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Contributors maryam akramova, 07 julia benson, 08 oliver degraw, 07 katie duggan, 07 elliot evans, 03 daisy friedman, 05 natalie gill, 03 virginia jansen, 08 jane knudsen, 09 emma miller, 08 paul nelson, cover art reese pike, staff raeanne sando, 10 taylor weis, 03 daniel wood, 05 isabella tyler, 05
Submissions Policy
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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. Next issue’s theme is Dionysus, god of parties, theater and madness. However, don’t let this theme limit you. The Warrior Apollo may use your work in a future issue. submit here.
Letter from the Editor chose the Dahmer life, the Dahmer life choose me,” is what I “I didn’t said when a couple of my coworkers told me I looked like a young
Jeffrey Dahmer. As I argued with them for a minute, I jokingly let my Instagram followers decide my look-a-like fate, something only a truly bored iGen would do. To my disappointment, only 39 percent of my followers voted yes. I suppose that’s a good thing though. I don’t really really want to end up mistaken as a Dahmer relative. You’re probably wondering: “How does whether I look like a serial killer or not have anything to do with this issue of Apollo?” Well, it really doesn’t, but like this introduction itself, I felt disconnected from Apollo this issue. It’s not that I forgot about Apollo, but with second semester in full swing, my job and social life filling up my weekends and me squeezing in any excuse to focus on anything but school in my free time, I just got pretty busy. Here she is though, in all her glory — the Aphrodite issue.
editor-in-chief, vinny nelson
westside high school 8701 pacific street omaha, ne. 68144
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intro
phrodite is the goddess of love, beauty, pleasure and sexuality. In traditional mythology she is the daughter of emasculated Uranus, magically being birthed in the foam of the sea. Although she was unwillingly wed to Hephaestus (god of fire and metalworking) she had many passionate affairs and numerous children. Her escapades lead to her husband Hephaestus creating a bed that would entrap her and one of her lovers, Hephaestus would then shame her publicly in an attempt to humiliate her in front of the other gods and goddesses. One of her many children was Eros (Cupid), another name associated with love. Aphrodite and Eros would use love spells to charm women, as Aphrodite was of the opinion that no woman should die a virgin. She would travel by a swan drawn carriage and was responsible for the
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Trojan War. In a competition of beauty, Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite fought over who was the most beautiful out of the three of them. In order to bribe prince Paris judging, she offered him the most beautiful woman in the world, this was Helen of Sparta. Because of this, Aphrodite won the beauty contest. Helen was married to Melanos, king of the Spartans. Helen was kidnapped by Paris and was taken to Troy. Helen being used as a prize in the contest made Melanos remarkably upset, thus sparking the war on Troy. Aphrodite worked hard to preserve love and sexual empowerment, in current times this message is as important as it was in ancient mythology. The goddess of love is a prime example that you shouldn’t be ashamed of who you love or how you express your sexuality.
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read more about aphrodite here.
Aphrodite’s Playlist c ra zy i n love // b eyo n ce & j ay- z a l r i g h ty a p h r o d i te //p e ac h p i t m a ke m e f e e l // j a n e l le m o n ae ve n u s // lad y gaga ca r i n o // t h e m a r i as i n my b e d // a my w i n e h o u s e a p h r o d i te // ky l i e m i n o gu e c h e r r y // r i n a s awaya m a
Apple Music // SoundCloud
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intro by natalie gill, photos by taylor weis, playlist by elliot evans
goddess of pleasure
Jazz Age Love I want to be loved like the 1920’s. 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 1920’s 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.
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I want to be loved like the 1920’s. 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.
I want to be loved like the 1920’s. 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 1920’s 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 1920’s 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 1920’s Never wanting to stop the party, Never wanting to slow the pace.
