2022 iliad literary-art magazine

iliad literary-art magazine

volume 47 1

Dedicated with love to Dr. Linda Boza, Gwendolyn Stevens, and MaryAnn Sullivan.

Volume 47 2021-2022 Published April 22, 2022 Clarke Central High School 350 South Milledge Avenue Athens, Georgia 30605 Enrollment: 1800 Phone: 706-357-5200, EXT 17370 iliadlt@odysseynewsmagazine.net

letter from

the editors

theme letter

To the Reader:

To the Reader:

Throughout our lives, we attempt to understand the balance of reality and our aspirations. This process is often seen in creative works through abstraction and realism. We aim to reflect the evolution from the tangible to the intangible in this year’s edition of the iliad literary-art magazine.

The theme of this year’s iliad is Astraeus. Astraeus is the Greek astrological deity of the dusk, stars, planets, and the art of astronomy. With this magazine, we hope to convey the beauty and mystery of the night sky through the creative works of our school’s community.

Welcome to the 2022 edition of the iliad, “astraeus.”

Looking up when it’s dark leaves you with the overwhelming sight of stars, planets, the moon, and glimpses of the Milky Way. Each of the elements that comprise the night sky are unique and beautiful, just like the pieces featured in this edition of the iliad.

The iliad has been a place for us to turn our desires and visions into physical reality. We hope that “astraeus” serves as a place for individuals in our community to communicate through their art.

We are incredibly grateful to have been able to produce this magazine in an entirely in-person setting for the first time in two years. We could not have predicted that we would still be facing the effects of the pandemic within our building, which has caused us to face a harsh reality versus what we had hoped for this year.

While our student body has finally returned to in-person learning, the ripple effects that the pandemic has caused on content creators’ passion and creativity have not gone unnoticed. Many students within our building have struggled to find inspiration. We created our magazine this year with the hope of re-inspiring content creators within our community. What motivates our Leadership Team is the knowledge that we are creating something much bigger than ourselves, and offering a platform to our community during tumultuous times.

To share personal creations such as art and writing is an incredibly vulnerable act and in the iliad, we strive to build a safe space for creative expression of all kinds. In “astraeus,” you will see the unique talents of our student body showcased. We made it a priority to create a magazine that continued the progress made last year in diversity and accurately reflects the diverse community that Clarke Central High School has to offer. We worked diligently with our staff to meet the goals of exhibiting the work of a variety of different ages, genders, races, and ethnicities in our magazine.

We want you, as the reader, to experience the flow from the palpable to the unknown that is reflected in the pieces and organization of our magazine. With that, we hope you enjoy the 47th edition of the iliad literary-art magazine.

Luna Reichert & Kaija Gilbertson Hall, Co-Editors-in-Chief

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this issue’s

astraeus

We have divided the magazine and its contents into four subsections, “fengári” (the moon), “planítes” (the planets), “astéria” (the stars), and “ouranós” (dark matter). This order represents the journey that our lives and artists’ creative processes often take from the consistent and tangible to the sought-for and unimaginable.

The moon has been watching over us our whole lives, so “fengári” represents consistency and selfreflection. Pieces in this subsection will reflect past experiences, nostalgia, and harmony. Of all the components of our universe, we are the most familiar with planets. “planítes” represents the tangible, the familiar, and includes work focused on realism. We often hear the phrase “reach for the stars” which means to strive for greatness and subsequently, our subsection “astéria” represents all that we aim for.

These pieces will reflect this idea of desirability and hope. “ouranós” represents the dark matter, which makes up much of the universe and will feature creative works that portray the surreal and the wonders of the imagination.

In order to fully experience the pieces in our magazine, look out for the symbol. On pages with this symbol, you can use the Halo AR app to create a more immersive experience. All you have to do is open the app and scan the page!

Throughout our lives, we often struggle with navigating our past, our current reality, and our hopes and dreams. We hope that through reading “astraeus” and exploring its creative works, you embark on your own journey from the constant tangible things in life to what you dream to achieve, and even beyond that to the incomprehensible.

Luna Reichert, Kaija Gilbertson Hall & Eva Orbock, iliad Leadership Team

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the moon

26 dignity

table of contents

10 gap teeth

Isa Heesacker-Romero // free-verse poem

11 nostalgia

Emma Cooper // watercolor

Emery Shih // free-verse poem

27 skateboards

Ethan Caspary Poucher // paint marker on skateboards

28 violets

Christian Eberhart // free-verse poem

12 the mundane horror of the coronavirus

17 Kinzinga Kialeuka

Salai Diekumpuna & Eva Orbock // digital graphic

29 ram skull

Atticus Barrett // personal essay

13 wire bonsai

18 flower power

30 cerca de Florida

Bella Wood // crochet

Kira Howard // digital graphic

14 my name belongs to a wall

19 where I’m from

31 fractured future

37 neon reef series

Kelbi Phillips // free-verse poem

Natalie Schliekelman // short story

15 violet figure

20 the cigar box on the dresser

32 siren

38 a pretty girl’s guide

Samuel Hansen // free-verse poem

Anna Shaikun // free-verse poem

16 dear Koko the Man

21 Miss Eclipsis

33 snakes

Itzel Delgado-Torres // pencil & watercolor

39 inner peace

Janie Ripps // Spenserian sonnet

22 a closed-casket eulogy

34 urban sprawl

Treasa McHugh // digital photography

40 me and him

Nico Willman // monologue

23 forest sun

36 sojourn

41 Persephone’s dish

Connor Allen // copper wire

Nohemi Rodriguez // free-verse poem

Ollie Hendershot // collage

Salai Diekumpuna // letter

Chloe Allen // watercolor

Elliot Hahamovitch // charcoal

Antonio Starks // free-verse poem

Amanda Price // ceramics

Cadence Schapker // list poem

Casey Anglin // collage

Joanny Hernandez // free-verse poem

Penny Merva // ceramics

the planets 4

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44 American identity

Emma Cooper // digital collage

45 free

Mara Jalease Smith // free-verse poem

46 a warm spring rain

Elise Siegmund // pen & marker

47 tau

61 I am not a person today

Bird Smith // gouache

48 the light of my crown

62 switched

Itzel Delgado-Torres // pen & watercolor

50 horoscope for a spirit dolphin

63 shelter from the storm

51 mushroom magic

Olivia Daniel // pen & marker

52 beautiful pawn

Natalie Schliekelman // monologue

53 justified

Antonio Starks // acrylic paint

54 a young Black girl

Wyatt Meyer // sheet music

64 protect Black women

Salai Diekumpuna // free-verse poem *this piece contains graphic language

66 not his little girl

Kaija Gilbertson Hall // haikus

67 bear Franni Thrasher // oil paint

68 American Christmas

Amira Adkins // free-verse poem

Ayanna Lonon // short story

55 a not so social butterfly

69 roller rink

Temprince Battle // digital photography

56 evolution

Audrey St. Onge // watercolor

70 taking flight

Clara McCarthy // free-verse poem

Maya Shrivastav // villanelle

57 canyoneering

71 eye into the universe

Caroline Orbock // digital photography

dark matter

Emily Couch // free-verse poem

Temprince Battle // digital photography

Audrey Enghauser // horoscope poem

the stars

60 surprise eyes

Niles Flath // prose

Aiyanna Bhuiyan // pen

72 Gatsby’s dream

Bird Smith // pen & gouache

73 catoptrophobia

Katherine Ness // dictionary poem

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astraeus

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7

the moon

“I’m from a story / A story that’s far from perfect / Far from finished . . . ” — Kelbi Phillips, “where I’m from” // page 19

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astraeus

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gap teeth

Isa Heesacker-Romero // senior free-verse poem Happy kid freckled by July hasn’t grown into those teeth just yet She reached into her mouth and plucked out each one the year before, but had not yet become aware of her face.

