contributors elnora brinson, 25 saunders cohen, 07 melissa evans, 18 zamzam farah, 15 chloe fowler, 19 daisy friedman, 13 chloe geoffroy, 09 jason han, 07, 17 isabel headlee, 23 madison jagels, 06
faith jolkowski, 11 lydia kasem, 15 alaina mann, 03, 09 maren mcdaniel, 25 emma miller, 12 angelina pattavina, 04, 24 mena sullivan, 26 taylor weis, 20 sammie b. whal, 21 daniel wood, 13
submissions policy The Warrior Apollo accepts all art, literature, music, fashion and photography submissions by all current Westside students and publishes it in a magazine format. A student may submit as much work as desired. If you wish to submit your work by paper, stop by the journalism hallway, rooms 251-253, and pass on your work to either the Editor-in-Chief Vincent Nelson, or journalism advisors Jerred Zegelis and Timothy Kaldahl. The Warrior Apollo does not accept any work that may be considered offensive and reserves the right to reject and edit content for any reason. Please direct any questions to the Editor-in-Chief.
staff vinny nelson, editor-in-chief elliot evans, managing editor natalie gill, managing editor reese pike, copy editor isabel headlee, design staff
letter from the editor elcome to the first print volume of The Warrior Apollo! It’s been a long time in the making, but I’m super stoked about the final product. As you look through the amazing submissions inside, I hope you are too. First though, here’s a little background on what we do. The Warrior Apollo is a literary arts magazine that features student art, writing, poetry, photography and pottery, published by students for students. This volume is all about Greek mythology. As you flip through, you’ll notice each spread represents one of the 12 main Greek gods and goddesses and the sector they rule over. Collecting submissions to this theme was harder than planned out to be, but I’m really proud of the final product. Serious thanks to everyone who has submitted or helped in anyway. You made Apollo possible. I’m super excited to return to Apollo next year as Editor-in-Chief again and can’t wait to see where time takes this publication. And, for the love of all Greek gods, when Trudi Nolin emails you about Apollo submissions next year, please submit something.
editor-in-chief, vinny nelson
westside high school volume one // 2019 8701 pacific street omaha, ne. 68144 the warrior apollo 02
apollo, god of truth
03 the warrior apollo
The difference between the future and the past is the present. We can say what we were like then and now, but we don’t know what the future holds. The past was a different time. We were young and didn’t know what we really wanted. The present has given us a time to mature and grow, to find that place we needed to be. The future can win the best time of our life award, or maybe it’s already happened. Who’s to say what’s to come if we don’t even try? The past is something that we think will determine our future. We forget all about the present and choose to live in the past. If a decision has been made, then it cannot be changed. Right? But who’s to say that is true? We decide the future, and we write our own history. I know what I want now, and it makes me absolutely terrified, not only for myself but for you. I had been living in the past and wasn’t fully seeing what was in front of me. ow I’m e pressing how I feel again indirectly to you. I’ve given myself the space I needed to grow, to mature, and I think you have too. I can’t tell you what the future holds, but I do know one thing, We should face it together. poem by angelina pattavina, art by alaina mann
the warrior apollo 04
hermes, god of sports
05 the warrior apollo
Fight on Westside, Fight on Westside Victory for our school When the red and black are marching Westside then will rule Rah! Rah! Rah! Fight on Westside, Fight on Westside Victory now and fame So fight on to victory Westside Win this game! art by madison jagels
the warrior apollo 06
dionysus, god of parties
short story by jason han // photo by saunders cohen
Commencement Day on Main Street he’d never considered herself the most charitable sort, though offering to open her house up to her classmates, of whom she mostly didn’t know, was proving to be a saintly act. It was an informal gathering that ballooned quite considerably. She was told by the one guy friend in her friend group that holding a party after the commencement address was tradition and not to be taken lightly, and as a result the honor was then conferred on her, because each one of her friends had some reasonable happenstance
S
07 the warrior apollo
that prevented them from upholding the tradition. She’d also never been the kind of person who really enjoyed parties, but she was under the impression that only five or six people would show up. Maybe their parents. But then, the calls and texts started coming in—Is it ok if X comes along? Or, Man, my mom’s brother said I have to bring my four nephews and all their dogs—so sorry!—and the number, somehow, ended up including a greater part of the senior corpus.
