iliad Literary-Art Magazine, Vol. 50

eudaimonia

iliad Literary-Art Magazine · Volume 50 · Clarke Central High School

eudaimonia

Dedicated with love to Jennifer Frost, Claude Gonzalez and Chris Sugiuchi

2025-2026

Published April 28, 2026

Clarke Central High School 350 S. Milledge Avenue Athens, GA 30605

Student enrollment: 1804 Faculty: 118

Phone: 706-357-5200, EXT 17370

iliadlt@odysseynewsmagazine.net www.iliadmag.com

Theme Letter

Dear reader,

The theme for the 50th edition of the iliad is “Eudaimonia” — a word of Greek origin defined as the fulfillment of a meaningful life through authentic self-realization and human flourishing. This theme is inspired by the passage of time, using the development of human life as a metaphor for the creative process.

“Eudaimonia” includes four subsections, each reflecting different stages of life through written and visual pieces. These sections are “Genesis,” “Ephebosune,” “Helikia” and “Kleos.”

The magazine begins with “Genesis,” representing the beginning of life and the origin of a creative idea: the source, the initial drive to create something. This section features pieces that explore childhood, family life and memories.

Next is “Ephebosune,” which represents teenage and transitional years as well as the trials and tribulations you go through to create. Pieces that invoke intensity, adversity, and the becoming of one’s life are presented in this section.

Then “Helikia” represents reaching maturity, along with the soundness and stature that define this stage of life where a person can fully thrive and have a sense of completion in their creative process. This section explores feelings of security, confidence and joy in featured pieces.

The final section, “Kleos,” showcases pieces that explore good memories, connections with loved ones and the legacy that we leave behind. It represents the way creativity shapes inspiration for future projects and the impact that we have on each other through our lived experiences.

The time in our lives is limited and it’s important to reflect on development in ourselves and in what we create. Through “Eudaimonia,” we hope to illustrate the ebb and flow of a fulfilling life through written and visual pieces to encourage readers to continue to

Editor’s Note

Dear reader,

Welcome to the 2026 edition of the iliad, “Eudaimonia.” This year marks a significant milestone for our publication: our 50th issue.

“Eudaimonia” is a Greek word that means finding fulfillment in life by practicing one’s values and carrying out one’s purpose. This theme is a tribute to our 50th anniversary, reflecting on the decades our publication has served the Clarke Central High School community. Through the subsections presented, we pay homage to the 50 magazines that our publication has produced and how our publication has grown over time.

Since the iliad’s re-founding in 2001, our organization has strived to continuously uplift the creative voices of the CCHS student and faculty population, as well as students of our feeder middle schools. Our Editorial Board is grateful for the continued support from the CCHS community and administration and members of the Athens community. We are proud to showcase another year of our school’s creativity, and look forward to continuing our legacy as a program.

It’s important to me that high school students have the opportunity to exercise their free speech and have the platform to express themselves creatively. I have been grateful to have the opportunity to help provide students with this outlet, no matter their grade, race, gender, sexual orientation or ethnicity.

Stepping into leadership for this program in such an important year was a daunting task. It came with many challenges, but it was a truly gratifying experience through the fulfillment I’ve received from collaboration with the artists in our community and the personal growth I have gained.

The creation of “Eudaimonia” wouldn’t have been possible without the commitment and support of the iliad’s Editorial Board, our adviser and refounder David A. Ragsdale and all of the artists and writers who contributed to the magazine.

I am so excited to share this magazine with my friends, family and the CCHS community. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy “Eudaimonia.”

