2020 iliad Literary-Art Magazine

FLOW iliad Literary-Art Magazine Volume 45 Clarke Central High School

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literary art-magazine

FLOW Dedicated with love to Rebecca Begnaud, Dr. Michelle Burch, Dr. Anthony Rucker and Lindy Tickerhoof.

Volume 45 Clarke Central High School 350 S. Milledge Avenue Athens, Ga. 30605 ENROLLMENT: 1691 PHONE: 706-357-5200

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR To the Reader: Every day, artists and writers make the conscious decision to create. We make this decision for a multitude of reasons: to evoke pride, to release feelings, to support causes, to collaborate…the list goes on. The goal of the iliad is to represent, feature, and celebrate each of these reasons.

Welcome to Flow! For four years, this publication has been my place to find my own flow. I enter the flow state when I am sorting through artwork and written pieces, when I am designing the magazine, and when I am writing letters such as this one. This publication has been a place where my ideas are sparked, where my sense of time is distorted, and always a place where I have found clarity.

Finding clarity this year was more difficult than others. Our school year was cut short due to the coronavirus pandemic. Our weekly meetings with Staff and Editorial Board members stopped, and we were forced to work around these unforeseen circumstances. I am proud of our team’s continued commitment to the work that we do. Though we were isolated, we were united in our effort to finish this magazine for our content creators, students, and community members.

I am honored to present these pieces in a cohesive magazine that is full of different viewpoints, voices, faces, and ideas, especially during this divided time when different is not always viewed as “good”. I am also beyond proud to get to share these works with you all. Each piece is a product of deep focus and concentration, and the compilation of those pieces is a product of dedication from our Editorial Board and Staff.

This edition of the iliad is a flow state in itself. Each subsection is a part of the flow state: “Spark”, “Distortion”, and “Clarity”. Our goal is to allow you, the reader, to experience this flow while absorbing the views and voices of the Clarke Central High School community. We are excited and grateful for you to join us on this journey.

BEATRICE ACHESON,

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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

THEME LETTER To the Reader: This year’s theme for the iliad, Flow, is based on the psychological concept founded by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. The flow state is described as a state of mind experienced when an individual is fully immersed in their work resulting in an energizing focus (Mutucumarana). This intense focus and drive can be experienced by anyone doing something they are passionate about. While creating a piece, be it writing, artwork, photography, or sculpture, an artist enters the flow state. Each flow experience is unique as every level presents itself differently to the individual. Csikszentmihalyi’s research resulted in seven states experienced throughout the flow process: spark, control, relaxation, boredom, apathy, worry, and anxiety (Cherry). iliad’s Editorial Board has broken down the flow state into spark, distortion, and clarity. Each piece has been placed under one of these three subsections.

The “Spark” section marks the beginning of the flow state and the beginning of this year’s edition of the iliad. Pieces in this section represent new beginnings, the birth of an idea, and newfound motivation. Our second subsection is based on the distortion phase of the flow state. “Distortion” is identified by the loss of time and awareness of their surroundings an artist experiences as they become more focused on their work. Our final subsection is clarity. “Clarity” represents a final product or a feeling of completion. This section includes works that depict a clear resolution and rely heavily on theory and logic.

We have not used the direct meaning of each phase in the flow state, rather we have interpreted each part and applied these interpretations in order to organize the magazine. We hope that through reading this edition of the iliad you enter your own flow while also appreciating the results of the individual flow states that came together to form this collection of creative works.

Citations can be found on page 66 under “Policy”.

GEORGIA BLUE SIMMONS, MANAGING EDITOR

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

S PA R K

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SONG FOR A GIRL Daniel Garcia-Pozo / free verse

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PSALMS Ava Adamson / watercolor

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OPPORTUNITY COST PART I Theron Camp / short story

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BIRDLAND Roxanne Domizi / colored pencil on wood

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THE GRASS BENEATH MY FEET Andrew Nguyen / free verse

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TWO THAT ARE BEAUTIFUL MacKenzie Caudill / monologue

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STEEL DICE Henry Kurtz / metal sculpture

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TAROT CARDS Trinity James / watercolor

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TWO STAR-CROSSED LOVERS Alana Bartee-Gray / sonnet

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WONDER Chadayzja Sims / acrylic

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JEKYLL Josie Elliott / photographs

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IS A HOT DOG A SANDWICH? Elena Gilbertson Hall / satirical skit

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THE GIRL Jillian Akers / personal essay

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CONTRAST Aida Bermudez / multimedia

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SEPERATED BY A CELL WALL Emma Scott / haikus

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LAND, SEA, SKY Dalila Tejada / photograph

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DISTORTION

CLARITY

OPPORTUNITY COST PART II Theron Camp / short story

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MAN AND THE DIVINE Lillian Sams / acrylic

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BRICK WALL Shea Peters/ free verse

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AGNERE Maya Cornish / short story

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IN A COWBOY HAT Amanda Ochieng / photograph

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BRIGHT Emma Sharp / digital graphic

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MOTHER NATURE’S CITY Natalie Ripps / haikus

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THE THINGS THAT MAKE ME WHO I AM TODAY Nasia Greer / free verse

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CHAMPAGNE Whitley Walter / digital graphic

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THE LITTLE WARRIOR Lillian Sams / marker

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SUNFLOWER SLUMBER Elena Gilbertson Hall / short story

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MERRITT Frances Thrasher / watercolor

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FLOURESCENCE Lily Bruce-Ritchie / pen

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LE RÊVEUR Ietta Veeder / free verse

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THE SEARCH Andrew Robinson / free verse

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SPANISH MOSS Amanda Ochieng / photograph

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DOODLES Owen Austin-Totty / pen and marker

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SOUL ON THE OUTSIDE Eli Clarke / short story

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ICON Jerian Brown / charcoal

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NEVERTHELESS Natalie Ripps / photograph

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AETERNUM Alexander Robinson / villanelle

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WHERE I’M FROM Randy Watson / free verse

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QUICKSAND Audrey Enghauser / free verse

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OPPORTUNITY COST PART III Theron Camp / short story

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STATIC Melissa Richardson / marker

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APOLLO Nicolas Willman / digital graphic

THE EVENT THAT SHAPED MY PERSONALITY David Akindipe / personal essay

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REGRETS Liza Ingle / limericks

THE FATES Sophie Caillault / ceramic

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IMMIGRATION INTERFERENCE Roberto De Paz-Garcia / personal essay

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CAT CALL Chadayzja Sims / pencil

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S PA R K

SONG FOR A GIRL free verse Daniel Garcia-Pozo // 11 I can’t find the words When I’m trying to Write a song about somebody I just need some time I’ll find that right rhyme I swear, I’ll write a symphony I apologize If I look in your eyes I’m looking for some inspiration I know that I can be Distant, or free And that can make complications But, I want you to know: I found that right note And it cannot wait ‘till some other day I wrote this for you, For the things that you do, I’m sorry it took me so long to say

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PSALMS watercolor Ava Adamson // 11 iliad

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O P P O R T U N I T Y C O S T PA R T I short story Theron Camp // 12 Montana, 2019 Her parents were wrong, she decided as she flopped down amongst the long grass by the riverbank, but she couldn’t seem to convince them of this. It wasn’t that they were unreceptive. There were simply plenty of other bright, young, mechanically-minded American explorers who could go to Mars, and they didn’t see why their daughter should have to be one of them. Besides, they would miss her dreadfully if she went away, perhaps never to return.

