2021 iliad Literary-Art Magazine - Okeanos

O K E A N O S

iliad Literary-Art Magazine Volume XLVI Clarke Central High School

iliad Literary-Art Magazine

O K E A N O S Dedicated with love to Ian Altman, Harriet Anderson, Georgia Scott and Terry Whitlock.

Volume 46 Clarke Central High School 350 South Milledge Avenue Athens, Georgia 30605 Enrollment: 1713 Phone: 706.357.5200

Letter from

the Editors Welcome to our 2021 edition of the iliad Literary-Art Magazine, OKEANOS! The iliad gives both of us an opportunity to connect with the Clarke Central High School community, and provides a platform for students of all ages, races, and backgrounds to display their work when they might not have another place to do so. This year’s events have been unprecedented, as a result of the global pandemic and transfering from online to in person school. However, this challenge motivated us to work harder and create a better magazine.

The pandemic has also presented us with extra time to pursue our creative interests, as it has for our community. We believe that we can connect the current events to our theme of the ocean, and explore the metaphorical ocean of our emotion and pressure. Artists, like ourselves, have fallen into the depths during this time; just like the depths of the ocean, things are dark and uncertain, but life persists there and embraces the state of darkness through adaptation. We have had a similar experience in trying to cope with the pandemic. Even in the depths, with pressure and darkness, it is necessary to reach a point where we have to grow and adapt. We must continue to try new things and test new boundaries even in uncertain environments.

As we sat down with the staff to create a set of goals for the year, we made it a top priority to accurately represent Clarke Central’s diverse community.

We wanted to represent a variety of ages, races, ethnicities, and we believe that we have met this goal with the broad range of artists represented in this magazine.

This specific edition of the iliad represents how we have felt during this difficult time. We have felt as though there is darkness and uncertainty, but we have also felt that there is growth, adaptation, and, ultimately, light.

We hope you enjoy seeing this reflected in the dedication and creativity of Clarke Central’s artists and writers!

Lucy Hines and Natalie Ripps Co-Editors-In-Chief 2

Theme

Letter The theme of this year’s iliad is OKEANOS, or “Ocean” in Greek.

The ocean is one of most mysterious wonders of the natural world. With nearly 80 percent of the ocean unexplored, humankind has yet to fully understand this enigma. As one progresses to the deepest points on Earth, what initially is a glistening, reflective surface eventually becomes lightless, pressurized depths.

Our magazine, OKEANOS, consists of pieces divided into three subsections; surface, abyss, and depths, that reflect a journey through the ocean.

Surface (epiphany) marks where the water meets the sky. The surface is safe for swimming, floating, and exploring with leisure; waves consistently rock as they glow from the sun’s yellow rays. This section symbolizes new beginnings, warmth, and opportunities, and consists of lively, light-hearted pieces.

Abyss (ávyssos) is the widest level, and is home to nearly all ocean life. The abyss extends to touch the bright surface on one end, and hugs the bleak darkness of the depths on the other. Everything in between is made up of unfiltered nature, curious creatures, and shifting currents. Because this is a transitional area of the ocean, this section consists of pieces that allow room for interpretation, have a shifting plotline, or begin to take their audience down to the depths.

Depths (énkata) is the bottom of the sea. The depths are pitch-dark, freezing waters, with its pressure as massive as the weight of everything before it. The depths consist of pieces that are heavy, that are metaphorically deep, and that embrace the darkness. However, there is also life at the bottom of the ocean; in these pieces, perhaps, there may be some hope, too.

2020 has been a year of change and realization. OKEANOS allows viewers to witness first-hand the flood of emotion and pressure artists experience as they splash in the shallow surface, undergo new transitions, and eventually fall into the depths.

We hope you enjoy going through the journey of OKEANOS!

Lucy Hines and Natalie Ripps Co-Editors-In-Chief iliad

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TA B L E of C on t en t s

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epiphany (surface) 10

Retail Therapy 22 Natalie Ripps | free verse

In Bloom 11 Eva Orbock | digital graphic

Tone Deaf 23 Henry Kurtz | photograph

High-Lite 12 Ava Adamson | watercolor & pen

Lucy’s Way Home Molly Harwell | short story

Why I Love the Rain 13 Natalie Schliekelman | dictionary fragment poem

I Am 26 Aida Bermudez | villanelle

Born a Woman Bre’Asia Echols | free verse

The Sun, Water, and Earth 14 Luna Reichert | haiku compilation Black-eyed Susans 15 Ethan Caspary-Poucher | paint pen Visions of the Future: Gender Equality 17 Berenice Campos-Jara | needle felting East Bay 18 Elle Harris | free verse Massachusets at Midday Dalila Tejada | photograph

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Ernest Hemingway Book Review 20 Tripp Sandifer | essay

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Hypnosis 26 Isabel Heesaker-Romero | record art Creations 28 Mary Claire Obi-Okoye | personal narrative Reverie 29 Sophie Caillault | digital graphic Fractal Mindscape 30 Grace Lang | marker What Do You See? Laniya Jones | monologue

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ávyssos (abyss) A Giant 34 Ethan Caspary-Poucher | song lyrics

I Know Too Much of NAPS Kira Thomas | free verse

Sea Nettle 35 Amanda Ochieng | photograph

Static 44 Jerian Brown | colored pencil

Freedom of Expression 36 Chadayzja Sims | digital graphic

Life in Prose 46 Audrey Enghauser | personal essay

A Short Melody Sola Ishibashi | sheet music

Blooming 46 Chase Bernt | paint

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The Beauty Within 38 Katie Sue Martin-Williams | personal essay

How to Support Black Lives Matter Laniya Jones | tweets

How to Count Nico Willman | free verse

The Library 50 Natalie Schlikelman | short story

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I Am in the Wrong Major 41 Owen Austin-Totty | watercolor & pen

Vibes 51 Chadayza Sims | digital graphic

Glory 42 Penelope Anderson | digital graphic

Doodles 51 Aiyanna Bhuiyan | pen

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énkata (depths) Facing Fears 56 Mackenzie Hayes | free verse

What Do You Go By? Salai Diekumpuna | free verse

The Time Table Frances Thrasher | pen & watercolor

Soul 66 Isaac Rodriguez-Salazar | pencil

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Shadow 67 Janie Ripps | free verse

Mossy 59 Treasa McHugh | photograph

Criminal Justice and Me 68 Micah Shannon | personal essay

Red Circus 60 Nate Herbst | acrylic paint

Eye of the Hope 69 Monique Thomas | digital graphic

Young Man 61 Mayra Martinez-Calerdon | free verse

Matchbox 71 Samantha Brodrick | photo gallery

Modern Day Mortality Ireland McCage | free verse

Luna 62 Anastasia Mack | watercolor & pen

Making Peace 73 Henry Crowder | short story

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bo r n a w o m an free verse Bre’Asia Echols | 12 Born a woman It’s a gift We make the kingdom Don’t take this lightly Being born a woman is a big responsibility We experience so much in a lifetime; no wonder we feel so deeply.