Margo McDaniel, Editor-in-Chief

helikia

genesis

origin · source · beginning

photographs

Where I’m From

free verse poem

Meg Vanderbilt // faculty

I am from Old Town

The old Acadian cottage

On the corner of Teddy and Fourth

The one with the big sycamore tree out front

Vibrantly green

Smelling spicy

Impossible to climb

I am from the Gulf

The little house

With scenes of duck hunts on the walls

Where I snacked on the honeysuckle

That climbed the fence

Where I looked every day for a secret key

Where my grandmothers built their dreams

Away from the men who hurt them

I am from the Bait Shop

Where Daddy stopped to chat

On the way to the river

And the men drank too much too early in the day

I’m from the Old Front Porch

Where I learned to say “we needed this”

To thank God for the rain

To say “bless yur heart” and mean it

I am from the A-frame

Where the bears roamed the mountainside

And I could breathe

I am from the Big Easy

Where dreams are dreamt

And homes are flooded

Where I lost my mind, myself

I’m from the swamp

Where grandma lived

And where my heart belongs

I am from the oak trees

And Cypress knees

From the land of pet alligators

And stinging horse flies

And Spanish moss dangling from trees

Grey and wise and eternal

I am from “watch out for water moccasins”

And “get down from that tree”

And “put those turtles back”

I’m from the bayou choked in water hyacinth

And covered in mosquito bites

From an afternoon spent in the pirogue

With the cousins

I’m from Grandma’s kitchen

Where she taught me

How to make beans on Mondays

Because Mondays are washing days

And beans are perfect

I am from the little house on Cedar Creek

The one where the street curves to the left

And the deer walk through the front yard

Without a thought

Where the ridge rises high above the roof

And the owls talk back and forth at dusk

I am from our house

The one we built together

You and me

IBaking Brotherhood

personal essay

Dream Freeman // 12

t has been six years since Mom passed away. Every year, Easter feels heavy on the family, close to the anniversary of her passing. In this time, I have grown to rely on my family.

My brother Ja’Darian and I always clash heads. There’s never a dull nor a non-competitive moment between us as the only two boys in the family. We’re very different, but very alike at the same time. Growing up, all I ever heard was, “I hope you’re not like your brother,” whether that was in school or just family joking around. But I wondered why they would say that, because couldn’t they clearly see that we’re two different people? Not the same hair, not the same body type and most definitely not the same character: two completely different people.

time, we were playing indoor basketball on my mini-hoop when he bodied me into the wall and I had the biggest knot on my head for three days. The rivalry between us started to grow, like LeBron James versus Stephen Curry.

“...couldn’t they clearly see that we’re two different people?”

My brother and I have war stories, like the time we were playing football together and he sprained my ankle. Once, we were fighting and he broke my finger. Another

Some people may say I’m a tough cookie, but that’s not me. I’m more like a well-structured cake: not perfect, but still great because greatness is the goal. When I say this cake was built off of effort, I also mean this cake was built off of toughness and competitiveness. One thing I can say about this crazy relationship with my brother is that it has built me. It took me a minute to realize that after I lost my mom, but my brother helped me cope. Whether it was through a friendly game of basketball, that somehow turned into a game of football, that then somehow turned into a boxing match, he kept my mind off the thought of my deceased mother. For that, I say thank you, Ja’Darian, for helping bake this cake.

Show Pony

mixed media sculpture

Jane Baker // 12

Reaching Out

The Polished History quatrains

Ay’anna Presley // 12

In the quiet dining room hush, it casts a shadow

A sentinel of stories only silence and great grandma know Glass doors gleam with a watchful eye

Mirroring moments that never die

Shiny plates press closely in pride

Their painted petals refuse to hide

Cups and bowls placed gently, their rims aligned Whispering wonders of lives intertwined

Silver spoons shimmer with secrets they keep Cradling echoes that refuse to sleep

Bowls breathe softly, their beauty profound

Fragile vessels where memories are bound

The cabinets are wood, both sturdy and worn

Weathered with the weight of generations born

It hinges on hymns, humming a song

Holding the heart where we belong

Not just furniture, but a faithful friend Its purpose and patience will never end For within its frame, our family resides

A living legacy where our love abides

A Spotted Satsuma

limericks

Samaya Ellis // 12

A bucket of oranges, ripe and mature

An orange is picked from the bucket, withered, but pure

The skin is soft, although it’s raw

Peeled back for the first time, like cuts from a claw

When revealed to the world, the sun soaks in the blood orange allure

A singular satsuma, basking in the sun’s glow

The sun, afraid the others will know

A pitiful whisper leaves the bucket

An orange yearns for someone to pluck it

The satsuma is full of hope, yet ready for the final blow

Twelve O’Clock Recess

series of haikus

Jay Braswell // 10

My peers call to me, “Come play with us on the swings!” I walk to the slide I sit all alone

Staring at the slide’s steep drop I do not go down

A new voice appears,

“I’m too scared to go down, too.”