Annie Zimmermann would not mind this. She thought life on the farm was boring, domestic, and limiting. She’d made up her mind at a young age that she would grow up to live beyond the limits of civilization, where no one had gone before, and when civilization caught up with her, she would move again.

Naturally, she’d been disappointed when she’d learned there were no more proper frontiers on Earth, but then, in 2011, she’d stayed up late (with her parents’ approval) to watch the Mars landings.

From that point forth, it was her

sole dream in life to explore that new frontier herself. So she devoted herself to the study of space exploration, of its history and mechanics and economics.

While her parents had encouraged her in learning about her passion, they had made it no secret that they expected her to grow up to work the farm alongside Peter when they retired. As she grew older, her parents and her brother taught her the running of the farm, the business behind it, the various tools and machines, their uses, and how to repair them. In this last task they found Annie a faithful student; she knew it was important to be a capable engineer if she was to survive on another planet.

Matters came to a head that afternoon when a letter came back from a prestigious Institute of Technology on the east coast, congratulating Annie on being a finalist for a particular scholarship.

She was ecstatic, but to her dismay, her parents didn’t share in her glee. It would always be, her father emphasized, her decision in the end, and Annie was a smart kid and surely deserved the scholarship, but they

“She was ecstatic, but to her dismay, her parents didn’t share in her glee.”

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reserved the right, as her parents, to try and persuade her to stay nearby.

They’d had a frank discussion about it, after which Annie’d come here, to the riverbank, to reflect.

The sun was settling into the blue silhouettes of the northern Rockies, painting their tips shades of red and gold that reflected up into the western sky. Annie arose and scrambled to the top of the riverbank for a better view of the sunset. For all that she was eternally bored by farming, Annie loved the land itself-- the mountains, the plains, and the beautiful big sky.

It’d be a lot to give up for her dream.

Were her parents right? Was her place up there among the stars or down here among her family?

Eventually, as the watercolor sky grew dim, Annie Zimmermann turned and headed for home, mind resolute at last. Behind her, the sun dipped behind the mountains, its glowing orb red-orange as the dust on Mars.

Continued on page 30

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BIRDLAND colored pencil on wood Roxanne Domizi // 11

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THE GRASS BENEATH MY FEET free verse Andrew Nguyen // 12 Like the leaves attached to trees Sailing the winds and out of sight People aren’t who they seem to be In all of us is a sense of fright In this field of ours we’ve explored Climbing high and digging low We all have that something stored Only a special person can know Some want to unlock what’s hidden Some want to take your pride You keep things forbidden But you let a single soul inside Through the trees, over rivers This feeling you’ve never felt before The slight breeze causes no shivers As they show you all to adore

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TWO THAT ARE BEAUTIFUL monologue MacKenzie Caudill // 12

I have to tell you both how sorry I am, because I am so sorry, and sorry that I am.

I left that morning in a whirlwind of tears and screams, my mind severed from reality. I really shouldn’t have left that sunny morning.

I saw them eventually, with dirt strewn across the street, and the now-crumpled burlap-bow that once sat on your perfectly painted, white wooden frame.

The metal spirals of the black letter box post I really am regretful I didn’t recognize your were twisted and bent in directions unnatural letter boxes for what they are. I know you had to the intricate beauty of its manufacturing. things to store, and letters to send. And the Here, I shall make a promise. I have to epistles to encounter! replace your letter boxes. I hope to repair the In a moment of folly, I failed to douse my beautiful shelter, protecting pieces of your fire. The heat crackled like ice in that instant mind. that morning. That instant that morning For it is my fault that your letters do not came and went like the wind. have homes, and that the happenings of that I didn’t see your letter boxes. I pray your day hold irreparable damage to happenings musings weren’t terrifically and terribly and inside. entirely too dear.

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STEEL DICE metal sculpture Henry Kurtz // 10

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TAROT CARDS watercolor Trinity James // 12

the fool

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the star iliad

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TWO STAR-CROSSED LOVERS sonnet Alana Bartee-Gray // 9 She walked among the lonely speckled stars Breathless, she cried with the sulking blue wolves Lettin’ the Northern Lights paint her doubtless scars A flower in the moonlight solves The dark mystery of her lonesome past With a set-in-stone decision she walks Fearing the black void she created, so vast Walks for someone who sought Pandora’s Box A god so powerful to create it To destroy his purest and brightest world Her love for him turns to what stars commit Burning so bright yet so far away and swirled Love of a mortal and god can bring pain But love can make galaxies go insane

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WONDER acrylic Chadayzja Sims // 10

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JEKYLL photographs Josie Elliott // 12

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satirical skit Elena Gilbertson Hall // 12

“IS A HOT DOG

Debate moderator: And now, the question the American people have been waiting for: is a hot dog a sandwich?

Joe Biden: I’ll tell ya, Americans love hot dogs. White kids love ‘em, poor kids love ‘em. Regular Americans in Rust Belt cities like Milwaukee and Scranton love hot dogs. They love ‘em in Detroit and Baltimore, too. Hot dogs are part of the social fabric of this country, which this President is ripping apart every day.

Kamala Harris: Senator Biden has spoken lovingly of the times 50 years ago when he was a young senator, cooking hot dogs for racist older senators. Joe, those senators wouldn’t have allowed me to eat a hot dog at the same lunch counter as you. Why didn’t you stand up to them?

Beto O’Rourke: No, es un taco.

Pete Buttigieg: No. Bernie Sanders: What the hell kind of question is that? First of all, of course it’s not a damn sandwich. Second of all, the factory farm industry, which spends millions to advertise on your network, would rather we talk about meaningless crap like this than about their inhumane treatment of animals or the effect of factory hog farms on climate change and water quality in our rural communities.

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Elizabeth Warren: Clearly it is not a sandwich, but let’s look at the underlying issues here. I have a policy for major structural changes to our rural economy, including livestock farming.

As President, I will guarantee farmers a fair price, reduce overproduction, and pay farmers for environmental conservation instead of subsidizing industrial agriculture and starving rural communities. I will lead a full-out effort to decarbonize the agricultural sector by investing in our farmers and giving them spark

A SANDWICH?” the tools, research, and training they need to transform the sector — so that we can achieve the objectives of the Green New Deal to reach net-zero emissions by 2030.

Cory Booker: I’m a vegan #VeggiesAllDay! Amy Klobuchar: As a Midwesterner, I’ve grown up eating hot dogs at backyard barbecues and seen how a simple meal can bring people together. Whether you believe a hot dog is a sandwich or not, you have a place in my vision for America -- let’s bring people from both sides of the hot dog aisle together.

Marianne Williamson: In every community, there is work to be done; in every nation, there are wounds to heal; in every heart, there is the power to do it. May each of us have the will to reject the things that distract us from healing our wounds with love.

