iliad Literary-Art Magazine Volume XLIV Clarke Central High School
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“Human behavior flows from three main sources: desire, emotion, and knowledge.� - Plato
ILIA D
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iliad literary-art magazine 2019
ANATOMIA Dedicated with love to Tad MacMillan, Joy Sapp, and Sheila Dunham.
Volume 44 Clarke Central High School 350 S. Milledge Avenue Athens, Ga. 30605 ENROLLMENT: 1,683 PHONE: 706-357-5200 1
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TA B L E OF Myalo 8. 10. 11. 12. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.
Democracy is Justice, essay Long Term To-Do List, poem Connected, digital graphic Going in Blind, short story Papa, Where are You?, essay Omnipotent, art A Spring’s Walk, poem Patterned Path, art Serenity, photograph Illuminate, poem Her, art Play Place, poem How to Abbreviate Myths, poem
KATIE GRACE UPCHURCH ALEXANDER ROBINSON TRINITY JAMES NATALIE SCHLEIKELMAN JESSICA MACK CLARE WISLAR AUDREY KENNEDY Z CONLEY-MULLIS WHITLEY WALTER OLIVIA NGU SOPHIE CAILLAULT GRACE LANG SHEA PETERS
Kardia 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 2
A Summer Postcard, photograph Fly, poem Ignite, art Protest, poem Why I love Autumn, personal essay Mist, photograph Before I Leave, poem I Drew a Line for You, sculpture
AMANDA OCHIENG FLORA LECHTRECK LILLI SAMS MAYA CORNISH EDMUND DAVIS NATALIE RIPPS KELLY FULFORD EMMA SCOTT
CONTENTS 34. 34. 35. 36. 36. 38. 40. 41. 42. 43.
ANASTASIA MACK The Sun and Her Children, art ASHANTI COOPER K.A., poem BRE-ASIA ECHOLS Future, poem AVERY RAY Peach, art ANDREW CALDWELL She is Buried Among..., personal essay LUCY YEOMANS The Blue Cup, short story NASIA GREER As I’ve Walked Through..., poem CONNOR ALLEN Anatomical Curves, sculpture ELENA GILBERTSON HALL Every Day, short story AVERY SEPESI Reach, photograph
Entero 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 52. 53. 54. 56. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63.
Radiate Light, art Rainbow, song How, poem Ghost, art Limite Beauty, photograph Deep in the Depths, digital graphic Black Hole, poem Grapefruit, monologue Surreal Portraits, art The Passion of Self, digital graphic Torrent Sea, poem Broken Bonds, poem Disconnect, collage Moonlight, photograph Living in Black America, poem
Z CONLEY MULLIS CHEESE DREAM BAND ELLIOT MOON ASHLEY LAWRENCE DANIAL VICTORIA DE PAZ VANESSA MUNOZ KENNY ANGELES SHEA PETERS CLARE WISLAR KALIB HUBBARD CASSIE JACKSON KOURTNEY MITCHUM GRAHAM COLLINS EMMA RAMSAY EDRIN SUMMEROUR 3
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L E T T E R F RO M THE EDITOR To the Reader: Welcome to the iliad, Clarke Central’s literary-art magazine brought to you by the Leadership Team and staff of the iliad. As high school students, we are subject to a constant flow of emotion, change and stress. We are developing human beings, attempting to make an impact on the vast world we live in. Making an impact in such a large world is difficult and scary. The iliad aims to provide a platform for expression, a less scary way to use your voice and to impact others through artwork and writing. The iliad provides a safe space for vulnerability, and a space where voices are heard and not ridiculed. To share a creative work is to share a deeply personal part of yourself. As artists, we pour emotion into our pieces. We transform our feelings (happiness, anger, depression, longing etc.) into artwork and writing, creating a sense of pride and satisfaction in both our brightest and darkest moments. Completing this cathartic process allows us to develop and to heal. Sharing this process with others connects us. Throughout the iliad, you will find different voices from different people. Each of these pieces are products of emotion, thought, and dedication. I am honored to begin to understand some of these thoughts and feelings, and I am beyond humbled to have the privilege to share them with you all. The works within the subsections of Anatomia hold great meaning to their creators, and hopefully to readers, as well. I am proud to display these pieces. Making this magazine is my own cathartic process, one that will connect me to you, and you to our wonderful creators.
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THEME LETTER The theme for this year’s iliad Literary-Art Magazine is Anatomia, the Greek word for anatomy. Since the time of the Greeks, certain emotions have been connected with different body parts, which we, the iliad, are using as subsections of Anatomia. Plato’s theory divided the major functions of the body into three distinct categories: mind, heart, and stomach. Myalo (the mind), Plato theorized, was analytical and controlled rational thought. The mind was the center of logical thinking, examining a situation without emotion. Kardia (the heart) was thought to be the center of pride, happiness, and courage. The heart was also used as the emotionally-based moral compass. Finally, entero (the stomach) was thought to be the center of greed and lust, the manifestations of our most primal desires. While this has since been disproven, Plato’s theories have infiltrated how people perceive their thoughts and emotions, and the connections of the mind with logic, the heart with love and happiness, and the stomach with desire, continue through the present day. High school is often a time of great emotional turmoil, and many students express this through their art, whether it be visual art, poetry or prose, music, or some other creative outlet. Many students find creating to be a cathartic process, and a way to express their emotions, thoughts, and desires. Anatomia is a relevant theme since it is inclusive. Art in any form can fall into one of the three categories, and emotion, thought, and desire are all major parts of the creation of works of art, especially for high school students.