Her house was a subtle, two-story style in dire need of renovation off of Main Street. It overlooked a hang-out fast food place where people like to go after school. She’d only bought a bag of chips, a twelve-pack of soda and prepared some Velveeta in a crock pot for nacho cheese. The infrastructure just wasn’t there to support the party. By the second hour, the pantry had already been ravaged. Twelve boxes of Cheeseburger Hamburger Helper had been prepared, and seven bags of Doritos had been bought. The screen door leading out to the backyard had been shattered and had already cut the bare feet of several boys who elected to cannonball the Jacuzzi from the roof. The closet and bedroom were both blocked off by the dresser for God knows what reason. The TV was playing something about dogs, though that was one of the least awful things about the situation. The garage smelled like death. Little paper plates could be found in the oddest places; one was in the sink and another between the discs of the family coffee machine. Clothes had already been stolen or ripped apart for confetti and the carpet had been stabbed for some kind of sinking experience—whatever
that was. And though the basement was locked off as a precautionary measure, the crafty partygoers just went around into the garage then through into the basement, which turned into a game of hide-and-seek. The person that had been lost, as all this was going on, was the host, who had escaped to her own corner of the guest bedroom and blocked it off. Though people may talk about what she was doing in there, she really didn’t care. And for a little while, the sound that pounded the walls of her family’s house quieted down for a while. Her parents were going to kill her, they just were. She said she thought the party would be five or six people, and she really did believe that. She could not understand why people threw parties. Maybe it was so that you could feel less alone, but she never felt better after they were done. And it was hard to move through the party. Who do you talk to? What do you say? What’s the structure? She felt the sheets of the bed against her hand and then lay down to stare at the ceiling, which hadn’t been remodeled since her childhood. The ceiling was a blue sky with a sun in the corner, and that sun had a little face and was smiling.
Continued on page 17 the warrior apollo 08
hera, goddess of the heavens
Au dessus des nuages ou dans un monde å côté, On ne peut qu’essayer de se le représenter C’est le paradis, endroit merveilleux et rêvé Où la déesse Héra règne en souveraine Attendant avec patience que l’on vienne
Above the clouds or in a world nearby We can only try to represent it This is heaven, wonderful and dreamt place Where the goddess Hera reign in sovereign Waiting with patience that we come poem by chloe geoffroy illustration by alaina mann
09 the warrior apollo
the warrior apollo 10
hestia, goddess of family
IN LOVING MEMORY I close my eyes and lower my head
He’d stick his tongue out at me a lot
I see her smile
His gruff voice echoes in my head
I feel a phantom sense of joy as
His calloused hand was rough on
I dance through those Sunday
mine as mine were engulfed in his.
mornings, her cute little old woman
He held it tight.
kitchen smelling like coffee and
He always sat in HIS chair
waffles
His wirey old man glasses sat high
I trip and roll my eyes over an
on his goose beak-like nose
image of pressing her life alert
I used to jump out of my skin
button because I was curious of
whenever he laughed
what would happen
I remember the disappointment in
That honey warm smile greeted me
my dad’s eyes when he said, “Who
as I was panicking because of the
are you?”
loud beeping that sounded through
Not long after I looked at him in
the house
a coffin in a dapper suit and tie
Her hugs, so delicate, but could fix
wondering why they hadn’t fixed the
anything in the world
hole in the roof which was causing
That wretched week of pain when
little droplets of water to fall.
she started chemo
I open my eyes and find that my
The uplifted spirits when she beat
face is wet
breast cancer
But I smile and think of how
The tears that spilled when it came
fortunate I was to have had that
back.