Tulsi Gabbard: I ate a lot of hot dogs in the mess tent during my deployment in Iraq, and that taste of home was a welcome diversion from the horrors of war that our brave service men and women face every day. I think the real question you’re asking is about patriotism, and I commit to bringing a soldier’s sense of service and an undying love of country to the White House.

John Delaney: Yes and no. It’s a complicated question, with people of good faith on both sides. I’m running for President to bring Americans together, not divide them like Donald Trump, and this question. If we are going to get serious about fixing what’s wrong in this country, we don’t have time for radical positions on this or any other question.

Steve Bullock: I come from a state where a lot of people voted for Donald Trump. I’ve won three elections there because I’m an everyday American. I’m a gun owner. I hunt. I grind my own meat and fill my own sausage casings. Thank you. iliad

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THE GIRL I’m the girl in the back of the room.

I’m the one who knows the answer, but is terrified to say it or bring attention to herself. I’m the girl who pulls herself in to make herself small and unnoticeable. I’m the girl who finds any way to make herself tolerable to others, who’s tired of having to put so much effort into what she wears just to been seen as presentable. I’m the girl with the big hips, the round cheeks, the rotund stomach and thighs. I’m the girl who’s never the attractive friend, who’s the one that stands to the side while her friends shop because she will never be able to wear the same type of clothes as them. I’m the one who feels left out and pushed aside, who fights back her tears so as not to ruin everyone else’s night. I’m the girl who is embarrassed to eat in front of others, who feels condemning eyes, real or not, in every corner.

I am the girl with polycystic ovarian syndrome. I am the girl who sobbed in the car the whole way home from the doctor’s office, whose heart felt as though it stopped the minute the diagnosis came from the doctor’s mouth. I am the girl who has tried over and over to lose the weight, take off the pounds, but her illness has fought her every step of the way. I am the girl who didn’t menstruate for two years, who was terrified out of her mind that her body was breaking. I am the girl who was brushed off by her doctor, who was told it was because she was fat, that if she actually “tried” to change her behavior, she would be fine. I am the girl who worries every day about her ability to one day start a family because of her diagnosis.

I am the girl who sometimes can’t get out

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of bed because her mind weighs her down and pulls the energy from her body as she stares at the ceiling in the morning. I am the girl whose mother made her a parent from a young age and who had to watch her waste away. I am the girl whose father struggled with addiction, the girl who knew how to open a beer bottle from age seven.

I’m the girl who watched him struggle and worked through every wave with him. I am the girl whose mother left, making her feel abandoned, forgotten, and angry. I am the girl whose grandmother died, who had to wait as her flesh gnawed away at her from the inside and never even got to say goodbye. I am the girl whose father had a heart attack, who had to watch him panic and gasp for breath on the stairs, who watched the paramedics race away with him while her whole body shook. I’m the girl who waited until she was alone to cry, so she could be strong for her sisters.

I’m the one who begged and pleaded to any deity who would listen to not take him away.

I am also the girl who keeps going, the girl who looks at herself in the mirror and whispers “You are beautiful.” I am the girl who knows what she is worth and will do her best to ignore the words and the stares.

I’m the girl who dresses how she wants to, when she wants to. I am the girl who is learning to love herself every day, who doesn’t allow her illness to define her. I am the girl who has an amazing stepmom who shows what a mother should really be like and shows her how to be the best she can be. I’m the girl whose father is making it and is almost a year sober, who loves his children fiercely and has never left. I am the girl who deserves happiness.

personal essay Jillian Akers // 12

CONTRAST multimedia Aida Bermudez // 11

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S E PA R AT E D B Y A CELL WALL haikus Emma Scott // 10 You make my heart beat Providing me oxygen Photosynthesis There’s no blood in your Veins, but love rushes through mine Photosynthesis You, me, and dinner If you weren’t an autotroph Photosynthesis Differences set us Apart, but you have my heart Photosynthesis

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LAND, SEA, SKY photograph Dalila Tejada // 11

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O P P O R T U N I T Y C O S T PA R T I I short story Theron Camp // 12 Meridiani Planum, 2036 Her ship had arrived less than three months ago, bringing the total number of colonists in the Robinson colony to over sixty. Today, she’d been repairing a troublesome habitation module on the far side of the settlement. After dinner, she had around seven hours to sleep before she’d be on duty again. Annie Zimmermann felt justified in wanting to go straight to bed tonight, but it was Sunday back on Earth, and her weekly video message from her parents would already be in her inbox.

“Good afternoon, Annie, or, uh, whatever time it is for you. It’s afternoon here, and we went down by the river for a picnic after church today, me and your mother and Peter and his family because, um, Peter and Andrea just drove up from Billings, so they got up here last night.

“Anyway, we’re back at the house now, and everyone else is outside in the yard, except Peter, he’s taking a look at the combine. It broke, you know, and I couldn’t fix it myself

‘cause of my back, and I guess you’ve heard the farm hasn’t had a good year overall ‘cause of the blight, but we’re doing the best we can, and Andrea’s got that new high-paying job in Billings, I don’t recall what ‘xactly, but they’ve been sending some money up regular like, so, um. Don’t you worry about us is what I’m saying.

“Hello, Annie. How’re you doing?”

(This was her mother’s voice) “We really miss you here, and I know that Peter does too, but he’s working right now, so I’ll say it for him. Take care of yourself now. We pray for you every day. Hope to hear from you soon.”

(Her father again) “Yes, reply soon.

See you later, Annie.”

End of message. Annie stared at the screen for a while, mindlessly, and slowly realized that a great sorrow had descended upon her as she sat there.

Why had she gone away to Mars?

Mars, where she breathed tinned air and ate tinned food and fixed houses for a living. Mars, the endless rust-colored plain littered with rust-colored rocks beneath a rust-colored sky. Mars,

“Why had she gone away to Mars?

Mars, where she breathed tinned air and fixed houses for a living.”

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the cold and desolate. Mars, where she still felt trapped beneath the sky, beneath the bubbles of plastic and plexiglass because, well, she was trapped. She’d thought she could be a pioneer, an explorer in space, but there were no pioneers in space-- there were no true pioneers at all anymore. She was a tool of empire; it’d rewarded her yearning for freedom by making a slave of her, trapping her in the menial existence she sought to flee.

Her parents had been right; she never should have left Earth. Now the land, the sky, the people were all as dead to her, existing only in her memory, and each sensation could only be recalled, never felt again, much like her grandparents when they had died. She had let her parents down, scorned all they had done for her, and now she couldn’t go back.

Annie Zimmermann left her tablet on the floor-- her reply could wait until tomorrow-- and drifted off to sleep, silently bemoaning what she had lost.

