021-22 | Christ School’s Journal of Art and Writing

WRITING

The Rope | John Barton ’25

Begging the Destoyer | Colin Brazas, ’22

Now what? | Colin Brazas ’22

Skateland | Jesse Breite, Faculty

A Shadow, Two-Sentence Horror | Colin Breiter ’25

Skeletons Remain | Jordan Edgecomb ’25

Hooked on Football | Morlue Eesiah ’24

The Countdown | Chase Gribble ’23

Heartbeat of the Family | TJ Hamilton ’24

Almost Too Perfect | Rocky Hansen ’23

Ruined | Rocky Hansen ’23

Dream | Noah Henthorn ’24

The Boy Who Cried Werewolf | Hayes Hewett ’25

The Death Rider | Easton Hoffert ’26

Acceptance | Charles Howden ’22

Nature | Charles Howden ’22

Softcore Robbery | Charles Hughes ’25

Free Range | Noah Hunt ’24

Tempo | John Jaber ’25

What are you? | Michael Jaber ’22

Sandman | Angeni Jacobs ’22

Burrito Dream | Jake Jarrett, ’24

“Ambitionz Az a Ridah” | Cayden Jones, ’24

Hitting the Roof | Leo Lagutin ’24

Penumbra | Cole Lewis ’24

The Bronzeback | Henry Lytle ’23

A Pencil | Henry Lytle ’23

The Mistaken Dozen | Davis Mohorn ’24

Circling | Ivan Mora ’22

Chyrsalis | Henry Nicholls ’23

Disappear | Tobenna Okoli ’22

Art’s Greatest Lie | Tobenna Okoli, ’22

The Wonder of the Water Boy| Ethan Park ’23

The Box | Byron Park ’24

Crow | Johno Pierce ’23

Black Pride | Jozohn Price ’24

Amendment 19 | Emily Pulsifer, Faculty

The Star | Ondrej Szkandera ’23

Not in Kansas Anymore | Jad Traboulsi ’25

For Centuries to Come | Ben Yang ’24

Photography | Reese Ballard ’24

Photography | Reese Ballard ’24

Photography | Caleb Booth ’22

Photography | Caleb Booth ’22

Photography | Colin Breiter ’25

Photography | Colin Breiter ’25

Photography | Jack Britts ’22

Photography | Jack Britts ’22

Photography | Sam Chandler ’22

Photography | Truett Compton ’24

Sculpture | Daniel Du ’22

Sculpture | Daniel Du ’22

Photography | Joshua Edgecomb ’22

Photography | David Gaines ’26

Photography | Jack Godwin ’22

Photography | Matthew Henderson ’22

Photography | Jackson Helms ’22

Photography | Noah Henthorn ’24

Photography | Kenny Hesselson’23

Photography| Easton Hoffert ’26

Photography | Easton Hoffert ’26

Photography | Michael Jaber ’22

Photography | Michael Jaber ’22

Mixed Media Drawing | Nate Kelley ’22

Photography | Myles Murphy ’26

Digital Drawing Ethan Park ’23

Digital Photography and Drawing | Ethan Park ’23

Photography | Chandler Piao ’24

Photography | Erin Price, Faculty

Photography | Will Purvis ’22

Photography | Will Purvis ’22

Photography Tucker Reece ’23

Photography Tucker Reece ’23

Drawing | Brendan Regan ’24

Photography Alex Rivera ’23

Photography Kai Rottenberg ’26

Photography Spencer Vande Weghe ’25

Drawing | Campbell Vernon ’23

Colored Pencil Drawing | Trey Wagner ’22

Oil Painting | Patrick Wang ’24

Chinese Brush Painting | Kevin Xue ’26

Chinese Brush Painting | Kevin Xue ’26

Mixed Media Drawing | Mark Yu ’22

photography, truett compton ’24

photography, sam chandler ’22

Hooked on Football | Morlue Eesiah ’24

It was a Saturday afternoon at Asheville School. Our annual football game was almost over and we were up 54-27. Coach Walker put me in for the last play of the game. As the ball was about to be snapped, I looked around.

I saw Mr. Jacobs; Vincent, the QB; Jake, a receiver; and Tidiane, a lineman. The play started and I got the ball.

As I cut up the field, I saw a light shine through the defense, and I followed it. I saw the endzone through the wall of defenders. I felt myself tightening my grip on the ball. I heard the crowd chanting my name. I heard a bunch of friends yelling “Lebron!” (It’s an inside joke.) And I heard Mr. Jacobs scream, “Yeah, Lou!” I tasted my mouthguard, and I smelled the air as it picked up the scent of the grass. I only wished I had my brothers and my mom there supporting me.

With my luck, it felt like a movie. That movie could’ve ended short if I got tackled, if I never started playing football, or if I didn’t have my friends, teammates, and coaches behind me the whole way. I am now –And will be forever –Hooked on football.

My room is quite messy. I don't know how it got this way, or what is under my bed. I hadn't been gone that long, just a short stint as an intern with Google. I look around my room in despair, wishing it would magically become clean. I pick up the nearest bit of junk, a frayed rope. I grab my garbage can, throwing it in. Then I hear the bit of junk rattle. Looking into the can, I stare at the rope as it rattles again. Then the rope moves, coiling up in the trashbag as if it's a snake about to attack. The next thing I know, I'm in the hospital with bandages covering my face and hands.

The Rope | John Barton ’25

We have no idea where we will go, They ship us off in every boat. And every time we ask them why, They give another short reply.

We don’t know where they will take us, The hot summer sun burns and bakes us. Sweat drips down and soaks our toes, Pollution heavy, clogs my nose.

Will the captain continue to neglect The fact his men will still reflect?

Their families, their homes, their legacies, Left behind with their properties.

I want to know where we are traveling, For I am expecting a whole lot of battling. I decide to speak up and ask our Major, But his answer does not explain the danger.

The young men are getting rowdy, They are becoming nervous and shouty. They are all in doubt, Of where they will fight a Kraut.

The men grow irritated, Their sanity has dissipated. I summon my courage, I deliver my message.