BEA T R I C E A C H E S O N
REBEKAH CAMP
Editor-in-Chief junior
Writing Director sophomore 5
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MYALO (MIND)
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DEMOCRACY IS JUSTICE photograph / nonfiction Katie Grace Upchurch / junior Democracy is justice, this I believe. This is a line that I first heard in the documentary, “What is Democracy?”. The film was made by Astra Taylor, an author, philosopher, and documentarian who grew up in Athens and attended Cedar Shoals High School briefly before she went to Brown University. From there, disillusioned with the higher education system, she dropped out and went on to write a number of books and make a number of documentaries, including “Examined Life: Excursions with Contemporary Thinkers” in which she interviews a number of current philosophers from Judith Butler to Cornell West. Most recently, though, she made “What is Democracy?” In the documentary, she poses the titular question, what is democracy, and sets out to solve it -- or come closer to solving it, at least -- through conversations with a myriad of people. These people are both experts and “regular” citizens, young and old, former felons and non-felons, and politically active and politically inactive. She interviews a felon in Miami, a senator in North Carolina, scholars on democracy as well as immigrants in Greece, and a historian in Sienna. She pulls from
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anywhere and everywhere to get a truly democratic view of democracy, putting the perspectives of Platonic scholars next to those of teenage girls. The end result is a documentary which is truly profound and leads the audience into their own reevaluation of democracy. While in Greece in 2015, Taylor ended up interviewing immigrants in Piraeus who had recently arrived from a number of countries, including Syria and Pakistan. One man interviewed was Abid, a refugee who became an English teacher despite only being able to attend school through the second grade. His interview was brief, but one line, his answer to her question, “Democracy is justice” stood out from the rest. Contrary to the cliche, democracy is freedom or democracy is fair, “democracy is justice” brings us back to the true and original intention of democracy. A system under which citizens can thrive and live equally (or equitably). A system which has equal input from all citizens and which doesn’t hold certain participants above others. Though it also raises moral questions. If democracy is justice, but democracy is based around participation from its citizens, what makes someone a citizen? Who gets to participate? Should age, birthplace, felon status, gender, race, or an other qualifier prevent a person from being a citizen of their country? And should that prevent them from participating in the democracy which controls the ways that they live? Simply:
No. A democracy which limits its participants to a select group is not just, and therefore not a true democracy. So, this I believe: In its best form, democracy is a system under which all people can participate and live, and therefore a system under which society functions. Democracy is a system for the organization of people and morals, a system under which we can bring justice to our people and our world. Though there is no place where democracy functions ideally, there are places that are close and places that can change. In the U.S., the electoral college system is not democratic in any way, shape, or form. As a system in which certain votes are inflated above others, making them weigh more than others in elections, it cannot be democratic. But ballot initiatives led by the people are. These are undemocratic and democratic systems working simultaneously, and that can change. On principle, democracies are for their people, so they have to change as populations, ideas, and needs change. Democracy is a structure that is supposed to serve all of its people, and to do that it must be of the people. It must be just. Democracy is justice, this I believe.
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LONG-TERM TO-DO LIST to-do list poem Alexander Robinson / junior 1. Discover the Meaning of Life (assuming one exists) 2. Find True Happiness 3. Keep My Faith in Humanity 4. Finally Read the Bible, Quran, and Torah 5. Reach Nirvana 6. Become the President of the United States or Speaker of the House 7. Learn German (again) 8. Travel Abroad (often) 9. Regularly Visit Family (maybe) 10. Visit Outer Space 11. Collect All Seven Dragon Balls 12. Star in a Movie 13. Become a Jedi Master 14. Burn a Math Textbook 15. Destroy All Seven Horcruxes 16. Invent Something Amazing 17. Pass By Gandalf 18. Aim For Thanos’ Head 19. Become a Historian 20. Memorize the Element Song 21. Master the Piano 22. Refine My Roosevelt, Kennedy, and Clinton Impressions 23. Burn the Confederate Battle Flag 24. Finish the 2019 Creative Writing Project (as if that’s ever gonna happen) 25. Faithfully Pursue Justice *Placed in no particular order
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CONNECTED digital graphic Trinity James / junior 11
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GOING IN BLIND short story Natalie Schleikelman / freshman
People always think that being blind means being helpless. They assume that I need help with every little thing, that I can’t do things that everyone else can do. They ask me whether I wish I could see, and tell me I don’t know what I’m missing. And they’re right, I guess. I don’t know what I’m missing. But they’re wrong in thinking that I’m incapable. After today I won’t be “incapable” anymore. I won’t be helpless. After today, I’ll be just like everyone else. “Are you ready?” my mom asks, reaching over to squeeze my hand. I trace the lines on her palm. After the surgery, I’ll be able to see her hand. I wonder whether it will match up with the image in my head of it. That’s one of the things I’m most nervous about. What if the real life things don’t match the images in my head? What if the blue I’ve always imagined is nothing like the real blue? There’s a word for all colors, for sunsets, for all the things I’ve never seen and can never imagine. It’s a word I contemplate often, turning over and over in my head. Ineffable: unable to be expressed or described in words. To me, it describes my entire world. No one can really explain the reality of their world to me, just like I can never really explain my world to them. “Calla?” she prompts, and I realize I’ve zoned out. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply.
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“Having any second thoughts?” she asks. I pause. Am I having second thoughts? “If you are, say it now before it’s too late,” she says. “What if I regret it afterwards?” I ask. “What if without my blindness I’m not myself anymore? What if without blindness I’m a totally different person?” “Honey, you’ll always be yourself. You’re you, no matter whether you can see or not.” She pauses. “If you want to wait, we can.” I’m about to answer when the doctor comes into the room. “We’re ready for you,” the doctor says. “Are you sure the surgery is safe?” my mom asks for the thousandth time since we heard about the surgery, as if she’s hoping the answer will change this time. “We don’t know for sure, ma’am.” the doctor says. “It’s been performed on other patients before and worked, but it will all depend on whether Calla’s body accepts the changes.” Her hand tightens in mine, growing tense. I can practically feel her uneasiness like a heavy blanket and I know she thinks it’s too risky. “It’s your choice, Calla.”
It’s your choice, Calla. I dig my fingernails into my palm. How will I know if I’ve made the right choice? Even if I decide to do the surgery, how do I know it will work? There’s a comfort in what you know, in the safe choice. Blindness is a fact of life for me. It’s all I’ve ever known. What will I be without it? I’ll be able to play soccer and watch the sunset and see the color blue. I’ll be able to do the things I’ve always wished I could. Is the chance worth it? I remember a quote from a book I read once. “Maybe sometimes it’s riskier not to take a risk. Sometimes all you’re guaranteeing is that things will stay the same.” I imagine seeing the sky and fireworks and waterfalls and all the beauty of nature that I’ve always missed out on. I imagine all the things I’ve been told I could never do. “I’m in.”