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poem by daisy friedman, illustration by daniel wood, photo by isabella tyler
goddess of beauty 07
left art by katie duggan, top right art by julia benson, right art by virginia jansen, bottom right origami by oliver degraw and maryam akramova
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goddess of love 09
Where the Sun Drips Down like Honey From a Wand
M in
y girlfriend and I live a small house in Georgia, with broken-down shutters and paint that sheds like the hair of an old Labrador. We’re far down real south in Georgia, right between where Okefenokee ends and Tallahassee begins. We’re getting the brunt end of all that moist humidity that people can’t stand, the type that makes your shirt stick to your body like a fly strip. Calliope doesn’t mind none — she reckons that the sweat is the only thing keeping her skin pure. Calliope is awful pretty. She’s got dark, dark hair that stops short at the nape of her neck and trails down either side of her face. That hair is billowy, like the velour curtains we’ve got hanging up in our resting area. Our windows are broken and dangerous. They’ve torn up the curtains something awful. We’ve this nice little bench next to the window that I like to sit on and read. Sometimes I’ll forget about the window and rest my arm on it. It’ll pierce straight through my skin, and I’ll only notice after seeing a steady stream of
blood trickle down on those yellow pages. Doesn’t hurt none; it really looks a lot worse than it feels. All I have to do is go over to Calliope and she’ll fix it right on up. Calliope and I visit Okefenokee quite a bit. She’s real smart. She knows precisely the time of day when we can go and hardly no one else is there. She’ll wake me up in the morning and tell me, “We’re going to the swamp today.” I’ll ask when and she’ll put her fingers to her lips, brooding for a few moments. Then she’ll do that slow smile and say “Just a mo,” (a phrase she picked up from me) and scamper away. It doesn’t really matter much what time we go. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a lot of people other than Calliope in years. I know I’ve talked to people, but I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen one. Doesn’t matter much — Calliope and I like our space. We like having all that swampland to ourselves, we like walking up to the edge of Grady, holding hands and looking at the abandoned structures in silence. There’s an old bar
that you can see in through the slats in the wood. I’ve noticed there’s a jukebox in there. I can hear the hum of the vinyl and the little skip that the needle makes once it comes to the end of the record. What I’d love one day to do would be to coax Calliope in there and put on a record, ‘cause she’s never heard genuine music before. She’s heard me sing, which I don’t envy none. Calliope waits for the perfect time to go to the creek so that it’ll look beautiful. I’ll sit with her on the bench and watch her stare at the sun. I’ll put my hand in hers and feel the webbing between her long fingers, softly touch the veins that rise on the backs of her hands. If I can tear my eyes away from her, I’ll watch the sun right along with her. The sun is spun from gold and the sky melts along with it. It sets down into the swamplands and fills each and every separation made by the tree branches. That sun seeps down into those branches, and my head is filled up with all these distant images of honey drizzling onto bread,
walk on down to Okefenokee hand in hand, stepping into the swamp. Everything is natural with Calliope. When Calliope and I go down into Okefenokee, I can feel the air liven up. The air is moist and warm, it settles on our shoulders. Water seeps up and pools in the dirt as bark and hanging branches circle around us. I see Calliope’s lungs fill through her ribs and I know she’s at peace. We love our
from the most simple corners of the the English language and smashing them together. Calliope doesn’t deserve that. Calliope and I have a bond that outgrows that, and that’s not because she’s the only other living being around me. I’d have gone insane if it weren’t for her. She gives me a purpose, and that’s to live for her. Looking at her sharp features gives me the only clarity I can have in my foggy head.
me. She presses her hand to my chest and I can feel the cold, a cold that’s almost damp and numbing. I don’t fret none, ‘cause I know that my warmth might help her out a little bit. She’d look up at me and say “Ambrose, it’s time.” We’d
home with its broken glass and nonperishables, but the swamplands are her sanctuary, and I’m awful touched she wants to share them with me. I’ve come to dislike the word “girlfriend.” It’s real trivial, taking two words
When I kiss her I can taste the honey and peaches from my memories with a type of clarity that completely beats the sun. Calliope makes me enjoy Georgia, and I’ve no doubt in my mind that we would ever leave.
story by jane knudsen, art by raeanne sando
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peach juice spilling out from cans, warm pink hands spill down honey and juice and pat my head, and I look up to that warm face and just avoid noticing who it was. But I don’t fret none, ‘cause now I can look down and see Calliope staring out at nature with those big black eyes. I rub my hand on the back of her head where her hair pricks my skin like a cockleburr. I don’t fret none, ‘cause I know she can’t hurt
The Apollo Manifesto 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, To ignoring what people think of you. Because what makes Apollo special is its contributors, The content within And the love each issue is made of.