A friend meets my eyes

Thank You, Marantz

open letter

Olive Forrester // 9

Dear

Marantz,

I wanted to say thank you.

You’ve seen it all. You really have. You’ve lived such a life. 53 years. Yet, you still make the time for me and Dad.

Do you remember all the Christmases we’ve spent together? We’d always play Nat King Cole or Elvis’ Christmas album. I’d prance around in front of you, opening all the gifts, waiting for Dad to tell me to go flip the record.

I’d always paint with you. Jim Croce was our favorite. I’d sit and listen while the watercolor dripped all over the table, making its own pretty painting.

Then, Dad got back into his jazz obsession. We’d all get together for dinner and listen to something new each night. Sometimes it was Charles Mingus. Sometimes it was John Coltrain. He would always set the record sleeve on top of you so we could see what you were playing.

with another family. Perhaps they got you brand new, but I’m still glad Dad stumbled across you at that antique store.

Oh, gosh. There I go again. Rambling. You know that I ramble.

I guess that’s what I wanted to say thank you for. Somehow, you’ve always known how to listen. You’ve always known what to say, or rather, play. You’re so good at listening because you have to listen to yourself all the time.

The point is, I always know that I can go to you. You’re always there for me. Through every high and low. But not just me… Dad, too, which leads me to my next thank you.

“...I always know that I can go to you. You’re always there for me.”

You haven’t even realized it, but you’ve brought me and Dad together. You’ve given us something in common. Something to talk about. Even if it’s not us talking, we’d sit together and do work while listening to you.

Dad made sure that you were taken care of properly.

“Be careful.”

“Are your hands clean?”

“Be gentle,” he would say. He showed me how to care for your things, too. Dad and I would spend days together as he taught me everything to know about you. Like where you came from, and how to clean you.

Then, I got into Mazzy Star. I would sit in that record room just as I did as a child, listening to my very own records, not just the ones from Dad. I listened intently, fascinated by you.

So old, yet so young. As selfish as it sounds, I am jealous of the life you had before me and Dad. I know that you once got to spend your days

You’ve allowed me to grow into my own personality. You’ve listened to every record I wanted to play. You’ve helped me learn all about music and the depth that encompasses it. You’ve intrigued me to want to play my own things - to know what I like.

I won’t keep you long. I know you’ve got better records to turn. Thank you for all you’ve done.

You’ve been a pretty good record player.

Love, Olive

P.S. I forgot to mention: thank you for watching me grow up.

e

ephebosune adolescence · transition · cusp

A 16-year-old’s Guide to Adulthood

satire

Liya Taylor // 11

welcome! By purchasing this guide, you have taken the first proper step to prepare for adulthood, which everyone knows begins promptly at age 16, not a second later. So, get ready, it’s time to optimize your teenage years before they expire.

Step 1: The foundation

By 16, there are things you must already have planned: an intended major, a backup major, a double major, and three safety minors. Remember, if you don’t have your exact career picked out by junior year, colleges will assume you lack any direction or ambition in life.

Step 2: Your brand

A 16 year-old with no brand is a ghost. What do you stand for? What are your talents? Why haven’t you started to make money off of your hobbies yet? So, pick an aesthetic, even if it feels nothing like your own personality. Commit and abandon everything else. Authenticity is optional, but consistency is not.

Step 3: Choose a college

The average teenager might not know how to do taxes, cook a chicken or fold a fitted sheet, but they should absolutely be expected to make a $100,000 decision while running on cafeteria pizza.