“Sir, where are we going? What’s the objective? Your men need to know, They’re getting aggressive!”

Then, uncertain and shaky And clearly quite quaky, The captain is nervous, And says, trying to focus,

“Soldiers, this is war. We are going to fight. We will land on the shore, We will be shocked with fright. Shots they will fire, And cannons will boom. Our objective unacquired, For we are all doomed!”

This is a pointless struggle, All the lost lives and suffering. Only for one person’s power, Both sides go through trouble. Allies and Axis slowly withering, Until one side finally cowers.

Our objective is to distract their forces, We will show up at their front door, We will suffer great losses, For that is our purpose in this senseless war.

The beat of Tupac’s old hits bumped in the car; my dad and I sang the words while the old truck speakers rattled. With one hand on the steering wheel, he bumped his head rhythmically to the song where 2Pac understands that only God can judge him. He knew every word.

Not only did he have excellent taste in music, but he also drives a 2006 Chevrolet Silverado Intimidator SS pickup truck. The female in question was Betsy, and as soon as she pulled out of the driveway, he would warn her to “Slow down, big girl!”

Those mornings were more than just a 20-minute commute to school: they were a source of pride for me. I was reminded of my black strength as I traveled up those roads. Growing up in a home with only my mother, I didn’t have many opportunities to experience the black side of life. These rides with my father were more than a commute to school. It was a difficult road to a private, all-boys school with a majority of white students.

I am grateful to have such a wonderful father. For all the wonderful gifts he has bestowed upon me. The football knowledge I have, and the respect I should offer others as a man. The magnificent red curly hair baffles and perplexes people. “You got your red hair from your black father?”

“Yes,” I say with pride.

Growing up with divorced parents didn’t seem to matter to me at the time. The thought crossed my mind: “I’m not the only one who grew up with divorced parents. This is typical.” When my father was not around, it was tough to make my way back home from school. I came to believe that our family was a horrible bunch of people. Although growing up with divorced parents was difficult, it gave an excellent chance for growth and understanding.

A white guy who was already the father of five children became my mother’s second husband. I was dubious at first, but I’ve witnessed firsthand the incredible experiences that can come from being part of a mixed family. As the holidays, birthdays, and Thanksgiving approached, I saw a marked difference in my interactions with my family, which I found to be rather significant.

I believe I have already endured several hardships that have helped me have a better understanding of life. I would not alter a single thing. The wild Christmases spent with my nowseven siblings. The Clemson football experiences that my father and I enjoy. I have been blessed, and now I, like Tupac, feel that only God can judge me.

Life works in funny ways.

Some days, the world rotates perfectly, goes exactly as planned, and some days it just doesn’t. Some days, it slaps you in the face so hard, you spin twice before hitting the concrete. But some days, it does neither—rather, it does something so weird and inexplicable that if you aren’t there to witness it, you’ll miss it. Things that are so pretty and confusing and inexplicable and sensational that you have no idea what the hell is happening, and for some reason, you can’t help but turn to the person next to you, no matter who, no matter what they look like, and talk to them like you’ve know them for your entire life. And together, amongst complete strangers, you marvel and wonder, point and smile and frown amongst a sea of heads, each so different from the other. And just like when the moment started, it ends. And that’s it. And we continue upon our daily lives like nothing happened.

On one such occasion, it was a partially cloudy day, in a medium-sized high school, one of the ones where the girls wear plaid skirts with the school’s colors and the boys wear a bowtie and a jacket with the same. It was another boring day for them, sitting in their classrooms, at their desks, in itchy white cotton and complete silence, backpacks scattered on the floor like big bits of confetti after New Year’s. The squeak of a whiteboard marker as teachers wrote down facts and figures, followed by the scratching of lead on note paper, in notepads, on note cards, or anything else that notes could be taken in. Some students paid more attention to the clock than the whiteboard, watching it boredly as the seconds ticked by, one by one, one less second until they could leave, until their next class or their next study period or the next whatever—it didn’t really matter, all they wanted was to go home, play video games, go shop with their friends, hit their JUUL hidden in the sock drawer, the one place that their parents would never look because of the smell. Some hid in the bathrooms, hunched over cell phones, in discord chats, Snapchat groups, scrolling through Instagram feeds. Doing anything to get out of class. Some wandered around on campus, waiting for their next class. Some dozed off in chairs and on couches throughout the libraries and empty rooms conquered by the students and dubbed “hangout areas.” A few spent their time outside, doing what they wanted to pass the time. And this was their life. Always on campus, day in, day out, the occasional student getting busted to entertain them. But this school was prestigious. It had a record to uphold. Some of the kids didn’t even want to be there. They were bored.

This partially cloudy day was quiet. Even the sky couldn’t speak. Instead, it just blew gusts of wind like it was trying to talk without a voice box. In Mr. Derrell’s Honors Literature Inquiries class, one student had no motivation to listen. Instead, she sat there, pencil in one hand, the hand her head rested in, and looked out the window with heavy eyes. It was truly a beautiful view, the mountains outlined the fluffy grey

clouds, and she picked out shapes and such in the patterns of the sky: a duck holding an umbrella, a fox midjump, something out of an ancient cave painting. The water tower, the tallest building on campus that had since been renovated into an observatory, stood quiet against the mountainous landscape. Behind her, the clock ticked.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick…

Something moved. On the water tower, a head emerged. Then a body. And then it moved again. At first, she thought it was a squirrel or a raccoon. Then she saw an arm. And the school’s blazer on the figure. She closed her eyes and squeezed hard, thinking it must be her mind. But when she opened them again, the figure was still there, standing up on the top of the water tower, looking out on the distance. She stared in disbelief before interrupting the teacher with a single statement.

“Someone’s on the Observatory.”

Heads turned in classroom 29A. The teacher looked up from the whiteboard and out the window, spotting the figure. The classroom chattered. Chairs scraped from the desks as students hopped from their seats to see the figure atop the tower. They buzzed excitedly, guessing who it could be, taking out phones and pressing record on their cameras. In other classrooms, people noticed. Some teachers tried to usher their students back to their desks, but it was no use— their eyes stayed glued to the figure standing there, silently, hands on his hips like a shittier iteration of Superman.