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PAPA, WHERE ARE YOU? I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE personal essay Jessica Mack / senior
OMNIPOTENT acrylic / charcoal Clare Wislar / senior
My life has changed so much over the past years since we moved my grandfather, my mother’s father, back to Athens from Thomasville, Georgia. My family and I took in my grandfather who is suffering with dementia. Dementia is described by different groups of symptoms such as the affection of memory, thinking, and social abilities. My grandfather has been dealt with dimentia for about ten years now I think, and it has been a struggle. He had two strokes before he moved back here to Athens, and those two caused him to have short-term memory loss, which means if I told him what yesterday was, five minutes later he would have forgotten what I said and would have asked me to repeat what I said about 10 times. As years went by, he started having seizures, and at the time we didn’t know he was having those until his doctor actually saw him have one. My grandfather had so many seizures that we started to know the signs and what to do, but apparently one of those seizures he had a few months ago was not a seizure, it was another stroke. The stroke he had this last time affected his eyesight, and now he’s blind, but the doctor says it can possibly be fixed, which is good. As of now he can’t see, so we have to do everything for him. Doing everything for him means feed him, bathe him, clothe him, and other things as well, which is something new for me because I’m used to him be able to do everything himself. You’re probably wondering where I’m going with this. This is such a transition for me and my family. My grandfather was a very smart man; he was a school teacher and a pretty good one too. He was very well known in this community, everybody knew him as Mr. Hightower or Mr. High for short, the biology teacher. He gave pop quizzes every day, and when you got to the test, you knew everything. One day, one of his former students came up to him at the store and told him thank you, and of course he asked what he had done. The man said, “You’re the reason why I’m a doctor. You made science interesting and easy to understand, so I decided to major in biology and went from there to medical school and I want to thank you.” What that guy said showed how he greatly affected people and changed lives. There are hundreds of others who have similar stories about my grandfather. The sad thing is that he doesn’t and can’t remember anything he taught to those people. Dementia is a dreadful disease that robs its victims and its victims’ families of so much. It’s heartbreaking to see its awful effects. Many times I have seen the hurt and sadness in my mother’s eyes as she is caring for my grandfather. She says he was always her protector, and now she has to take care of and protect him. She always said she didn’t know how she would act when the day came that he would not remember her name, but unfortunately that day has come. There are days when he knows her, and there are days when he simply refers to her as “Ma’am”. I can tell it really bothers her, but it’s the reality of our lives these days. There is no known cure, and to my knowledge, we don’t exactly know what causes the disease. Our main focus now is to make sure he knows we love him, give him the security he needs, especially since his eyesight has gotten worse, and support my mom in her efforts. My grandfather is in good health, it’s just the dementia. The doctor said he doesn’t see anything to keep him from being here many more years. Day by day it is a battle for him, my family, and me as well. All we can do is pray and keep him going and not give up on him. 14
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A SPRING’S WALK sonnet Audrey Kennedy / sophomore Oh, summer is already long enough The spring is a time meant for you to breathe The woods, you have found them awfully tough And your sword you have been made to unsheathe You walk through gnarled vines, fastened into a wreath You pause and rest to whisper to a pond They’re angry whispers, your emotions seethe The water, she listens, but won’t respond You stop in shock, your hateful words have dawned “I really don’t mean to hurt you,” you say Maybe she looks at you (she looks beyond) The water, she smiles and says, “it’s okay” You stand up, “I’ve got to be moving on--” “Long way to go,” and just like that, you’re gone
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pen Z Conley-Mullis / junior
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ILLUMINATE haiku Olivia Ngu / junior
The light shines on us Revealing the best and worst We have to offer
SERENITY photograph Whitley Walter / sophomore
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PLAY PLACE free verse Grace Lang / sophomore
Walking through the forest, to the old play place of our awkward years. Fallen branches, webs and weeds, choke our aging path. Trekking past barriers, soon reaching what we no longer recognize. The resonating sounds of cars as they fly past, the canopy above, they remind us of what once was. But it’s so decayed, so dismal. Hanging branches and tall grass almost completely obscure the bars we hung from, and the beams we balanced on. This was expected, having been years since there was a single thought of this place. My memories, packed away, stacked in the back of my mind, open their folds and start to flow in front of my eyes. We continue to wade through this cutting grass as my memories become vivid and colorful: falling from the metal beam, which ended with a hospital trip and stitches, the never-ending competition to reach the farthest monkey bar, and pushing friends into spider webs that decorated the winding forest.
HER
sculpture Sophie Caillault / sophomore
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This feeling of sadness will fade, and we stop caring what becomes of our old memories. Our individual little boxes will get pushed farther, into a darker and darker corner. We should not forget, the experiences as valuable as these. We should not forget the friends who came with us, even when school and life distance us. Returning to your individual places, conversing with old friends, relishing in these memories. Working our boxes, push after push, back to where we can treasure them. The grave of our play place, finally at rest, an aura of dense woods bringing her peace. Do not forget. Remember your friends, your adventures, the good and even the bad. As a collective, we do not realize her value until it is too late. She brought you joy; do not dispose of what she gave you. 21
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HOW TO ABBREVIATE MYTHS limericks Shea Peters / junior
BAU CI S & PHI L E M ON A humble old couple, deeply in love
I CAR US & D A E D A LU S
Wished to go together to the above
Icarus and Daedalus were trapped above the sea Only wax, feathers, and birds were there to set them free
They were then blessed by Zeus and Hermes And would be turned, when they died, to two trees
Soaring overhead, Icarus took a salty breath But, flying too high, he plummeted to his death
ECHO & NARCISSUS Hera cursed Echo for being a distraction To repeat only others’ words To his reflection Narcissus felt attraction While Echo’s heart went to the birds
PYG M AL I ON & G AL ATE A Pygmalion the sculptor was as cold as his stone ‘Til he fell in love with his marble creation Prayer turned his Galatea to flesh and bone And he worshipped her with adoration
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KARDIA
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(HEART)
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FLY
free verse Flora Lechtreck / senior Spread your wings young one, The sky awaits you, as do the clouds Fly little bird, don’t be so afraid. just take a chance It is worth it, So is life If you fall, We will catch you
A SUMMER POSTCARD photograph Amanda Ochieng / sophomore 26
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PROTEST villanelle Maya Cornish / sophomore
Give people hell, fight for what is right for all; Don’t have a ball with something at stake. Don’t let it go to waste, a worthy brawl. Leave society appalled, Give justice to the snakes. Give people hell, fight for what is right for all. The defenders laying on the ground, sprawled, But soon they shall awake. Don’t let it go to waste, a worthy brawl. The stand for a young girl in Nepal, The protest for free speech in California state. Give people hell, fight for what is right for all. Gay right activists in Stonewall fight back strong and tall, And don’t forget the Birmingham Civil Rights case. Don’t let it go to waste, a worthy brawl.