Continued on page 62

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BRICK WALL free verse Shea Peters // 12

Some brick walls are encrusted with flowers Ensconced, if you will The flowers are not parasites, not necessarily, no But they do in fact seep life from the wall, oh yes, they pull it out slowly to make themselves up in sapphire and green and deep unnamed things Faire maquillage The blooms are eyes opening and closing and opening again to the world Making the wall and breaking the wall, A stone Argus, if you will But one bound together with mortar A man-made edifice of collective blind knowledge This blind wall is made of bricks, of course Redundancies build up (as does the wall) Each cell, each layer unified into a common mass An organism, if you will Which, under immense pressure May be persuaded to fall Disconnecting back into its organic origins

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IN A COWBOY HAT photograph Amanda Ochieng // 11 iliad

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MOTHER NATURE’S CITY haikus Natalie Ripps // 11

The rain washed away The city’s envy and sins A rainbow awaits

Trash hugs the concrete But deep, deep, in the soil A blossom survives

Trees are skyscrapers In mother nature’s city They stand safe and tall

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C H A M PA G N E digital graphic Whitley Walter // 11

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SUNFLOWER SLUMBER short story Elena Gilbertson Hall // 12 Mae walked through stalks explore as far as her eyes could of wheat taller than her head, see. Later, when she couldn’t hold tickling the top of her auburn her wish in any longer, she sat hair. Pushing through the dense down next to her father. beige forest, she could see the “Can I go with you into the field of sunflowers beckoning fields tomorrow,” Mae asked from a half-mile ahead. The hopefully. setting sunlight trickled through Her father got a stony look on wispy leaves and landed on the his face. flowers, filling them up until they “The fields aren’t a place for looked like glowing yellow orbs. little girls,” he replied shortly.

Birds flying above noticed Mae’s Now, Mae remembered her sparkling red hair and wondered nine-year-old self waking up if it was worth diving for. at the break of dawn, pulling a As Mae moved through the wool sweater over her head in field, she developed tunnel vision the chilly morning air. Tiptoeing leading her towards the forbidden down the stairs, she slipped out flowers. She didn’t notice the the back door and began running scratchy wheat stalks leaving red towards the endless opportunity incisions along she believed existed beyond her her pale arms or the scattered family’s wheat plots. She had rocks cutting into her bare feet. gotten so close, but just when the The thick sweetness of the face-sized flowers seemed within warm night air put her into a reach, she felt hands lifting her up. dream-like state The strong hands “She developed as she found carried her kicking herself back and screaming tunnel vision leading on her family’s body back to her her towards the porch on her bedroom -- which seventh birthday. now felt more like forbidden flowers.”

Looking over a cage. the expanse of undisturbed A particularly violent scratch farmland, she closed her eyes and from a passing plant jolted Mae blew out her candles, wishing to out of her trance. She was now

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within reach of the bright yellow flowers and she glanced around her, fearing the return of those hands.

She had been waiting for her whole life, but Mae still wasn’t sure if she was ready for the unknown in front of her. Taking her first steps into the forbidden flowers, she let out an unabashedly joyful laugh that reverberated through the warm air.

A young boy and girl walked through the forest of massive sunflower plants, stepping over the occasional carcass of a longdead bird or rabbit that had lost its way in the maze of identical green stems. Despite the gentle stench of centuries of rot, the glowing yellow orbs beckoned the children farther into the depths of the field.

Something red sparkled ahead of them, obscured by a particularly dense layer of plants. As they pushed

through, the stems left stinging scratches on their cheeks and bare arms. A figure lay before them, hardly distinguishable from the earth below her body. Her hair looked as though it had been picked over by birds, but what remained was an enchanting shade of auburn. Her face was fixed in an expression of eternal joy.

Inexplicably, the children sat down next to her, leaning back on sturdy sunflower stalks and closing their eyes. Consumed by a forest of brilliant yellow flowers, they wondered if this was what freedom felt like.

FLUORESCENCE pen Lily Bruce-Ritchie // 12

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DOODLES

pen and marker Owen Austin-Totty // 11

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THE SEARCH free verse Andrew Robinson // 11 What I do not know and cannot see, Is what I’m supposed to believe, God supposedly in every facet of life, Yet with no drop to know there is no certainty,

The liege should always be honored, And us, devoted, as if something’s to be owed,

Yet owe what is the question, Should I owe for having it shoved into my life, Being told both God and Allah are omnipotent, With everything to give and nothing to gain,

More knowledge leads to more questions, Gut feelings stir against such givens, I can’t be the only one who sees, Or does the ever-longing search render me blind.

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ICON

charcoal Jerian Brown // 10

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AETERNUM villanelle Alexander Robinson // 12

And this too shall come to pass Our fear of space and darkness black Dreams lay broken like shattered glass And other things shall break like brass Our hopes and aspirations crack And this too shall come to pass And then to make like winter grass Our spirits too shall lose their track Dreams lay broken like shattered glass And then to join the recent past Our pain and loss shall join the pack And this too shall come to pass And as the faithful go to mass Our loved ones in the graveyard stack Dreams lay broken like shattered glass So there they go, a saddened class To think of better times way back And this too shall come to pass Dreams lay broken like shattered glass

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QUICKSAND

It’s your job to help children.

Support families, Prevent lifetimes of inadequacy.

To offer potential mothers A way out.

It’s your fault I was born.

You see, I wasn’t meant to exist.

You buried my parents’ futures; They could have run the world Without me.

How come all she saw was darkness?

free verse Audrey Enghauser // 10

It’s your fault we can’t eat every meal, That Mom and Dad’s best isn’t enough.

That I’m guilty for every need, Silent about every desire.

That I pull my family into poverty Like quicksand.

All it took was a trip into our world, A quick glimpse into the lives of people like me.

It might have become clearer How a little push Could erase A top class mistake.

It’s your fault we don’t have a proper home, That my parents will never have the mansion of their dreams.

That my memory is tainted with Nights spent in the car.

I pull them deeper.

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It’s your fault that my education is left behind That I can’t go to college Because we have to eat.

I could have made our country better, But I am quicksand.

It’s your fault that our bank account is obliterated By everyday expenses That probably seem as small as ocean tides to you.

That a wave could determine life or death.

My force blinds them.

It’s your fault I wasn’t prevented That this cycle will continue indefinitely With my child And theirs.

I pull them under.

It’s your fault that I’ll always start At the back of the race, That I blame myself For being quicksand.

STATIC

marker Melissa Richardson // 12

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APOLLO digital graphic Nicolas Willman // 9

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REGRETS limericks Liza Ingle // 9 I wish I could’ve said goodbye You may ask me why I know I said it once But once is not enough And in saying it, I felt like a lie.

Some may question how I got away For so many people, it causes them to stray I’ve spent my whole life running from these feelings Sometimes I can’t believe I wouldn’t wish on anyone this way Please grant me the world Please don’t be concerned I wish I knew how to tell you The words on my tongue are new Life is but a harrowing bird And so, I tell you this, hoping for closure I’m hoping you’ll hear my argument as you get older But the words on that paper are burnt into ashes I’m hoping this doesn’t get out to the masses It’ll all boil over.

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IMMIGRATION INTERFERENCE personal essay Roberto De Paz-Garcia // 10 Tuesday, June 2nd, 2019. 6:20 AM “Good morning, Tio Wio,” I said to my uncle in a half-awake state. My uncle responded back with a “good morning” in his normal sleepy state. I questioned my uncle about his plans were for the day, and he said he was invited for breakfast at I-HOP by my brother-inlaw. At this time, my mom had already left for work while my dad and my other uncle were having a conversation on the back porch, both unaware of the fateful things that were about to strike us. My dad left before my uncle, so went to his car not long after my mom left. As my dad was approaching his car, an ICE official came out with his rifle pointed at my dad and yelled, “Put your hands in the air or I’ll shoot,” He yelled, assuming that my dad was my other uncle who had a warrant.

