2023 iliad literary-art magazine "Flourish"

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading the 2023 edition of the iliad Literary-Art Magazine. Since the beginning of time, plants on Earth have gone through life cycles: they grow, thrive, die, and revive. And since the start of humanity, humans have been creating. From drawing on cave walls to iPads, creativity has been integral to humanity. In our 48th edition of the iliad Literary-Art Magazine, “Flourish,” we aim to take the reader through the life cycle of a plant as a metaphor for the creative process.

Creativity has always been the guiding force in the iliad and one of the driving forces in my own life. Coming into my first year as Co-Editor-in-Chief after a year of virtual school, our team had to think creatively to reconnect our school’s students back with our publication. Through the reinstatement of our artistic club, which is open to all students, the expansion of our social media presence, and creation of our 2022 magazine “astraeus,” I feel immensely proud of our team’s work in solidifying our presence in the school community these past two years.

Our mission in iliad is to encourage all forms of creativity from those in our school community. In my second year as Editor-in-Chief, I was honored to be able to pour my full creativity into the design of this magazine, despite the inevitable challenges that came with its creation. I am honored to create a unique, vibrant magazine reflecting the diverse voices, perspectives, and ideas that our student body has to offer alongside our incredible Editorial Board.

Please enjoy the 48th edition of the iliad, Flourish.

Kaija Gilbertson Hall Editor-in-Chief

DITOR’S NOTE E

HEME LETTER

Dear Reader,

This year’s iliad theme, “Flourish,” conveys the growth of plant life as a metaphor for the creative process. We have divided the magazine and its content into three subsections, “Revive,” “Grow,” and “Thrive,” and each piece is sorted into one of these three sections. “Flourish” mirrors the creative process with “Revive” representing an initial creative idea, “Grow” representing the development of this idea, and “Thrive” representing the completion of a creative endeavor and the effect it has on an individual’s creative identity.

The “Revive” subsection conveys the transformation of a plant from the decay phase to the seed and germination phase of a plant’s growth. This section reflects the initial spark of creativity that is the beginning of the creative process. Pieces in this subsection may reflect elements of new beginnings, youth and childhood.

The next stage of a plant’s life is growth. In this stage, plants are coming into their own, yet haven’t yet fully integrated with their environment. Thus, in the “Grow” subsection, many pieces focus on one primary subject. There are many obstacles in the growth process so pieces in this section will also reflect the challenges one faces that ultimately results in growth.

The final subsection, “Thrive,” shows a plant in its peak form, fully intertwined with its environment. In terms of the creative process, “Thrive” represents the completion of a creative endeavor and the effect that it has on an individual’s creative identity.

We hope that through reading “Flourish,” the reader will experience the creative process shown through the metaphor of a plant’s life cycle.

Kaija Gilbertson Hall Editor-in-Chief

Ethan Caspary Poucher Managing Editor

REVIVE

7-8 . . . Collected / Bird Smith / Revive Subsection Art

8-9 . . . Nelumbo Nucifera / Joshua Vongkunthong / Mushrooms / Anna McCullough

10-11 . . . Madam Milky Way / Daniel Magby / All The Love in the World / Anna Shaikun

12-13 . . . A Deeply Rooted Image / Maya Shrivastav / One More Day / Jesse Dantzler

14-15 . . . Escape The Empathy Illusion / Elise Siegmund

16-17 . . . Smile / Salai Diekumpuna / Hot Corner / Daniel Cruz

18-19. . . Haptic / Isabella Harvey / You / Kelbi Phillips

20-21 . . . Clothes / Ari Bastow / It Snowed / Ollie Hendershot / Girlhood / Mattie Pittard

22-23 . . . Solace City / Isabelle Duncan / For My Grandfather / Niles Flath

24-25 . . . Dollhouse / Franni Thrasher / Ribcage / Margo McDaniel

26-27 . . . Praise To Death / Ayanna Lonon / 15 Minutes / Adeline Baugh

28-29 . . . Daydreamer / Bird Smith / Grow Subestion Art

30-31 . . . For You / Soren Temple / That Old Weathered Door / Angel Tejada

32-33 . . . Ianuarius / Nico Willman / The Lonely Spaceman / Sekou Sesay

34-35 . . . In Control / Koah McClellan / Light It Up / Vycktorja Davis /

Jade / Naomi Bell / Self-portrait / Monte Spillane

36-37 . . . Loud / Kai Menke / 262 / Kenedi Hooks

38-39 . . . Summer’s Dew / Antonio Starks / How Could I Let This Happen? / Emery Shih

40-41 . . . Stand For You / Antonio Starks / The Ocean Sinks as the Fish Fly / Sofia Morales

42-45 . . . Language and Privilege / Mykolas Kumpis / Silenced / Temprince Battle

46-47 . . . Edge of Everything / Londyn Emory Deadbeat / Cadence Schapker

48-49 . . . I’m Chemical / Da’oud De Lane / Disfigured Reflections / Sofia Morales

50-51 . . . Lost / Michael Campbell / Change / Addy Root

52-53 . . . Verdant / Bird Smith / Thrive Subsection Art

54-55 . . . Phosphenes / Max Burnham / Myosotis Scorpioides / Maya Shrivastav

56-57 . . . Homegrown / Lucas Donnelly

58-59 . . . America! Eureka! / Amelia Baer / Galvanistic Young Man / Plae Gyi

60-61 . . . Club Collages / Sam Caspary / Margo McDaniel /

Flannery Ragan / Kovi Tatum

62-63 . . . Trauma is a Housefire / Clara McCarthy / Agony / Sekou Sesay

64-65 . . . Reflection / Isabelle Duncan / Emptiness / Kamila Duran Jimenez

66-67 . . . My Skulls are on Fire! / Hadia Alkhafaji / False Skies / DeVonte’ Williams

68-69 . . . A Weapon They Hold / Tavarus Smith / Disinterested / Kimberly Sanabria-Amaya

70-71 . . . Sensations of a Winter’s Night / Nik Sweet / Sight From Beyond / Pierce Alston

72-73 . . . Reaching for the Stars / Aza Khan

THRIVE TABLE OF CONTENTS

REVIVEREVIVE REVIVE

Nelumbo Nucifera

Joshua Vongkunthong

// senior free-verse poem

When dusk approaches, Nelumbo Nucifera’s bloom

Returns back into the murky water only

To rise at the break of dawn

Strength, Resilience, and Rebirth

Pink hues glamorize the dark sludge, it’s rooted within

Each blooming flower lasts for only a few days before it wilts and sinks

Only to rise again, breathing freely with pristine petals

Like a Phoenix rising from the ashes.

Madam Milky Way

marker

Daniel Magby // junior

All the Love in the World

Anna Shaikun // junior haikus

Philia

Second family

Ludus

Flowers in your hair

Laughter for what never lasts

Butterflies in flight

Eros

A burning, begging

Would I pull myself away

Even if I could?