A sweet face with big baby cheeks left the new teeth marks in pb&j’s, strawberries, and chocolate ice cream.

But primary school hadn’t prepared her for that smile. The gap that suddenly seemed to grow in the mirror felt too big now. Shame pricked those baby cheeks red like the sunburn of last summer.

nostalgia Emma Cooper // senior watercolor

So she glued together the teeth of her sister just as her mom had at her age,

These teeth she should have been so proud of now all sat in

one

10

fengári

perfect

line.

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the mundane horror of the coronavirus Atticus Barrett // senior

wire bonsai Connor Allen // senior copper wire

personal essay

I

awoke with a splitting headache originating from right behind my nose. “This must be it,” I told myself, and I was right.

What I didn’t know was the level of suffering I would face following that day in August 2020. I grew weaker in the coming days. Soon after, the taste of salt and sugar blended, and then there was nothing. The headaches increased in both intensity and frequency. It wouldn’t be long until both of my parents came back with matching positive tests. I didn’t think there was even a point in getting tested, of course, I had it.

Over the passing weeks, my condition improved. I began to be able to get out of bed and move around as much as the restrictions allowed. On the off chance that I thought I would be free of the tumultuous days to come, stepping outside of my house acquainted my nose with the most pungent, indescribable smell to ever grace my olfactory senses. Although I could physically leave my house, my mind would not advise it.

The once simple and gratifying experience of cooking and eating, what was once so simple it slipped the mind, became an increasingly grotesque nightmare, as everything that I once enjoyed became nauseating, or worse, bland.

After a few months, I could no longer remember what my day-to-day experiences felt like before I got it. Reminiscing on it, it feels like an almost unspeakable horror, one that I would not wish upon anyone walking the earth.

I began to grow distant from my closest friends. I had neither the energy nor the

gumption to reach out to them, and on the rare occasion someone reached out to me, I would turn them down.

This cycle first made me aware of the mental health issues that I am still dealing with today.

The neglect of myself and responsibilities made me no more than a shape or a concept: completely divorced from the locked-down world going on around me.

But I began to get better.

I started to view the ailments that I was currently suffering from as opportunities to try new things. Most of my accomplishments in the early stages of recovery were exposing myself to the new, old stimuli that repulsed me. Once I could go outside or eat at the dinner table without feeling disgusted, I could finally begin my new life.

Reaching out to friends became easier.

I sought these connections and opportunities and they often found me. I began to go for walks in the woods near my house. Experiencing all of the new sensations that one would when stepping into another country, or world.

My old self died with my old senses.

Although the challenge of overcoming the soul-rending isolation reinforced by the past routine that I made myself for the past year has felt like a Sisyphean task, I know that I will eventually get that boulder to the top.

Although the war with my schedule is seemingly won, a battle on a new front has made itself clear. My anxiety has gone undiagnosed

“The neglect of myself and responsibilities made me no more than a shape or concept . . . ”

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fengári

for around the seven or so years that I started having symptoms. I still feel its cold, depressing claws sink into my mind whenever I let a project take too long to turn in, or forget to talk to friends for a few days.

However, these feelings have been seemingly replaced by a fog of the mind.

When I used to meditate back when I first got it, my mind was always racing.

Now my mind is still, even outside of meditation.

This is merely a new task in the wake of the past, seemingly insurmountable, challenges. I have been able to handle all of the rest, what has this one got that I haven’t seen before?

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my name belongs to a wall Nohemi Rodriguez // senior free-verse poem My mother was in labor and gave my dad the most important job . . . to pick a name for me.

There was a wall. A wall full of names.

Time was running out, I was almost here.

Finally, he saw one, kept it in mind, told my mother, and she signed the papers.

My name belongs to a wall.

My parents always say they love my name.

Everyone else had a different opinion.

I got bullied for my name.

I hated my name.

No one could spell it right, pronounce it right, nothing. No teacher nor peer can pronounce it right the first time like most names.

My name belongs to a wall.

I felt ashamed for having a name no one can pronounce, I asked everyone to call me by something else, something more simple and common.

I blamed my parents for the embarrassment I felt when attendance had to be called and the teachers wouldn’t even try to call my name.

I dreamed of changing my name. Amy, Alex, Mia, Paula, anything. Anything but my name.

My name belongs to a wall.

I soon realized I had to accept the name my parents gave me. After all, it makes me, well, me.

I still have a lot of patience and healing to do.

No one’s words could hurt me more than my own.

My name belongs to me.

collage Ollie Hendershot // freshman

violet figure 14

fengári

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Kinzinga Kialeuka

dear Koko the Man

Salai Diekumpuna // junior & Eva Orbock // senior digital graphic

Salai Diekumpuna // junior letter Dear Koko The Man,

You never needed that cane

I love you for trying to speak English just so

You are ecstatic in your pursuit to provide for us.

we can talk

I saw a picture of you in your youth as I glanced

You never let us know of the scars on your back,

For getting up and dancing

through photos of our family history

Aside from the infamous history of your

For promising to be at my wedding

You looked six feet tall as the shadow of your past

failed career

For standing up while carrying the weight of

smiled and played in the snow

“My grandfather used to own an airline”

your age

Netherland snow begins to fall,

I shouted to everyone in sight with my nose up

I love you for having hope when I can’t

It begins the movie of the compiled memories I

and my eyes closed

I love you

have of you,

Unaware of my future or the smell of my

I will see you again during Christmas

Your smile that appears as you play in the snow

own caca

This time there will be no snow

lingers in my head

Pride is a sin, but I couldn’t help being proud

The heat of Miami will cement our time

In your maturity, you still stood tall with your

I still am

together as a family

cane in hand

Even now when you chew off more than you

P.S. you have a doctor’s appointment Dec. 9th

You never let it define you or your strength,

can swallow

I admire you

Just so I don’t worry

I watched you preside as the patriarch of our

I’m proud, even now, that I stand taller than you

family as I peeked into your family meetings that

and you still comfort me

excluded the children

You were so calm after the ambulance left

Even from a hospital bed, you moved mountains

You were so calm the night we left

I watched you create peace within our homes

I love you for telling me the truth

With wine in one hand and a cane in the other

Especially when you’re not okay

Abstract // dear Koko the Man: I wrote this poem as a letter to my grandfather; I wrote this to help me sort out my feelings about his sickness. As a kid, even though I was taller than him in his old age, he had this presence to him. It felt like he was the tallest and strongest in the room. Now that he is sick, he doesn’t have that same presence. As strong as he is, he doesn’t feel as tall. It’s as if he lost the prominence he once held when entering a room. Sometimes it hurts him to eat but he would try to eat more when I was around to make me happier and put me at ease. He’s always protecting me so at his most vulnerable I thought it’d be best for me to say a few words of encouragement.