Some tried to guess who it was. Some thought it was one of the goth or emo kids trying to end his or her life. Some thought it was one of the white kids trying to act cool. But no one knew for sure. Maybe it was a prank. A protest. A form of anarchy. Maybe he would pull out cans of spray-paint and spray something

so bulbous it was nearly illegible on the side of the tower. But no one knew for sure. Now the whole school knew—classes halted, people dashed outside and cupped their hands over their eyes to shield from the sun, teachers opened windows and yelled at the figure to “get down from there immediately.”

From the south side of the water tower, a student busted from the Parker-David Science Center and ran into the street, craning his neck upwards to see the figure. Then two more followed. And then more. And soon enough, a sea of students freckled the pavement and the grass and the bricks—some huddled in friend groups, some stood alone. Some teachers rushed outside to try to usher the students back in, but they simply couldn’t—and soon the teachers, too, were stuck in the very same trance they had come out to stop. And there the boy stood, wind blowing against his figure, not moving, not showing any sign of any kind of anything. He simply stood there. Commotion ran through the road below, whispers and quiet chatter building until they reached high enough for the figure on the water tower to hear. And finally, after much waiting, after much breath-holding, he moved.

Squatting down, he grabbed something at his feet—something resembling a backpack with wings, large and wide, that spanned his feet, too. The thing looked somewhat rickety but solid—the kind of thing you would imagine yourself wearing when you were in kindergarten, maybe if you were lucky and your dad was skilled with a hammer, and he built a set of wings for you out of leftover plywood from building that tool shed in your backyard, the set of wings that got taken away when you jumped off the balcony of your front porch and broke your arm because you truly thought you could fly with those wings. Now, the figure stood with those wings on his back. And people began to realize what he was going to do. Not a protest, not a suicide, nothing of that sort—he was going to fly.

He wanted to fly. Whether he did or not, though, remained uncertain. But you could tell from how people reacted—shaking their heads, cupping their hands over their mouths, laughing at the possibility he might actually fly—that their money wasn’t on the jumper being successful. Some shouted up to him to stop, don’t do it, it’s too dangerous, you’ll kill yourself. Others wanted to see if he would. Some turned away, unable to watch. They cleared the path that they thought the jumper might land in, not wanting to be crushed by flesh and bone and poorly constructed metal and wood. Not wanting that brand new red and black sweater vest they were wearing, the one they bought for $100 from the school store—and that was at a discount—to get blood on it. And still the boy on the top of the tower continued to latch the wings onto his back.

Wires connected in and out of the contraption on his back, a spaghetti of black and white and green tied

together with zip-ties. The figure struggled to reach for the strap out of his vision on the pack, a strap which he eventually found and buckled to a central disc-shaped object that truly made the set of wings look like something out of a comic book. Straps came around his legs, around his torso, across his hips.

And now he stood there, buckled in, serene, tall above everyone, at the top of the world. He reached for his pocket and struggled to fish out something—a pair of goggles, like the ones you would see a pilot from World War II wearing— and put them on. That’s when everyone knew that the moment was close. The moment they were waiting for.

The murmurs rose even higher than before—sounds of anxiety, awe, interest, protest the dangerous feat. Below, the headmaster rushed out of the office building with the principal and VP in tow—they had been informed of the situation and already knew to look at the water tower, but as soon as the headmaster spotted what—or who—he was looking for, he stopped dead in his tracks, causing the principal and the VP to run into him. They stumbled back and followed their leader’s gaze up. Soon they too found themselves staring at the figure, a million questions running through their heads, and the dreaded thought of how much paperwork they were going to have to fill out once this whole circus was over.

The audience that had now gathered outside had grown substantially, and as the figure on the water tower stood there, the moment drawing ever so close, they held their breath, crossed their fingers, cupped their hands over their mouths. Some students hushed the chatter, quieted others down, giving the moment silence. Wanting to see what was going to happen. Watching, waiting. The chatter that was so loud before had been reduced to a few hushed conversations and careful whispers amongst friends. The anticipation had become almost something concrete, the tension lingering in the air so thick you felt you could have cut it with a butter knife.

And everyone waited.

And watched.

A bird chirped.

A squirrel chattered.

The breeze went through the trees, weaving its way through the leaves and making them rustle, a sound like static from a television set. And the world waited.

A breeze swirled in front of the boy, a strong breeze, strong enough to shift the creases on his pants and make his shirt flap like a flag. A perfect gust. The perfect opportunity. He charged his legs, squatting all the way down until he sat cocked like the hammer of a gun, ready to go off.

And he did. Sailing off the water tower, diving headfirst to the ground, like an Olympic diver, accelerating exponentially into the pavement. Some people panicked, watching him barrel towards the ground, his speed increasing. Some people simply stood there, stunned and in disbelief. Time seemed to move in slow motion as he fell. But he didn’t flail. He didn’t scream in terror. He kept looking down, perfect form, watching the ground—the air pushed his hair back and made his forehead a big, untanned beacon.

And right as everyone thought he might truly die, right as he had almost hit the point of no return, there was the sound of a small explosion, like a low, grumbling pop. Then a sound like a blowtorch. On the winged pack, two flames jetted out right where the shoulder blades were, and the boy propelled faster now, pulling up and skimming the heads of some by just a few feet. People in his range ducked and hit the ground, not wanting to get barreled by the flying marvel. His speed increased, and he arced upwards, then leveled out again, flying towards the hazy blue mountains in the distance.

Some people cheered. Some people breathed sighs of relief. The headmaster stood there in stunned silence, so still you thought he might have accidentally broken his spine. The boy on the water tower had flown, by some miracle he had flown with a pair of wings that you wore when you were a toddler.

And he flew off to the mountains, slowly disappearing like a balloon full of helium disappears into the sky when it escapes a child’s grasp, getting smaller and smaller, the sound of the jetpack rumbling away until he created the mountains and disappeared from sight.