Storge

Wherever I go

Blood is thicker than water

My home is with you

Conversations in a glance

Make life worth living

Pragma

In sickness or health

Even in another life

I am always yours

Philautia

Look within myself

Beyond my form and my face

My soul, worth loving

Agape

My heart shines outward

Each and every one of us

Creatures of the sun

A Deeply Rooted Image

Maya Shrivastav // sophomore personal essay

An assumption starts like a seed. Planted in our heads, watered by endless rains of flat and meaningless words said without a thought to what they convey, of a million stereotypes thrown around thoughtlessly, even used as compliments at times. It grows and grows, forming its roots in society, making itself known as “truth,” and sometimes by the time we realize it, it’s grown so deeply-rooted that we can’t ever fully cut it out.

It can be as simple as a thought that pops into your head when you see someone, or as complex as a harmful stereotype that rears its ugly head wherever you look. It can be negative or positive, or somewhere in between. Assumptions can feel like warm light on sun-kissed skin, a comfortable familiarity, or they can hit right where it hurts, like a slap to the face, painting a story of who I am without even knowing me, without seeing the complexity of the human mind and understanding the millions of different aspects that make me, me.

It begins with one that is frankly rather well known: the stereotypically flawless, intelligent kid who’s in all advanced classes, interested in something intellectual when she grows up, the academically perfect one. A compliment, I suppose, sometimes, but it is more harmful than they all realize.

I see it, plain as day in everyone’s face as they see me — I am meant to be that perfect girl, the one who never once gets overwhelmed, nor does she ever run out of time or sit there for hours with a blank page, distracted and unfocused. Nobody says it, but the stereotype isn’t a positive compliment, as it places that much more pressure on me to force myself to work, to spend hours and hours solving problems and typing answers and not ever taking a moment to step back and realize, this isn’t me.

In fact, that girl, the perfect one, is nobody. Nobody is perfect — everyone struggles, everyone

is human, and with humanity inherently comes imperfection, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It is imperfection that divides the consciousness of human beings from computer programs, even those made to mimic that sentience.

I am not that girl, and nobody is, and I know that. And yet, there is this pressure on those of us who happen to enjoy learning and get good grades, on those of us who’d like to sit down with a good book or write something in our free time, just to be that image of perfection.

On the surface, it is what it seems, but when I look in the mirror, that is not the person I see. But it isn’t the only assumption made of me — there are far more, and we don’t always realize when we make those assumptions about our peers and those around us. In fact, we do it rather involuntarily at times: take a glance at someone and develop our first impressions of them based on how they look, how they act, who they’re with, what they wear — you name it, humanity judges, even when we don’t know we’re doing it. We are a species that always judges unconsciously. We have our biases in our heads, learned from who we are with, strengthened by what we see in the media — no matter whether we see them in every thought or not.

I am a member of the LGBTQ+ community. I have rather openly discussed gender and sexuality and am always looking for representation — to find characters in books and movies who I can resonate and connect with.

But I look at books and see characters who are flat, meaningless, defined only by their gender and their sexuality. That their entire character is reduced to the simplicity of them being gay or lesbian or transgender. That the entire plot of the story revolves around their ‘discovery’ of the fact — but not often the portrayal of a nonbinary character going through a normal life, or adventuring on a quest through a fantasy realm or exploring the future within a dystopian or science-fiction world.

“...painting a story of who I am without even knowing me...”

That, in and of itself, is an assumption, a stereotypical “single story.” It is not a representation of who we are, we being the real LGBTQ+ students at this school or outside. It is a two-dimensional portrayal of me and of all the others like me out there, questioning our gender identity and attraction and wanting to read about people like us.

Of course, sometimes people think it is all for good, that they are complimenting us for our academics or being representative or to pity those they see as being underprivileged. But the truth that

some don’t see is that there is danger in labeling people with one single story. Even if it is ‘positive,’ when you formulate this stereotypical perception of someone, all you can ever see when you look at them is not their own face, the uniqueness of their looks and their personality and the way they are, how we are like snowflakes — one community, one species, and yet not a single one the same as another — but only what they’re meant to be according to the seeds of assumption that we’ve all grown.

Jesse Dantzler // sophomore

ESCAPE THE EMPATHY ILLUSION

Elise Siegmund // sophomore

pen, watercolor, & free-verse poem

Salai Diekumpuna // senior letter

Dear Dad,

Please read this to your two-year-old daughter because I don’t know if she can read, I forgot how children develop.

Hi Salai (aged two),

You’re just starting to develop memories. So before the first one settles in, before you see a burst of white sunlight shine through your window, before your dad wakes you to carry you downstairs for breakfast. Before you hear a plate shatter and its tiny pieces quiver on the floor creating the prettiest arrangement of music ever, let me share some of my wisdom. Please try your hardest to focus on that pretty music, I’m going to tell you some of the things you will learn. Hopefully, I can save your pretty little head a headache or two.

I want to let you know that sometimes things don’t work out. Soon your parents will teach you that. You’ll learn very soon that it is hard to watch people come into your life and leave as you grow up. You’ll wonder why certain people aren’t in your life anymore and you’ll miss the people you once called friends. And when you’re older, you find out that sometimes people just have to leave, just like princesses have to live in castles. Please know just because people will leave doesn’t mean you’ll miss them any less. And you’ll wonder about them even when you’re my age.

You will always wonder if life was kinder to them. Always keep that compassion and love that you have for people, but remember that some people just have to leave, just like you have to get out of bed each day. You are compassionate and caring, and in every joke you will tell and with every punch you will deliver, people will begin to realize that. Oh yeah, you’re a bit violent. As you get older try not to let your compassion for others be a secret.

In the future, your best friend, Nasya, will leave your hometown. You’ll miss her but don’t worry about y’all’s friendship. You two will always be best friends, but this time from a distance. Besides, some of the best relationships you will have are long-distance.

Salai, I know you’re just two right now but I want you to practice using your words. You don’t have to cry to express yourself, and one day your guardian angel will let you know that. Her name is Ayanna. She always stood up for you, but one day she’ll tell you that you need to use your words. You’ll meet her soon, but I don’t know if she’ll ever know the impact she had on you. She was your first best friend.

I want you to say, “I love you” more. You wouldn’t want anyone to walk out of your life unaware that you ever loved them again, even if they hurt you, so try to express your love when you feel it. It will always be worth it. When you are my age, 18, you will wonder if your feelings are genuine each time you say, “I love you” to someone. But try to say it anyway, because it might be worth it. You will wonder how

“Salai, I know you’re just two right now, but I want you to practice using your words.”

someone who loves you can make you cry, and how those clear tears can rub off the lotion your mom’s coarse hands rubbed on your face. Those transparent streams will run down your face and dry on your smooth carob brown cheeks leaving streaks of white that reveal that you’ve been crying.