To pick your college, ensure two things: a prestigious name and a pamphlet with diverse smiles. Under no circumstances, choose something you like, something affordable, or something that would allow you to have any more than four hours of sleep a night. How else will you grow?

Step 4: Prepare for the workforce

It is essential you obtain real world experience by working internships so competitive that they require a five page minimum resume, three professional references and a DEEP passion for ___.

If you cry during your interview, you will be considered emotionally immature, but if you smile too much, you’re unprofessional. Find the perfect balance by emotionally disassociating.

Step 5: Why?

Your youth is not for wasting, exploring, or, God forbid, having fun. Irresponsible behavior includes reading a book you like, going outside, taking a nap and enjoying yourself. Every moment should be curated into a future you choose.

Final thoughts: The end

Sure, you’re only sixteen, but in the eyes of society, you are essentially an adult. You must act fast. Optimize every second and don’t blink. If you dare waste your youth, you might accidentally enjoy it.

And where’s the productivity in that?

e

Infallible Capability

free verse poem

Bella Ramirez // 11

If what I say ruins the day, should I be quiet? If what unfolds turns into mold, should I be silent?

You seem not to listen to me because a woman is only to see. Do my big brown eyes offend you? Does my chest transcend you? What would happen if I were noiseless, with no sense of mind and only voiceless? Would that change your point of view?

Would I still be misconstrued, or should I just not listen to you?

The House That Wasn’t Home

personal essay

Issac Bird *Author wished to remain anonymous

There’s this old house I used to know. The familiar scent clung to the walls, calling me close and pulling me in. The same scenery kept flashing through my mind, rooms I had walked through, corners I had cried in. A place I once called home, even though it never truly felt like one.

Whenever things seemed to be going well, that house came alive and started pushing me around. Not just yelling or insults, but also pressure, with silence, with the weight of everything I was expected to carry. I would sit in that quiet, wondering why, asking myself what I had done wrong, what I could’ve done differently to make things better, just so I could feel “at home” again.

The cycle continued until one day I got tired of blaming myself. Home began to drain the life out of me, little by little, until I wasn’t living anymore, just surviving. I kept going back because it was the only home I had ever known. A place that was supposed to love and protect me became the place I wanted to escape. A place that was supposed to give me insight on life only took it away, leaving me feeling trapped.

“I kept going back because it was the only home I had ever known.”

I started slipping beneath the surface. My mental health took a hit. It became harder to hold on to the possibility of a future. I didn’t want to let go, but I was losing the strength to keep holding on. I had sacrificed so much for that home, my life, my grades, my friendships, my boundaries, and my self-respect. And for what? All the things I missed out on, all the things I stopped doing to keep that home together, it was all for nothing.

The essay is continued on our website: e

Dissolution

free verse poem

Singer Brinson // 9

Petrichor lacing the air below nostrils

mixed with the melancholy of wet cheeks

I will curl my boundless limbs to feel juvenile again

Compact my joints until I can fit into my mother’s womb

Hold me

Cradle me as if reviving a stillborn lamb

Hear me bleat the soft cries of remorse

My essence is laced with fear

They stretched my skin holding it back with safety pins, claiming it fit

Admire as it detangles and falls as I lie suspended

Temporary flesh left dwarfed by my effervescent silhouette

Feel my infatuation with you fade as I ascend

Do not mutter my name

Let it sit in your mouth as you grow parched

It is only for the galaxies to whisper now

Scribbled Face pen

Scarlett Alston // 10

There’s Always Light Inside You internal

monologue David Wang // 12

The room is quiet, the kind of quiet that leaves you alone with the thoughts you’ve tried to part with.A soft light hangs in the air, and for a moment, the world feels suspended. This is where the memories return. You can’t hold them back; they flow out like breath.

How many nights have you sat awake replaying a single sentence someone said, not out of love, but out of sheer exhaustion? They wrapped their knives in sugar, repeating that cliche; “You are young. We are just protecting you.”