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fengári

Sincerely, Your granddaughter, or as you once called me, the hope of the family

Abstract // Kinzinga Kialeuka: While I didn’t create this art, I felt it was a representation of my grandfather.

This is much like what he looks like now since he had a stroke, half of his body isn’t the same and his left eye is a bit more shut than his right. I wanted to create an abstract drawing of him, so I included the Congolese flag across his face. I did this because it’s a part of his identity, but I wanted to use light hues to represent happier emotions and pride which describes a lot of his character.

Abstracts by Salai Diekumpuna

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where I’m from Kelbi Phillips // sophomore free-verse poem

I’m from Athens

Because there’s always so

leave your mark on the world?”

Southern born and raised

much noise

I’m from wisdom and astuteness

So Georgia’s home

I’m from a generation of “Who

I’m from natural authority to

Always has been

are we?”

social anxiety

But can never really answer

I’m from a posturing for God

I’m from friends that feel a whole

“Who am I?”

I’m from a hunger for more

lot like family

I’m from “You’re too much”

I’m from being the church girl

I’m from a family that’s a

To trying to be less

To the influence of my peers

I’m from a church for

I’m from Southern hospitality

I’m from imperfections

unchurched people

From “Yes ma’am” and “No sir”

I’m from being forgotten

I’m from two parents to one

To church on Sundays

I’m from perfectly imperfect me

I’m from one parent around to

Every single Sunday

To please take me for what I am

the other disappearing

I’m from worship and want more

I’m from wanting acceptance

I’m from tough love

I’m from Christians who curse

To craving individual identity

I’m from Old Yellers

like sailors

I’m from broken glass

I’m from the brutally honest

I’m from therapy

To beginning again

I’m from making messes count

I’m from “Lay on my couch and

I’m from being the broken glass

tell me your problems.”

I’m from a story

To gluing other people back

I’m from “What do you want to

A story that’s far from perfect

together

do with your life?”

Far from finished

I’m from older friends

From “Where are you going

A wild story

To being lonely when they leave

to college?”

A rollercoaster

I’m from hating the silence

From “What are your plans?”

A monumental story.

hot mess

crochet Bella Wood // junior

flower power 18

fengári

I’m from “How do you want to

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the cigar box on the dresser

Miss Eclipsis

Samuel Hansen // senior

Janie Ripps // freshman

free-verse poem

Spenserian sonnet

The cigar box on the dresser

You walked on the clouds with your head held high,

Still faintly smells

Racing planes and creatures that were flying,

Of the sweet and savory scents

They trailed you riding along in the sky.

Of the cigars it once stored.

Miss Eclipsis, your name we were crying

The finish of the wood

Teardrops like rain and anger like thunder,

Feeling smooth to the touch

You danced in the air, returning rarely,

Reminds me of when I got it.

Your smooth golden hair I watched in wonder, Laugh so joyful, we awed you unfairly.

The memories now stored In its walls of wood

You ran on the stars, a step on each light,

Remind me of better times.

The sun and the moon rose to your calling, And waited on you, it was only right.

The clasp that locks the box

Once I got a glimpse, my heart enthralling

Makes a loud knock And seals those memories away.

Your features, twisted. Golden hair, tangled.

Lies swirled my mind. Miss Eclipsis, mangled.

The cigar box on the dresser Smells of reminiscing, Of long lost friends and Of painful memories.

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fengári

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a closed-casket eulogy Nico Willman // junior monologue Ahem.

Thank you all for coming, for taking time to be here. Sorry about the parking situation. We gather today to lay to rest a great force in many people’s lives, my father. But I know, and you know, the reason most of you are here is my mother. And Dad knows it too, whichever direction he went.

Everybody loves my mother. She’s the one who makes you soup when you’re sick or calls to check in when you’ve suffered a tragedy. She’s a mother to just about everybody in this church anywhere near my age. She’s had at least a half-dozen people consider her a best friend, and she’s here in the front row -- stone-faced and passing out Kleenex.

But my dad, which is why we’re here today, was a lot of things. Strong, hard-willed. He had his opinions and never changed them, no matter what new information was presented. He had the same breakfast, two eggs and an Eggo, every morning for fifty years, which definitely didn’t help his cholesterol, and is probably why we’re here. But he was not kind, or compassionate, or very much fun to be around.

In fact, he was kind of a jerk sometimes and made most people he interacted with feel bad about themselves. He was the type of person to kick you when you’re down, I would know.

My dad found it real hard to talk about anything but the weather or why Nixon should’ve stuck it out.

He wasn’t a real good listener, either. I remember when I told him he was a grandfather. He was reading the paper, and I told him. “I’ve got a son on the way,” I said. And without looking up, he told me that babies were expensive and a waste of time, but to make sure he wasn’t raised a liberal.

Why was he like this? There are a lot of places we could point our fingers. I know he didn’t come from the kindest home. I know he had family in Chicago, and I know he never took me to meet them. I know, at one point, he wanted to live out West, but I think that I came along and suddenly, he couldn’t.

I know he silently resented me for it. I could feel it in every stare. And I know he hated getting older.

I remember the first conversation I had with him after he had found out he was dying. Ass cancer, as you all know. The Cubs had been on a losing streak, and we argued about whether it was the new second base coach or Joe Maddon’s fault. And I remember something had shifted in him, something in his eyes, like he had become human for the first time. Coming face-to-face with his own mortality brought him down to the same sad group as the rest of us. I think that destroyed him. He was no longer untouchable by death, no longer immortal. And he was sad. And he agreed with me, for the first time, it was Joe Maddon.

I remember another conversation, after his diagnosis. We had both had one beer too many, and he told me congratulations for my kid. I don’t think he meant to say it, but he did. And I said, “Thanks.”

He shot himself. A dignified death in his mind, he got to go out on his own terms. Which is also why the funeral is a closed casket, if anyone was wondering. He’s in there though, it’s not pretty. Mom and I had to throw this together on real short notice. Thanks, Dad. Again, sorry about the parking.

I think he loved me and my mother, deep down, and I think he cared what happened to us. And I think he was so, so terrified we would know that. It really does suck how you never know what to say to someone until you can’t anymore. My dad’s dead, and now I understand that no matter what we do in this world, we all end up just like him. And I feel lighter having closed his casket.

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fengári

watercolor Chloe Allen // junior

forest sun iliad

23

planítes the planets

24

astraeus

“My hard drive, overtaken by roots. / My eyes refract life / Green covers my metal shell, / Fighting against the rust.”

Antonio Starks, “sojourn” // page 36 iliad

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dignity

Emery Shih // Clarke Middle School rising freshman free-verse poem She tries to tell them

Why do I try to help?

She truly does

I know I’m helpless

But they call her a joke

Nonetheless I try

They never listen

To be the bigger person

I can’t bear the sight I can’t bear to stand by

I push them away

And watch as she is frowned upon

Tell them to stop

And lying helplessly on the ground

But they pick me up

Waiting and waiting

And throw my dignity away

For this all to stop

I limp ‘til I can no more

skateboards

Ethan Caspary Poucher // junior paint marker on skateboards

And I end up I try to help

In the same circumstance

But I’m pushed away

Lying helplessly

I get hauled into the jokes

On the ground

They’re impossible to escape

Waiting and waiting

I can barely breathe

For this all to stop

Or tell who’s bad

Please. Stop.