time with them and the others I’ve
But she looked so at peace in the
lost
dress that looked like it was woven
I keep their memories alive and
out of the night sky when she fell
make others with the ones I love
asleep forever.
surrounding me.
po em b y f ait h jol k o w s k i // p h o to i l l u s tra ti o n by emma mi l l er
11 the warrior apollo
aphrodite, goddess of love
I want to be loved like the 1920s. I want to be loved like jazz music. Sing to me sweetly the words of Louis Armstrong, Because in your arms I think to myself, What a wonderful world. Let life be an intoxicating dance party As we foxtrot in time. I want to be loved like the 1920s I want to be loved like Wall Street Make me an ignorant fool, teach me to forget how to behave with our newfangled freedom. And when it all comes crashing down, We’ll still have our memories. I want to be loved like the 1920s Preserve me in sepia tones, and paint with the glaze of an archaic era, In a silk Charleston negligee. And I want to be loved like the 1920s Never wanting to stop the party, Never wanting to slow the pace.
13 the warrior apollo
I want to be loved like the 1920s. I want to be loved like flourishing flapper dresses, gleaming, scarlet lips and finger waves. I want to be loved like moving picture magic Hold me in your arms like I’m Louise Brooks, Just like in silent films... We don’t need words to form passion, just you and me inside your Model T. I want to be loved like the 1920s I want to be loved like underground speakeasies. Drink me in like I’m an Old Fashioned. Like concealed flasks filled to fuel the night’s adventures. We’ll hide our desires under our tweed coats just like the bootleggers. I want to be loved like the 1920s. I want to be the Daisy to your Gatsby. Look at me with anxious eyes, Fall deeper in love every minute. Let me be your guiding green light. poem by dasiy freidman illustration by daniel wood
the warrior apollo 14
ares, god of war
49 SOULS Gun shots, no pulse, no heartbeat, bodies pilling high, sirens. They paint my people to be the bad guys in these stories. They paint us until the red becomes into blood. They paint us until the bristles of the brush dry out. It is times like this where you see people’s true colors come out. Different shades of hate, anger, and intolerances fill their palettes, and they paint their hearts blacker as they ignore other’s pain and suffering. They ignore the fact that Friday March 15th families lost 49 innocent lives. But yet again they’re still painting us to be the bad guys they paint us until their black hearts turn into coal. They paint past the heartbreaking stories they say my religion “preaches” hate. When simply our universal greeting “salaam” which means my peace be upon you. In fact, the last word of the first victim in the shooting was “salaam”.
15 the warrior apollo
Innocent lives gone. Killed while they were on their knees during Friday prayer. Families stomachs drop down to the floor while they hear the heartbreaking news. And instead of filling their palettes with hate and anger they simply choose not to turn their hearts into coal. Saddest part is people are fulfilling the gunman’s wishes. People are blindly reposting the video he obviously intended to spread his hate. He wanted to infect those wounds And turn them into a virus that spreads. To people’s hearts turning them into him. How can you even feel safe in a place of worship? after the horrifying events that happened in New Zealand, Were seen as the terrorist on a daily basis, but we are victims of hate crimes like this
Horrifying images blast into my brain at the darkest times of the night. Silence in my bedroom To the point they I can hear their screams. And all I can see is dead bodies that could’ve been me. Because of my religion, I am labeled as the terrorist. It’s hard to keep things straight inside your head. When all you can think of is when someone might shoot you, in the parking lot of your own home. When you’re too busy worrying about if your mother will have to mourn your death this week. I try not to think about it. Tell myself that “islamophobia” is made up.