Teachers pushed students back into the halls of the school, people took their phones off record, those hanging out the windows slipped back inside, and within a few minutes the way was clear of any evidence that such an event had occurred. It left the students wondering, replaying the moment in their head, and for the ones in class who had, only moments before been looking at the clock, or playing with their pencils, or doodling on pieces of lined paper, they now only thought of the wingman from the water tower—who could it have been, why he jumped, how any part of what they witnessed worked.

It was one of those moments that started and stopped just like that. And they sat there, and they wondered.

And they wondered.

Its beak as big as death

And he sits outside my window Mocking me within And he flaps his wings with freedom

It’s pain to be alone

For the dorm is my prison.

A crow is an evil bird

Crow | Johno Pierce ’24

I have looked in the box you locked away with a warning not to look but temptation took my eyes away I went astray and thus I fend for myself with hope, my partner in crime

During the night, the tree cast a shadow into my room. When I went for a walk in the morning, I noticed there was no tree.

What happens when time stops?

When days grow old and the hand comes to a haltwhat happens then? Is lost time found again?

You can only ponder the abyss of nothingness and dream of a time when there is no me at all. It sizzles your brain to capture such a thought.

(left) sculpture, daniel du ’21

(right) photography, easton hoffert ’26

17 photography matthew henderson ’22

Tempo | John Jaber ’25

The Box | Byron Park ’24 A Shadow | Colin Brieter ’25

Two anglers set out on a journey. They packed their bags and began paddling. Food, flies, camping gear, and a journal filled the 16-foot Mad River canoe. They pushed off Earl’s Ford access into the water. The sandy banks, smooth boulders, and blue water invited them into the wilderness. They heard a roar in the water. Atop the first rapid, Dick’s Creek Ledge, they saw it: the brown reflected off the water and the fishes’ eyes sparkled. They knew they had made the right decision.

As the Werner paddle pulled, the anglers got over the ledge without capsizing and paddled toward their campsite. They saw bubbles, splashes, and bug life everywhere.

Rapid after rapid, they navigated the crystal-clear waters without difficulty. One of them had written a river guide in 8th grade, which was a critical tool used in navigation. Beyond Sandy Ford Rapid lay the clearing. They fought hard in the current and avoided swamping the canoe. The anglers tied up and got out fly rods. Wading up the riverbed, they cast the popper toward the circular boulder. Strip, strip, strip. Boom. The fish exploded out of the water. The anglers fought the fish, one reeling and the other galloping into the shallows to net. A beautiful 18-inch small mouth bass to begin the trip.

They traversed the wide riverbed, casting, reeling, stripping, and netting. Rafts passed the group in waves, overlooking the anglers’ success.

The wilderness enveloped them. Frayed lines, flies, but not mangled spirits. The anglers found refuge tucked away in the canyon. Locked in a wild and scenic river, they were miles from civilization, and with every cast, they felt more connected to this land.

Both spent day after day drumming their pencils, staring out the window, and fishing through the turbulent experience of school. They were incredibly smart, but never had the patience for class. Every day, they vaulted in the 4Runner to hit the water. They had planned this trip for months, and they left everything they knew back home. No electronics, except a single disposable camera. They hoped venturing into the unknown wild and scenic areas of Georgia would yield the Bronzeback.

One night, they sat together to reflect on the day. They discussed the trials of an unreliable river guide, wrote about lessons learned, cooked their ramen, and enjoyed the silence. Sometimes simplicity within a complex, ever-changing world is what anglers chase. Other times it is the thrill. But all the time it is escape. Simple days of waking up, eating, fishing, paddling, fishing, eating, and sleeping, connected them with the ancestral love for the outdoors.

Both were up at dawn. After a half-dozen catches, they embarked. The river swiftly moved into a canyon, over one waterfall, then another, and then into a 30-foot-wide canyon with massive cliffs and

green moss lining each side. They could barely glimpse the river ahead, but they could see a little friend, a brown bass, leading the way. The anglers looked toward one another in fear; the river was too constricted and there was nowhere to turn back. They had heard legends of potholes below the whirly surface, sucking even life-jacketed individuals down for minutes at a time. But they paddled onward.

One blind curve after another. They didn’t stop. Carpe momentum. They had left the struggles of social media, news, current events, and relationships locked away in the glove compartment.

Paddling across a long bend, they entered the infamous rapid Second Ledge. They removed all their gear from the boat, walked it around, and paddled at full speed across the six-foot ledge. Their boat was empty, but their spirits were full of adrenaline. They nose-dived into the surface and braced to stay upright. In a calm eddy below the rapid, they reloaded and continued on.

Further down, a slow meander led them to a clearing. The clock read 3pm, which gave them hours to fish. They had tied special topwater bugs with black beetles as the fly of choice. One cast and a fish exploded from the water and smacked a boulder with a huge tail. They fought it for ten minutes, sprinting up and down the rocky riverbed before netting the beast. Measuring just shy of the 24inch cork handle, they knew this Bronzeback was the fish of the trip.

The next day, before they pulled their canoe from the water for the final time, they recorded a favorite quote from Heraclitus in their journal: “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.”

As I walk by the wall of names on the cold cloudy day, my cane in my hand along with my cap, I read the names one, Sergeant Pace, Lieutenant Sauze, Until I reach my name. I was mistaken for a casualty. I was surprised to see my name I stepped back and took a moment to take this in. I finish skimming the wall for people I know, I walk to the car and drive back home. Hopped on the web and searched, “Mistaken casualties in Vietnam War.” There is my name and eleven more.

I crept down the block with sacks of money in my hands. (I got this money from robbing a bank with my Nerf gun. I went up to the teller and told him to give me all the money and he gladly did so.) I went back to my house and started online shopping for private islands. I found one near Costa Rica with wild goats, but goats are dumb, so I kept looking. I wanted to move out of the country, so I bought a massive house in Madagascar. The house came with two lions and a hippo. It also came with an Olympic-sized pool and a racecar. I was trying to buy the whole country of Brazil, but they wouldn’t let me.

The Mistaken Dozen | Davis Mohorn ’24

Softcore Robbery | Charles Hughes ’25

“You’re it!” she yelled, and I was forced to follow.