And who’s worse

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planítes

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27

violets

Christian Eberhart // junior free-verse poem The wild violets are beautiful.

They sway in the wind, no worries about them.

Calm and charming, purple and primp.

They’re quick to forgive, always sprouting again.

They’re enticing and sweet, smooth-talking and upbeat.

I think the violets are my friend, but they’re not.

They’re invasive.

They’re aggressive.

And they’re mean.

Killing all the other flowers around them.

Sucking the life out of all the other pretty flowers around them.

They’re selfish.

It’s slow and calm at first, and it makes me think, “I thought I had a friend. I thought I finally had a friend.”

But the violets are not my friend. They’re killing me.

And I’ll fight, and fight till my very last breath.

Until I’m dead and the violets are alone again.

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planítes

charcoal Elliot Hahamovitch // senior

ram skull

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fractured future Natalie Schliekelman // senior short story *citations can be found on page 76

“No sigh relieved her speechless woe, She had no voice to speak her dread.”

Eden gazes into the mirror and she is paralyzed by expectation.

She is supposed to make the right choice. She is supposed to do the right thing, and everything will be okay. She is supposed to do the right thing and everyone will be okay.

Everyone tells her what the right thing is. No one seems to think that she could have any doubt about it, but she knows that her heart of hearts has not reached a consensus on what the right thing to do is.

It’s what’s best for everyone. Think about the children. What would they do without a mother?

Is there ever a time that no mother is better than a mother who is falling apart?

“And in her lurid eyes there shone The dying flame of life's desire…”

digital graphic Kira Howard // sophomore

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cerca de Florida planítes

Eden gazes into the mirror and she sees her mother.

They have the same dark brown waves, although her mother’s is cut into a bob, and Eden’s trails midway down her back. They have the same heart-shaped face, the same eyes, round and a shade of brown just darker than chestnut.

Eden wonders if her eyes will one day share her mother’s fatigued gaze. The disillusionment with a world that deals nothing but hard hands.

Perhaps she is naive to believe that there is still any gleam of hope in her eyes.

There is still hope; she can still see the world where things are okay, just out of reach. A world where her mother dances in the kitchen again, and cooks things that aren’t frozen pizzas and takeout Chinese. Where her mother helps the littles with homework and puts bright red coats and striped hats on them every morning before they leave for the bus. Where family time and holidays are a celebration instead of a ticking time bomb.

Can she gamble their futures on the promise of a fantasy?

When she looks into her mother’s pleading eyes, does she believe her promises that this time things will be different?

“… Shade of a shadow in the glass, O set the crystal surface free!”

Eden gazes into the mirror and she sees a scared little girl. She was never allowed to be that scared little girl, not since she was six years old, but she is haunted by her. She can see her screaming and crying in the back of her eyes.

Maybe she will choose the second option, the option where they are separated from the mercurial love of a mother who cannot keep herself, and are placed with distant strangers who will keep a glass wall closing off their love and a roof over their heads. Food on the table and peace in their minds. But not love.

Can she choose stability over love?

Can she choose a world where she could finally be free of Atlas’s curse, of a paralyzing pressure to hold the world on her shoulders?

“Pass - as the fairer visions pass Nor ever more return, to be The ghost of a distracted hour, That heard me whisper: - 'I am she!'

— “The Other Side of a Mirror” by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge Eden gazes into the mirror and she knows it is up to her.

She is the one who has to make the decision for all of them. She knows that she cannot live, afraid, in a hall of mirrored futures forever, looking desperately for the one that is pictureperfect. She will have to take a risk and create the world that she wishes for, one that she will not have to carry on her back.

Eden turned away from the shattered pathways, and focused on smoothing the jagged edges of her own path.

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31

siren

Anna Shaikun // sophomore

free-verse poem

snakes

Itzel Delgado-Torres // freshman pencil & watercolor

Everyone’s heard tales of sirens Seductive monsters from the sea But those legends cannot show Just how tricky one can be Some sirens lure you in with kindness And include you in their prayers For the frightening type of siren Is the one who says it cares This foul creature hugs you gently Leads you to your darkest hour But the tendency of sirens At their core, is to devour.

If in the end, you bear your heart to it And trust it with your life Its slimy hands will steal your love And use it like a knife So be careful when one urges you To wear your heart upon your sleeve For they may just be the very one To chew it up and leave

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planítes

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urban sprawl Treasa McHugh // senior digital photography

34

planítes

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35

sojourn Antonio Starks // junior

free-verse poem

The Hadean Eon Wires snake under my skin,

The Cambrian Period

Cutting through veins.

Metal, cold and fiery.

My hard drive, overtaken by roots.

Taking over my bones,

My eyes refract life.

Splitting through my marrow,

Green covers my metal shell,

Inflaming my nerves.

Fighting against the rust.

Warm mercury fills my lungs.

Spores bellow,

My eyes, turning dark.

Waiting to release

Nonexistent breathing occurs.

Flourishes of blues, yellows, reds, purples, extend.

I begin, My sojourn ends . . .

The Cryogenian Period Everything is still.

Everything is slow.

Metal turned into rusty decay.

My engine freezes over.

My frostbitten skin hardens.

It is a period of rest.

A halt of time occurs.

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ceramics Amanda Price // art teacher

neon reef series iliad

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a pretty girl’s guide Cadence Schapker // sophomore list poem A scale. The one in your parent’s bathroom, the one you would check when you were home alone. Pretty girls were light.

Eyes. To magnify the redness in your cheeks, the hair on your arms, and the pores on your nose. Pretty girls have no flaws to see.

An exfoliating glove. One you would use until your skin was raw in hopes of getting rid of those stupid little bumps. Pretty girls had smooth skin.

A computer. One you would use to seek answers: Why do I look this way? What is on my skin? How do I get rid of it? Pretty girls get rid of flaws.

A spoon. One you would steal from the silverware drawer to stow in the freezer in hopes of getting rid of the luggage under your eyes. Pretty girls don’t have bags to carry.

A wax melter. One you’d gaze at, longingly, because your mother wouldn’t wax your mustaches. Pretty girls don’t have mustaches.

A mirror. Smudged from looking too closely. I’m not a pretty girl.

collage Casey Anglin // senior

inner peace 38

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me and him Joanny Hernandez // senior free-verse poem Kick our feet up . . . me

and him Bottle up our anger . . . me and him Listen to Vicente . . . me and him What holds me back Holds him back, too According to Ama: The only thing I got from her is her height We’re ticking time bombs . . . me

and him We listen to the same trash . . . me and him We wear ripped clothes . . . me and him And most importantly, we’re lazy . . . me and him Me and him are one in the same

ceramics Penny Merva // senior

Persephone’s dish 40

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“Mama raised a confident young girl / Who fights for what she believes . . . ” Amira Adkins, “a young Black girl” // page 55

the stars

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free

Mara Jalease Smith // senior

free-verse poem Chucks and pearls took over the world from a beautiful Black girl like me.

Went from sitting on the back of the bus to sitting in a White House seat.

Our mothers cried and our fathers were beat, But still, we rose, never accepting defeat.

From our ancestors’ hard bleeding feet, We raised beautiful Black kings and queens.

Because as Martin Luther King Jr. said, we have a dream.

Dreams we never thought we would see.

America wants to be the land of the free, But how?

They won’t let our people be.

How when we can’t even run down our own street?