My dad rushed to the back door and yelled at my sister to unlock the door.

My sister unlocked the door and my dad ran into the kitchen as my other uncle went into my sister’s closet. My uncle was in the bathroom changing as my dad came out of the kitchen and made his way to the front door. ICE officials were on the opposite side of the door and they were banging on the door.

After a tradeoff of my dad asking for the warrant and stating his rights and the

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officials screaming to open the door, the door gave in and the officials stormed in.

6:30 AM The officials promptly cuffed my dad and took him outside. At this time, I told my uncle that my life was pointless. I was unable to hear his response because the next thing I recalled was an official asking me why I was hiding. I looked

up and became numb at the sight of his rifle. He escorted me outside while I had my hands up, believing that I did something wrong. Shortly after, my brother and sister came out. My brother had

the worst asthma he’d had in a while, and coming out shirtless didn’t help either. Directly after them came my uncle, who was barefoot and still in his work attire. Finally, my uncle who had a warrant came out with his forehead spurting blood. I decided to glance to my left and witnessed a horrible thing happening as my dad was being tossed on the ground and being cuffed some more while having rifles pointed to him. After my dad and my uncles were cuffed, the officials took us inside, and an official started interrogating us.

He asked us about our education, our parents’ work, and plans for our future.

I answered mostly everything that didn’t involve our parents’ work because of the multiple times my mother had told us to not answer anything about her or my dad’s work. However, my siblings answered everything, even making the

mistake of talking about our parents’ work, probably because they were intimidated by the treatment of our family and the rifles that the officials carried. During the questioning, my sister recollected in her memory that she had heard about children being locked and yelled at the officials, “I’ve heard that you guys lock children up in cages.” One of the officials responded in a tame voice.

“Fake news,” I did not have my phone on me, so my dad had to call my mom to come and pick us up. However, a bilingual official seized the phone and asked my mom to pick us up or we would be sent to DFCS. She instead decided to call my brother’s girlfriend to pick us up, in fear that she too would be detained. However, even my brother’s girlfriend was taken as “Mexican” because of her darker skin color, even though she was white. She did not carry her papers with her, so she had to return to her place to obtain them, which left us even more in the hellish place. Once we arrived at her residence, my mother was there and she hugged us and started crying and yelling while trying to process why my siblings were so naive as to tell the officials about where she works. Later on that day, we went to Atlanta to receive consultations with lawyers.

CAT CALL

pencil Chadayzja Sims // 10

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MAN AND THE DIVINE multimedia Lillian Sams // 11

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AGNERE short story Maya Cornish // 11

Barbara sat in the salon chair, waiting for the hairdresser to come back and finish her up. It was a peaceful Saturday afternoon, families milling about the town, looking for something to keep their children busy and out of the house so the parents could pretend that they were young again. Pretend that they could make their own decisions without any restrictions.

Pretend that their love was fresh and clear as the sky after a cool rain.

As she did every first Saturday of the summer, when the students were let out from school, Barbara came to the hair salon to recolor her hair. She didn’t like the hairdresser when she was younger, preferring to trim and design it herself, but her husband Steve didn’t like her cutting her hair. He liked it long, saying that the way it cascaded down her shoulders and spine reminded him of fall leaves flowing through a stream. Soon, the years were catching up to Barbara, and Steve noticed.

“Why don’t you go to the salon, bring back that color I love so much,” he asked her at the beginning. “I love you so much more with your hair.

Won’t you do it for me?”

So then began the ritual.

Steve reminding her that her hair was becoming dull, and Barbara going to the salon to reverse the effects of time.

The hairdresser returned, blow-drying the last remnants

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of water out of Barbara’s hair. Barbara could hear an ambulance pass by the salon, the noise burying itself in her head.

“Wow, your hair never ceases to amaze me,” the hairdresser said. “You made a great choice in color, and your hair takes it in so well!

You look 10 years younger already!”

“My husband enjoys my hair, too. He likes to say my hair was the reason he married me.”

“My husband isn’t as chivalrous as yours! He tells me that the only thing that has kept him around this long is my ass,” laughed the hairdresser.

Steve loved Barbara, and it only grew over the time they courted, especially after they got married. He didn’t like it when other guys admired Barbara, especially when the two of them were young.

When they would go out on a date and a man looked in Barbara’s direction, Steve would take his coat off and put it on Barbara, asking her why she was showing so much skin that day.

Barbara didn’t like it when Steve was angry, particularly when it was at her, so she made sure to be careful about where she went, who she was with, and what she was wearing. As she said at the end of her vow on their

wedding day, “I pledge myself to you.”

It got a little tiring to keep up, but as long as Steve was happy, Barbara was happy.

Barbara stepped out of the salon chair and made her way to the front, where Steve would be waiting. He always liked to wait in the salon while Barbara was there, to make sure that nothing went wrong and be the first to see the final result.

But Steve wasn’t there.

Instead there was a police officer where Steve would wait. He was young, years of life hadn’t yet begun dragging his feet as he walked towards Barbara.

“Are you Barbara Housel?

My name is Officer Sparks. I need to talk with you about your husband. He had a heart attack, and the paramedics aren’t sure if he’s going to make it.”

Barbara didn’t know what to say. Different feelings were coming at her all at once, blocking out whatever else Officer Sparks was saying.

Officer Sparks burst through Barbara’s thoughts. “Would you like me to drive you to the hospital to see how your husband is doing?”

Barbara turned around, as if she didn’t hear what the police officer said, to face the hairdresser she was with only a moment ago.

“You always do such a wonderful job, and I know we just finished, but I would like to try something different today.”

“Different feelings were coming to her all at once, blocking out whatever else Officer Sparks was saying.”

BRIGHT digital graphic Emma Sharp // 11

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THINGS THAT MAKE ME WHO I AM TODAY free verse Nasia Greer // 11 I am many little things and different types of things I’m like a bird, just recognizing my wings My beliefs in a God are not as strong and clear And I wonder what my purpose is here I am a Libra, born on the 25th of September, 2002 Balancing two families barely knowing who is who Had a stepmother making her family number three But when my Dad passed, she bailed on us completely I am stronger and knowing that I have true friends on my side You don’t understand the happiness I have inside It’s like the sun is shining on the most heaviest of storms Or a rose that is so beautiful, you forget the thorns I resemble a sapphire because of wisdom and virtue And the regalness of the sapphire’s royal blue I resemble an aster flower, that symbols love and perseverance With the most beautiful and intense lavender appearance I am Nah-see-ah, it means Miracle of God I wasn’t supposed to be here, but that doesn’t make me flawed If I was born, that means I’m meant to be here If I do have a purpose it’ll soon be crystal clear The toughest things, like school, are hard to complete But I won’t give up, not in a heartbeat I am many little things and different types of things from day to night I’m like a bird, always making sure to spread my wings before I take flight

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THE LITTLE WARRIOR marker Lillian Sams // 11

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MERRITT watercolor Frances Thrasher // 9

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LE RÊVEUR free verse (French) Ietta Veeder // 11