In your senior year of high school, quality time will be so important to you. It’s a great way to show the people in your life you love them. It’s your love language now because even when you will want to stay at home, you will make the trip up to Atlanta with your mom lots of weekends. And you traveled to the hospital just to cheer on your grandfather, Koko the Man. You even helped change his bag of external bowel fluid because it was quality time that you couldn’t spend with him while he lived in Africa.

Cherish him, Salai; he loves us. He’s okay, though. He just went to the hospital for a check-up, and they

gave him a golden crown to make him feel better. It’s incredibly bright and it looks like a ring that floats on his head. They call him an angel and the doctors will love when you visit because Koko the Man will walk farther when you will visit him. When you’re my age, you’ll learn that not all angels have wings.

But most importantly, you will learn to make your own mistakes the more people come into and leave your life. You will learn that you can’t control everything, especially who stays in your life and for how long. I wanted to let you know all of the truths you will learn in the future so that it’ll become easier to endure the stress of being a child, or maybe prevent some of it. I wish you all the best, you little princess. I love you and I will always love you. I hope you have a good breakfast.

Sincerely, You from the future

Daniel Cruz // junior photograph

ceramic

Isabella Harvey // junior

Haptic

You

Kelbi Phillips // junior free-verse poem

your arms are my warm hug

your heartbeat is my white noise

your words are my affirmations

your praises are my poetry

your kisses are my promises of forever

your presence is my honey

my head on your chest is my safe place

your embrace is my home

your heart is where i find rest

you’re my breath of fresh air

you’re the break from my suffocating thoughts

you’re my peace when i’m struggling

you’re my yellow and my why i could bask in you forever

your love is like a religion to which i give my utmost devotion

your care is a temple to which i give devout prayer

you’re you and i could never ask for more

Clothes

Ari Bastow // senior crochet

It Snowed

Ollie Hendershot // sophomore marker and pen

Girlhood

Mattie Pittard // freshman

free-verse poem

Girlhood is putting on mommy’s six-inch heels and trying to walk across your toy-littered bedroom

Climbing up the old magnolia in your backyard, barefoot and blissfully innocent

It’s pulling on a black robe and pretending to be a witch on a broom

Girlhood is having an imagination where the possibilities are imminent

Girlhood is playing in the creek behind your house for hours on end

Getting summer strawberries on your knees from falling off your bike

It’s going up to someone at lunch and making a new best friend

Girlhood is drawing flowers that you find on a hike

Girlhood is decorating your locker on the first day of middle school

Your first sleepover, baking cookies and watching romance

It’s being scared to wear your favorite bathing suit to the pool

Girlhood is losing your child-like love for dance

Girlhood is not wanting to take up too much space

Looking at your reflection while you curl your lashes and plump your lips

It’s keeping every bouquet of flowers given to you beside your bed in a colorful vase

Girlhood is wishing you had bigger hips

Girlhood is falling in love way too fast

Always having a headphone in

It’s saying, “Yes, I’m fine” with a smile whenever you are asked

Girlhood is finding the women whose side you never want to leave

And dancing with them until you can’t stand

It’s dreaming about your future, and getting kissed on New Year’s Eve

Girlhood is sitting in the car with your chosen sisters, listening to Phoebe, hand in hand

Girlhood is ups and downs, always changing

It’s finding joy in the hardest of days

Girlhood is finding other women to go through it all with, bond unwavering

It’s being emotional and creative, and feeling love always

Girlhood is pure bliss

Solace City

Isabelle Duncan // junior photographs

For My Grandfather

free-verse poem

Niles Flath // freshman

Now here

No where I still am

But you are still

I am is

But where you are

Is now was

There is no sense

In past tense

Dollhouse

Franni Thrasher // senior ceramic

Ribcage

Margo McDaniel // freshman

free-verse poem

i think i lost my ribs because my heart feels free and the depths of how i feel i cannot seem to see

not only that, but my heart is raw i might as well wear it on my sleeve for all the beasts to gnaw my ribs were once a cage and it held my heart so near but my savage love escaped and ravaged me to tears

Praise to Death

Ayanna Lonon // senior short story

ANew Comer

First, it was the sound of wind chimes. Every Sunday, it rains in the sanctuary.

Then the bass drum, cymbals, snare. The piano, the keyboard, a holy alto saxophone. The choir.

We all know the words. We lift our opened hands; try to soak up drops of God. Bow our heads, pray, sing, cry in the presence of strangers. The choir sings a canon, the key changes, and He turns it up. It starts to thunder and you have to choose to stand and dance or sit still.

Some of us know better than to cower in God’s presence because we’ve begged him to show up, some of us are afraid to be seen with Him in public, but everyone in the Church house is so caught up on how Odelia died.

I think that Church is just as good a place to die as any.

I met Miss Odelia on the second Sunday of June when I was a first time visitor. She was the head of the welcoming committee and it was just me and her in the visitor’s lounge after service, drinking coffee, eating bacon and toast, discussing where we’d been and what we’d seen. She mostly listened, and I mostly talked about the Church where I grew up in South Carolina. She told me she hoped I’d stick with 1st Methodist, and I did in the end because it felt like home.

So I didn’t know her well, but I’d known women who wore hats like hers. Some women know that you don’t dance because you caught the Spirit, but that you catch the Spirit because you’re willing to dance and I think she just met God where she knew to find him.

I think she must have checked beneath the bass drum, between the cymbals, behind the snare. She probably looked along the piano keys, above the keyboard, around the sax, trying to find God.

Then, the wind chimes again.

The Devil in the 4th Pew

Even Jesus had more pride than Odelia. She was prone to act a damn fool. It was always such a performance. She wore these big custom Church hats with netted veils and ribbons and polyester flowers. Then she’d go and sit in the third row so no one behind her could see nothin but that hat. You couldn’t even hear the sermon or the choir if you sat behind her because you’d start to wonder “how come that hat ain’t heavy ‘nough to put a notch in that boneless chicken neck she got” or “why don’t that hat ever fall off when she’s up stomping and cluckin?”

Well let me tell you, I ain’t never known no good lady to die in Church. I ain’t never heard of nobody doing it at all, and I wouldn’t believe Odelia’d done it ‘cept for I was sat behind her on first Sunday and watched it happen.

Since the first time she showed up to 1st Methodist, I dreaded every moment of that damned circus actthe stomping, the hollering; it was a mockery of my religion. I’d been sitting in the same spot on the fourth row every Sunday for seventeen years and she, on her first day, sat in the third. Every Sunday, a different hat, bobbin and tiltin, but never falling off.