We preach and we preach but they don’t seem to see, We’re Black and just want peace.

How many times do we have to scream?

digital collage Emma Cooper // senior

American identity 44

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a warm spring rain Niles Flath // Clarke Middle School rising freshman prose

I

remember one time last April, I was laying on my back on the stone pathway in front of my house. A warm spring rain fell on my face, covering my skin with water. The raindrops, despite being warm, cooled my body. They soaked through my clothes. The damp scent of rain surrounded me and I shut my eyes to protect them from the steady stream of the water.

My body felt heavy, exhausted from simple existence. With my back pressed against the cold rocks, it was easy to focus on my thoughts.

Thoughts that are always there, just usually subconscious because of the business of life. Thoughts filled with stress for my future and my current grades. Thoughts of fear that no ones going to accept me for who I love.

Thoughts of worry that no one will ever miss me if I leave. Thoughts of the stares. The whispers that follow me like looming shadows. Constantly hanging over me, always making their presence known. Thoughts that lead me to wonder if things could be easier if I just wasn’t here, if I just moved on to the next stage of existence, not existing.

I continued letting the rain wash over my body, dampening every strand of my hair and turning its usual golden color a dark yellow.

Suddenly my thoughts began to change. I remembered standing in front of my mirror getting ready to go out. I remembered noticing how pretty my eyes are, how cute my freckles look. I remembered holding hands with them for the first time, how powerful it made me just to be standing next to them. I remembered an average day in math class when I finished my work early and looked around and realized how much I loved every single person in the room. I could feel how much I would hurt if any of them weren’t there.

Suddenly, I opened my eyes. I stood up. The water droplets ran off my body in tear-stained streaks. I pushed myself to my feet, my shirt sticking to my skin. I brushed the water out of my eyes and began walking forward.

gouache Bird Smith // junior

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tau

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photography Temprince Battle // freshman

the light of my crown 48

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horoscope for a spirit dolphin Audrey Enghauser // senior horoscope poem WORK:

sharpness of

from your sandcastle of self worth

deep magnetic waters

52 egregious errors

wash you overboard

compete to pull you

and 21 lost links

displaced from your

into cycles —

and overset text

carefully constructed ship

unmet expectations

and illogical integrals

you’ll lie alone

unfulfilled talent

and endless edits

on the jagged shore

unraveled to-do lists

and venom in my voice

broken body

untied bonds

and the weight of a lazy student

on broken shells

keep treading water.

and the weight of an

still blaming yourself

overworked one

for the tide’s heights.

THINKING AND CREATIVITY: moon keeps

and the weight of a young girl and every wake being a mountain. remain standing.

your waters steady

IDENTITY:

the perfect balance:

ROUTINE:

washed away —

magic and terrain

find evening coziness —

sick salts

in your wondrously

creative time alone in your head

that used to float you

mazed mind.

among brightly-colored,

poison you

let your thoughts wander.

stimulating reeves.

mind screams.

and constant stimulation —

no one notices as you quietly

loved ones swimming beside you,

sink

Olivia Daniel // junior

laugh with them endlessly.

into

mushroom magic

WORK: the rocks that ground you slowly erode

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take immediate shelter.

the

your once smooth feet

WORK:

you callous and cripple

a tsunami

from the never ending

will steal you away

astéria

sand.

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beautiful pawn Natalie Schliekelman // senior monologue

justified Antonio Starks // junior

acrylic paint

Abstract: This monologue is based on the story of Ariadne, from the myth of the Labyrinth. She gifts Theseus a ball of thread which allows him to navigate the Labyrinth and kill the minotaur, and then he takes her with her when he leaves Crete. He then leaves her behind on an island. I thought this was a particularly potent description of the reality for Greek women in myths.

ARIADNE: The first time I saw him, I thought he was a god in disguise. A beautiful boy, muddied and eyes downcast, with an immutable aura of power. Disguised among the spoils of my mother’s lust and my father’s hunger for power — divinity finally coming to purify the corruption in Crete.

I should have known that the gods never care enough to protect the rabble who worship them. Men in fear will pray out of necessity, but those who are content will only ever pray out of obligation. It is a ceaseless fact of humanity that we will always believe we came across our good fortune out of our own skill and goodliness, and so we pray at an altar to our egos in the name of the gods. An unhappy man will throw himself, defenseless, at the feet of those same gods, because to him, it is impossible that he could have ever brought that misfortune down upon himself — it must be some fate greater than he.

The truth of him was worse than a god. I believed he was my fate, come to rescue me from my paper prison. He was simply a harbinger of the cruel twists the Fates decided were to be my providence.

I could almost wish that I had forged my cruel fate at all, even a wicked one. That my twisted destiny was in some way deserved, and perhaps in a previous life, I was a cruel villain. Or that my complaints of a litany of paper cuts were the cries of a selfish girl, and my fate was to be a culmination of every pain that I should have considered instead of my own. Painful to consider is that even in my two-faced freedom, I was only a marionette of the Fates, through no agency of my own, with no cause nor effect from my own doing. In my worst moments, I fear that I was to be a pawn even in my finality, and that my misfortune is recompense for my father’s crimes against all that is good.

To call me a pawn would be an overstatement of my worth. Even a pawn can checkmate a king.

The culmination of my practicality was simply a plot device, a prize, in someone else’s hero journey. No bildungsroman of my own. Ariadne, the pretty face and heartsick fool, gifting the hero with what he needs because I think he is handsome and I want him to make me his own.

Do you ever consider that maybe I just wanted to end the reign of the monster? That the only way I could think of to escape my insubstantial fetters was to give myself away to another man? I present him with my intimate threads, entwining myself in him in the hopes of pleasing. Girls are merely bedside pawns and those who cannot shape their lives are better dead.

I gave everything to a hero who turned out to be no more virtuous than a monster in a maze. I was nothing more than a scrap to be discarded, once all of my use was done and he believed that every piece of me belonged to him. When did he start seeing my devotion as desperation?

On that island, I dreamed that perhaps I could finally be free of dominators. Long ago, I learned to never give the gift of my soul to a man, and I dreamed that I could finally set her free, like a dove from a cage, a herald of love and freedom.

I should have known better than to weave myself a fantasy. No matter what sentience the imagination creates, a doll is still just that: a beautiful toy.

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a young Black girl Amira Adkins // senior free-verse poem A young Black girl who grew up in the hood Who grew up reserved A young Black girl whose mama always tried to protect Mama always taught me to be independent and confident To not be afraid of using my voice To understand that I matter My opinions and thoughts matter Always reminded me of the Black queen I am A young Black girl who is not afraid of the world Mama raised a confident young girl Who fights for what she believes And has the confidence of a goddess I am a young Black girl

digital photography Temprince Battle // freshman

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a not so social butterfly astéria

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evolution

Clara McCarthy // sophomore free-verse poem I will be a soft-swept curse, That lingers at my nape, Wriggling, Forcing me to scratch, At an Itch that won’t abate

I will be a shirt worn under, Only seen when I let it be, It begs, It begs, To be free

I have not yet peeled fabric, off my skin like an old rind, But I have picked at cotton, leaving peepholes behind

It is asking, always asking, To be declared, as mine

I am asking, always asking, To let myself oblige

But that will take some time.