I GNI TE
Give everyone a chance, even if it’s small; Don’t let humanity be forsaked. Give people hell, fight for what is right for all; Don’t let it go to waste, a worthy brawl.
watercolor Lilli Sams / sophomore 28
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WHY I LOVE AUTUMN personal essay Edmund Davis / senior
The sun rises at 7:30 AM, with the light reflecting off the orange leaves barely hanging on to their mother. Her breath chills the back of my neck warning me of winter’s arrival. A time where farmers reap their plantings from her skin ready to sell at market. A time where children buy costumes while parents buy treats wondering if they will be tricked. A time where people turn in their swimsuits and shorts for jackets and sweaters. A time where my soul comes alive. This time is autumn. Autumn, to me, has always been a time for me where I can feel like the real me compared to seasons like spring and summer. It’s a time where I feel like my inner colors paint the landscape around me. The aggression of red, the energy of orange, the happiness of yellow cover the trees all under the childlike wonder of the blue sky. The leaves descending to join their brothers into a warm blanket that the grass sleeps in. I could wander those magical woods for hours wanting to see what creatures I’ll encounter. The months that make up that season
are also my favorite. September, when students get settled into their schools, and the signs of summer fade away. The UGA football season starts and people crowd into downtown to watch the spectacle of clashing jocks. In October, my second favorite month, behind December, is when the ghouls and ghosts come out. The sun loses its control of the sky as the moon takes over for a while. The fashion trends calls for scarves and long jackets (except if you’re Cardi B) to keep people from catching colds. Then, Halloween arrives. The children turn into their favorite characters as they prance around the streets wanting to get as many treats as they can while some intend to trick rather than treat. Finally, November comes around with family and friends coming together to gather on the connections that we’ve made together through Thanksgiving. Though I love September and October, November is probably the best representation of autumn remembrance and decay. We remember the good times, how we’ve grown and what we’ve done. Like how orange represents
energy and humor, but it also means caution and transformation. The seeds planted in the spring grow to become the pumpkins that we make Jack-olanterns out of. The green trees turn orange and fall to their deaths. All of the warnings for the cold, isolation, and decay of her sister in the coming months. The one thing I love the most about autumn is that it is the setting of one of my fantasy dates. It’s October, I’m sitting in my living room waiting for my boyfriend to come. The skies clear with only a few clouds. Then I hear a truck pull into the driveway and I see a black 2017 Sierra 2500 parked. Then he steps out. A lot of times I change the idea of who this guy is because of variety. Right now, I think of the actor Tom Holland as my boyfriend cause why not. So Tom steps out of the car wearing a blue short sleeve button up, black pants, and Timberland boots. His hair is pushed back like a greaser and his eyes are chestnut like the trees around him. I’m super excited to see him so much I
rush to the door, opening it for him. I hug him tightly as he asks am I ready to go. I nod and we exit my house and into his truck seeing where he’ll take me. After about twenty minutes of driving, we arrive in this park in one of the wood areas. He lets me out of the car like an gentlemen and puts a blindfold on me. We walk for two minutes, and he finally stops me. He takes it off and my eyes are amazed by what he’s done. Lights strung up on the tree limbs like Christmas lights, a big white sheet is hung up with a projector sitting in front of it with a bowl of different candies sit in the middle that wait for us to munch on them. I scream in excitement and kiss him many times for this idea. We sit down on two bean bags as he plays my favorite movie, Fantastic Mr. Fox. During one part though, where Felicite tells Mr. Fox that foxes are meant to live in foxholes, he whispers in my ear “I love you.” The autumn season makes it more enjoyable. I love that feeling of coming out into that autumn world. It is temporary, but it is an amazing sight to see.
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photograph Natalie Ripps / sophomore 30
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BEFORE I LEAVE to-do list poem Kelly Fulford / senior Become a vegetarian Personalize all material items Hang out with people you have always wanted to but never had the courage to approach Grow out your hair Don’t hang onto past relationships Learn the subtle art of not giving a f*ck Numb that stress Improve your productivity Learn how to balance academics and social life Keep your grades at at least a B average Apply for scholarships Be nicer to mom Hang out with Bailey Talk to dad more Stay focused in class Save your money Turn in missing library books Control your emotions Have a more mature social media presence Learn your social security number
I DREW A LINE FOR YOU macrame Emma Scott / freshman 32
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THE SUN AND HER CHILDREN water color / colored pemcil Anastasia Mack / sophomore
F UTURE free verse Bre-Asia Echols / sophomore The decisions you make The opportunities you take Now, will determine where you are in life Never take anything for granted
K.A.
free verse Ashanti Cooper / junior
Life is our hardest test Don’t stress a lot, just go with the flow You will go through trials & tribulations Just keep your head and stay motivated
We giggle all throughout the night Staying up, binge watching Netflix Stuffing our faces with junk food Creating a mess SHHH ! ! ! Your mom tells us to quiet down We resume snickering, holding our tummies because of the laughter Dozing off … Trying to stay up longer than the other We escape to paradise … Our D R E A M S … A night full of imagination and endless possibilities The sun has risen The daylight beams through the cracks of the blinds you have hanging up
Always stay focused Concentration Don’t give up Determination Never settle. Work hard for the better Keep your head up, never let people see your weakness Serenity is important So you can have peace & be free Continuously smile, even when things aren’t going right There’s always a light somewhere in the tunnel It’s always one friend that will be there in the end.