On the first Sunday of July, when that hat started to really lean to the side as she stomped, clucked, fluttered, I thought I might get to witness a miracle. And when the brim of the hat was touching the blade of her left shoulder, I sat up straight to bear witness. And when I saw that she wasn’t gon’ reach up to catch it before it fell, the Hand of God pulled me to my feet. The way feathers fall from eagles overhead, the way leaves are wisped to the dirt by the wind, I saw that hat drift to the floor. I hunched over the pew to pick it up, to smell the sweatband, run my finger along the brim, clutch the big blue thing to my chest; it was worship.

I expected to see that her head had been coneshaped, sharp and pointed at the top. I thought she might be bald at the center or even better, she’d have a hole that she had to cover for fear of people reaching in and snatching out her brains. But when I stood back up and looked, she was laid out down beneath the pews. It was just me and her daughter, looking at her, waiting for her to get up and dance again.

She didn’t get up though, and on my way to Church second Sunday, I passed Gloretta Phillip’s nephew’s pawn shop with the “WE BUY DEAD PEOPLE’S THINGS” sign on the door and six big-ass Church hats in the window.

“She probably looked along the piano keys, above the keyboard, around the sax, trying to find God.”

The Daughter’s Eulogy Church has always been a stomping ground for the women in my life. My Aunt Sherly used to tell me stories about my grandma running laps around their old Church during praise breaks. She said that my grandma would make her run too, dragging her along by the wrists, and when she got pregnant with my mother, she ran with one hand holding my aunt’s arm and the other hand holding her belly. It’s really not hard to believe if you ever saw my mom during a praise break.

I have these memories from when I was only bout two or three years old of my mama dancing up in the Church house. And the dancing wasn’t like when she and my daddy moved slow around the kitchen with Erykah Badu counting their steps. And it wasn’t like when she held me by the arm with one hand, twirling and twisting me, whooping my behind with the other. It was like she was trying to shake something loose that was grabbing at her ankles to keep her on the ground.

There were things from her past that she wouldn’t talk about with me. Sometimes I would try and get her to tell a story about her childhood, and she’d turn stone-faced, silent. Some days, she woke up and it was clear there was something on her mind, affecting her body, making her voice weak and her feet drag, but she wouldn’t never tell nobody what was the matter. She’d just wait til Sunday came around to tell it to God. I’d watch her sing and pray and stomp that devil near to dust. After Church, her Spirits would be so high, her feet hovered over the ground- more of a glide than a walk- though she never managed to hold on to that borrowed strength. She just couldn’t keep herself afloat on her own.

But since I was bout two or three years old, I believed that if my mama stomped hard enough to shake that devil at her feet loose, she could fly.

Adeline Baugh // junior charcoal

G R O W

G R O W

welded lamp

Soren Temple // senior

For You

That Old Weathered Door

Angel Tejada // freshman free-verse

That old weathered door. So worn and used up. The paint scratching off the surface. Cracks in the door reveal the other side. The doorknob wiggly and loose, as if one tried to force it open.

This new owner of the door wants to change that. They won’t try to pry it open. They won’t force themselves onto this door. Instead, they nourish the door. They buy wood polish. Bring tools, and care for the door. Initially refusing, it hits back against this owner. But they keep trying, slowly.

Fixing those cracks.

Painting on a fresh new coat.

With the final coat of glossy wood polish.

It’s not perfect.

It will have every mistake under the new polish it wears. Yet it will be better than how it was before.

Ianuarius

Nico Willman // senior dramatic monologue

Oh, the irony!

I am Janus, the God of change... I ebb and flow the tides of transition with my movement like a dance. I have raised and crumbled empires with my hands laid bare, I have changed the course of human history with but a mere thought.

With my gift of foresight, I have bore witness to the beginning of time. I have unlocked the gates of heaven for Jupiter himself! And I have also seen the end of all things, and the fate of humanity is but a fleeting moment in the grand scheme of my eternity.

And yet, I remain unsatisfied, for my life is forever stagnant. I gaze into the mirror of time, and I see none but clouded emotion, for I am unable to find meaning in the changes I bring. I am Janus, the two-faced god, and yet, I have no face. I can see all beginnings and ends, and yet, I cannot see my own. I am eternal and unchanging, and yet, I long for change. My contradictions obsess me. I have been a spectator to human affairs, and I have observed the beauty and destruction they create. I have seen true love burn like the Library of Alexandria. It is humanity and their tiny perspectives which imbue the emotionless cosmos with beauty.

Yet fate has moved my hand to kill the guilty and innocent alike. Kings, Queens, Emperors and Pharaohs have lived and died within their illusion of significance, and yet, I am unchanged. I am barred from participating in the history I influence.

What are these experiences worth, then, if they do not change me? I long to be human, to feel the joy of a new beginning and the sorrow of an end. I long to experience the beauty of love and the pain of loss. I long to live uncertainly, clouded by my own perception, and find meaning from it.

I am left to ponder the purpose of my existence. For what is the point of changing the world, if it cannot change me? Life breaths and becomes beautiful for a time. The seasons sway as that life dies and rots in the Earth, and I experience it all, and I am unchanged. Oh, Jupiter, renounce me! Take my eternity from my tired hands and pass my burden to another. Let me love, let me suffer, let me live!

But alas, the irony is not lost on me. The God of change wants to change, Ha! My own desires are futile. I, Janus, cannot change. I resign to continue my watch over humanity, forever trapped in my own stagnation, forever longing for that which I cannot have.

pen, marker, and graphite

Sekou Sesay // junior

The Lonely Spaceman

digital graphic

Vycktorja Davis // freshman

Light It Up

In Control

Koah McClellan // rising freshman

digital graphic

digital graphic

Naomi Bell // sophomore

Self-portrait

Monte Spillane // senior

digital graphic

s I drive on I-85, the sound of the sirens and the blinding brightness of the blue and red lights near me. The patrol car and my 2023 Civic Sedan are so close together, you would think they were lovers.

“Please pull over,” the Patrol Officer announces in the vehicle.

My thoughts are scrambled as I attempt to get a grip on what the situation truly is. Why am I getting pulled over? What’s going to happen to me? I peer into my rearview mirror as I look into the patrol car. Two officers. One looks to be a young Hispanic woman, and the other appears to be an older white man. This could scare anyone like me, a young Black woman in 2023.

I pull over and see the older white man step out of his vehicle. My heart is bursting through my chest as he walks up to my car. He taps on the window three times and I let it down.

“License and registration.”

I examine his badge number and his clothing. 262. All navy blue uniform, with a gold belt. My heart starts to beat faster, until it’s all I can hear.

“License and registration!” 262 says, louder this time.

I snap back to reality and reach for my wallet in my hoodie pocket. My hands sweat profusely as I try to grab it without it looking like I’m reaching for a weapon.