One facial expression that feels like rejection, one toxic sentence, and suddenly yourbody folds inward. Your mind carries the wound into your dreams, a blade that follows you into daylight.

As a child, your limbs were still soft, your bones still forming. You were a vulnerable lamb haunted by towering demons who moved like puppeteers, pulling the strings that held you upright, threatening to split you in half.

But my dear friend, you could not yet see how their borrowed superiority was suffocating you, and how pitiful that kind of power is.

Their futures were already fixed.

But yours?

Yours is limitless, waiting to be written with only love and peace. Yet, everyone wants a claim on your pen.

“It burns with a truth that asks for no witness.”

Everyone wants to shape your pages before you even touch them.

But you grow against the wind. You thrive in spite of it. You swallow pain like bitter medicine, and still, you rise.

“Quit,” they say, as if it were wisdom. But quitting is for those who fear themselves.

And the light inside you? It refuses to dim. It knows its origin, its path and its purpose. It burns with a truth that asks for no witness.

So they call you a delinquent. Stubborn. Foolish.

They wait for you to fall, to return with bruises on your face, so they can laugh.

There are nights, so many nights, when you tremble and confess, “I’m not going to last. Maybe this is my final day.”

But even then, the flame refuses to be blown out by the demons. Even then, you hold on to that last flimsy flicker. You choose to be waves, not bubbles that vanish into the ocean.

Surprisingly, defiance and vanity, the two traits you were taught to see as negative, are the ones that have carried you farther than anyone knows.

And somehow, my dear friend, you surprised me. Your toughness grew in the cracks no one saw. You learned to endure, to mend yourself with your love, to mute the voices that tried to manhandle you.

Your vulnerability stripped away, you arose wearing armour, devastatingly beautiful. Others see you differently, their vision blurred by judgment. But you remind yourself: the light inside you isn’t going out.

To the Monster Under My Bed

open letter

Adah

Hamman // 12

To the Monster Under My Bed,

I was about five or six when I first heard you.

Mom had just tucked me in, and I was counting the glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across my room to fall asleep. My fan was on, and I remember listening to the whir of the blades as my eyes began to close. It was then that I heard it — a faint shuffling under my bed.

My eyes flew open. “Hello?” Silence.

“Cody?” I warily scanned the room, searching for the brown-and-black striped coat of our family cat, but he was nowhere to be seen. I grabbed my comforter and wrapped it tightly around me, squinting through the blackness. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, I slowly lowered my body until I was lying down again. I was just about to close my eyes when—

Creak

More silence.

I continued; “Maybe you like broccoli, though. My brother does, which is kinda weird, ‘cause he’s super picky. But I don’t. I think it tastes like puke. Not that I know what puke tastes like, but it probably tastes bad.”

As I talked, I could feel my fear slipping away. It felt nice, actually. Having someone to talk to. I was pretty shy at that age, which meant I didn’t have a ton of friends. Usually, during class, I would just sit by myself and read. It was nice, but sometimes I got lonely.

From that night on, I began talking to you. Just about random stuff, like how my day went, or complaining about my younger brother. Sometimes, when it was really late, and I couldn’t fall asleep, I’d tell you about how scared I was. Scared that no one would ever want to be my friend, that I’d feel alone forever. Even though you never replied, I felt comforted knowing you were there and that you were listening. I’m not sure when I stopped talking to you.

“Growing up is funny like that, I guess. It happens silently, without asking for permission.”

That was when I remembered a story my cousin had told me earlier that week at dinner. About the monster that lives under every child’s bed and waits for them to fall asleep before gobbling them whole.

My breath caught in my throat. With my heart pounding, I tried to think of what to do next. I couldn’t get up and go to my parents’ room, because whatever was down there would grab me as soon as I set foot on the floor. So, instead, I did what I’ve always done when I’m scared: I made a joke.

“I probably wouldn’t taste good, you know,” I whispered into the dark. “I had broccoli for dinner.”