We have to own what’s ours Nothing is more pure than a woman’s physique.

Don’t forget about the white pearls; Jewelry and heels are like vintage cars to a man.

Women are always ready for something new.

We all know things can get out dated.

But the psychology and soul of a woman's work will never be.

You don’t know the circumstances of pain Until you’ve been born a woman.

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epiphany

i n bloo m digital graphic Eva Orbock | 11 iliad

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watercolor & pen Ava Adamson | 12

high-lite 12

epiphany

w h y i lo v e t h e r a i n dictionary fragment poem Natalie Schliekelman | 11 Petrichor noun The smell of rain before it arrives My favorite smell; of home and earth and promises; of the cleansing downpour to come and the tranquility that is synonymous with the rain; of sitting by a window and tracing the path of a raindrop down the glass pane; of dancing in the rain and not caring that water is soaking your hair and dripping down your spine.

Sunshine noun Direct sunlight unbroken by cloud A beam of light breaking through the clouds at the end of a summer rainstorm; the sign that soon the rain will be over and you can run out into the grass, not caring about the dampness on your bare feet; an invitation to go out and feel the warmth on your shoulders and face, to spin around in a meadow like life is bliss.

Clouds noun A visible mass of condensed water vapor floating in the atmosphere An invitation to explore; a sky full of beauty; the shape of possibility; a castle, a bird, a mountain; an entreatment to lay in the grass and stare up at the sky, and be awed at the beauty of nature; a fantasy world to take your breath away, in the mounds of white fluff and the magnificence of the sky.

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T h e s u n , w a t e r , an d ea r t h haiku compilation Luna Reichert | 11

I was a mere seed.

You brought me to the sunlight, Nourishing and warm.

You fed me water, But you were the red clay pot, That became too small.

My roots found the Earth, And my stem began to grow, Blossoming alone.

B lack - e y e d S u sans paint pen Ethan Caspary-Poucher | 10

V i s i ons o f o u r future: Gen d e r E q u al i t y

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epiphany

needle felting Berenice Campos-Jara | 11

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eas t bay free verse Elle Harris | 10

To feel at peace, to feel infinite and forever, I came to you.

Through a path of mountains, dirt roads, and jungles, I came to you.

Past the beach, past the bay, down a hill to you, my safe place.

To feel the cold salty water envelop me in a familiar hug.

Time stops there, with no one but you to remember what happens.

Hundreds of secrets and memories you could tell if you could speak.

You were dangerous, but I loved the risk, I loved the jump, I loved being free.

Your current tried to take me forever, the broken ladder wanted me to stay.

The waves took me into underwater caves, the rocks cut my arms.

You marked me, now I’m yours and you’re forever part of me.

Your 20-foot drop made my heart flutter, every single time, and I loved it.

Your sunsets and waters that looked like a spilled crayon box were addictive.

Whether it was good times, bad times, or those in between you were there.

You’ve seen the real me, my unfiltered smile, my tears.

You’ve seen friendships fall apart and come together.

You’ve seen us all grow up, with and without each other.

I always came back to you, my cliff over the sea, I could never stay away.

After fights, after storms, after typhoons, I went to East Bay.

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epiphany

photograph Dalila Tejada | 12

m assac h u se t t s a t m i d d ay iliad

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E r nes t h e m i n g way book review book review Tripp Sandifer | 11

In 1953, Ernest Hemingway won the Pulitzer Prize in fiction for his book The Old Man and the Sea. After gaining awareness and popularity from his previous books, Hemingway was regarded as one of the most important writers of the 20th century.

Hemingway’s style of writing, which he called “iceberg writing,” was a plain style of writing that was less wordy than the literature at that time. It’s called “iceberg writing” because the real meaning in the text is deeper than what’s on the surface of the book.

Hemingway once said that “A good writer does not need to reveal every detail of a character or action,” and that mindset is very obvious in his novella The Old Man and the Sea.

The Old Man and the Sea takes place in Havana, Cuba in the mid20th century. The story follows an old, intrepid man named Santiago.

Santiago is a fisherman, but he’s been unlucky for the past eighty-four days and has caught no fish. Motifs and symbolism follow Santiago throughout his journey. Santiago’s aging body is a recurring point in the story; his hands cramp, his vision blurs, and his muscles feel weak. There isn’t a single sentence

from Hemingway that is without purpose and the entire novella is filled with rich writing about Santiago’s unbridled determination.

The contrast between Santiago’s mindset and his body is one way that Hemingway makes his novella

“... his hands cramp, his vision blurs, and he feels weak in his muscles.” compelling. Though Santiago is a hard working man, he is still weak from his old age and faces problems both physical and mental.

He encounters many obstacles in his journey; some stem from the ruthless ocean, and others from his own crippling body. More contrast exists between Santiago and some of the townsfolk of Havana. Santiago’s apprentice sees him as a wise teacher with lots of experience out at sea, but the locals see Santiago as nothing more than an oldman who has no fish or family.

While reading The Old Man and the Sea, one of the first things I realized was how visual the book is, no object is left without a description, and every description Hemingway uses feels like something that really exists. For example, the imagery used to describe the local bar is very descriptive. The reader is told what the building looks like, what the people inside look like, and even what kind of cup everyone drinks out of.

Because of his plain style of writing, there is little to no ambiguity and almost every remark made is clear. Whether or not Hemingway is writing about a physical action or a feeling, he is always straightforward about what’s happening, there’s never any kind of metaphor for what’s going on.

Though there aren’t many characters in the book, and their descriptions are brief, it’s easy to get an idea in your head about what they might look like or what they sound like because of Hemingway’s style.

One of the most influential pieces of modern literature, Ernest Hemingway’s novella The Old Man and the Sea is also an important piece of North American literature.

The style of prose that’s written, accompanied by the universal problems among humans is what makes The Old Man and the Sea such a masterpiece. There’s a lot to learn from Santiago, about fishing or about life as a twentieth century man. His determination can be inspiring to anyone, and his resilience is something many strive for.