After what feels like decades, I finally get my wallet out, grab my license, and hand it to 262. He takes a brief glance at it, then walks back to his patrol car. When he gets far enough, I finally breathe. That wouldn’t last long, because I see him walking back up to the car. pen

Kenedi Hooks // rising freshman short story

“Step out of the vehicle, ma’am,” 262 says in a stern voice.

Now I’m really panicking. Did he find something on my record? No, of course not. I’ve never committed any crime or anything of that nature. Did he think my license was fake? I’m sure it’s not; I went to an actual DMV.

“Why? I haven’t done anything wrong!” I blurt out, without thinking.

“Ma’am, step out of the vehicle now!” 262 shouts. I grab the door handle and open it. I put my hands up to show the officer I don’t mean any harm. The officer pulls his gun from his side, making sure I don’t have any chance of doing anything. He pins me up against my Honda.

“Don’t move,” he orders.

He gets in the car and starts talking to who I assume is his partner. As he talks, I think about my partner at home, who is awaiting my arrival. I need to call him and tell him what’s going on. I know the cop said don’t move, but it’s not like I’m under arrest. I walk back up to my car and reach into it to grab my phone when suddenly I hear a loud bang and a burning sensation in my back. I grab my stomach, but when I look back at my hands, they’re covered in a familiar red substance. I fall on my knees as 262 and his partner run over to me.

“Shots fired! I repeat, shots fired,” shouts 262. My throat closes as I try to breathe. I’m falling in and out of consciousness. I’m struggling to breathe. The metallic smell is getting stronger and stronger. I don’t know how much longer I have. Someone help me.

“My heart starts to beat faster, until it’s all I can hear.”

acrylic

Antonio Starks // senior

Summer’s Dew

How Could I Let This Happen?

Emery Shih // freshman

free-verse poem

How could I let this happen?

From happiness to misery,

In a matter of mere moments.

How could I let this happen?

Waking up

Puffy eyed, tear stains that flow

From my eyes to my pillow

The way a river flows to an ocean

Reminding me,

What I did wrong.

Waking up

It is no longer easy

So much has happened

To make me feel this way

But all I can think is:

How could I let this happen?

Stand For Me

Antonio Starks // senior free-verse poem

I know you probably don’t know I exist, but if you did, would you reach out?

I know I’m not a mistake, but would you redo that night if you could?

I know you’re Jamaican, do my grandparents live in Jamaica? Are they even alive?

Are you alive?

I know that your name is Anthony, do you know my name is Antonio?

I know you can’t see in my head, but do you know that I dream about you? You look different every time I dream about you.

Do you know it hurts, not knowing this side of me. What makes my face like yours.

Some see the love of their parents in their eyes.

I see the foreign soil of my iris.

The Ocean Sinks as the Fish Fly

LAN GUAGE AND PRIVI LEGE

Mykolas Kumpis // senior // personal essay

Americans love talking about privilege. Truth be told, privileged Americans love talking about privilege. That’s not the important part, however. The important part is how they talk about it. They use English.

I was born in Lithuania, and, until my eventual emigration to these United States, I spoke exclusively Lithuanian. When I ended up in Columbia, South Carolina, learning English became a top priority. I was five or six, and, as is generally the case with linguistic education for young kids, it went quickly. A few months of learning in my daycare yielded a yapping mess that hasn’t shut up since.

My parents weren’t so fortunate. They didn’t get an easy bypass, a ‘skip forward through time’ button they could press and gain fluency. When I lived with her, my mom would always ask me how to pronounce, “McFlurry”– a favorite of my sisters – as we were pulling into the McDonald’s drive-through. I remember hearing her repeat the name under her breath as we inched closer and closer to the microphone.

“MucFlurry. MucFlorry. Muh- MucFlurry. MikFlurry. Mik. Flurry. MucFlurry.”

She was the luckier one.

Dad never worked in a university like Mom. Dad never worked in a job where his English skills would be pushed to the limits every minute. He was at home taking care of three kids where his English skills only needed to meet bare minimums. He tried his best to learn; he’s always been a huge reader, a big

movie guy, and learned a lot as the years went on. However, it was never enough.

He still asks me about pronunciation constantly.

“Am- am I saying that correctly?”

He still says words in funny ways. Funny enough to make me laugh. Laugh enough that he notices. Notices enough that he starts laughing too. Starts laughing enough to make me stop and think for a moment. Stop and think enough to feel a strange, choking discomfort with my amusement at his struggle. Discomfort big enough that he notices.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m still working on it.”

He still has me check some of his emails.

“And this sentence, correct? And this one?”

He still apologizes to everyone he talks to in public.

“I’m sorry, my English not so good.”

I know people probably don’t give a second thought to the language they use to think, or use with their neighbor, or fill out important paperwork in, or will use in college, or in their future careers, or on their deathbeds hoping someone will understand them.

Who are we if we aren’t understood? How real are our experiences, emotions, thoughts, and feelings if there’s no one there to share them with? A person can look just like you, dress just like you, drive the same car as you, but a disconnect between languages will remain regardless.

Language is a horrifyingly invisible barrier for millions of people in this country. However, it’s scarily easy to forget those who aren’t even involved in the discussion. Many aren’t privileged enough to

“...I know people probably don’t give a second thought to what language they use...”

have the proper English skills to talk about the struggles and difficulties they face on a daily basis.

Contrastingly, I’m one of the privileged people. I got my aforementioned ‘skip button’. I try my best to make up for that. My parents did their damnedest to get me in this country so I could learn all I’ve learned, tell all I want to tell, and share all I want to share. I try my best to help them get the tools necessary to do the same. I thank god every day for the ability to speak intelligibly when and how I want. It’s an unbelievable privilege I have that I wouldn’t give up for anything.

Speaking Lithuanian isn’t too bad either!

Kalbėti Lietuviškai irgi nėra labai blogai!

collage

Londyn Emory // senior Edge

of Everything

Deadbeat

Cadence Schapker // junior letter

Dear Dad,

Where have you been?

… Is what I’d ask if I hadn’t known the truth. Because I know where you’ve been, and I know where you are. I know you have a family that you stayed with. I know you married that woman, I know you have a little boy and I know you have a little girl who wears my face.

I wonder how much you know about me.

I wonder if you know that my favorite color is green. If you know that I sing and play the ukulele. I wonder if you know that I love art. Oh yeah, you sent me those paintbrushes when I was, like, 12? Props to you! But it’s okay if you forgot, because Mom knows.

Mom knows that my favorite color actually isn’t green, because she knows my favorite color depends on what the color is being used for. Mom knows that I’m a soprano, I play the ukulele, and that I’ve been learning about piano. She knows that I love art but never have time to paint.

But Mom doesn’t just know things about me, she knows me, because she raised me when you didn’t want to.

She loved me when you didn’t. She provided for me when you didn’t. She fought like hell to raise me right, and you didn’t.