Trying to remember that this country is a melting pot of all ethnicities a stew of red white and blue. Trying not to think of the red blood of my Muslim brothers and sisters. Trying not to think of the blue of their tears. Trying not to think of all the innocent Muslim boys and girls who have been shot point blank in the head. Trying to erase the memory of dead bodies. Don’t tell me I’m overreacting. That it’s not all about ethnicity or religion, I know better than anyone else. And I’m tired it’s still going on. Instead of Muslim you hear zombie, the remains of a suicide vest.
poem by zamzam farah // photos by lydia kasem
the warrior apollo 16
zeus, god of people
(Continued from page 07) he always knew that she never really wanted to host this party. Even if it was the few people she knew attending. Maybe it was because she knew that those friends wouldn’t last. She untied her Converse shoes and placed them on the floor away from the bed. She thought about the memories she held. Of the brief romance with the guy friend that they now don’t talk about. Of going to the museum with her friends and laughing at all the sillier art pieces. Of starting a lacrosse club with her friends that had now grown in stature considerably. How precious those memories were, right now. But how will they age? How will these friendships age? Each one of them, her closest friends, are scattering across the world in just a few months. Two are going to Iowa State. One is staying home. One is travelling across the world. When the common thread they all hold so desperately to dissipates, will they stay what they were? Perhaps those memories are strong enough tethers to each other. Enough to carry them
S
changed. Then, after the first semester of college, texting will seem less urgent. The light that shined through the window dimmed, but she could still see dust wisps as they flew gently towards the ground into invisibility. People will be so far away that it seems odd to keep the friendship. She’ll find new friends right at hand, and the distance between her and her old friends will seem an interminable chasm where no sound or light can cross, even though she’ll see her friends’ texts right in her hands. And her greatest fear is that, after all of this, she won’t care. That the new friends she encounters will be more than enough. And by the end of her life, her friends from high school will be small mementos. She saw herself in a hospital bed, like she is now, reflecting on her life and the different impacts. And her social life in high school seemed so insignificant. The least important part. Is that how she was going to let herself pass into the next life? The party’s tenor drew closer to a
the rest of their lives. But she fears better. When they leave, and she
hum. She could hear them outside, but could not consider their own anxiety,
leaves, they’ll text quite a bit for a few months. Talk about how their lives have
their own stray thoughts about how they may consider this event later
short story by jason han // graphic by melissa evans
in their life. Maybe that’s why people enjoyed parties. Because, for that moment, nothing else mattered. Nothing else was real. A few light knocks against the door were followed by a few more. She got up and moved the dresser away, and opened the door to see a boy from her class, about as tall as her, with a drink in his hand.
“Hey, I saw you go in there. Some people were worried about you,” He said. “I’m doing great. No worries.” “Alright, well, want to come back out? Thanks for giving us this.” “I think I’m alright. Just go, enjoy, my gift, but one favor.” “Yeah?” “Do enjoy it, please.”
the warrior apollo 18
hades, god of darkness On the outermost part of my window There crawls a creature, Its hands clawing the glass. This animal is only ever there in the future. However, future is today. Hanging on my shoulder, There is another one. Anxiety and doubt, it causes. Not consistently present, Its powers slip through my brain Altering my thoughts. The dark, sharks and clowns only to name a few. You can never avoid them. They arise at certain times. Especially at night, or when you’re alone. Am I right? Am I wrong? The creature crawls in through my ear, Making itself at home Paying rent to cause more problems. I’ve been warned to not do anything, They are only afraid of themselves. And what is hidden outside my window It is not a fear of the dark. Rather a fear of what it holds. Ignore it, and let it go. Therapists and Psychologists call it anxiety But it is only just a worry And it can’t be that bad? Can’t it? These are the monsters you were never warned about. Fear & Worry.
19 the warrior apollo
poem by chloe fowler // photo illustration by taylor weis
the warrior apollo 20
hephaestus, god of fire
21 the warrior apollo
po tter y b y s am m ie b . w a h l
the warrior apollo 22
poseidon, god of the sea
e ln ora bri ns on
ma ren mcdani el
25 the warrior apollo
mena sul l i van
ma re n mc dani el
the warrior apollo 26
here at apollo we pledge allegiance to artistic freedom, to giving students a creative outlet, to thinking outside the box, to expressing emotion through art, because what makes apollo special is its contributors and staff, the content within and the love each issue is made of.