Whether you’re a fisherman from Cuba or not, you can still benefit from reading The Old Man and the Sea. It’s no wonder why it won the Pulitzer Prize in Fiction in 1953, because of Hemingway’s love of the culture in Cuba, because of his love of fishing, and his love of writing. O

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Re t a i l t h e r a p y i can’t afford a figure to confide my broken spirit emotions, subside

and perhaps a new blouse with a pattern that speaks; to distract from the blemishes scarred across my cheeks

i’ll purchase some gloves to hide my palms that grasped to the sink in effort to remain calm

glasses— how fun! i don’t mind if i do the color of your favorite linens navy blue

new high neck top— yes, i’ll add to my cart to conserve the skin that’s “coquettish, sweetheart”

i can’t afford your patience or compassion so i’ll wear my damage why can’t it be fashion?

a new pair of slacks to slip over the knees the knees i bent, begging to appease

free verse Natalie Ripps | 12

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t one d ea f photograph Henry Kurtz | 11

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L u c y ’ s Wa y Ho m e short story Molly Harwell | 9

L

ucy Flynn ran away from home.

She didn’t know why.

Her life wasn’t hard; in fact, it was easy. Lucy belonged to the Flynns, the most wealthy family in all of Cherry’s Creek.

They were snobby and rude, and never, ever, said “please” or “thank you.”

The Flynns threw parties and danced and frowned upon the less fortunate. They only ate at the

had never been to the ocean, and she longed to see a sunset. Maybe one day.

Lucy also loved art and dancing. Occasionally, she would throw on a record and dance about wildly, throwing her arms in the air and spinning until she was so dizzy that she couldn’t walk properly.

But that wouldn’t last. Her mother would come barging into her room, ordering her to “turn

“Lucy didn’t know when she would return, or even if she would at all.”

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most high-class restaurants and never spoke to anyone who was below the uppermiddle class. Yes, the Flynns were terrible people, each one worse than the last. Except for one Flynn: Lucy.

Lucy had always been the black sheep of the family.

She was kind, compassionate and would stop and talk to anyone on the street. Lucy was obsessed with the ocean.

She would spend hours reading about sea life. Lucy epiphany

off that blasted music at once!” and Lucy, now out of the spirit, would slump to the floor.

See, because she was so different, Lucy was often ignored. She was shoved around by her older brothers, and was never allowed seconds at the dinner table until everyone else had eaten as much as they wanted.

One night, when the partying had ceased and her parents were asleep, Lucy quickly gathered her things and rushed

Jessica Ortiz-Duran | 12

el p i e d e la m esa

photograph

out the door. She crept by the security guarding the gates, past the bushes, through her secret passageway, and out into the open night air.

She did this often: she would go out and explore the town. She would take baskets of food from the kitchen and bring them to the starving people of the town in the valley. They would smile, laugh, and enjoy her company but not as much as she enjoyed theirs. Tonight, however, she didn’t take her usual basket of bread and fruit with her and she was not smiling.

When she got to the other side of the gate, she turned to look at the sparkling marble of the great mansion, and sighed. Lucy didn’t know when she would return, or even if she would: at all. All she knew was that she had to get out.

So, she ran. With her friend the moon guiding her forwards, she ran. She leaped and bounded and skipped. She thought about her family. She thought about how they always shoved her aside, and about how now, she was shoving them aside. She smiled.

And she kept running. She ran until dawn, until sunrise, until noon. She ran until her lungs couldn’t take her any farther. Her vision was blurry and her head was still spinning. What had she done?

She collapsed in a heap, not daring to open her eyes. When she came to, however, she looked around and took in her surroundings. The air was salty, and she could hear birds singing overhead.

There was the sound of waves crashing; and looking down at her hands, she noticed they were covered with wet sand.

She looked to the sky. It was ablaze with color; pinks, purples, and oranges were smeared across the sky like an oil painting. She had made it.

The coming moon was pulling the tide in close, as the setting sun retreated into the horizon.

Lucy walked to the edge of the water and gazed out into the great ocean before her.

She could feel a great weight being lifted off of her shoulders. She was at peace. She stood there for a while until the glowing orb of light finally sunk down into the sand.

Lucy sighed. She was finally home. O

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villanelle

i AM

Aida Bermudez | 12

I am a bright light of loving energy and I allow myself to shine.

I love my contagious smile, my humor, and my positivity.

I radiate love and I am so divine.

I am kind to my body because it is mine.

I love every curve, dip, and freckle and I repel any insecurities that stem from negativity.

I exercise, dance, nourish my body, and allow myself the peace to unwind.

I am smart and thankful for my mind.

New ideas are always coming to me and I love my creativity.

Every question I seek is already in me and the answers are easy to find.

I am present with those around me and try to disconnect online.

record art Isabel Heesacker-Romero | 11 26

epiphany

I am in tune with my emotions and I am empathetic because of my sensitivity.

My higher self looks after me and everything will be just fine.

I am being guided and know when I am given a sign.

I manifest an ever-flowing abundance of love, joy, and tranquility.

For me, the universe will always align.

I am thankful for the maker and creator of this universe and for her design.

My soul is eternal and will be here for infinity.

I love my life and I honor the gift of being alive.

I claim this with every breath I breathe and every cell I have inside.

h y p nos i s iliad

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c r ea t i ons personal narritive Mary Claire Obi-Okoye | 12

I place my foot on the pedal, bringing the machine to life. The needle moves; my eyes follow it intensely, while my hands guide the fabric. My finger slips, causing the needle to dig into it; however, my anticipation keeps me going. A few more stitches and I reach the end. I let out a deep breath, take the finished product, and rush to the nearest mirror to admire it. As my eyes take in my work, my lips can’t help but expand till they’ve reached both ears: I made that.

There’s a certain joy that comes with creating. Whether it’s sewing, cooking, or drawing, being able to make things with my hands seems to instill an unexplainable feeling. Through handworks, people are able to express themselves in ways they otherwise might not be able to. It serves as a way to implement ideas, as means of expression, and sometimes, even as an outlet. For me, creating is all these things, and the joy that comes with it is much greater when the product is shared with others.

From seeing a friend put on the new piece I gifted her to watching the look on my family’s face as they try my new recipe, I find happiness in their satisfaction. I hope to continue to create things that will not only bring me pleasure, but will also be a source of pleasure for others. O 28

epiphany

reverie digital graphic Sophie Caillault | 12

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F r ac t al M i n d sca p e 30

epiphany

marker

Grace Lang | 12

W h a t d o y o u see ? dramatic monologue Laniya Jones | 9

Black, African American, colored, ghetto, hoodrat, thug, uneducated, suspicious, loud, ignorant, unaware, hoodlum, monkey, gorilla, aggressive, hostile, threat, unprofessional, unkempt, nappy-headed, slob, messy.

[Pause] ... Oh you really thought that was all? I’m seen a different way every day.