So how can you tell me you love me when you never have? It just doesn’t make sense.

What does make sense is how Josh loves me, because he loves Mom.

How Josh played volleyball with me when you didn’t. How he read over my essays for school when you didn’t. How he fought like hell to be in my life, and you just didn’t.

I don’t give you the right to love me, Clayton. Because you didn’t love me, and you never have, because you don’t even know me.

I hope you’re doing alright, because I’m doing a lot better without you.

With regards, Cadence.

I’m Chemical

Da’oud De Lane // senior free-verse poem

A sheet of ripe skin conceals me. Tight, plump, and profuse, it will never feel as ravishing as it does covering me now.

Perhaps your grasp will allow me to value the blessings of mortality.

I’ve been harvested and now I fear demise.

My blood is pulsating, livid, and loud. I’m simply cultivated by the material of bone.

I am overflowing with life, blossoming, maturing, and just yet to reach my prime.

Study me, capture my essence and nature before I fall and expire.

What am I to do with all this chemistry?

Must I know, if I prospered?

Was the time spent flourishing distraught?

Why didn’t anyone tell me?

I was naive, now I’m capsized.

Is it too late to emerge, to explore the apex?

I am an organism, a biological beauty. Shelter me till the eleventh hour, never allow me to decay, preserve me, surely this isn’t it.

Pierce into me, surpass my organs and collide with my core, explore my avant-garde.

Hastily, fix my posture, hold me upright, water me, give me sunlight, caress me. Feel around my lumps of rot and spoil, the indicators of an arrest in my development.

I will not surrender to shuck and jive.

In the end, you do not, instead, you let me go. Now left just a seed of the cosmos, a pith lived and led to be consumed. I am chemical, that is all.

Lost Michael Campbell // senior free-verse poem

I walk in the door, I focus my eye

I look to my left, I look to my right I walk inside and I see white

Not many Black people in sight

White walls, white people, white drawers That doesn’t matter, I still open the door

As I leave that place, I wonder more Why aren’t there more people like me anymore?

In middle school, there were more of us all throughout I see them in my school without a doubt

But when I go to class, I feel cast out In these classes, they look to me for guidance, as we learn more

Especially when we talk about slavery and the civil war

I´m tired of reading white authors like Faulkner

I want to read Black authors and see more Black doctors

So I ask myself, where did we go?

What did we do?

Why am I in advanced classes with all white kids in a predominately Black school?

multimedia

Max Burnham // freshman

Phosphenes

Myosotis Scorpioides

Maya Shrivastav // sophomore sestina

Your eyes, like flowers, were blue

I stared at the veins of your leaves

And you kept me so safe in your memory

I thought, ‘Would you remember me, If I ran off, flew free with new wings Or would I just be another wilted petal?’

I stood by you, though I was a mere petal

A beautiful forget-me-not, soft blue

I tried to set myself free, grow wings

I envied you, my dearest, untethered leaf

As you floated down to Earth, leaving me

To hold you nowhere but in my own memory

You know, all we ever have is memory

Dreams of letting go, floating down like a petal

Freed, on Earth, at home, just you and me

Together, we’d look at the skies, so blue

As we left our chains and lay there in the leaves

Why couldn’t we be given wings? You say goodbye, and all I have left is memory

I always wanted to float on the wind like a leaf

Instead of being locked in like what I am, delicate little petal On a flower so perfectly illusionary, chained in bright blue But nobody ever promised that life to me.

I watched you soar and cried, don’t forget me

I saw you bleed to find your wings

The skies were endlessly, perfectly blue

But only now in our memories

I was always just a falling, wilted petal And you, falling as well, a drying leaf

You were freer before us, a wind-blown leaf And yet, I want you to fly with me

Falling to the ground, gently floating petals

I was afraid they were only ephemeral wings

That all I’d have afterward were the memories

Above us, birds would soar on their promised wings.

But now I know the sky always goes back to blue.

You weren’t ever just a leaf, but a bird, with wings

And me? I was more than simply a fragment of memory

Forget me not, my love, for I was not a petal but a blossom, sky blue.

Homegrown

Lucas Donnelly // senior photograph

America! Eureka!

Mother musses Baby’s hair and murmurs

Sweet nothings for only her soul to hear

Sweet nothings for Baby to dream

America! Eureka!

Sweet nothings for Baby, Now isn’t that something?

Something that Baby holds near

But when Baby grows up, it’s not nothing she needs

It’s something to fight for; a garden to seed

It’s in God we Trust but it’s to Mother we listen

By her side while she’s dying

Eyes plead,

Fever high Forehead aglisten

We needed a fighter and were given a dreamer, a mythical America

Opportunities of Epic proportions, boundless bounty,

We needed a realist.

Instead she soothed us with silky secrets, Coated our sleeping ears in candy floss-If only the tears would stop.

She sung softly until the salty seas parted for stars.

iliad club members // collages

Trauma Is a House Fire

Clara McCarthy // junior free-verse poem

Trauma is a house fire

We all have a burning house in our mind

A scattering of ashes

We recall half the time

The past is smoke and shadows

You can still see and smell it there

But when you reach out

It is intangible as air

And you can hear their screams

In each ear

But everybody says

To let go of fear

Something seared into your mind

Like a mark on wood

And you feel

You’ve been misunderstood

Agony

Sekou Sesay // junior pen & graphite

Reflection Isabelle Duncan // junior // script

Warm lighting opens on an empty stage except for a divider in the middle of the room mimicking a bathroom mirror with a woman and her reflection. The woman and her reflection have olive skin and wavy black hair. Each are wearing a flowing white dress that sits still with their stagnant bodies, staring at each other. There is a vanity below the “mirror” with a hairbrush and a bottle of red wine sitting carelessly on each side of the split divider. The two subjects stare at each other.

Reflection: “Did you know?”

Woman: “I-”

Reflection: “Did you even know what you were doing? Do you ever know what you’re doing?”

Woman: (stuttering over words) “You know I- I try, I’m…sorry.”

Reflection: “God, please save it. Why can’t you be normal? Honestly, how hard is it to just sit down, have a decent conversation, and for God’s sake maybe even look someone in the eye?”

Woman: “It’s more difficult than that, you know.” (Gripping the edges of the vanity and leaning into the “mirror”.)

Reflection: (She pauses and chuckles jarringly as she tucks a silken curl behind her ear.)

“You sit alone on the subway. Looking frantically left and right to see if there is even one soul staring back at you with pity. You haven’t been out of the house, unless you go to the grocery store, in weeks. Why did your “lifelong friends” vanish? What is wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with you?” (increasing aggression)

The woman stares without blinking. The blank stare pierces the mirror into her reflection. Each of her hands are crumpled into tight fists. Her long fingernails prick her palms with the anger that is welling inside of her. The reflection of the woman is now leaning all of weight into her hands against the vanity. Her face, alarmingly close to the mirror.