Un rêveur a perdu les étoiles un jour Il ne les a pas connues, cachant derrière un nuage La nuit est devenue trop sombre pour lui de voir Le laissant sans espoir Les arbres en fleur ne lui ont donné aucune joie Et les belles montagnes n’ont donné aucune paix Tout ce qu’il voulait, c’était les étoiles Mais un jour, une luciole a apparu Sa lumière vive a attiré l’attention du rêveur Et les rêves du rêveur commençaient à retourner Il n’avait plus besoins des étoiles Parce que le rêveur a trouvé une nouvelle lumière de guidage

THE DREAMER free verse (English) Ietta Veeder // 11 A dreamer lost the stars one day He didn’t know they were hiding behind a cloud The night became too dark for him to see Leaving him without hope The blooming trees didn’t give him joy And the beautiful mountains didn’t give peace All he wanted were the stars But one day, a firefly appeared Her bright light caught the attention of the dreamer And the dreamer’s dreams began to return He no longer needed the stars Because the dreamer found a new guiding light

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SOUL ON THE OUTSIDE short story Eli Clarke // 11

S PA N I S H M O S S photograph Amanda Ochieng // 11

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A fisherman stands on the bank of a river, whose headwaters have never been known, casting line out into the brownness of the water, hunting for a meal. He is wearing overalls and a white button down, his face shaded by a wide brimmed hat, hiding his gentler features from the harsh Georgian sun. Meandering down the wide river comes a man, silently drifting towards the boy. He directs his craft towards the fisherman, stalling in the silt some 15 feet above the fisher’s clearing. He lifts himself from the boat, trodding down towards the boy. He begins to speak, a deep, echoing voice, rolling off ancient lips.

“There ain’t no soul in that body you got. Ain’t nothin’ special innat meat of yours which makes you more high and mighty than that there nightcrawler what’s wrigglin’ atwixt them hook you got there.”

“Ain’t I got a soul though? Heard a whole lottem folks what’s round them Bab-tist church they got in town which say I gotta soul. Heard its quite a deal flameable what’s more and I ain’t even sure I’s wantin’ mine no more. Seems awful dangerous keeping something like that such a deal close to my body parts. But I am quite sure I’s got one sir,” responds the fisherman, his voice cracking.

“Sure you’ve got a soul, ain’t no thing a-livin’ which ain’t got a soul, yours just ain’t in your body is all I’m sayin’, mine ain’t neither. See, I just been up there talkin’ to folks - right cross them river - they been tellin’ me, learnin’ myself something bout the world. And there ain’t

no soul in that body of yours.”

“First thing you tellin’ me is that I ain’t got no soul - then that I is - now I ain’t no more.

Wantin’ me to keep on hearin’ you I’m gone need some kinda Elaboration, hear?”

“What I’m tellin’ ‘bout is that is that we all got some souls, It just ain’t right where you thought it was. Folks been gettin’ it all wrong with thinkin’ bout soul as somethin’ you can own, cooped up in the flesh, housed in some kind of corporeal conception of reality. Ain’t like that. Soul’s what’s in between.”

“How’s it mine if it ain’t even inside of me?”

“How is anything yours? Who gave you ownership of your voice? How do you know that your time which you’re living on is yours? Ain’t borrowed? Ain’t stolen?”

“- What’s that which your insinuratin’?”

“Ain’t no kinda insinuratin’ which I’m sayin, just askin’. You don’t know nothin’ about the way of the world. It’s a whole lot you don’t know.”

“Well seein’ as you think you know so much, why don’t you tell me somethin’ ‘bout the way of the world? What you know ‘bout - ‘bout the trees I’m under and the - the fish I’m searchin’ which I can’t already tell?”

“Well sure, that’s what I been tryin’ to do.

You want me to start from the beginnin’?”

“I guess that’s the way stories go - beginnin’ to end.”

“There ain’t no soul in that body you got.

Ain’t nothin’ special innat meat you got which make you more high and mighty than that nightcrawler what’s wrigglin’ atwixt them hook you got there. Soul’s what’s on the outside.

It’s a thread in a net, a single strand driving through your temple and directin’ your jig through the universe. It’s an orchestra, singin’ stars and an invisible director, silvery tones shinin’ through the stratosphere. Call it a

purpose, mercurial and distant, but it’s smoke on the horizon what’s tellin you ‘bout a flame somewhere. It’s just over the water now. If you start payin’ real close attention you might just feel it, a tuggin’ through your heartstrings.

Connects you to the ground, plants, animals and whatnots, right to your sister, your auntie and them Babtists in town. Even’s tuggin’ you towards your little earthworm. Maybe you’ll hear it. The conductor and his orchestra, their constant breath of music. Been playin’ that same song for a while now.

Since before you were around.

Shoot, been around longer than me too. It’ll keep on goin’ after we’re both gone - might be some different notes in a new tempo - but it’s the same song none-the-less. You hear it in more than you realize, just gotta listen up more.”

“What you hearin’ right now?”

“Whole lot more than you is.”

“I think you might be a-cursed or somethin’, I ain’t hear nothin’.”

“Tell me about what you hearin’.”

“I hear that water a-sloshin’ off your dinghy, wind in the trees, birds a-singin’-” “Well that’s it. Them’s the instruments.

Think - think if you was one ‘em folks around when it all started. Cymbals crashin’ and quarks erupting from the furnace, the joinin’ of all the little pieces of the puzzle. Those first crisp notes, broadcastin’ across the acres of time in a language never spoken but always understood. See where that crescendo has carried? All the leaps and bounds it done made to get here? Everything comes to this moment, and it’s the same time it’s always been. Great dead gods drift through space, and we move too, wandering to the tune woven into the fibers of our beings, everything complex enough to keep the illusion of random, but ain’t nothing random anymore.”

“Maybe you’ll hear it. The conductor and his orchestra, their constant breath of music.”

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NEVERTHELESS photograph Natalie Ripps // 11

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WHERE I’M FROM free verse Randy Watson* Author wished to remain anonymous I’m from Athens, GA From Bethel Homes, where you see the police everyday Black and blue, on foot, going building to building People yelling 12 and scatter From an attitude of forget they dad and I got nothin to lose From trying new things To finding a way out I’m from watching people you loved Killed from bullets and heroinOr locked up I’m from rap music No cap, Young Boy and Rylo.

I’m from The Nets and the Celtics.

I’m from Watch Out! And Run! From gunshots and fights gone wrong, people dying, mama’s crying I’m from dreams of making something happen, From kids on the playground playing build up I’m from dark places And dice games I’m from brothers that will love me forever, From my mama doing her best to keep me on my feet I’m from smelling chicken through the door Cold air through the window.

From late nights and walking away I am from Ramen Noodles and Totino’s pizza I am from big dreams to chase Without letting anything get in the wayA place I’m goin, plans in the making A future I can only imagine in the breezeway The wind back and forth rushing my thoughts away iliad

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O P P O R T U N I T Y C O S T PA R T I I I short story Theron Camp // 12 Montana, 2036 MARS SETTLERS CELEBRATE THREE MONTHS SINCE ARRIVAL OF ROBINSON II CREW, the headline read. It was remarkable, this-- sixty-odd colonists in a hostile environment more than eleven light-minutes away, some living there for more than two years, and not a single fatality. Annie Zimmermann Olsen had paid close attention to reports on the Robinson missions over the past few years, and knew all the particulars of the program in a way that (she suspected) few others outside the program did. It was her main concession to her childhood dream.