on your window Our round faces scrunch up The sun rays are too much for our soft brown eyes 34
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PEACH pastel Avery Ray / senior
SHE IS BURIED AMONG THE HILLS personal essay Andrew Caldwell / senior
She is buried among the hills, glistening hills, a dazzling, dazzling green. She is buried alongside rows upon rows of luscious, swaying white ash and silver birch trees. She is buried in the sunlight, a warm and simple spot. The ground, once soaked with tears, now sprouts the most gorgeous flowers and ferns. The ground where she lays, once a mere mound of dirt sticking out of the ground like a pimple, is now sunken in, as if declaring what happened to her is real and never going away. There is a firmness about the area that is both comforting and heartbreaking. Those who visit, their hearts can’t take this damage, their souls shattered, their knees broken, their bodies bruised, permanently marked by these scars, these beautiful scars of having known this girl. Those who visit, they sense this freedom, this absence of fear. 36
This land is calm. God is there. She is there; a fierce, fierce friend, true until the end. The stingingly sweet smell of freshly mown grass, like peppermint, sticks in the back of one’s throat, the heavy buzzing of flies, the humming of crickets, the vastness of these hills and headstones is stunning. The fire ants crawl in between the grass blades, stumbling over each other, blithely unaware of who they stroll over every dewy morning or what stories these lands are ingrained with. There is a slight trickle of moving water that echoes in the soft breeze, soft like plush on one’s skin, soft on the shoulders who already carry the burden of grief. Distant sounds of cars passing on the freeway do not disrupt the beauty in this area. A blanket of white stones and pebbles, all with messages written on them, drape over her, shielding her. Seashells and bouquets of flowers and confetti pepper the ground. Fawn and doe frolic, birds soar overhead; the world is truly quiet here. It is unreal how everything, even time itself, stops, and there’s this incredible stillness, peacefulness, that is unbelievably picturesque. It is heavenly, so perfect, so separated from the rest of the city, as if in another world. She sleeps peacefully there, no one to disturb her, no sounds but birdsong and the rumbling of passing cars, the land soft and steady, as if in a dream.
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THE BLUE CUP short story Lucy Yeomans / junior
I woke just as the grey light of dawn was beginning to suffuse the sky. It gently flooded through the windows of my room, whispering of the approaching sunrise. I quietly rose out of bed and softly walked to the living room, where tall glass windows allowed the light into the house more completely. I sat down on a sofa near the windows and watched the sky. The light of the sun was giving the wispy, insubstantial clouds a pink and orange glow even though the sun itself hadn’t risen over the horizon. Soon, though, the blinding circle peeped above the distant trees and houses. I took in the stunning beauty quietly, soaking in the wonder of this unique sunrise that I would never have the opportunity to see again. The rays of light reached through the windows to reveal a new beauty and glow in everything within the house; spoons and forks set out on the table became shining stars, and chairs and sofas became imperial thrones. Upon the shelves, every knick-knack became an object of awe. As the sun continued its ascent, the glorious rays lit
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upon something I hadn’t given a thought for many years. Its irregular glass caught the light and threw it about the room in blue specks. I thought back on the significance of this object that could scatter the morning light in such a spectacular way. It was only a cup - a small, blue, five-cent cup, but it wakened old memories. I remembered the day I bought it. It was in June of 1945 at the end of the second world war, or at least after Germany had surrendered. I was only seven at the time. We were celebrating in our coastal city of Brunswick, Georgia. Celebrating the end of the war. Celebrating the end of the air raids. Most of all, we were celebrating the end of the fear. “Come here, Jo!” My mother’s sweet southern accent would cut through the sound of the sirens ringing in my ears. My heart would pound fast and hard in my ears at the sound of those sirens and fears of bad men flying above me intending to blow up me and all I knew would fill my young mind. “Come on, Jo, help me pull down the shades!” We pulled down the black shades and turned off
the lights to help hide Brunswick in the dark of the night from bombers. Households across the city were reacting in a similar way, eliminating any lights that could help the bombers take aim. Sometimes the sirens were only drills, but sometimes there were really planes overhead. We never knew which was happening. My father wasn’t usually home for the alarms. He worked in the shipyard many nights to build Liberty Ships - cargo ships to support the Allied Powers in the war. “Will Daddy be okay?” I would ask my mother nervously. “Yes, honey. Don’t you worry, we’ll all be alright,” she would answer with a kiss on my head. We did make it through alright, and the whole city was celebrating it with parades in an atmosphere of joyous relief. The war was over, there was no longer anything to fear! I walked through the city with my father that clear, sunny day, the faces of everyone I saw seeming to glow with happiness. “Jo, why don’t we go in that store there and pick you out
something nice, for the end of the war,” he said. “Thanks, Daddy!” I smiled, my face lighting up. He was a kind, gentle father, but we weren’t able to buy things very often. We walked in the store and I picked out a small blue cup from the five-cent shelf. There was no fanfare or dramatic lights, but I knew that cup was worth more than five cents to me. “Isn’t it pretty?” I said, holding up the cup for him to see. “It sure is,” he beamed. He lifted me up and swung me around and delivered a happy kiss on my forehead. The cup was bought and the war was over. It held a place of honor on a shelf at home, and continued to throughout my life. I returned to the present, where the blue cup still sat on its shelf. The sun had climbed beyond the point of throwing its rays into the house, but it was destined to be a beautiful day. Just as the sun rises beautifully and hopefully each day, the sun had risen again for me and many others on that day in the wake of the fear in the second world war.