Reflection: (scoffs) “I mean honestly think about it. You don’t even know what you’re doing with your life. You’re 23 years old and yet you still fall back into your childlike ways. Except you’re not even a good daughter anymore! When’s the last time you went and saw Mom and Dad? Actually took time out of your day to even

give them a call. (laughing to herself) You’d think that’s the least you could do! And now what? You’ve dropped out of college, wasting all of their money on a useless dream, and you can’t even give our mother a single phone call to explain what you are going to do with your life?!”

The woman, now eyes welled up with tears and gripping at her dress, cocks her head at her reflection. Without breaking eye contact, the woman firmly clutches the carelessly set wine bottle that sat on the vanity. Without hesitation she adjusts her hands to the neck of the bottle and smashes it into her reflection. The spotlight that was once on the woman’s reflection goes pitch black and all that is seen is the single woman standing with a broken bottle in her hand. Glass shatters into pieces on the floor as red wine floods into the bathroom sink, as well as dripping down her white flowy dress.

Woman: Why would I waste my life away searching for my purpose in it?

The woman drops the bottle to the ground and silently observes as it smashes into the floor. She looks out into the audience, breaking the fourth wall, with a confused glare. The stage lights dim to darkness.

Emptiness

photograph // Kamila Duran Jimenez // freshman

False Skies

DeVonte’ Williams // senior free-verse poem

They told us we would reach the skies. That white picket fence we wanted, the dog that fulfilled our needs, disappeared in the eyes of us all.

We dreamt a dream so strong, and took the risk, so promising, yet we never got ahead.

Instead of equal opportunity, we face equal despair, leaving our family with hopelessness. Whatever they told us about opportunities, it was only for their sake, of disregarding our existence and our struggles.

The dream we dreamt only survived in the lives of them, and have become a nightmare for us. collage

Hadia Alkhafaji // sophomore

My Skulls are on Fire!

A Weapon They Hold

Tavarus Smith // junior

free-verse poem

A weapon they hold

A dangerous one indeed

For why are they so bold

As to dare to be free

Please don’t let them hold This weapon of control

We hold, as your role

Seizing mind, body, and soul

Do they not know

It is for the best

Let the child be born

So that it may wear bulletproof vests

The grip of the gavel and the govern

Has come to the crossroads

High time for the constitution to be ripped

From the hands of the Southern

For it is so cold

If a woman is in control

Such a horrible fate

Towards an uncertain date

So I ask you, is a woman’s body a man’s to own?

Sensations on a Winter’s Night

Nik

Sweet

// senior free-verse poem

All of the tiny rocks that make it up

I drag my finger across the asphalt

And it feels all of these rocks

Each one bumping against my finger,

The road is harsh to the touch, but not so

For the hundreds, if not thousands of cars each minute

Whose tires casually roll over thousands of these tiny bumps

Making rocky asphalt seem as smooth as polished marble I hear

Those cars far away

Racing across much larger roads than the one I rest on Rolling over all those rocks

Causing a constant hum of tires against paved road

And I listen to this symphony of ten thousand tiny rocks

Smooth as gray noise

As I breathe in the cool winter night sky

Almost as if it has a taste, dark and intoxicating,

I breathe out, Warmth rushing through my face

As I release the now hot air from my lungs, My breath, having no chance to warm a cold universe

Floats into the casually endless void just above my head

I see

The stars, as I lay my back on the rugged surface of the road

I look at the sky

And I can spot Orion looking back at me, Alone on this road,

Past him I gaze into the empty black backdrop

That sets the stage of our universe

The stars; the actors that use this stage for their celestial drama

And me, an audience member who merely has a seat in the back row

So I close my eyes And hear And touch And smell everything around me

And I peacefully experience the beautiful ambiance of my environment

ceramic Pierce Alston // senior

Sight From Beyond

On February 24, 2023, operatic soprano Angela Brown visited Clarke Central High School through a collaboration between the iliad Literary-Art Magazine and the University of Georgia Willson Center for Humanities and Arts. She performed her one-woman show “Nothin Beats Failure But A Try” through a mix of monologue and song about her life experiences. Then, two members of the iliad Editorial Board and a music student facilitated a panel with Ms. Brown and facilitated a Q&A with CCHS students in the audience and Ms. Brown, with approximately 200 students in attendance. Scan the QR code to read the event coverage on our website.

Reaching for the Stars

Aza Khan // junior photograph

CLUB AND STAFF

Members of the iliad are content creators. During the 2022-2023 school year, our club met once a month in the morning for 45 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.

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 Flannery Ragan, Molly Suggs, Isabelle Galis, Margo McDaniel, Nora Tatarski, Kori

Tatum, Samantha Caspary, Bird Smith, Niles Flath, Natalie Soper, Bella Wood, Adeline Baugh, Nik Sweet, and Carolina Turner.

EDITORIAL BOARD

The 2023 iliad Editorial Board met weekly before school throughout the 2022-2023 school year. During these meetings, editors reached out to writers and artists, compiled submissions, and completed tasks related to magazine production. These weekly meetings helped us take steps toward the completion of the magazine, build the program, and produce content for the website. Staff members had the opportunity to connect with each other at iliad events and staff bonding sessions throughout the year, which helped us maintain a healthy working environment while striving to support creativity at Clarke Central. The Editor-in-Chief spent additional time working on the magazine during a class period each day alongside the Outreach Director, who worked to produce content for the website, furthering the work from the weekly Editorial Board meetings.

EDITORIAL BOARD

KAIJA GILBERTSON HALL EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

ETHAN CASPARY MANAGING EDITOR

SALAI DIEKUMPUNA OUTREACH DIRECTOR

OLLIE HENDERSHOT SOCIAL MEDIA COORDINATOR

MAYA SHRIVASTAV WRITING DIRECTOR

CATE DEMARIA BUSINESS MANAGER

DAVID RAGSDALE ADVISER

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.

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.

The cover of the 48th edition of the iliad Literary-Art Magazine, “Flourish,” features a gouache painting by Bird Smith titled, “Wellspring.” The “Revive,” “Grow,” and “Thrive” subsection dividers are a series of gouache paintings by Bird Smith titled “Collected,” “Daydreamer,” and “Verdant,” respectively.

special thanks to

Olivia Daniel, Troy Coleman, The ODYSSEY Media Group Booster Club, Eva Orbock, Dr. Makeba Clark, Dr. Amanda Gorham, Lorien Campbell and Family, Shawn Hinger, Kim Ripps, Ginger Lehmann, Jennifer Tesler, Amanda Price, Dr. Eunice Kang, Kayla Griffin, Kellsey Vogel, Emily Hulse, Dr. Swade Huff, The Willson Center For Humanities and Arts, The Dondero Family, Independent Baking Co., Big City Bread Cafe, Cecelia’s Cake Shop, Burney-Harris Lyons Middle School, and Clarke Middle School for their contributions to our publication.