Growing up is funny like that, I guess. It happens silently, without asking for permission. One day, you look up and realize you’ve gone years without reaching for the shadows that used to feel familiar. And by the time you notice the quiet, it’s already settled in.

That’s why I’m writing this letter to you. I’m not sure where you are, if you’ve moved on. Maybe you’re hiding under another kid’s bed, one that needs you as much as I did back then. Or maybe you’re still here, as quiet and as patient as you’ve always been. I’m not sure.

What I do know, though, is that you were a friend to me when I really needed one. And this is something I’ll always be grateful to you for. So, thank you. Thank you for being my friend.

Love, Adah

Act of Creation mixed media

Jacqueline Braun // 11

helikia

of age · stature · maturity

Morning Ritual

mixed media

Katyal Bagayogo-Zeltner // 10

My Beautiful Skin

free verse poem

Ay’anna Presley // 12

My skin is legacy

An inheritance wrapped around me

Like silk spurring from midnight

It is not borrowed, nor temporary

It is echoed into me

As permanently as the stars

That scatter themselves across the sky

Some once called it a shadow

But I know it is sunlight in disguise

A horizon painted in resilience

A flame that refuses to die

I wear it like armor

Polished obsidian, unbreakable, bright and shiny

My beautiful, dark skin is not just a color

It is my history, my pride and my light

Rethinking Culture and Self: An Ongoing Reflection

personal essay

Noah Kilpatrick // 12

Igrew up moving between the United States and Italy, which has shaped how I see the world and relate to others. Although I do not have Italian heritage, my parents are language educators who chose to raise me bilingually in Italian, and I spent much of my life living in different Italian cities. I went to local schools, took swimming lessons, attended and worked at summer camps, and grew close enough to some Italians that they became my “Nonna” and “Zio.” These experiences and connections with another country have taught me that culture is far more complex than it looks from the outside.

Even after 18 years, I still only have a partial understanding of “Italian culture” given how much it shifts across regions and communities. The more I understand about Italy, the more aware I become of how much I still don’t know about other cultures. This awareness has made me slower to judge and more motivated to ask questions. Now, when I travel to new places, I don’t assume what I’m seeing is fully representative of life in that country. Instead, I learn what I can and acknowledge that there is still a lot I don’t know.

“I learn what I can and acknowledge that there is still a lot I don’t know.”

This realization isn’t limited to my time abroad, though. Growing up with a Mexican-American mother reinforced my perception of cultural complexity by highlighting that being “Mexican” or “American” is never just one thing. Additionally, my mother’s research in cultural studies informed many of our dinner conversations about stereotypes and “singular stories.” Even during movie nights, I was taught to actively question what I was watching. One example that stands out was watching a movie where the villain was a “terrorist” from the Middle East. After the movie, we stayed up discussing how villains often reflect a country’s political fears like the Germans in the early 1900s, Russians during the Cold War, and anyone “Middle-Eastern” after 9/11. That conversation made me reflect on my own awareness because even after countless conversations about stereotypes, I had never even considered these narratives before. For me, this drove home the importance of actively questioning what I’m being exposed to instead of passively absorbing it.

My upbringing has influenced how I participate in everyday conversations, whether with my friends or with teachers. I don’t shy away from critical discussions and I enjoy listening to perspectives that challenge my own. In the future, I will continue to question my own assumptions and ask questions of others to become better informed. I might challenge a single-story narrative and discuss with my peers historical or cultural contexts we hadn’t thought about before. I hope to inspire others to approach cultural complexity thoughtfully rather than jumping to conclusions, and in college, I will be someone who listens closely and values learning from the people around me.

The Pool

free verse poem

Jordyn Harris // 10

We are not done.

We are not done until my skin isn’t considered a weapon. Why do they treat it like one every second?

My skin is history, strength and a lesson. They are threatened because I wear it with no fear stepping in.

My skin tells stories that the world keeps forgetting.

I’m tired, tired of being treated differently for being a darker shade, but my worth can’t be measured by the judgments they’ve made.