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AS I’VE WALKED THROUGH MY CITY AGAIN free verse Nasia Greer / sophomore One night out in the rain, I walked through my city again. The city caught my eye, As I stood in the street to cry. It called me back from far away, To stand here again from night to day. Through the dark I found myself in silence, Taking in the confidence. Kept feeling like I belong, Savored in hearing the city’s song. It took a long time to get here, No trouble, no problems, no crime, no fear. Everyone knew your name, And everyone was treated the same. There was nothing to repair because there was nothing broken, We cared for them as if they were tokens. The city was always in balance, From a view there was always acceptance. Sometimes there’s drama and we often put up walls, But they come crashing down like waterfalls. No one was ever considered to be a mirror image, Or designed to be painted beige. There is a celebratory of various types, Because there are many magnificent, marvelous stripes. One night out in the rain, I walked through my city again. As the city caught my eye, This was my home that I will always abide by. 40
ANATOMICAL CURVES cardstock sculpture Connor Allen / freshman 41
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EVERY DAY short story Elena Gilbertson Hall / junior
I sit on the same street corner each day, the monotony slowly draining me. Each morning, I awake before anyone else, covered in a thin layer of frost and smelling the crisp icy air. Slowly I begin to see the world wake up. Hundreds of business women, heels clicking the pavement, balancing coffees and briefcases, pass me as they hurry to their corporate job. Over the years of watching them I have seen their eyes begin to lose spark, clouding over more each day as they begin to accept their involvement in corrupt, wealthy America. I see girls, heels in hand, hobbling down the sidewalk in their dresses from the night before. Their eyes dart across the street, hoping they won’t meet a familiar face. I am often used as a barrier between these girls and the eyes of their judgemental acquaintances -- but I’m okay with that. At least I can help someone. I am passed by hundreds of joggers more focused on their destination than their path. I can see the sweat beading on their forehead, falling to the ground and leaving their burdens as stains on the pavement next to me. Every night I see groups of friends laughing and stumbling down the street, heartbroken individuals wanting to sink into the sidewalk, couples holding hands and smiling like they can’t see anything except each other, and down-on-theirluck drunks running into me and leaving without apologizing. My street corner holds a microcosm of humankind. When I first arrived, I was 42
in awe of the world around me and the people in it. After 12 years in the same spot, the excitement has dissipated and nothing surprises me anymore. Or, I should say, nothing surprised me until November 25. It began like every other Sunday -the smells of cinnamon rolls and freshly roasted coffee rode on the morning breeze, taunting me. Fog rolled over the city, settling down in the comfort of the streets and circling me with its cold fingers. First, I heard the click-clack, clickclack of heels. Second, I smelled perfume. It was a subtly floral scent … maybe jasmine? Then I saw a stranger walking towards me. Nothing about her was different from the thousands of women that pass me daily, except that she was looking straight at me. No averted gaze, no head in the clouds or eyes on the ground. She was looking at me. When she reached me, she stopped. The world seemed to be in limbo around us: the wind had paused along with its morning smells and chilly fog. I couldn’t hear cars or people or the world. Then she spoke. “I’ve walked past you every day for the past two years,” the woman said. Funny -- I don’t remember seeing her before. Perhaps I was as lost in my head as the crowds walking by me. “I’ve seen you covered in snow, surrounded by leaves, dusted by rain, glittering in the sun,” she said. “And I’ve never stopped to say hello.”
I couldn’t respond but she didn’t expect me to. “Every day I walk to the bakery, pick up my coffee, and walk to work. And every day I see you, and every day I keep walking.” “What I guess I’m trying to say,” she glanced up at me, and I saw she had the spark in her eyes that I had seen drained from so many others. “Is that I’m sorry.” She reached up and pulled a leaf off my shoulder, took off her scarf and used it to wipe off the years of grime, and sprayed me with her almost-but-notquite-fancy perfume. Definitely jasmine. I didn’t only feel clean, I felt seen. For the first time in 12 years, I wasn’t just an obstacle on the road, I was something worth stopping for. My eyes shone a little brighter. “Hey girl! Why you talking to a lamppost? You crazy?” the baker had stuck his head out of his shop, feeling some inexplicable need to interfere in the interactions of others. The woman smiled at me and continued down the street. Click-clack, click-clack. Every day since November 25 I listen eagerly for the click of her heels, the scent of jasmine, the eyes of a person who is watching instead of dreaming. And every day we exchange glances, a subtle recognition of each other’s existence. A reminder that, although we know nothing about each other, for a moment we exist on this street corner together.
REACH
photograph Avery Sepesi / junior 43
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RAINBOW
song Cullen Pynn / Moss Ivy / Parker Dillard / Thomas Evans / Roan O’Reilly I could paint a rainbow But all the colors would be blue I could watch the world glow But my eyes are fixed on you Help me see that I’m not alone Help me see that there’s someone in my life Help me see that I love you Cause there’s no rainbow tonight
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pencil / marker / pen Z Conley-Mullis / junior
Why do I feel so alone I’m waiting on my own What is all of this sorrow Waiting for to...
Why do I feel so alone I’m waiting on my own
Why do I feel so alone I’m waiting on my own
What is all of this sorrow Waiting for to...
What is all of this sorrow Waiting for tomorrow
I could paint a rainbow But all the colors would be blue I could watch the world glow But my eyes are fixed on you
RADIATE LIGHT
Help me see that I love you Cause there’s no rainbow tonight
I feel so alone I’m waiting on my own What is all of this sorrow Waiting for to-
Help me see that I’m not alone Help me see that there’s someone in my life 47
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GHOST acrylic Ashley Lawrence / senior
HOW
free verse Elliot Moon / sophomore
comment pourrait-il encore aimer quelqu’un comme moi? je suis trop cassé trop vicié trop moche à l’intérieur
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LIMITE BEAUTY photograph Daniel Victoria De Paz / senior 50
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BLACK HOLE free verse Kenny Angeles / junior
I’m at the bottom of a black hole. It’s dark and I can’t see a way out. I wander. Just when it seems that I’ve found my way out, I fall back to the bottom again, bumps and bruises more painful than before. I no longer believe in anything. I’m here waiting for whatever happens to happen. I am that broken doll that can’t be fixed because there is that one missing piece. Lost, nowhere to be found. There is a mask everyone uses once in a while. I use it often. The mask lies. It tells a different story than what’s really going on. As I frown, it smiles. Hate. Many people say hate is a strong word, but hatred is everywhere. You can’t trust anyone. Everyone is out to stab you in your back when you
DEEP IN THE DEPTHS digital graphic Vanessa Munoz / senior
least expect it. Happiness is the only thing I desire. Old, young, rich, or poor, everyone wants to be happy. I see happiness as a drug. It’s hard to find, and leaves you with an urge for more.