I was six years old, enjoying recess on a warm spring day. Step after step, I got closer until she made a sharp turn, and I had to start the chase over again. I was disappointed but not defeated. Not a single cloud in the large blue sky, a slight breeze. Looking briefly into the trees, I could see the greens of the leaves and, crawling down the trees in droves, caterpillars. We all loved the caterpillars. My entire grade would watch them and carry them around, something that baffled the teachers.

I was weaving through the trees; my only thought was tagging my target. As I ran through the wooden fort towards the back of the playground, something terrible happened: I stepped on a caterpillar. The little bug was immediately dead, not a chance. It was obviously an accident, but I was mortified. I stopped what I was doing and looked at the crime scene I had created. I had just killed a living creature, a crime that had not gone unnoticed. As soon as I saw the look on my sister’s face, I knew I was done.

“What did you do?” she said to me, looking down at the caterpillar.

“It was an accident,” I replied, still panting from the chase.

My sister did not take it as an accident. She and her friends made sure everyone in the school knew I had killed that caterpillar.

I went home, still devastated by the heinous act I had committed. Later that night, my mom told me simply that what I had done was not a big deal. I couldn’t comprehend this, and I also couldn’t comprehend why my sister would paint me as public enemy number one for “not a big deal. “

“Does Sophie hate me?” I had to ask my mom.

“Of course not, she’s just your sister.”

I was stunned. But I also remembered all the things Sophie had done for me, like the time I chipped her tooth while she was skateboarding and she didn’t get mad, or when she caught me as a baby and saved me from a table’s corner that would have cracked my skull.

I had to confront my sister.

“Why did you tell everyone what I did at school?”

“I wasn’t trying to make them go after you,” she said. “I just thought what happened was funny.”

Wow. I had imagined my sister as this demon sent from the depths of Hell itself to punish me, and while the death of a caterpillar is no laughing matter, her intentions were not evil. This would take me many years to fully realize, like a caterpillar going through metamorphosis. But after that day I realized the importance of my relationship with my sister. It would continue to develop, especially as we went on walks together and bonded over shared interests. Like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly, our relationship would turn into something beautiful.

I used to think Mama just didn’t like me. That I made her mad or got in the way of her work. But it wasn’t until yesterday I realized Mama doesn’t just not like me. She doesn’t even just hate me. She wishes I never existed at all.

It was a sunny Saturday morning and Mama told me she was going to the store. I begged her to take me with her. I was bored of staying at home. There was no tv, no internet, no toys. All there was to do was stare up at the leaky ceiling stained with patches of brown or listen to the fireworks late at night. One time I even asked her to let me watch them, but she shouted at me to go upstairs. The fireworks were always followed by shouting and sometimes even loud sirens, but I know it’s all just a part of the fun, and Mama wishes fun didn’t exist just as much as she wishes I didn’t.

“No! It’s not safe,” she started. “The air is full of sick and muck. If it gets inside you, you end up dead.”

“I’ll wear my mask, I promise.” I said.

“That’s what you said last time, and within ten seconds of us stepping outside, you was already fidgetin’ and playin’ with it.”

I frowned. Tears started to well up in my eyes.

“Don’t you dare,” Mama said, starting to raise her hand.

I knew she was gearing up to hit me, but I wasn’t gonna back down this time. As we stared at each other, her face started to crumple.

“Fine, but if I so much as see your left nostril while we outside, I’ma whoop your bottom when we get back,” she said sternly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The drive to the store was long and quiet. It’s been like that since Daddy left. Mama and I never really talk to each other much. She probably thinks I won’t understand her adult talk, but I’m smarter than she thinks. Just the other day Ms. Wilson gave me a gold star for acing my spelling test, so I know I is smart.

When we got to the store, Mama handed me a list and said I could be in charge of putting items in the cart. Yesterday I thought she saw me as her boss, now I know she sees me as her slave.

The list was the usual: milk, rice, chicken, bread. All the boring things Mama always got. I stopped as we walked past the candy aisle, shelves stocked with Snickers and Milky Ways. I turned to Mama with a puppy-eyed look, but she stared daggers at my eyes as if to say “No.”

I could feel tears in my eyes again, but Mama quickly pinched my ear and wagged it. The pain shocked me out of crying, but I still stared at her, my frown replaced with an angry glare.

“You don’t need candy,” Mama said through gritted teeth.

“But I haven’t had any since Daddy left. We have the money for it, don’t we?”

“No! Your daddy took all the money when he left.”

“But there must be enough for one Snickers.”

“I said no. If you want Snickers, go get your own job and make your own money, then you can take care of your Mama and yourself.”

“If you’d been a better wife to Daddy and a better Mama to me, then I wouldn’t need to!”

The second I spoke the words, I wanted to do nothing more than take them back. I saw Mama’s face turn from chocolate brown to fiery red in seconds. Her hand stopped trembling, and I knew that meant I was about to feel it on my face. I closed my eyes, scrunched up my face, and waited for the searing heat of her slap to sting my cheek.

But it never came.

I looked up at my mother. Tears were streaming down her face. I’d never seen her cry, not even when Daddy left. I knew she was sad, but I could see something more than sadness behind her eyes. It wasn’t until she spoke that I knew what that was.

“Mama’s tired of being a wife, and she’s tired of being a Mama, too,” she cried. With that, she wiped her face, took the cart from me, and continued on to the frozen food section. Regret. That’s what it was. Regret. As I stared at Mama’s back, she turned the corner and disappeared down the aisle, and I wished I could do exactly that, disappear. I hated her. Daddy hated her, and that’s why he left. I wished I could leave too, but I can’t. For years to come, I will need her. But right then, in that moment, I wished I could just disappear.

I stumble over a big pile of rubble. This rubble is exactly what remains of my home. Our house met the same fate as our neighbors’ — our once old, grand houses are reduced to piles of rubble. I don’t know where my family is, if they made it out alive, or if they are doing the same thing I am doing in this moment: searching for family, for answers.