Cotton picker, angry, big lips, big nose, big butt, dark skin, light skin...nope you’re mixed, big feet, poofy hair - no you need to straighten it.

More and more jobs being lost because what, I have locs? Yes, I like wearing big hoops and colorful braids but, that’s simply my culture.

Soon, you’ll come to accept it or, should I really say, steal it. Just like you did everything else. Our music, style, hairstyles, inventions, products, etc.

You’ve stripped us bare with no credit left. Shouldn’t you feel bad for taking everything from Black people and leaving us in despair? What else can you take from me, our dances? Welp, I see that has already happened. All these scenarios I can name off the top of my head while I run around in a whirlpool of ideas being fed to my community. Slowly we lose the truth and the truth to ourselves we continue to let it go free.

I had to say to myself, “why change when you can be proud of who you are?”

No matter how much you alter yourself, you’ll never be like them. It’s as simple as that; forget what people have to say, stand with your community and be PROUD! O

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ávyssos

A g i an t song lyrics Ethan Caspary-Poucher | 10 If you see me riding the wind on a kite Please tell me I’m here, that I’m doing alright I don’t really mind if the words come out right But if you go, Please leave me your light Please keep me forever in time Hold me close until I know where to lie Because the past is a photograph, The future’s defiant, They say life is what you make it to be, but Every story has a giant He’s at the foot of his bed, standing beside himself Still can’t play the part but I sure can disguise myself So wash him away With the rain Until he’s just another picture, And all his pairs of headlights look the same Please help me I’m lost in a field of white lines I know I’ve been here before, but I can’t seem to find my way I’m spinning in circles, When I close my eyes My empty footprints hold me down, but they take time And every day time moves so slow Like I’ve used up too much, now it’s got nowhere to go And the hands of the clock never know So life closes in on an asymptote Thinking is hard, with nothing on your mind And I’ve counted every star singing it’ll be fine I can work it out- just need time I can work it out- just need time 34

ávyssos

sea ne t t le photograph Amanda Ochieng | 12

f r ee d o m o f e x p r ess i on digital graphic Chadayzja Sims | 11

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a s h o r t m elo d y sheet music Sola Ishibashi | 9

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personal essay

T h e bea u t Y

Katie Sue Martin-Williams | 12

G

rowing up as a Chinese adoptee in a Caucasian family, I always wondered what I would look like if I was biologically related to my parents.

I was so jealous of my friends who were, for the most part, Caucasian.

Sometimes, we would even make fun of Asian eyes or sing funny songs to make fun of the “stupid and inferior” Chinese people. I thought it was hilarious because I didn’t relate to the people I was making fun of. I blame most of my internalized racism on the lack of representation I was given in the children shows, books, and things I would see growing up.

As a young kid, one of my favorite book series was (and still is) Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling. Unfortunately, there were some serious flaws with the representation and portrayal

“I lo nge d

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for

Ci n

ávyssos

de re lla ’s b lu ee

ye s

of minorities in the series. For example, a character named Cho Chang. A quick Google search will inform anyone that the name can be compared to “Ching Chong.”

If that isn’t bad enough, Cho was portrayed in an extremely negative light; she played with two beloved character’s hearts and was seen as overly emotional, whereas the beloved villain, Draco Malfoy, was seen as attractive and merely “misunderstood.” Malfoy was charming with his blonde hair and blue eyes, so it was unsurprising that he was much more liked than Cho.

Media can be crucial in how one perceives themselves. Because of how important TV and pop culture are to the development of a child, networks like Disney and Nickelodeon have the burden to normalize and represent everyone.

Unfortunately, this has not quite happened yet; as I grew up I began to feel as if how I looked was not normal, attractive, or right. I longed for Cinderella’s blue eyes and blonde hair, Snow White’s fair complexion, and for my European Prince Charming.

In every magazine, TV show,

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ir, Sn

ow White’s

Within movie, and advertisement I saw, the women who looked like me were used as mere excuses for diversity.

Because I had little experience with seeing Asian features posed in a positive light, I began to see myself as unattractive. There were some positively portrayed Asian characters, but for the most part minorities were left out or made to be ugly, snobby, or villainized to the extreme. Popular shows and movies, such as the movie Mulan, seemed innocent enough. However, characters like Mushu and the exaggerated features of Chinese people were a poor portrayal of Asian people. We were mere stereotypes meant for entertainment.

The negative experiences did not stop with pop culture; they happened in my high school too. At Clarke Central, there was a girl in a grade above me named Hannah.

Hannah was another adoptee from China, so it was not surprising that many people compared me to her because of our conventionally Asian features but it still hurt. I did not feel like I looked anything like Hannah, and believe one reason this affected me so much was because I did not

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like to be seen as Chinese. I wanted to look like the rest of my friends, and Hannah did not.

Don’t get me wrong, the media and pop culture are amazing. It has brought us a new sense of unity, but with every great thing comes problems too. The lack of representation it gives to minorities leaves children unable to differentiate the screen from real life. Certain kids around the globe are growing up to see that what they look like is not the beauty standard and who they are is not the hero. I learned a powerful message from my consumption of media: nobody can represent who I really am. I am proud to be me, but many aren’t. No amount of pain and lack of representation will discourage me from helping future generations be proud of themselves, too. O

nP a pe o r Eu

ng.” i m har C ce n i r

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Ho w to co u n t free verse Nico Willman | 10

All patriots, take note, How many ways can we count those votes?

You can count them in your hair, You can count them anywhere, You can count them in a box, You can count them in your socks, You can count them in a stack, While munching on a Big Mac, Counting votes is very nice, You can try and count the white ones twice, Count them in the suburbs, try and change the numbers, You can count them all by hand, you’ll still lose by twelve grand How long will we play this game?

The votes will always add up the same.

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i am in the w r on g m a j o r watercolor & pen Owen Austin-Totty | 12

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i kno w t oo m u c h o f na p s free verse Kira Thomas | 11

g lo r y digital graphic Penelope Anderson | 10

NAPS

I know too much of I know that when I take off my bonnet there will be knots.

And I will never have hair that flows as the wind surrounds me, Learning

NAPS

is learning the language of my original home.

NAPS

I know too much of .

How many tears that have been shed from taming my locs, How I was forced to assimilate within a culture that I was shunned from, How the curls and coils that grow from my scalp are seen as childish and unprofessional, My peers constantly petting me, without hesitation or regard.

I know there’s hair that is as thin as snowflakes falling in winter,

NAPS

Or that seem to never untangle.

These features are desired by many, none can replicate,

NAPS that coil, curl, and wave in amazing ways, The versatility they withhold and my NAPS got a mind of Their own, crying to be left alone.