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photography Caroline Orbock // sophomore

canyoneering iliad

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dark matter

“A person, present but absent / Physically there but mentally elsewhere . . . ”

Emily Couch, “I am not a person today // page 61 58

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I am not a person today Emily Couch // senior free-verse poem A person, present but absent

Sorry I missed your calls

Physically there but mentally elsewhere

I am not a person today

Too much to do, in such little time I am not a person today

Comfort prioritized, no type of style Clothes swallowing a figure that’s there

Smiles faked, ready for pictures

Invisibility is key, no need for pattern

Cheeks start to lose strength

I am not a person today

Just keep smiling, no one will know I am not a person today

Silence is bliss, no need for voice Thoughts are left private, disregarded

Vanished existence, just for a little

Leave my name out of your mouth

Voices and conversations become muted

I am not a person today

pen & marker Elise Siegmund // freshman

surprise eyes 60

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shelter from the storm Wyatt Meyer // freshman sheet music

pen & watercolor Itzel Delgado-Torres // freshman

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switched

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protect Black women Salai Diekumpuna // junior

free-verse poem *this piece contains graphic language

Her hide is desired Her hide is ripped from her muscle and bone just as it was for Black men as their cheeks opened for their former torturers as a punishment that reflects the evil of men Saggin’ n*ggas White men White women They go hand in hand killing Black people as if we were grains of sand

As I run my eyes alongside her I admire her curves Her troubles slowly eroded into a part of her The part that showcases how she holds the weight of the world Her unexplored nature is her most endearing quality The complexion of her skin resembles the darkness of coal She’s a diamond Pressure doesn’t corrupt her Her face is a reflection of those who helped shape her Her being is America Rice will make her strong She’ll eat so that she can cary the burden of this country Carrying her village in a basket as an attempt to lighten her load She’ll bring it down only to lift others up Beaten and backed into a corner her courage disappears with her smile The shine from the pearls on her neck that cover the bare spot left by the chain of a man who thought he owned her Are reflected in her tears as her smiles is broken giving her seven more years Are they just pearls or are they a representation of her freedom The symbolism of her saved salary hangs on the neck of a White woman as a trophy that has no meaning She laughs as she’s handed a broom and mop She polishes the floor to see her reflection Like Langston, she is America and will be accepted as the sign of liberty that was once denied

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Grains on the beaches of America?

Or the beaches of Colombia, the Carribean, or African coasts maybe even a coast in Normandy or one in Australia Holding in our afros the origins of our people we preside in this forbidden country and in our braids, a path of freedom Am I America? Are you America? Is she America?

Ask again, Langston, as you can see not much has changed Where is Malcolm? In his grave We are neglected We are disrespected We are unprotected All I want is for you to notice me To observe the Dark matter of my skin He is the First and the Last, he makes no mistake, the complexion of my skin he will never forsake All I ask is that you discover me too I am not a trend, I’m a human I want your hello, your eyes of wonder, your hugs of passion, your words of kindness I want your attention because I am more than a phase I too, deserved to be loved Maybe then, when you see me as more than a trend, will I love you Are you intrigued?

ouranós iliad

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not his little girl

Kaija Gilbertson Hall // junior haikus Dad to a daughter Then one day, she has grown up Not his little girl

Walks around her home A dress of satin and lace “Not on my daughter”

She begs forgiveness “Just imagine what they’ll say” About me, or you?

oil paint Franni Thrasher // junior

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American Christmas Ayanna Lonon // junior short story

I

n In November, I usually work twelve hours plus overtime, so I can save up to buy Christmas gifts for my boys, but this year, I got laid off in late October. Things were really rough in November, but I never let my boys know it. At one point, I even set out to sell my greatgrandmother’s special china set. These slabs of quartz and feldspar have held sentimental value in my family for years, but my boys mean more to me than plates do, so I took them to the pawnshop solemnly, but without reluctance.

But the man at the counter of the Everyday Pawn said they weren’t worth more than a pound of empty oyster shells and talked for fifteen more minutes about the time a woman with a baby on her hip tried to sell him a Ziplock bag full of empty oyster shells. I took the plates back home with me, but they now held no value—sentimental nor monetary—just a pile of decorative rocks. I still needed money though, so I took to donating blood plasma twice a week, and working the night shift at Waffle House.

I never minded any of it, because my boys deserve their Christmas. In my house, we celebrate Christmas religiously, like true Americans.

With my first son, I learned things the

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hard way. I’d always heard that toddlers were easiest to handle on Christmas because they can be restrained. On his third Christmas, I used zip ties to bind his wrists. By 10 o’clock, he’d gnawed through the plastic and eaten the whole homemade, slow-roasted pig I bought from Bi-Lo. He’s fifteen now, and I’m more experienced.

On Christmas, I call the kids by age and not name, so I remember they are not themselves.

Last night, I tied my younger boy’s wrists with nylon rope and muzzled him with a premium leather ChildLock.

This morning I awoke shaking in my bed.

When I opened the door, there was my sweet boy Four, facing away from it, throwing his head back against the wood, sending vibrations along the floor.

I swept him up in my arms in praise, “Merry Christmas, sweet boy! Aren’t you a resourceful boy?”

He gargled something through the muzzle that I did not catch.

“It is probably best that you don’t try to speak, my love.”

I knew the knocking woke Fifteen as well, because of the heinous energy in the air.

American children aged thirteen to seventeen are tenacious on Christmas. I dared not try to tie or muzzle him, because even on the days leading up to Christmas, Fifteen is frightening, but I bolted his door closed while he slept. After what he did last year, I always save enough to hire a Holiday Helper, which is like a temporary nanny for families on holidays. I heard scratching behind Fifteen’s door and carried Four to the kitchen.

It was 8:00 a.m. when my Helper arrived and plowed through the house with a duffel bag full of tools and whatnot. He put up the tree, wrapped

the gifts I bought, and briefed me on how to evade and defend against Ernest. I told him that it might help if he thought of the boy as “Fifteen,” and not Ernest. Ernest is a sweet boy’s name.

By that time, I’d prepared the seven breakfast hens for the boys. The helper went to let Fifteen out, and I rushed to put his five breakfast hens and three gifts on the coffee table.

He bounded out of his room, propelling himself off each foot with great leaps through the house like a feral kangaroo. Inside the first box, he found an iPhone 12, which he thrashed to the ground in disapproval. He lurched forward, and he snagged my left ear with his teeth. The Helper’s reaction time was unimpressive. Fifteen had already retreated with my ear clasped between his jaws by the time the Helper’s whip had tagged him.

The corner of his upper lip twitched, “iPhone Twelve? Not Thirteen?”

He spat my chewed ear back at me and extended his hand in want.

I feared for my life as he opened the second box. It was a professional-grade camera that didn’t go on holiday sale. I got it for $2,999.99 and did it happily because I knew he would like it. He sucked his teeth and smacked his gums in delight.

If he liked the third present, I would be in the clear. If not, he would strike me with a fatal blow, in a traditional display of disappointment.

He took a break to eat the breakfast hens in big slovenly chomps, leaving a pile of bones in their stead.

To my supreme delight, the third gift sent my sweet boy into a fit of serendipitous laughter.

In his hand shone the key to a 2021 Cadillac Escalade. He struck the helper down, snatched me up by the shoulder, and toted me under his

right armpit outside. The dragon’s chrome rims and chocolate seats boasted superiority amongst the Honda Accords that the neighborhood was accustomed to. I even put a big red bow on the hood.