Some of the rubble from my once grand house crumbles under my feet. The sound of emergency sirens and faint police lights in the distance cut through the smoke. I’m not exactly sure what happened, but all I remember is a big boom and the floor giving way under me. I screamed, clawed, thrashed may way through the pile I was buried in, eventually making it out — cut, bruised, and broken.

Eventually, I stumble upon what was the living room of our home, and I see a small clearing in the debris. In that small clearing sits our old, grand marble clock, fractured. Time has fractured my world.

Nature

The silence nature brings in its domain. Its carpet grass is made from its sharp blades. Thy rustling leaves fill the void with white noise, Contributing wind makes the grass alive. With limbs and branches attached to their log, Stationary by Mother Nature’s breath

And thy oaks’ limbs dangling above thy ground. The bugs beneath and under near her roots

The overgrowth hugging, squeezing the trunk

While never seeming to let go of it.

The poison ivy deceives its victims

The caterpillar munches on its leaf

While rocks sometimes surround the base of trees, Flowers, dandelions, cover her faults.

Acceptance

Open my account not expecting much Believing I really had no shot I calmly click the link with a soft touch Visioning the decision with no thought

The first word made me stop and then in shock I started running around without stop Springing out the door running to my dad hugging my parents, tears of joy and glad

(left) photography, myles murphy ’

(right) photography, michael jaber ’22

Nature

Oh, what perfect dream teases every fiber of my being

Where the world around us has fallen

So we may dare to be free

Let my love and me dance through ruined street

The ash of friends spread ‘neath our feet

This worthy means to my selfish end

I beg some being above to this way send

This world in sickness not in health permits us to touch

And partake in which once was wanted so much

Deemed acceptable damned when black skies loom

My only hope rests in this world’s doom

Pray death greets swiftly all those we know

To tear down these walls your kinfolk doth sow

Culture once shattered can chain us no more

I beseech ye destruction: “Let fires roar”

Whether to aim my rifle at the sky

Or battle those whose humanity’s a lie

Apocalypse can spare my breaking heart

This rare chance given sets him apart

How bold I was to bridge such a gap

My arms around you, never afforded to wrap

Bones of our families restore glint in my eye

Look at me now: “We won’t die”

Beacon set ablaze ‘midst sullen day

Flash of your smile through pain tears way

No planet of men a worthy sacrifice

Though this prayer, beyond hope, should suffice

In the beginning — great anticipation — night and day, expecting the day. The days, so free and happy, Without a doubt —

Oh, the way time goes by — Soon to realize the loss, Seems to fly by like a fly. Memories are now gone in the wind — This phase, Not to be unappreciative, Just anticipating the days — It seems so exhilarating.

Once reached — the excitement depletes, The smile turns upside-down, The grass dims under your feet — Wishing to go back one last time.

We were talking before the knife. The body running around. The head sitting on grass. The humid air made me sweat. Blood was on the chicken. But the liquid on my face were tears pouring from my eyes. Mom comforted me.

The chicken head cut off but still moving. Humans use the knife, words, blood, tears. But we are also the chicken, still moving but cut. Never again will I hurt someone. The knife is not worth it.

Sandman | Angeni Jacobs ’22

On the beach, there was a man

His eyes blinded by the light

The sun lying across the land

The moon obscured out of sight

His eyes blinded by the light

The sun covered by his hand

The moon obscured out of sight

Waves crashing against the sand

The sun covered by his hand

The moon taking back the night

Waves crashing against the sand

Sun retreating out of sight

The moon taking back the night

The sun lying across the land

Sun retreating out of sight

On the beach, there was a man

The spread of pain, ripe with distress, Passed through my troops, dead through excess. Still forward facing, continuous onward pressing, More and more blood, flowing richer than a dressing. Pooling beneath my horse, with the shells of wasted bullets, My soldiers’ bodies flung, like the rinds of bullace. Progressing through the ravaged fields of battle, Trampling through too many bombed-out chapels. The Hand of God still sweeping souls to another world, The inky blackness of night slowly becoming unfurled. Burning flames producing towering pillars of smoke, Rising higher and higher, more impressive than any masterstroke. The perils of disease, carried far by breeze, Brought so many of my friends to their knees.

“It’s all my fault,” I shout in my head, “It’s all my fault all of them bled.”

I ascend the final hill, far too prepared to meet their same doom. The enemy’s waiting, their cannons bloom. The ammunition rushes towards me, straight as an arrow, Whistling as familiar as the sweet song of a sparrow.

For when it meets its target, the bitter snap, Will be as sweet to me as maple’s sap.

“Let this be truly the fight to finish me,” I fiercely implore.

“For only the dead have seen the end of their war.”

(Poet’s note: I built my poem to reach this last line which is a quote from George Santayana, a poet and novelist.)

The Boy

Who Cried Werewolf | Hayes Hewett ’25

It was a windy night in Salt Lake City. The night was pitch black, with the full moon in the sky. My mother and I moved recently because we wanted a safe neighborhood to live in. Ironically, Salt Lake City is known as the place with the most werewolves. That would really terrify me if werewolves were real. The only thing I have seen that looks like a werewolf is my old neighbor who everyone thinks is crazy.

My mother came into my room and said she needed some medicine for her headache. Annoyed, I opened the front door and started walking down the sidewalk. I was passing by the old man’s house when I noticed my old neighbor wearing a baseball cap and locked in a cage. He yelled, “Do I look happy? Do I look happy to you?” I would have helped him out, but the cage was unlocked, so he could have gotten out.

I thought, “What if he’s a werewolf?” but I quickly swept away those crazy thoughts. Wolves were howling in the distance, which was suspicious, but I thought again that I must be overthinking the werewolf thing. Of course, there’s no way they’re real. So, I kept going.

As I was walking, I felt a drip of water snake its way down my neck. It felt warm, like dog drool. I was done with pretending nothing was happening. I stopped and slowly turned around. A giant werewolf was standing behind me with a baseball cap on his head.

Behind the shadows of his sparkling eyes is overwhelming surprise. Pictures of pain and power, but for what price? Pain, struggle, agony –but still happy. Behind the shadows, the beast fights. The beast fights countless days and nights for his loved ones’ rights. Despite the price, the beast continues to fight. The beast goes on and on –will the beast see the light?