WOOL, BUSH, CLOUD, SMOKE.

“It’s so big and tangled, like a sheep,” Becky always said.

But can’t she see? This is me, in my truest form.

“I love your trim, curtain bangs or balayage. I wish you loved my new ‘do!’”

I spend countless hours, thousands of dollars to maintain My luxurious locs, Wide-toothed comb and coconut oil, These nourish my scalp.

To have roots from Africa is to be melanated, understood, Light as Caribbean sand or dark as the night’s sky, All while carrying many countries’ foundations on our backs.

Strong, long, usually wrong: They say, “dirty, unkempt, too ethnic;” these words they say.

I love my home, but I will never belong.

I am a dependent, in a foreign land.

I deserve to be free.

My tresses “hold these truths to be self-evident That all men are created equal…” this applies As long as those hairs do not form

NAPS.

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s tat i c colored pencil Jerian Brown | 11

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l i f e i n p r ose personal essay Audrey Enghauser | 11

In early 2020, I was a flourishing high school sophomore that had everything to be excited about. I broke out of my bubble, had friends that exhilarated me and was excited for new ones, danced confidently in my new forms of expression like fashion and art, matured, learned more about who I wanted to be around, and enveloped myself in my passion for storytelling. I was happy about the good things, and saw the happiness in the bad ones.

I was proud of where I was and how I got there, and more excited about what was to come in my life than I’d been in a long time.

When the world shut down in March, a quiet, an uncertain descent into isolation put my life on pause. The once ever present buzz of community, laughter, and love radiating off my school and friends was shoved onto screens; great friendships turned distant and at times, awkward. Returning back to normal school life felt miles out of my

reach. That full, social, busy life had become my past. My identity was put to the test when I had to look inside myself for my energy and motivation.

As I settled into quarantine, I stabilized myself with daily walks and workouts, music, and a healthy routine. I was grateful for more time to do some of the things I love, like making art, reading, relaxing more, and having less school work.

After a few weeks, time twisted and stillness enveloped me. I was happy in my routine, but I still felt immobile, not growing or changing, without my social world. I wandered away from the person I was pre-COVID as I became detangled from my past. I floated outside of myself and saw my life as an outsider.

My quiet mind that idled in my bedroom soon became loud as it conjured up reflective thoughts about the past. I thought about the people and relationships that defined me and started to see the greater significance of those past

bloo m i n g painting Chase Bernt | 8

one-on-one connections. Each person in my life had become a character from a book, each symbolizing an emotion, an experience, or a lesson I needed to learn. They all had strengths, flaws, quirks, and a reason for being in my life.

“My quiet mind that idled in my bedroom soon became loud...”

It wasn’t long before my literary perspective began seeping into other aspects of my understanding of my own life. Before March, I was caught up in the short term without a bigger perspective. I worried about a grade, a quiz, a fight, a heartache, a cold, an interview, a trip. I didn’t consider how piles and piles of events -- individual words on the page -- would build up to a bigger story, something I could learn from, until I stepped away from all of those small stressors and saw that altogether they formed chapters after chapters, a book in progress. All the little moments in my life -- the random events that have no meaning without perspective -- began to fall together into something I could look back on as a whole. I saw the motifs of

my life, the patterns, the character traits, the turning points, the themes, and the flashbacks all as if I was written as a book character.

Everything that happened to me seemed to have some purpose, and every change led to something new and important.

To this day, I seek to view my past, present, and future in this idealized and literary way. I can see the experiences I have as beautifully written moments and perfectly packaged relationships. I can step back from my life and see it as a reader, and see the beauty in the experiences I’ve had.

Upon the eventual return to school and with it, the entrance into my busy social world, I wonder how I will reenter my relationships with the people in my life with this new perspective.

Before, they were simply friends and acquaintances, but now they mean so much more to me. In my mind, they are all beautifully depicted and complexly portrayed characters. Before, my life was day-to-day, in the moment, all about the now.

After standing still a while, I see it as much more than that. I see it as past, present, and future all wrapped up into one with the creative edge of a great artist. With this mindset, I value experience over nothing in my life feels meaningless, because every word I put down, every action, every emotion, every person I connect with adds something beautiful to my novel. O iliad

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Ho w t o s u p p o r t Slae.stetics

@slaestetics0

Let me start off by saying why the Black Lives Matter movement is a movement you should support.

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Twitter for iPhone

Slae.stetics

@slaestetics0

The Black Lives Matter movement is a movement that provides the Black community with hope in a better future. Not only that, BLM expresses how the young Black kings’ and queens’ lives matter. Many African Americans have fought to provide a better future for themselves and their children.

9:54 AM

9/30/20

Twitter for iPhone

Slae.stetics

@slaestetics0

Getting your voice heard and protesting is a huge way to support the BLM movement. Everyone has an opinion, and voicing it is one of the best ways to get it heard.

9:55 AM

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ávyssos

Twitter for iPhone

B lack L i v es Ma t t e r Slae.stetics

@slaestetics0

Support Black owned business and organizations. This is one of the most helpful ways to help the Black community out. Black people work hard for their businesses and organizations and a little support goes a long way.

9:56 AM

9/30/20 Twitter for iPhone

Slae.stetics

@slaestetics0

Getting your voice heard and protesting is a huge way to support the BLM movement. Everyone has an opinion, and voicing it is one of the best ways to get it heard.

9:55 AM

9/30/20

Twitter for iPhone

tweet series Laniya Jones | 9

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T h e L i b r a ry short story Natalie Schlikelman | 11

There is a library in the woods. It’s been there for longer than anyone

can remember, a relic of a time long gone. Perhaps it was once the eighth wonder of the world, a man made wonder we no longer have the knowledge to understand. Perhaps it was a gift from the Faeries that drift around the woods, the ones you can only catch just barely in the corner of your eye before they dart away. Perhaps it’s always been there.

It doesn’t matter which woods, or how you find it, but it’s there, if

you know how to look. Among the stately columns of trees, and the wild undergrowth, through the ferns that tickle your feet and the oak trees that will tell you the secrets of the world if you listen closely enough, you can spot the corners of an old brick building. And if you fight through the brambles that seem to magically appear in your path, no matter which way you turn, and keep an eye on that corner of brick that’s so determined to escape you, you’ll find it.

T

he first time Violet set foot in the library, she was seven.

When her parents were fighting, it was better for her to be out in the woods, for her to disappear into the world she’d created for herself in there. A world where she was in charge, where adventure waited around every corner but she always knew the adventure would end the way she wanted it to. She was on a quest, 50

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searching for the sorcerer of the woods, when she stumbled upon the structure.