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YOUR FAULT monologue Shea Peters / junior
squashed, as was I when you stored me in that tupperware container. When that orange lid came down, toxic and synthetic against my natural colors, I felt the claustrophobia for the first time.
Hello, Shea. It’s me. Your grapefruit. I’ve been sitting in your fridge drawer for some time now, nearly a month by my count. You were so enthusiastic when you bought me in that alpine grocery store. I imagined as you took me out of the plastic grocery bag and placed me in that cool fridge bottom that I would be there until the next morning, as you claimed. I envisioned the scene: perhaps I would be peeled and consumed on the porch of your Asheville cabin. Hell, I even thought about being juiced. I saw your sleep-fuzzed morning bed head peek into the refrigerator, my excitement growing as you reached toward me and exposed my golden rind to the scenic expanse of your AirBNB kitchenette. You held the knife and I was glad to share my tangy juices with you -- all part of a healthy breakfast!
Have you ever felt that closed in? I bet you haven’t. I came home with you, I felt the jostling of your car as you drove, felt the sway of the body around the corners, almost wished for the balance to shift. For you to fall, to be exposed as I had. Almost. When we arrived at your home, you placed me back in to the fridge, and you forgot about me. But I didn’t forget. I trusted you. I gave you my body. My flesh and juice vesicles were ripe. I can’t forgive you, though I long to, because damn it if that’s not what I was designed for. My genes spliced unnaturally. I fault that infallible breeder for my lot. Though truly, you’re to blame. I wanted my journey through life, but you’ve stalled it. Even now, I know I decay. You are responsible for my life unlived. You are to blame.
I understood when you only ate one half of me. After all, there were eggs and toast cooking. I thought maybe you intended to share me; I know you offered me up, free dibs. I was only mildly offended. Had I not been tasty enough to warrant protection? But I shook it off. I suspected something might be wrong when you tipped me upside down, still dripping juice, into that bowl. I remember how icy the porcelain felt against my exocarp, how dark the fridge was when you closed that fated door in my face. The next day, you took me out and I again had hope, but it was 54
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SURREAL PORTRAITS oil paint on wood Clare Wislar / senior 56
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TORRENT SEA free verse Cassie Jackson / junior
Against the hull, frothy waves pull and red blooms across the horizon Time seems to sway in a lull unaware, not ready for what rises in The sea grows in depth and loneliness white sails snap as shadows loom The pirate ship, lively and gleaming, not yet erroneous believes the one man vessel has met its doom The tiny captain dives across the deck braids flying and hands in action The ship answering her every beck protruding cannons is the pirate’s reaction A battle commences between the brave and the small they will feel her rage in their nervous sweat The sea will execute her furied call the privateers will pay their debt Clouds fly and darken as a storm begins to broil a hulking creature darkens the surface for a mile Ships dip and crushing swells roil the captain raises her swords with a smile The kraken emerges and drags the ship down its tentacles descending, masts disappearing Pirates yell and fight to float, some begin to drown singing rings across as mermaids start appearing
THE PASSION OF SELF digital graphic Kalib Hubbard / senior
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Soon everything is quiet, ‘cept for shifting shining surf silver swords splay sun across an empty sky Our formidable captain stands tall to survey her turf wondering where her bowspirit may poke God’s eye
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BROKEN BONDS free verse Kourntey Mitchum / senior
He would always buy her things Designer clothes,diamond earrings They were really close She was the one he chose She would talk, but didn’t feel heard She couldn’t sleep she would twist and turn Time went on and things got worse Out of all his children she was the first He was out of her life for four years Over those years she cried many tears She felt like she had been misguided But she could never talk to him about it He finally came home and she was happy She didn’t know what would happen She loved him more than anyone But the pain she was feeling felt like a ton Time? She never got that The worries they sat It still hasn’t gotten better She has to get her thoughts together She has to forgive him because she loves him The relationship is like a broken limb She has to dust it off and remember the good memories from when she was a toddler This broken relationship between father and daughter.
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DISCONNECT
collage / watercolor Graham Collins / senior
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LIVING IN BLACK AMERICA free verse Edrin Summerour / senior
MOONLIGHT dramatic portraiture Emma Ramsay / senior
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Ni**as got to do what they got to do Momma crying saying son I love you Daddy doing a life sentence So ain’t too much he can do We was kids screaming Momma where was the food She was on the corner Fiending for that new drug Asked God every night God what should I do He said son don’t worry I got you I couldn’t help it so I had to do what I had to do So I was out past my curfew Trying get it like my homeboys Selling crack out my old hood People asked me why I did it I said I’m trying make sure my momma good Them cold nights started to feel like hell Told my brother f*ck this sh*t these policies send me to jail So don’t ask me why I’m out here selling my soul I have no option That’s the route I choose Let that air blow Cause ain’t heaven for a hood Ni**a So we out committing sins Like we ain’t finna die Ni**a So goodbye, I’ll be in the sky Watching over me, asking God why 63
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graphite Tomas Dougan / sophomore
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ABOUT US
EDITORIAL BOARD
T
he iliad Literary-Art Magazine serves as an open forum for the students of Clarke Central High School to express themselves. Under the guidance of a faculty advisor, the iliad collects and showcases writing, art, photography and any other creative work. The goal of the iliad is to create a diverse body of work from CCHS students and rising freshmen from our feeder schools. Throughout the school year we gather submissions from Clarke Central students. This work is then compiled into a cohesive magazine to display and highlight student work.
Beatrice Acheson Editor-in-Chief
Coles Ehlers Managing Editor
Georgia Blue Simmons Visuals Director
Rebekah Camp Writing Director
Lucy Hines Outreach Director
David Ragsdale Advisor
The iliad staff censors certain elements of submitted artwork that could be seen as profane or obscene. We make the decision to censor in a way that does not take away from the significance of the work. The iliad staff along with the advisor uses discretion when choosing material to publish. The choices of the iliad do not represent the views of Clarke Central High School and its administration nor the official guidelines for Clarke County School District publications.