It was best that she’d stayed here, she reassured herself as she cleaned up after her breakfast. After all, she’d met Erik when they were in college in Great Falls, and they’d married the autumn after Annie graduated.

They had gone to Colorado for their honeymoon, but Annie hadn’t left the state since. She still lived on the farm, but most days she’d bike into town to work at the thriving machine repair shop she’d established

several years ago, while Peter, Erik, and Andrea took care of the farm.

She believed her work-- and the money it brought in-- was one of the main reasons that their farm was still thriving while other small farms in the area suffered.

On her way out the door to work, she passed the fireplace and stopped to look at the pictures on the mantel.

There, second from the right, was the one from when she and Peter were kids-- Peter was in his mid-teens, wearing that perpetual teenage look of exasperation, and Annie was twelve, her face obscured beneath a giant plastic astronaut helmet. As she fished her bike helmet from the cardboard boxes in the corner of the garage, she wondered how twelve-year-old her would react if she saw her now.

She was domesticated. Tamed.

This was her freedom, now-- a bike ride between home and work. Home, work, home, work. She had left Montana, what, two or three times in her life? The best she could claim now was a little shop which fixed people’s cars and tractors. Was this the best she

“She was domesticated. Tamed.

This was her freedom now-a bike ride between home and work.”

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could do? No, she had given that up when she turned her back on the stars and the red dot that spun and danced among them. And for what? Why had she not gone to Mars?

Annie had let herself down. She’d had a shot at becoming something greater, at pushing the bounds of the world outward where she’d wanted to go, to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. Was a life on Mars worth sacrificing a life on Earth? Perhaps it was, perhaps not. Either way, it would’ve been hers. Now, she had forgone it, thrown her dream away without even giving it the chance her childhood self deserved. She’d yielded.

Annie Zimmermann Olsen pedaled away down the sunny farm road towards the beginning of another dull day, haunted by the sudden and intimate understanding of what she might’ve been and now could never become.

FIN.

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THE EVENT THAT SHAPED MY P E R S O N A L I T Y personal essay David Akindipe // 12 It was a normal Saturday morning in Ikorodu, Lagos, Nigeria. The weather was very hot and there was no power to operate our cooling system. My family had just finished praying. My dad was at work and my mom was taking care of my sister and me. The heat inside the house was unbearable, so I took a walk outside.

Our neighborhood had a very deep well next to my house. That was how we got our water to shower because, let’s not forgot, this is Africa. The well wasn’t covered, leaving it exposed. The well had always intrigued me, just like Winnie the Pooh and his delightful honey. My parents did not allow kids to go near it because of the danger it presented.

This was my opportunity to see what my parents were trying to hide from me. I did not get it at first until I looked down the well, and my heart sank.

All of a sudden I started to hear an echo and, as a 5-year-old kid, I was so intrigued.

As I looked down, all I could see was how dark and deep it was. Then, all of a sudden, I had fallen into this abyss. It was like I was looking at myself as I was falling. My head was hitting the surrounding areas, causing me to lose consciousness. Then all of a sudden it was like a fight between the demons of death and me. I remember a bunch of creatures similar to demons scratching me and my clothes, and leaving me for dead. It was like a movie and I was floating around in the water and all of a sudden a gigantic hand lifted me up like something that can only be seen in sci-fi movies. I then came back into reality and

all the casualties that happened while I was unconscious were there in reality, causing me to think that some part of the thing about the demons actually happened. My neighbor had to find a way to get me out.

As a five-year-old kid, I was really terrified. All I could hear was the sound of my mother and other people in the neighborhood screaming in fear, causing me to panic, and then all of a sudden it all went black. I was taken to our general hospital. I then woke up with all these tubes attached and it didn’t make sense to me because I had never been to the hospital other than when I had jaundice.

I had just woken up while they were injecting something into my wound and I had never felt something hurt so much, other than a rejection, of course. There I had family friends come and visit and it assured me that people still cared. I was in the hospital for three days receiving treatment.

The last at the hospital I had to get an x-ray because I broke some bones in my foot and had some dents in my skull but all I cared about was that I was okay and I didn’t die.

I was too young to understand how lucky I was, but I was glad to be back home.

The major problem that this event caused for me was trauma.

I had never been so fearful in my whole tiny life. I was afraid of the dark, driving, even leaving my house. Growing up it made me an introvert.

I never tried talking to people about my experience because it made me sound insane. This incident caused people to use my middle name (David) more because the story is about a little boy who beat the odds

“I had never been so fearful in my whole tiny life. I was afraid of the dark, driving, even leaving my house.”

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and won a monumental battle and, in a way, I had beat death. This really put a dent in my parents’ financial savings. My dad was making about less than two hundred and fifty dollars a month because he was still young.

This experience turned me into a critical thinker and someone who always weighs available options well before making a decision. Also, it made me observe my surroundings more, sometimes like a paranoid person, and turned me into someone who could kill a good mood with ideas of the worst things happening.

Simultaneously, the event helped me academically because of my fear to leave the house. Consequently, about a year later, I was already two grades ahead of my peers because my parents used the time I spent at home to teach me the basics of science and mathematics.

The thing that makes this event so special for me is that I was able to live for a purpose. There must be something great in the future for all of this to occur without ending in death. It was hard growing up with this story because I felt it should be something I should tell but thinking about it caused flashbacks to the demon-like creatures. The amount of fear I was dealing with was a lot for a young lad and my parents wouldn’t stop bringing up the topic every time we went to church. In a way, though I wanted to erase this event from my memory, what I didn’t realize was that it was a part of who I am. I am currently the youngest among my peers and though I feel that I am growing so fast, I wouldn’t change this experience for anything else. This year, September 17 will be the 12th anniversary. My family and I will go out to celebrate this day as a way to thank God for my life.

Me falling into the well could arguably be the best and the worst thing to happen to me. I want to share this story to show others that everything that happens in your life happens for a reason. There is no such thing as “coincidence” or “by luck.” The only fact is that it helps you grow as a person. Personally, it makes me even cooler than I thought I was and hopefully one day this event can inspire another soul to write their own story that shaped them.

THE FATES ceramic Sophie Caillault // 11

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POLICY

The iliad Literary-Art Magazine is Clarke Central High School’s open forum for student expression through creative work. The goal of the iliad is to showcase work that represents the creativity, skills, and experiences of CCHS students and rising freshmen from our feeder schools. Throughout the year, students submit work, which the iliad compiles into a magazine; all published work was submitted by the creator or with the creator’s consent.

The iliad staff may censor certain elements of artwork that we find profane or obscene. It is our intent to censor without removing significance or changing the creator’s meaning.

Edits made to submissions were made to strengthen the piece grammatically, structurally, or for consistency.

As a staff, the members of the iliad have come to a consensus that in certain written works, stylistic and grammatical errors are intentionally made by authors and are therefore left in their original states. This is meant to accurately represent the intention of the writers and to preserve their artistic freedom. Such pieces are marked with an asterisk.