To her, it looked like a magic castle, rising up out of the woods. A tall brick building, two stories tall, with wide, circular windows along the top, and a single turret rising up. It looked like exactly the sort of place a sorcerer would live.

Violet hesitated before pushing open the door. One

v i bes digital graphic Chadayzja Sims | 11

shouldn’t go barging into the home of a sorcerer. They could turn you into a frog. (Although, thinking about it, Violet wouldn’t actually mind being turned into a frog. She could live in the forest and hop around.)

In the fairy tales Violet loved to read, the girl always turned out okay, no matter what ordeals she went through. Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel, Brother and Sister. In the fairy tales, if they were brave and kind and true, they always got their happily ever after.

Violet knew she could be brave.

When Violet pushed open the door, it was lighter than she expected.

She cracked it open, just the tiniest

bit, and poked her head around the corner. Inside the building was one big room, and it was full of books.

“Welcome to the library!” a voice said. “It’s been a while since we’ve had visitors.”

Violet jumped.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the owner of the voice walked into her line of view. Violet’s first impression was of round glasses and a fisherman sweater and someone barely taller than her. “I’m the librarian.”

“I’m Violet,” Violet said.

“Lovely to meet you, Violet.

Are you here to find a book?” the librarian asked.

Violet hesitated. “Maybe?” iliad

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T h e L i b r a r y ( C on t i n u e d )

“Well, that sounds like a yes to me,” the librarian said. “If you’ll follow me, I think I know some books you’ll like.”

She led Violet through the winding bookshelves and to a section full of brightly colored children’s books. The librarian pulled one out and handed it to Violet. “This one should interest you.” That evening, when Violet found her way back home, she had a new book with her. She laid up in her bed with a flashlight to devour it, deep into the night. Her parents didn’t notice. The next day, she came back to the library, and the librarian was waiting for her.

In the library, Violet could surround herself with stories. She could create a fort out of books, and she could learn how to tie a Celtic Knot, and she could lose herself in storybooks for hours and hours. In the library, someone cared. She was at home in the books.

By the time she was eleven, she spent more time at the library than at her own home. She walked there straight after school.

She liked it better that way. That way, she could go to where she was truly wanted, and she could avoid the awful silence of her own house. When she was eleven, her carefully crafted world began to fall apart.

Her parents finally split, and her mother took Violet away with her. Violet drifted away, unmoored from the one place she had ever felt like someone cared.

“You’ll find the library again, one day,” the librarian had promised when Violet had come to her, sobbing. Violet couldn’t believe 52

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that. The library was the sort of magic you only found once.

Violet moved away, and grew up, and went to middle school, and in the way that children always think they have to, let go of her dreams of childhood bliss. The library was just a distant memory to her, a memory of the happiness she’d created for herself as a child. Just a place she’d invented for herself, nothing more, nothing less. That’s what she told herself as she stared at the old woods that had used to contain her entire world, many years later.

“She led Violet through the winding bookshelves and to a section full of brightly colored children’s books.”

As she stepped through the forest and the brambles, instead of fighting against her, they seemed to invite her deeper in.

Rain sprinkled down from the sky, leaving tiny silver droplets dotting her hair and eyelashes, like the sky itself welcoming her.

Violet looked around at the forest, each tree and bramble as intimately familiar as they’d been when she was seven. It was like walking inside a time capsule.

She didn’t quite believe it was real until she saw the brick structure ahead of her, and put her hand on the doorknob. Violet pulled the door open and stepped in from the rain. It felt like coming home. O

d oo d les pen Aiyanna Bhuiyan | 11

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f ac i n g f ea r s free verse Mackenzie Hayes | 12

The time has come where I can no longer run, Facing my fears is what has to be done, Not knowing the outcome of how I will overcome, The time has come where I can no longer run.

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pen & watercolor Frances Thrasher | 10

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m o d e r n d ay m o r t al i t y free verse Ireland McCage | 11

Death did not call for me He texted me instead It was because his “reception was bad” And his phone “almost dead” “Want to go out sometime?”

Was all the message said I was tired of his advances So I left him on read

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Moss y photograph Treasa McHugh | 11

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red circus 60

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acrylic Nate Herbst | 12

Yo u n g Man free verse Mayra Martinez-Calerdon | 10 A ring of the bell Back to the class cell Where I am sufficient But some are deficient We here are all the same But you act like he isn’t sane Is it the skin he’s in For you act like it’s sin To have your skin be black As if he would attack Or maybe it’s that You are a lady And he is a young man He is always punished For something more Is it his dark skin That he is within If he were a bit lighter Would he still be a fighter For that is what your eyes see When the young man is not lighter

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l u na watercolor & pen Anastasia Mack | 12

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W h at d o yo u G O BY ? free verse Salai Diekumpuna | 11

Cold nights I can’t feel the love within Should I burn down my city to feel its warmth again?

Walking through halls with peers I call my friends I wonder if I’m just another N**** to them N**** N**** N**** that’s what we all say A limited vocabulary stands in our way We call ourselves what others wish to call us out loud every day Education at our fingertips America’s gateway to a better life It doesn’t matter if you teach a man to fish if he is without a fishing rod Especially if he can’t afford his ticket out of the hood Even then we still run to the government for help So we sell the drugs We make just enough to make a profit while our employer prepares our cell We get out of our earthly hell and the cycle continues Congratulations you’ve been employed by the US government To live past twenty-five is God’s gift What a dream, my soul will never die

As long as I have God my soul and I will be fed even if my stomach isn’t I don’t ignore the truths because I’m not better off dead But that’s how they want me, looking at me all pretty in a casket It’s either my body or my soul killed by the world or a denomination Who should I choose life or death?

We all die some time but not all of us are killed In this America to save my life I’d have to open my legs I’d bear a child desired in fetish eyes That or I’d have to be employed by the law In a pin or in an office I work for the same man Let me know who is the man again The microaggressions keep coming and the passive aggression grows Friends become foes Enemies in disguise A tale of old woes Tell me is it my hips or my lips that threaten you Or is it my skin Speak my friend If these were simpler times would you be my massa or my friend?

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so u l

pencil Issac Roudriguez-Slazar | 12

s h a d ow

free verse Janie Ripps | 8

Everywhere I go, you are there You are all people see in me You are all everyone compares me to Your achievements, I am expected to fulfill My actions always pale in comparison to yours “Stop following me” I say The constant competition is tiring I need some time alone “Get out of mind” But my thoughts Seem to be yours as well People say I look like you They say I talk like you But how can they tell if it is me talking or you?

If it is my brain or yours?

Your reputation or mine?

How do I make my own way, When you are always looming over me?

We are the same, but so different When will you disappear?