ANATOMIA Acrylic Avery Ray, senior
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STAFF
The 2019 iliad staff met once weekly throughout the year to collect submissions from students across the school. In addition to collecting submissions, staff members participated in creative writing and artwork based activities during meetings. This created content for the magazine as well. Pictured below from left to right; back row: Rebekah Camp, Coles Ehlers, Alex Robinson, Tomas Dougan; middle row: Jocelyn Ray, Clementine Acheson, Grace Lang; front row: Lucy Hines, Beatrice Acheson, Georgia Blue Simmons. Not pictured: Rianna’ Pearson.
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FRIENDS OF THE
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platinum $100
Barbara Boone Jennifer Macdonald Robert Fecho Pauline Hines JoBeth Allen Athens Orthopedic Clinic Last Resort Grill Kecia Thomas home.made John Campbell Mary Garrison Orley Sims
diamond $300 Burtis Downs REPUBLIC Salon Troy Coleman Steven Hines Maxine Easom 5 Points Psychiatry John Campbell Abby Brendel
gold $50 silver $25 Peter Smagorinsky Denise Spangler Marian Wilder Jolin Conine
Rinne Allen Kathy Acheson Kristy Mayfield Rachel Gabara Kimberly Klownowski Jodi Bolgla Bryan Barks
special thanks to: Juana Gnecco Lorinda Crane Marion Montgomery Bertis Downs
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bronze $10 Grayson Frasier Pynn Alanis Espinosa Janet Frick Sharon Pendley Amanda Wilson
INDEX Allen, Connor Anatomical Curves 41 Angeles, Kenny Black Hole 53 Caillault, Sophie Her 21 Caldwell, Andrew She is Buried Among the Hills 36 Collins, Graham Disconnect 61 Conley-Mullis, Z Patterned Paths 17 Radiate Light 46 Cooper, Ashanti K.A. 34 Cornish, Maya Protest 29 Davis, Edmund Why I Love Autumn 30 Dillard, Parker Rainbow 47 Echols, Bre-Asia Future 35 Evans, Thomas Rainbow 47 Fulford, Kelly Before I Leave 32 Gilbertson Hall, Elena Every Day 42 Greer, Nasia As I’ve Walked Through My City Again 40 Hubbard, Kalib The Passion of Self 58
Ivy, Moss Rainbow 47 Jackson, Cassie Torrent Sea 59 James, Trinity Connected 11 Kennedy, Audrey A Spring’s Walk 17 Lang, Grace Play Place 21 Lawrence, Ashley Ghost 49 Lechtreck, Flora Fly 27 Mack, Anastasia The Sun and Her Children 34 Mack, Jessica Papa, Where are you? I know you’re in there 14 Mitchum, Kourtney Broken Bonds 60 Moon, Elliot How 48 Munoz, Vanessa Deep in the Depths 52 Ngu, Olivia Illuminate 19 O’Reilley, Roan Rainbow 47 Ochieng, Amanda A Summer Postcard 26 Peters, Shea How to Abbreviate Myths 22 Grapefruit 54
Pynn, Cullen Rainbow 47 Ramsay, Emma Moonlight 62 Ray, Avery Peach 36 Ripps, Natalie Mist 30 Robinson, Alexander Long Term To-Do List 10 Sams, Lilli Ignite 28 Schleikelman, Natalie Going in Blind 12 Sepesi, Avery Reach 43 Summerour, Edrin Living in Black America 63 Upchurch, Katie Grace Democracy is Justice 8 Victoria De Paz, Daniel Limite Beauty 50 Walter, Whitley Serenity 18 Wislar, Clare Omnipotent 15 Surreal Portraits 56 Yeomans, Lucy Blue Cup 38
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COLOPHON iliad headlines were printed in Dubiel. Bylines were printed in Dubiel Italic. All copy was printed in Gravity Book. The inside cover features a digital graphic by Beatrice Acheson. The Table of Contents features artwork by Clare Wislar, Sophie Caillault, Shea Peters and Z Conley-Mullis. The Kardia section divider is a digital graphic by Clare Wislar titled, “The Garden”. The Myalo section divider is an acrylic painting by Shea Peters and includes digital elements. The Entero section divider is a photograph by Trinity James. The staff headshots and group photo were taken by Kelly Fulford. Last year’s edition, Equilibrium, received the following awards from Columbia Scholastic Press Association: The 2018 Clarke Central iliad Literary-Art Magazine rated a Gold Medalist designation in the Columbia Scholastic Press Association’s Scholastic Literary Magazine Critique for 2019. Overall, the publications received 960/1000 points and received All-Columbian Honors for Essentials, Verbal, and Visual. The iliad received the following awards from the Georgia Scholastic Press Association: The 2018 iliad Literary-Art Magazine was rated All-Georgia Literary Magazine in recognition of outstanding achievement in scholastic journalism, 2017-18. The 2018 iliad Literary-Art Magazine received a Superior evaluation in the 2017-18 Literary Magazine competition of the Georgia Scholastic Press Association. The magazine scored 115/120 possible points. The 2018 iliad Literary-Art Magazine was rated General Excellence Literary Magazine in recognition of outstanding achievement in scholastic journalism, 2017-18. The iliad received the following awards from the Scholastic International Press Association: 2018 Scroggins Award, Literary Magazine: iliad Literary-Art Magazine. 2018 All-Southern: iliad Literary-Art Magazine. The iliad publishes short stories, editorials, articles, essays, poetry, art, photography, and other forms of creative works from students of all grades attending Clarke Central High School in Athens, Ga. in addition to accepting submissions from 8th graders from the two CCHS Feeder schools, CMS and BHL. The goal of the iliad is to encourage the creation of writing and artwork within our school community, and to provide a way for students to be involved in publication and journalistic processes. It is iliad policy to not publish explicit language where it may appear in submitted work. Censorship of explicit language follows guidelines similar to a “TV-14” rating. Submissions containing profanity are edited appropriately and with the consent of the creator. We are so grateful to everyone who submitted work for the 2018-19 issue of the iliad and to the community for their support in this endeavor. 70