Because of the unprecedented circumstances brought by COVID-19, the iliad Editorial Board was required to stray from certain policies due to the fact that we were not able to meet with students, iliad Staff, and Editorial Board members. The iliad staff was unable to make all edits with the consent of the content creator. All edits that were unapproved by content creators were made with the intention of not changing the overall message or meaning of the piece.

THEME LETTER: WORKS CITED

Cherry, K. (2019, August 08). Achieve the ‘Flow’ Mindset to Get the Job Done. Retrieved December 13, 2019, from https://www.verywellmind.com/what-is-flow-2794768 Mutucumarana, H. (2012, January 27). Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. Retrieved January 17, 2020, from https://www.pursuit-of-happiness.org/history-of-happiness/mihaly-csikszentmihalyi/

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EDITORIAL BOARD Beatrice Acheson Editor-in-Chief Georgia Blue Simmons Managing Editor Grace Lang Visuals Director Rebekah Camp Writing Director Lucy Hines Business Manager Clementine Acheson Outreach Director David Ragsdale Adviser

Pictured (from left): Rebekah Camp, Beatrice Acheson, David Ragsdale, Georgia Blue Simmons, Lucy Hines, Grace Lang.

(Not pictured: Clementine Acheson)

STAFF

The 2020 iliad staff met once weekly throughout the year to explore creativity and contribute to this edition of the magazine. Staff members engaged in various creative activities such as graphic design, photography, and watercolor throughout the school year. In addition to engaging in creative activities, the iliad staff learned about the process of creating and producing the iliad.

This year’s staff consisted of: Aida Bermudez, Anna DeMarco, Annie Blanks, Connor Allen, Emma Scott, Vicky Lee, Kenzie Howell, Natalie Ripps, Jocelyn Ray, Tomas Dougan, and Daniel Garcia-Pozo.

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FRIENDS OF THE iliad DIAMOND

RED DIAMOND

1000 Faces Coffee Dr. Maxine Easom Hugh Acheson and Lorien Campbell and Family

Troy Coleman Five Points Psychiatry

$500

$300

SILVER $25

Dr. Peter Smagorinsky Marian Wilder Lauren Pruitt Scott Crook Ellen Walker

GOLD $50

Amy Flurry Dr. Alice Kinman Foster Elrod Mary Garrison Mercer Brokenbrough Carter Vest

BRONZE $10

Mollie Sherman

SPECIAL THANKS TO: 68

PLATINUM

$100

Pauline Hines Jennifer MacDonald Bertis Downs Dr. John Campbell and Family Dr. Robert Fecho Lorinda and Pete Crane

Lorinda Crane, Mindy McCage, Mary Koon, Meg Hines, Kim Turner, Janet Frick, Becky Long, Miki Lu Peters, Danny Malec, Dr. Swade Huff, Dr. Makeba Clark, Christopher Pendley, and Shawn Hinger

INDEX Acheson, Beatrice Water Color I 10 Water Color II 30 Water Color III 62 Adamson, Ava Psalms 9 Akers, Jillian The Girl 24 Akindipe, David The Event That Shaped my Personality 64 Austin-Totty, Owen Doodles 39 Bartee-Gray, Alana Two Star-Crossed Lovers 18 Bermudez, Aida Contrast 25 Brown, Jerian Icon 40 Bruce-Ritchie, Lily Fluorescence 37 Caillault, Sophie The Fates 65 Camp, Theron Opportunity Cost Part I 10 Opportunity Cost Part II 30 Opportunity Cost Part III 62 Caudill, MacKenzie Two That are Beautiful 14 Clarke, Eli Soul on the Outside 58 Cornish, Maya Agnere 52 De Paz-Garcia, Roberto Immigration Interference 46 Domizi, Roxanne Birdland 12 Elliott, Josie Jekyll 21 Enghauser, Audrey Quicksand 42 Garcia-Pozo, Daniel Song for a Girl 8 Gilbertson Hall, Elena Is a Hot Dog a Sandwich? 22 Sunflower Slumber 36

Greer, Nasia Things That Make me who I am Today 54 Ingle, Liza Regrets 45 James, Trinity Tarot Cards 16 Kurtz, Henry Steel Dice 15 Nguyen, Andrew The Grass Beneath my Feet 13 Ochieng, Amanda In a Cowboy Hat 33 Spanish Moss 58 Peters, Shea Brick Wall 32 Richardson, Melissa Static 43 Ripps, Natalie Mother Nature’s City 34 Nevertheless 60 Robinson, Alexander Aeternum 41 Robinson, Andrew The Search 38 Sams, Lillian Man and the Divine 50 The Little Warrior 55 Scott, Emma Separated by a Cell Wall 26 Sharp, Emma Bright 53 Sims, Chadayzja Wonder 19 Cat Call 47 Tejada, Dalila Land, Sea, Sky 27 Thrasher, Frances Merritt 56 Veeder, Ietta Le Rêveur 47 Walter, Whitley Champagne 35 Watson, Randy Where I’m From 61 Willman, Nicolas Apollo 44

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CO LO PHO N iliad headlines were printed in Oswald Demi-Bold. Bylines were printed in Oswald Light. All copy was printed in Baskerville Regular.

The cover artwork is a watercolor painting by Trinity James titled “A Conversation at the End of the World.” The inside cover features a digital graphic by Beatrice Acheson. The “Spark” section divider is a multimedia collage by Samantha Broderick titled “How We Learn”. The “Distortion” section divider is a pen drawing by Nate Herbst titled “Electric Guitar.” The “Clarity” section divider is a pencil drawing titled “Long Pose Study #2” by Tomas Dougan.

The Editorial Board group photo was taken by Krista Shumaker. All uncredited graphics on pages 10, 30, and 62 were done in watercolor by Beatrice Acheson.

All spreads were designed by Beatrice Acheson and Lucy Hines.

Last year’s edition of the iliad, Anatomía, received the following awards: The 2019 Clarke Central iliad Literary-Art Magazine rated a Gold Medalist designation in the Columbia Scholastic Press Association’s Scholastic Literary Magazine Critique for 2020.

Overall, the publication received 834/1000 points.

Southern Interscholastic Press Association: Superior Literary Magazine: iliad Literary-Art Magazine Georgia Scholastic Press Association: All-Georgia Literary Magazine, Superior rating, and General Excellence rating.

The 2019 iliad Literary-Art Magazine was selected to receive a rank of Excellent in the 2019 NCTE Recognizing Excellence in Art and Literary Magazines (REALM) Program.

The iliad publishes all forms of creative work, including but not limited to essays, short stories, poetry, photography, sculptures, and other visual artwork, from students of all grades attending Clarke Central High School in Athens, GA, as well as any submissions from the two CCHS feeder schools, Burney-Harris Lyons and Clarke Middle School.

It is iliad policy not to publish explicit language where it may appear in a submitted work.

Censorship of explicit language follows guidelines similar to a “TV-14” rating. Submissions containing profanity are edited appropriately and with the consent of the creator.

We are so grateful to everyone who submitted work for the 2019-20 issue of the iliad and to the community for their support in this endeavor.

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