When will it finally be my turn?

When will my decisions be my decisions?

And never ones that you had to make before me You follow me around Everywhere I go But it seems obvious To everyone but me That we are not one My decisions will be my decisions The moment I have to make them You will always have come before me, But my job isn’t to outshine you Your shadow trails me, But only now do I realize that it’s mine

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c r i m i nal j u s t i ce an d m e personal esssay Micah Shannon | 12

It’s the late 2000s; I’m in my old backyard in Minneapolis, Minnesota. I’m out with some neighborhood kids and my dad is giving me a tomato we grew in our garden to eat, when we hear a gunshot down the street. The sound is almost deafening. My dad yells for us to get on the ground. A man was shot no more than a block away.

This is nowhere near the first time

and we hear gunfire next door. The police shot our neighbor’s pitbull.

It’s 2016, Athens this time, and my dad tells me that the president of our homeowner’s association called the police because a Black kid in our neighborhood was playing basketball with his friends. This is not the first police call like this, and it will not be the last.

“I wonder why we’ve banned tear gas in war, but not for domestic use.”

I’ve heard gunshots, but it’s the time I remember most vividly.

It’s the late 2000s, and our house gets burglarized. When the police come, they hand us a card, and tell us they’ll call if they get any leads. They don’t, but they do tell us to get a dog to deter future burglars.

It’s the early 2000s, still Minneapolis. It’s late at night and the couple next door are having an argument. The police are called, 68

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It’s sometime around 2015, and I’m sitting in my church basement. A guy named John Lash is telling us how he shot and killed someone decades ago, how restorative justice saved him, and how he’s dedicated so much of his life to stopping other people from falling into the same pit he did.

It’s sometime in 2017, and I’m driving home from some school activity with my mom,

a criminologist who teaches her discipline to people in prison. She mentions that she has to send money to her “friend on death row” so he can pay for toothpaste. I can’t believe that they make you pay for that on death row.

It’s 2019, and my mom asks if I still use my “Magic: The Gathering” cards. I don’t. She asks if I would mind giving them to her friend who just spent upwards of thirty years in prison, and wants to use them as a way to make social connections. I don’t mind.

It’s 2018, and I’m sitting in the CCHS library with my friend Maggie. We’re reading Dostoyevsky’s “Crime and Punishment” instead of “Catcher in the Rye’’ because we complained about it enough to Mrs. Guidry.

I’m on chapter two, where the main character Raskolnikov talks with a man named Marmeladov, a bureaucrat who’s drunk his life away, thrown his family into poverty and forced his daughter into prostitition out of economic necessity. He’s a self-pitying mess, but at the end of his rant he says: And [God] will judge and will forgive all, the good and the evil,

the wise and the meek…. And when He has done with all of them, then He will summon us. ‘You too come forth,’ He will say, ‘Come forth ye drunkards, come forth ye weak ones, come forth, ye children of shame!’ And we shall all come forth, without shame and shall stand before him. And He will say unto us, ‘Ye are swine, made in the Image of the Beast and with his mark; but come ye also!’ (30)

I read that, and I try not to cry.

digital graphic Monique Thomas | 9

eye of the hope iliad

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c r i m i nal j u s t i ce an d m e ( C on t i n u e d )

It’s sometime in 2017 when I see a video of Daniel Shaver dying online. He is crying and begging for his life, but is shot five times because his hand slipped. I think to myself that there’s no way anyone can excuse this level of police brutality.

It’s 2020, I’m writing this essay, and I learn that the police officer who killed Daniel Shaver was found not guilty, and that the jury never even saw his death on video. After the events of this year, the people killed by police, the protests and the reaction to those protests, I am no longer surprised.

It’s June of 2020 and I hear helicopters outside my window.

I later learned from my parents that the Athens Clarke County police department used tear gas on a small group of protesters Downtown. I wonder why we’ve banned tear gas in war, but not for domestic use.

It’s 2020, and my mom says that many criminologists don’t

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even use the word “criminal” because it inaccurately implies the existence of a type of people who do crime, and type of people who do not. I agree, and wonder why we are quick to call Trayvon Martin or Jacob Blake criminals but not my white friends who smoke a lot of weed but get good grades.

I’ve spent my whole life unable to avoid the broken reality of our criminal justice system.

It’s easy, if it doesn’t hurt you, to ignore it or even believe in it. I’ve lived with a criminologist mother, met murderers, experienced crime, seen punishment, and I just can’t believe this system works anymore. I’ve seen it destroy people, I’ve seen who it helps and who it doesn’t and I just can’t stomach that picture anymore.

I believe that justice must be restorative, that the purpose of the court and the police is to prevent violence and rebuild communities, not perpetuate pain and destroy people. O

m a t c h bo x

photo compilation Samantha Brodrick | 12 iliad

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Mak i n g p eace

short story Henry Crowder | 11 72

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t was too late once we found out. The time for running was long gone, and there was nothing we could do. We were asleep when the alarms went off, and living in the suburbs certainly didn’t help. I woke up around noon, untangled myself from my wife, and walked to the kitchen to make some breakfast. Dina came in behind me and drank her coffee at the dining room table. We had a light and unimportant conversation about what we were going to do with the day. Then I turned on the TV to look at the news and saw that a terrorist organization had launched seven nuclear missiles at America. I dropped my mug. We were directly in the blast radius, and the edge of said radius was nearly one hundred thirty miles away. The estimated detonation time was around an hour. We couldn’t make it. It was over. Shock was the

“We couldn’t make it. It was over.” only reason my panic did not drop me where I stood. It dulled the danger of the situation. Numbed it. I took my wife by the hand, and we wandered our neighborhood. All the other houses were empty, evacuated. It was calm.

Quiet. So very quiet. I cried. I couldn’t stop crying. Dina took me by the hand and raised me to my feet. She gave me a small, sad smile. We walked a little longer. After about five minutes, we found Mr. Johnson, our elderly neighbor with no car, no relatives, and no way to evacuate. He had made his peace with God as was shown by the gun loosely gripped in his unmoving hands. I picked up the gun, looked at it for a minute, then set it back down. I couldn’t do that to Dina. I couldn’t leave her alone. We walked some more. About 40 minutes later, I saw it, bright as a second sun, descending. I sat down to watch it. I kissed my wife one last time as it made contact with the earth. The wave of light and sound approached us. I closed my eyes, and I waited. O

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About

US

Mission statement: The iliad Literary-Art Magazine is a student-produced Clarke Central High School literary-art magazine that serves as a conduit of expression for creativity and passion to the CCHS student body. The iliad is a compilation of art, writing, and visuals created by students from our 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 represents the diversity of the Clarke Central High School student body. Programmatically, the iliad strives to provide a outlet to develop student leaders and communicators.