Behind the shadows, the beast dreams. He dreams about the day he staggers home. War isn’t as easy as it seems. Will he get shot in the dome? The beast dreams.

Penumbra | Cole Lewis ’25

Behind the shadows, time is running out. Only a month before the beast returns. The hope for life sprouts. The suspense churns. Will he make it from the foreign pit?

Behind the shadows, the beast lives forever with a righteous fervor to make it back home, to see his loved ones –for his war is done.

Behind the shadows.

we base ourselves off a spinning hand moving and changing as it reaches vertical our body resets and it keeps moving creeping around dragging itself toward vertical again and we open our eyes

why is it that as this hand circles warmth walks calmly light introduces itself appearing from a shadow and it keeps moving creeping around dragging itself as darkness returns we cease use of our sight

What would I say if I got the chance?

Maybe that I missed you

Maybe that in my heart I never left

For there’s a million stars

In the darkest skies

Yet I think only about one A million stars

In the darkest skies

But for only one I look One that guides me One that takes care of me

One that shows me the way

Who we are

If not seekers of love?

I sometimes wonder, Though if we are, How come We never see Before it’s too late?

For we prefer light

Yet then we again wish We could get the chance To talk

And to once more walk

Under the million stars

In the darkest skies.

Circling | Ivan Mora ’22

Why

Do I, Find myself sitting here, Staring at you?

You’re a beautiful yellow, brown and green, But your worth Is more meaningful than it could ever seem. You simply slither out of my hand. A spectacle of circuitously sliding smoothly Surmising simple yet complex scenes of suns shining brightly But my lead does not Shine brightly on this page.

You write what I think is right, right here on the page But what if you are wrong?

I wrought to make you what is right

But I cannot be sure

If the pressure builds up too much, you will shatter.

See, if your end breaks

And smears

All over

This grid in question, How will I erase the failures I’ve come to know?

One stroke determines my future.

Is it A, B, C, or D?

What is most correct?

How do I fill in my grid for success?

What happens if I accidentally circle the wrong one?

Why does that change my mental perspective?

My parents will shame, My friends will laugh, My heart will break, And my soul will fill with disappointment. But for what?

A simple stroke once again determines my grade. I sit and ponder why a line of lead means my brother enters surgery

Or why it decides I’ve broken a bone. This pencil determines my future. It reads a “2” on the side, But I know we never really get a second chance.

It feels engrained in our lives

Like a stain of spoiled milk in the car

Because when we try to fix it We only play the game. You can never scrub enough, The smell will always remain, Yet maybe the point isn’t to assassinate the smell Or to win the game.

They try to find what we are good at, But why doesn’t that make me happy?

I look at the rest of the class around me and they have lost their way, Polarized by success.

I need to be sharp enough

To find joy in the game

Rather than to circle the right answer.

“Jump off that cliff.”

“Ok.”

I jump and fall. Falling, falling, falling. I stop.

It’s soft like a pillow. I stand up.

I smell something. Something delicious.

I see it:

A street vendor selling burritos.

“That looks tasty.”

I get a burrito. I take a bite.

I taste everything.

First, the tortilla. Then, the steak. The rice. The cheese. The black beans. The sour cream. The guacamole. The queso. The lettuce. The pico de gallo. The black olives. My mouth waters. I wake up.

I’m in my room, Lying in a pool of drool.

mixed media drawing

nate kelley ’22ghosts

It was blistering on that day

At the old Piper’s Landing Way

We had triumphed through the front eight

But Vovi could foresee my ultimate fate

The ninth hole came around

And I awaited that final sound

It was my turn to swing

And to finally receive my grandfather’s ring

Of hell, of course.

I started to feel the deepened remorse

We heard the sound of the shingle

And what followed closely mingled

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Leo!”

My grandfather’s roar erupted

The rest of my day totally corrupted.

I took a deep breath to relieve my sorrow

But the roof knew I’d be back tomorrow.

aly bolton, faculty

Burrito Dream | Jacob Jarrett ’24

Hitting the Roof | Leo Lagutin ’24

I hit play, put my head back in the late afternoon, and hear that song. My legs get wobbly when I rise, and I’m back at the Rink, circa 1986, Cameo’s “Word Up” projected on the big screen, and kids stream around me on skates, before we bought roller blades and wore our clothes backwards, Kriss Kross will make you wanna, Jump, jump. But in the present class has started, and I’m the teacher. I say “Word Up” because I want vocab words defined again today. I move up and down the aisles in long strides, and they say,

we’ve heard this one before—you played it yesterday. But I can’t stop pushing my legs forward, checking my pockets for quarters to play another round at the arcade. All the girls loved me, I retort, when I went backwards on the curve.

I did not think I, seeing you, would feel as I do — tight, taut, suspended. But there you are in that necktie reminding me to flex the power that is mine, to unpack it tenderly like a teacup, caress it like a butterfly, wield it like a battle ax, for you are securing the lines of my immobility, lighting the fires of my immolation. I must rage against the steep walls of your proscription — I will shake the trinkets from your box.

daniel du ’22

Skateland | Jesse Breite, Faculty

Amendment 19 | Emily Pulsifer, Faculty photography jackson helms ’22ghosts

Heartbeat of the Family | Tyrone Hamilton ’24

Our family – and all those in your path – are blessed by you

With your laughter, love, comfort, and forgiving spirit.

You focus on the good in us rather than the bad. You encourage us to be confident and strong

By focusing on what we do right. You are the heartbeat of the family –You bring the light and love.

You give my cousin Josh and me

The confidence we need.

The food you make soothes our mouths –

Just like my mother’s cooking.

You always tell us to stay positive –

Every day you make my day, GMA.