My sweet boy smiled at me earnestly, and at last, I felt the tension leave my body.

“Don’t you love it, Ern—” “Mama,” he grinned, “You should have just waited until my birthday in February and got me the 2022 model.”

From behind his back, he produced the sternum bone of one of his breakfast hens, sharpened to a point. With an open palm, he pushed the bone-stake below my collar bone, clapping his hand flat onto my right breast.

Not until then, had I ever imagined that this boy could be so much like me. In the same way that I had gone to great lengths to display my love for my boys, using every measure to get it done, he’d used the sternum bone of a breakfast hen. No matter the difference in what emotions we had chosen to demonstrate, we had done it the same.

Through the tang of iron on my tongue, I sang to him so proudly.

“What a resourceful boy you are. My sweet, merry boy.”

Next year, I will be better prepared.

watercolor Audrey St. Onge // sophomore

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taking flight Maya Shrivastav // freshman villanelle From the darkness comes the light

And in the blackness, out of sight

Illuminate this long-lost land

Remains of a wonderland

Birds, all taking flight

From the darkness comes the light

And born from shadows, a cold night

And one leaf floats like a ragged kite

Remnants of reality, a single strand

In this world but a grain of sand

From the darkness comes the light

Birds, all taking flight

And upon the ground is a blanket of white

And as these worlds begin to ignite

Snowflakes flutter into your hand

Flames consume this dreamland

Birds, all taking flight

From the darkness comes the light Birds, all taking flight

pen Aiyanna Bhuiyan // junior

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eye into the universe

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catoptrophobia catoptrophobia

Katherine Ness // Clarke Middle School rising freshman dictionary poem Catoptrophobia ka-top-tra-fow-bia noun Fear of mirrors Fear of what is or isn’t there Fear of who you are or aren’t Fear of what you look or don’t look like Fear of how the world sees or doesn’t see you ...

Fear of yourself

pen & gouache Bird Smith // junior

Gatsby’s dream dream Gatsby’s

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the club and staff

Members of the iliad are content creators. During the 2021-2022 school year, our club met once a week in the morning for 30 minutes. To accomplish our goal of being a creative, safe space at Clarke Central High School, each club meeting focused on the creation of a different genre of content. Throughout these meetings, attendees had the opportunity to learn about poetry, watercolor, photography, design, and more. Club meetings allowed for students to explore various creative fields while producing potential pieces to be published in the magazine.

the editorial board

Club meetings also serve as an entry point for potential Editorial Board members to learn about the program and build their skillsets. In addition to generating viable content and expanding creative abilities, club members are asked to promote the iliad and solicit submissions from other CCHS students. iliad meetings are grouped into sessions, each session being three weeks. While any student is welcome to come to the meetings, to obtain membership status and be showcased in the magazine, members must have attended at least two full sessions and commit to creating content for the magazine.

This year’s staff included Victoria Garland, Caroline Goldman, Ollie Hendershot, Lane Holloway, Amberly Hutchens, Kharie Jefferson, Laniya Jones, James Mack, Caroline Orbock, Janie Ripps, Mary Robinson, Elise Siegmund, Audrey St. Onge, K’len Thomas, Franni Thrasher, and Carolina Turner.

club photos

Pictured top (from left): Ethan Caspary Poucher, Eva Orbock. Middle (from left): McKenna Ezekiel, Cate Demaria, Salai Diekumpuna. Bottom (from left): Luna Reichert, Kaija Gilbertson Hall. Photo by Isaac Ramirez.

The 2022 iliad Editorial Board met once a week before school throughout the year. During these meetings, editors reached out to writers and artists, compiled submissions, and completed tasks related to magazine production. The goal of these weekly meetings was to take action toward the completion of the magazine, continue to build the program and produce content for the website. We also aimed to meet our goal of encouraging creativity through occasional activities, such as collaging and painting.

The Editors-in-Chief and Design Editor spent additional time working on the magazine during a class period each day, furthering the work from the weekly Editorial Board meetings.

Luna Reichert Co-Editor-in-Chief

Salai Diekumpuna Outreach Director

Kaija Gilbertson Hall Co-Editor-in-Chief

Cate Demaria Social Media Coordinator

Eva Orbock Design Editor

David Ragsdale Adviser

Ethan Caspary Poucher Visuals Director McKenna Ezekiel Writing Director

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the iliad’s policies

Mission Statement: The iliad literary-art magazine is a student-produced Clarke Central High School literary-art magazine. The iliad serves as a conduit of expression for creativity and passion to the CCHS student body, iliad staff and rising ninth graders from feeder schools. Each issue is an open public forum for student expression under the guidance of a faculty adviser.

Vision Statement: The iliad literary-art magazine seeks to be an inclusive platform for creative voices that represent the diversity of the Clarke Central High School student body. Programmatically, the iliad strives to provide a venue to develop student leaders and communicators.

All contributors may submit as many pieces as they would like from the start of the academic year until February. Submissions are reviewed by members of the Editorial Board. Once the submission period is officially closed, all artists will receive an email on the status of their submission, i.e., if it will be accepted for publication.

The iliad, as a student publication under the domain of the Clarke County School District, must be mindful when choosing submissions of the appropriateness of its content. Inappropriate content may be edited by the creator to maintain a “TV-14” censorship, but the integrity of the work and of the magazine is always preserved.

Additionally, if there are significant gramtical or sturctural issues with a piece of writing, then the piece may only be edited with permission from the author and in collaboration with them.

Citations: Page 31, Fractured Future by Natalie Schliekelman referenced the following work: Coleridge, Mary Elizabeth. “The Other Side of a Mirror.” Poems, London: E. Mathews, 1908, pg. 8-9.

The cover of the 47th edition of the iliad literary-art magazine, “astraeus,” features a digital drawing by Eva Orbock titled “Lost in Space.” The inside cover features a digital graphic by Eva Orbock. The “fengári,” “planítes,” “astéria,” and “ouranós” subsection dividers are a series of digital drawings titled “Into Abstraction” by Eva Orbock.

Correction to last year’s patron page: In last year’s edition of the iliad, OKEANOS, Troy Coleman was listed under the Gold ($50) tier when he should have been listed under the Red Diamond ($500) tier. We would like to sincerely apologize for this mistake. If you notice that you are not listed under the correct tier, please feel free to contact us using the information provided on the first page of the magazine. Thank you all for your support of the iliad literary-art magazine.

special thanks to The ODYSSEY Media Group Booster Club, Kate Baker-Johnson, Dr. Madena Clark, Becky Cox, The Dondero Family, Dr. Amanda Gorham, Shawn Hinger, Mark Murray, Dr. Swade Huff, Burney-Harris Lyons Middle School, and Clarke Middle School.