Policy: 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. All edits on written and visual pieces were approved by the content creator. Since we are part of a journalism program, we follow the AP style guidelines. However, in certain written works, the 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 perspective and their artistic freedom. Such pieces are marked with an asterisk.

O K eanos Gouache painting Lillian Sams | 12

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Editorial

boa r d Lucy Hines Co-Editor-in-Chief

Natalie Ripps Co-Editor-in-Chief

David Ragsdale Adviser

Kaija Gilbertson-Hall Social Media Coordinator

Aida Bermudez Outreach Director

Daniel Garcia-Pozo Writing Director

Grace Lang Visuals Director

Connor Allen Business Manager

S TA F f The 2021 iliad Editorial Board met once a week virtually before school throughout the year. In these meetings, editors reached out to writers and artists, compiled submissions, contributed content to the social media and website, and completed tasks to keep on track for magazine production.

Due to the pandemic and transitioning to virtual learning, the iliad consisted of an Editorial Board of seven students and an adviser, rather a staff of additional club members. iliad

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Friends of the

iliad r e d d i a m on d | $ 5 0 0 Meg Hines

Jennifer Macdonald

d i a m on d | $ 3 0 0 Maxine Easom

Mary Garrison

Peg Graham

Lorien Campbell and Family

Rachel Allen

p lat i n u m | $ 1 0 0 Pauline Hines

Will Leitch

Hugh Acheson

Center City Ballet

Kim Ripps

Frances Austin

Barbara Boone

Ken James

Greater Georgia Printers

John Campbell

Alice Kinman

g ol d | $ 5 0 Virginia McKenna

Rachel Roberts

Mercer Brokenbrough

Sam Goldman

Troy Coleman

The O’Neil Family

Janet Robertson

Foster Elrod

Peter Smagorinsky

s i lv e r | $ 2 5 Stephen Tinkler

Scott Crook

Jesse Seibentritt

Bertis Downs

Ellen Walker

Rebecca Goose

Lorinda Crane

S p ec i al t h anks t o : Ceci Churchwell 76

Mindy McCage

Dr. Swade Huff

I N De x

Adamson, Ava

High-Lite | 12 Austin-Totty, Owen

I Am In The Wrong Major | 41 Anderson, Penelope

Glory | 42 Bermudez, Aida

I Am | 26 Bernt, Chase

Blooming | 46 Bhuiyan, Aiyanna

Doodles | 66 Brodrick, Samantha

Matchbox | 71 Brown, Jerian

Static | 44 Caspary-Poucher, Ethan

A Giant | 34

Black Eyed Susans | 15 Callaiut, Sophie

Reverie | 29 Campos, Berenice

Visions Of Our Future:

Gender Equality | 17 Crowder, Henry

Making Peace | 73 Diekumpuna, Salai

What Do You Go By? | 64 Echols, Bre’Asia

Born A Woman | 10 Enghauser, Audrey

Life In Prose | 46 Harris, Elle

East Bay | 18 Harwell, Molly

Lucy’s Way Home | 24 Hayes, Mackenzie

Facing Fears | 56 Heesaker-Romero, Isaac

Hypnosis | 27 Herbst, Nate

Red Circus | 60 Ishibashi, Sola

Short Melody | 37 Jones, Laniya

What Do You See | 31

How To Support

Black lives Matter | 48 Kurtz, Henry

Tone Deaf | 23 Lang, Grace

Fractal Mindscape | 30

Mack, Anastasia

Luna | 62 Martin-Williams, Katie Sue

The Beauty Within | 38 Martinez-Calerdon, Mayra

Young Man | 61 McCage, Ireland

Modern Day Mortality | 58 McHugh, Tresa

Mossy | 59 Monique Thomas

Eye of the Hope | 69 Obi-Okoye, Mary Claire

Creations | 28 Ochieng, Amanda

Sea Nettle | 35 Orbock, Eva

In Bloom | 11 Ortiz-Duran, Jessica

El Pie De La Mesa | 25 Reichert, Luna

The Sun Water, And Earth | 14 Ripps, Janie

Shadow | 67 Ripps, Natalie

Retail Therapy | 22 Rodriguez-Salazar, Isaac

Soul | 66 Sams, Lilli

Waves | 8

Submerged | 32

Moonlight | 54 Sandifer, Tripp

Ernest Hemingway Book Review | 21 Schlikelman, Natalie

Why I Love The Rain | 13

The Library | 50 Shannon, Micah

Criminal Justice and Me | 628 Sims, Chadayzja

Freedom Of Expression | 36

Vibes | 51 Tejada, Delilah

Massachusetts At Midday | 19 Thomas, Kira

I Know Too Much Of NAPS | 43 Thrasher, Frances

The Time Tables | 57 Willman, Nico

How To Count | 40

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C O L O PH O N iliad headlines were printed in Lemon Milk. Bylines were printed in Tiempos Text Italics.

All copy was printed in Tiempos Text.

The cover artwork is a watercolor painting by Lilli Sams titled “Deep Waters.” The inside cover features a digital graphic by Lucy Hines and Natalie Ripps. Surface and abyss section dividers are pastel pieces, and the depths divider is done in charcoal, all by Lilli Sams. The surface section divider is titled “Waves.” The abyss section divider is titled “Submerged.”

The depths section divider is titled “Moonlight.”

All spreads were designed by Natalie Ripps and Lucy Hines.

Last year’s edition of the iliad, FLOW, received the following awards from the National Scholastic Press Association: All-American evaluation. The publication received Marks of Distinction for Writing and Editing; Photography, Arts, Graphics; Design; and Concept. All-American publications must achieve 400-500 points with four-five Marks of Distinction. The iliad rated 480 points as a total score.

The iliad received the following awards from Columbia Scholastic Press Association: The 2020 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 994/1000 points.

The iliad received the following awards from the Southern International Press Association: All-Southern rating, which is SIPA’s highest evaluation rating. These publications effectively integrate writing, design and photography/art to give readers an excellent record of the school. The iliad received top evaluations in Reader Assistance, Design, Visual Content, and Special Touches.

The iliad received the following awards from the Georgia Scholastic Press Association: All-Georgia Literary Magazine and a superior rating.

The iliad Literary-Art Magazine, has been selected to receive the rank of Superior in the 2020 National Council of Teachers of English (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, sculpture, 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.

The iliad Literary-Art Magazine is a student-produced Clarke Central High School literaryart 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.

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.

We are so grateful to everyone who submitted work for the 2020-21 issue of the iliad and to the community for their support in this endeavor.

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