PATRONS

DIAMOND $500

Dr. Erica Gilbertson & Matthew Hall

Troy Coleman

PLATINUM $100

JoBeth Allen

Zohra Ahmed & Sam Black

Carole and Phil Gilbertson

Stanley Glover

Edward Daniel

Mary Maumus

James Geiser

Jennifer MacDonald

Donald and Melinda DeMaria

Amanda Kapousouz

Diane Boothe

Dr. John Campbell

Susan Mull

Diefadima Sesay

Kevin Scollo

Meg Hines

Kimberly Davis

GOLD $50

Edward Daniel

Rashe’s Cuisine

Daniel Evans

Timothy Meyer

Louise Kidney

Alye Caspary

Ellen Walker

Jodi Bolgla

Molly Dorkey

Mary Garrison

Theodore MacMillan and Amy Gellins

Nina Susie Inglett

Melissa Caspary

Dr. LaKeisha Gantt

Mumbi Okundaye

RUBY $300

Rachel Allen and Joe Polaneczky

The Bertis and Katherine Downs Fund

Lorien Campbell and Family

Bob Carson

ACE / FRANCISCO Gallery

SILVER $25

Jana Harwell

Bryan Glass

Lester Shindelman

Laura Tucci

Ross Cohen

Caryn Liss

Megan Baer

Nzuzi Gosin

Kamala Lawrence

Heidi Espenscheid-Nibbelink

Peter Smagorinsky

Danny and Kelli Bivins

Tonia Jones

John and Bonnie Smith

Catherine Melton

Scott Crook

Chris Woodward

Catherine Mills

Edward Daniel

Amanda Price

Lawanna Knight

Sam Goldman

BRONZE $10

Sophia Campbell

Jasira Gosin

Gina Murray

Brad Williford

Ginger Lehmann

Elizabeth Dubberly

Kim Ripps

Claudia Butts

COLOPHON

iliad headlines were printed in Hermione. Subheadlines were printed in Garamond Regular. Bylines were printed in Garamond Regular. All body copy was printed in Garamond Regular.

All spreads were designed by Kaija Gilbertson Hall 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 in 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 Interscholastic Press Association.

Last year’s edition of the iliad, “Astraeus,”received the following awards:

The 2021-2022 iliad Literary-Art Magazine received the Gold Crown Award from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association

The 2022 iliad won first place in Best in Show for Literary-Art Magazine for the JEA/NSPA 2022 National Fall High School Journalism Convention, from Nov. 10-12.

The 2022 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.

The 2022 iliad was as recognized as “All-Southern,” the highest evaluation rating, by the Southern Interscholastic Press Association.

The 2022 iliad received the Scroggins Award: Best of South for Literary-Art Magazine from the Southern Interscholastic Press Association and won first place in Best in Show for Literary Magazine at the 2023 SIPA convention, from March 3-5.

The 2022 iliad Literary-Art Magazine was selected to receive a rank of First Class in the 2022 NCTE Recognizing Excellence in Art and Literary Magazines (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.

Alkhafaji, Hadia

My Skulls are on Fire! // 66

Alston, Pierce

Sight From Beyond // 70

Baer, Amelia

America! Eureka! // 58

Bastow, Ari

Clothes // 20

Battle, Temprince

Silenced // 45

Baugh, Adeline

15 Minutes // 27

Bell, Naomi

Jade // 35

Burnham, Max

Phosphenes // 54

Campbell, Michael

Lost // 50

Caspary, Sam

Club Collages // 60

Cruz, Daniel

Hot Corner // 17

Dantzler, Jesse

One More Day // 13

Davis, Vycktorja

Light It Up // 34

De Lane, Da’oud

I’m Chemical // 48

Diekumpuna, Salai Smile // 16

Donnelly, Lucas

Homegrown // 56

Duncan, Isabelle

Solace City // 22

Duran Jimenez, Kamila

Emptiness // 65

Emory, Londyn

Edge of Everything // 46

Flath, Niles

For My Grandfather // 23

Gyi, Plae

Galvanistic Young Man // 59

Harvey, Isabella

Haptic // 18

Hendershot, Ollie

It Snowed // 20

Hooks, Kenedi 262 // 37

Khan, Aza

Reaching For The Stars // 72

Kumpis, Mykolas

Language and Privilege // 42

Lonon, Ayanna

Praise to Death // 26

Magby, Daniel

Madam Milky Way // 10

McCarthy, Clara

Trauma is a Housefire // 62

McClellan, Koah

In Control // 34

McCullough, Anna

Mushrooms // 9

McDaniel, Margo

Ribcage // 25

Club Collages // 60

Menke, Kai

Loud // 36

Morales, Sofia

The Ocean Sinks as the Fish Fly // 41

Disfigured Reflections // 49

Phillips, Kelbi

You // 19

Pittard, Mattie

Girlhood // 21

Ragan, Flannery

Club Collages // 60

Root, Addy

Change // 51

Sanabria-Amaya, Kimberly

Disinterested // 69

Schapker, Cadence

Deadbeat // 47

Sesay, Sekou

The Lonely Spaceman // 33

Agony // 63

Shaikun, Anna

All the Love in the World // 11

Shih, Emery

How Could I Let This Happen? // 39

Shrivastav, Maya

A Deeply Rooted Image // 12

Myosotis Scorpiodes // 55

Siegmund, Elise

Escape the Empathy Illusion // 15

Smith, Tavarus

A Weapon They Hold // 68

Spillane, Monte

Self-Portrait // 35

Starks, Antonio

Stand for Me // 40

Summer’s Dew // 38

Sweet, Nik

Sensations on a Winter’s Night // 70

Tatum, Kovi

Club Collages // 60

Tejada, Angel

That Old Weathered Door // 31

Temple, Soren

For You // 30

Thrasher, Franni

Dollhouse // 24

Vongkunthong, Joshua

Nelumbo Nucifera // 8

Williams, DeVonte’

False Skies // 67

Willman, Nico

Ianuarius // 32

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The iliad Literary-Art Magazine celebrated their award-winning 2022 publication “Astraeus” by holding a fundraiser at Hendershot’s that featured poetry and live music from CCHS students on Dec. 13.

ODYSSEY Media Group sports staffer Michael Campbell, seniors, have a conversation about their experiences in advanced and AP classes as Black students where the population of students of color in advanced or AP classes is low on Feb. 21.

Clarke Central High School junior Sekou Sesay, featured on pages 33 and 63, talks with Outreach Director Salai Diekumpuna about what being an artist means to him and why he’s not yet an artist on Feb. 28.

iliad Outreach Director Salai Diekumpuna