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friends of the iliad

red diamond $500 Rachel Allen & Joe Polaneczky

Dr. Robert Fecho

Bob Carson

Dr. Erica Gilbertson & Matthew Hall

Troy Coleman

Dr. Peg Graham & Jim Marshall

diamond $300 Lorinda & Pete Crane Dr. John Campbell & Family Lorien Campbell & Family

Dr. Maxine Easom

Jessica & Eric Orbock

platinum $100 Diane Amann

Greater Georgia Printers

Bebe & Albert Reichert

Diane Boothe

Eli Hall

The Ripps Family

Katherine & Rob Byrne

Kim Kauffman

Kathryn Sears

Diane Dillon

LaVonne & Warren McPherson

Michael Simmons

Bertis Downs

Vicki Michaelis

Orley “Buddy” Sims & Family

Leon Galis

Susan Mull

Dr. Denise Spangler

Beatrice Acheson

Sarah Frierson

Tad MacMillan

JoBeth Allen

Mary Garrison

Kristy Mayfield

Dodie & Randy Bickley

Carole & Phil Gilbertson

Taylor Perrault

Alye Caspary

Sam Goldman

John Reichert

Michelle Caspary

Rebecca Gose

Mona Robinson

Elizabeth Conroy

Dr. Margaret Gurtcheff

Kevin Scollo

Lindsay Coleman-Taylor

George Harwood

Silver King Music LLC

James Darnell

Dr. Arthur Horne

Beth Thrasher

Dr. Charles & Julie Davis

Independent Baking, Co.

Ellen Walker

Chistina Dondero

Dr. Alice Kinman

Nancy Zechella

Jodi Bolgla

Aaron Holmes

Carlo Nasisse

Melissa Caspary

Janice Hume

Yufanny Ngui

Scott Crook

Penny Jackson

Kathy Poucher

Don & Melinda DeMaria

Deborah Keys

Dr. Peter Smagorinsky

Hannah Dunn-Grandpre

Jen MacDonald

Bonnie Zane-Smith & John Smith

Dr. Janet Frick

Hilda Mayfield

Jane Robertson

Nzuzi Gosin

Kevin Mobley

Kim Turner

Kaitlin Butcher

Daniel Glenn

Alex Sams

Elizabeth Dubberly

Meghan McNeeley

Chris Woodward

gold $50

silver $25

bronze $10 iliad

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colohphon

iliad headlines were printed in Tangerine. Subheaders were printed in Calluna Bold. Bylines were printed in Calluna Regular. All body copy was printed in Calluna Regular.

All spreads were designed by Eva Orbock using Adobe InDesign, Photoshop, and Illustrator.

The iliad printed 300 copies of this 80-page magazine on 100 lb Gloss for the cover and 80 lb for the inside pages using Greater Georgia Printers at Crawford, Georgia.

Patrons of the iliad and featured content creators receive a complimentary copy of the iliad upon publication. Additional copies are available for purchase for $5 upon request.

The iliad is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, Georgia Scholastic Press Association, National Council of Teachers of English Recognizing Excellence in Art and Literary Magazines, the National Scholastic Press Association, and the Southern Scholastic Press Association.

Last year’s edition of the iliad, OKEANOS, received the following awards: The 2021 edition of the iliad received an evaluation of Gold Medalist and a total score of 964 out of 1000 from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association.

The 2020-2021 iliad literary-art magazine received the NSPA Pacemaker, the highest award given to high school student publications. The iliad was one of six publications to receive this award, representing the top 10% of high school literary-arts magazines.

The 2020-2021 iliad literary-art magazine also received an All-American evaluation by the National Scholastic Press Association. The publication received Marks of Distinction for Content; Photography, Art, Graphics; Design; and Concept. All-American publications must achieve 400-500 points with fourfive Marks of Distinction. The iliad rated 474 points as a total score. iliad literary-art magazine Staff was named a finalist for Best of Show: Literary Arts Magazine; Second Place. for the JEA/NSPA Fall National High School Journalism Convention, presented virtually on Nov. 13.

The 2020-2021 edition of the iliad received a rating of “All-Southern” from the Southern Interscholastic Press Association at the spring 2022 conference in Columbia, South Carolina. The iliad also placed second at the Best in Show competition at SIPA on March 6.

The 2021 iliad literary-art magazine received the rating of Superior for General Excellence and received the All-Georgia Literary Magazine (Best in State) award from the Georgia Scholastic Press Association on November 16.

The 2021 iliad literary-art magazine received a rating of Superior in the 2021 NCTE REALM Program.

We are so grateful and thankful for every member of the CCHS community who submitted their work to the 2021-2022 edition of the iliad. We also want to extend our gratitude to the supporters of our program and magazine who make our work possible.

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Adkins, Amira a young Black girl // 55 Allen, Chloe forest sun // 23 Allen, Connor wire bonsai // 13 Anglin, Casey inner peace // 39 Barrett, Atticus the mundane horror of the coronavirus // 12 Battle, Temprince the light of my crown // 48 a not so social butterfly // 54 Bhuiyan, Aiyanna eye into the universe // 71 Caspary Poucher, Ethan skateboards // 27 Cooper, Emma nostalgia // 11 American identity // 44 Couch, Emily I am not a person today // 61 Daniel, Olivia mushroom magic // 51 Delgado-Torres, Itzel snakes // 32 switched // 62 Diekumpuna, Salai dear Koko the Man // 16 Kinzinga Kialeuka // 17 protect Black women // 64 Eberhart, Christian violets // 28 Enghauser, Audrey horoscope for a spirit dolphin // 50 Flath, Niles a warm spring rain // 46 Gilbertson Hall, Kaija not his little girl // 66 Hahamovitch, Elliot ram skull // 29 Hansen, Samuel the cigar box on the dresser // 20 Hendershot, Ollie violet figure // 15 Heesacker-Romero, Isa gap teeth // 10 Hernandez, Joanny me and him // 40 Howard, Kira cerca de Florida // 30 Lonon, Ayanna American Christmas // 68 McCarthy, Clara evolution // 56

McHugh, Treasa urban sprawl // 34 Merva, Penny Persephone’s dish // 41 Meyer, Wyatt shelter from the storm // 63 Ness, Kate catoptrophobia // 73 Orbock, Caroline canyoneering // 57 Orbock, Eva Kinzinga Kialeuka // 17 Phillips, Kelbi where I’m from // 19 Price, Amanda neon reef series // 37 Ripps, Janie Miss Eclipsis // 21 Rodriguez, Nohemi my name belongs to a wall // 14 Schapker, Cadence a pretty girl’s guide // 38 Schliekelman, Natalie fractured future // 31 beautiful pawn // 52 Shaikun, Anna siren // 33 Shih, Emery dignity // 26 Shrivastav, Maya taking flight // 70 Siegmund, Elise surprise eyes // 60 Smith, Bird tau // 47 Gatsby’s dream // 72 Smith, Mara Jalease free // 45 St. Onge, Audrey roller rink // 69 Starks, Antonio sojourn // 36 justified // 53 Thrasher, Franni bear // 67 Willman, Nico a closed-casket eulogy // 22 Wood, Bella flower power // 18

index iliad

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follow the iliad Follow us on Instagram and Facebook @iliadmag Visit our website iliadlitmag.com to read stories about artists in our school and community, view past issues of the iliad, and much more by scanning the QR code.

A look into our online content . . . iliad Literary-Art Magazine announced as a 2021 Pacemaker winner The National Scholastic Press Association announced the winners for its highest honor, the Pacemaker award. Clarke Central High School’s student literary-art magazine was named a winner.

Reading and Reviewing iliad Co-Editor-in-Chief Luna Reichert a senior, spoke to Instagram content creator Hannah Stark about her book review Instagram account.

Award-winning poet Natasha Trethewey to visit Clarke Central Award-winning poet Natasha Trethewey will visit CCHS to speak with students on April 21.

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