It hurts

Grey slab of concrete with a dragonfly

Painted ceramic cross container

Rich dirt filling the tiny hole

I’ll have to wait years to see you

Running into the graveyard

All too familiar landscape

Running past the big stone cross

To visit you

12 feet shorter than me

Running from the forest

A skinny ginger cat stares at me

Staring down at you

The dragonfly

Your grave needs flowers

I need flowers

Driving past the gate

Old, looming monastery in the distance

Dead silence as the tires traverse the red brick road

Looking for you

I’m black and I’m proud, five words I never fully understood. My family goes to a museum, I see my ancestors, all different shades of brown, kings, queens, geniuses. Men, women, inventors, All beautiful. All stolen. I see them manipulated, Owned, raped, lynched.

“Let free,” “Can vote,” “Has equal rights.” I see my people oppressed.

In the whipped backs, I see strength, I see hope, I see the will to fight back.

In the peaceful protesters bruised from clubs and hoses, I see presidents. I see world leaders. I see educators. I finally see the long road behind us, and the longer road ahead of us. Those five words that were so foggy, became crystal clear, and now the words I live by, I’m black and I’m proud.

Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, The view is fantastic and so are you.

Foxgloves in hedges Surround the farms, a paradise awaits in those comfy, warm arms.

Daisies are gorgeous, Daffodils have style, A beauty is dazzling and so is your smile.

The most romantic couples Don’t die together, but you and I will grow old forever.

Anything can be art if you lie hard enough.

A single black dot represents an individual in an infinite universe

Just as much as Guernica is a symbol for the horrors of war.

As long as you lie hard enough, anything is art.

A single black dot represents an individual in an infinite universe

Unless the painter says otherwise, a black dot is a symbol of enlightenment

As long as you lie enough, anything is art.

You don’t have to be Picasso, DaVinci, or even Michelangelo – like I said

Unless the painter says otherwise, a black dot is a symbol of enlightenment

Just as much as Guernica is a symbol for the horrors of war.

You don’t have to be Picasso, DaVinci, or even Michelangelo – like I said

Anything can be art if you lie hard enough.

photography

joshua edgecomb ’22

What are you? | Michael Jaber ’22

What sense of time do you have? Do you possess one that is constant, disarrayed, frozen in time? One that resembles the disorganization of a teenager’s room or the dirty floor on which you stand? Or do you represent an interpretation of time dominated by intentional disarray, one notoriously known as timeless, traversing across the many decades, centuries over which you have vigilantly watched, one that from an outsider’s perspective appears cluttered and broken down but, in reality, exhibits order and silent leadership? I find it quite difficult to distinguish what type of clock you are, how or if you are alive, vibrant, awake. Are you silently, vigilantly watching, or has your feeble spirit faded into the dark abyss of shadows, only remembered by your assorted, strewn parts that act as your gravestone?

The gunfire ceases. I take a step out of my home

My city burned before me, and the road was paved with bones

I wander through the streets and see remains of those I’ve known

The blood that’s on our hands has changed our dying hearts to stone

Children being walked away, their blindfolds hide the blades

Pressing up against their necks, their hometown burns in flames

Taught only, by the victor, what’s chosen to be portrayed

But the skeletons remain, and the darkness doesn’t fade

(Inspired by “The Arrival” by Shaun Tan)

Skeletons Remain and the Darkness Doesn’t Fade | Jordan Edgecomb ’25

photography

colin breiter ’25ghosts

It was a beautiful spring day in the lush, green mountains of Western North Carolina. I ran on a narrow dirt road in what seemed like the middle of nowhere, but to me, this was my home. The birds chirping, the wind hitting my face, the crush of the gravel under my feet, the rustle of the leaves from the wind, and the feeling of joy, peace, and happiness.

Almost too perfect, right?

My dogs were with me, trying to keep up on the longest run of their lives. Mazzy, one of my dogs, lagged behind. She’s the type to chase the ice cream truck. Lola, my other dog, ran a few feet behind me. This was nothing new to her. She had gone on runs with me before. We eventually made it back to the gravel parking lot, where the giant, brown beast, otherwise known as Dad’s Ford F-150 Truck, sat there in all its glory, waiting for us. I gave the dogs some water, ate the protein bar I had packed for after the run, and hit the road back home. Little did I know that home, which was normally 10 minutes away from the parking lot, was now much farther away.

As I drove back home, I rolled down the windows to let the fresh spring air into the truck.

I thought about what I would do when I got home. I thought about the state track and field meet for the next weekend. I went on autopilot, letting my subconscious mind do the driving. I assured myself, “I’m a good driver, I’ll be home in no time.” Famous last words before disaster.

Eventually, I met a hairpin turn. I turned on the hairpin, and I zoned out again. I don’t know exactly what I was thinking about, all I know is that I was not paying attention to the road.

Suddenly – THUNK.

I hit a deep pothole. The truck fishtailed. In a few, short moments, my world had tilted, literally. Being pulled out of my trance, I tried in desperation to push the gas, turn the wheel, anything that would save me from tumbling off the edge into the ditch. But it was fruitless. For the first time in my life, I felt like death was a real, true possibility. I thought the truck would land on its roof and crush both me and my dogs, our memories lost in the truck in the middle of the woods. Time passed the slowest it ever had in my life. Numerous scenarios ran through my head in those few short moments. Either way, knowing the inevitable outcome, I braced for impact.

BOOM.

Impact. Ears ringing, heart racing, I scrambled to find a way out. I was alive – miraculously. I looked around, and I remembered the rolled down windows. How convenient. I hadn’t opened them all the way, so it was a bit of a tight squeeze, but I made it out.

In the end, everything turned out alright. My dogs and I made it out unscathed, and the only thing that was damaged in the wreck was the truck. Some kind souls devoted their whole day to helping me get home and get situated after the frazzling wreck. Whenever I look back on the wreck, the kindness, support, and assurance of these people remind me of the importance of being a source of positivity in this hostile world. Reason being is because someone may need it – like a scared teenage boy in an upside-down truck in the middle of the woods.

Now what? | Colin Brazas ’22

So I’ve finished you.

Now what?

Do I add people?

No, I don’t really like people.

Shall I frame you proper?

Or leave your edges bare?

Either way, you’re getting hung.

Am I proud of you?

Do I believe in what I’ve created?

Of course.

Why else would I have done so?