Each remark, each glance, each word thrown my way has only shaped the strength I carry each day.

My skin is not a weapon. It’s the sun, the earth, and the rain. Every scar is a story. Every shade is a vein. This might come as a surprise, but I won’t shrink and I won’t hide. I won’t apologize for the beauty in my shade and the fire in my eyes.

In the Shade

acrylic painting

Jacqueline Braun // 11

Mi nombre me representa

Mi Identidad

free verse poem

David Martinez

// 12

Más que solo lo que aparenta

Más allá de su simpleza

Hay historia y riqueza

Son años de lucha y sacrificio

Para decirle a alguien, que no es mio

Mi nombre me dice quien soy

Más de lo que soy hoy

Lo que tenemos, lo que nos hace diferentes

Sin saberlo nos hace más presentes

Lo que no nos pueden quitar

Y a unos les puede gustar y disgustar

My name represents me

More than what it seems to be

Beyond its simple form and sound

There’s history and depth that’s found

Years of struggle, years of fight

To say it’s mine with all my right

My name tells me who I am

More than what I am today, or than I can

What we have, what makes us different

Without knowing, makes us more present

What no one can take away

And some may like, some may dismay

Sips of Light ceramic

Mattie Pittard

// 12

The Email Scott Skimmed

open letter

Margo McDaniel // 12

from: Matthew Patel <mysticalmatthew@ hotmail.com>

date: March 17, 2003, 6:17 PM

subject: MR. SCOTT PILGRIM: READ THIS MESSAGE IN ITS ENTIRETY

Dear Mr. Pilgrim,

It has come to my attention that we will be fighting soon. My name is Matthew Patel, and I am the first of Ramona Flowers’ evil exes. I am contacting you so that you have time to prepare for our fight later this week and so that you can get some of the details about the League of Seven Evil Exes.

The League of Seven Evil Exes, to which I’m a proud member, is composed of Ramona’s six ex-boyfriends and one ex-girlfriend. Our mission is to keep Ramona from falling in love again. Our leader, Gideon Graves, Ramona’s most recent ex-boyfriend, has requested that I come to fight you first. This is not only because of my years of fighting experience and awesome mystical powers, but also because I am the most b****s of the group. I am also very humble, another reason why Gideon favors me, and so I was happy to fight first if at his request.

otherwise that you were born with, feel free to use those. Either way, you’re pretty much screwed, but good luck.

Also, out of the supreme kindness of my heart, I wanted to give you a warning about Ramona. While we may be the League of her Evil Exes, Ramona is the truly evil one. She shattered our hearts without remorse.

I used to fight side by side with Ramona in the 7th grade. We were unstoppable. I protected her from all of the jocks at our school that she hated while we were dating for a week and a half. She dumped me almost immediately, calling me “capricious.”

But let me tell you, she’s the capricious one! I moved away shortly after our break up, but I carried all the baggage Ramona gave me throughout high school. And now look at me. Ramona is the root of all my insecurities. Ten years later, my heart still burns with bitterness and the desire for revenge.

“...my heart still burns with bitterness and the desire for revenge.”

She’s evil, Mr. Pilgrim. Don’t do this to yourself. Yes, all seven of us exes are after you and I’m sure it seems inconvenient right now. However, us trying to kill you is just us trying to protect you from Ramona if you think about it.

If you beat me, later on, you will be required to fight the other six exes. While I can’t imagine that you would win our fight, I just thought you had an idea of the hopelessness of your situation.

Now, a fair warning concerning our upcoming duel. We will be fighting mano a mano style (hand to hand for those less linguistically talented). This means that you won’t be allowed the help of any friends or weapons, so in your preparation, please keep that in mind. I do have my epic mystical powers to assist me, including the Demon Hipster Chicks that I’m able to summon.

However, that doesn’t really count as a weapon since I was born with these abilities. If you have any hidden powers, strengths, or

One last thing, this is a duel to the death, and we won’t stop until it’s done. If I win, Gideon gets to keep Ramona forever. If you win (very unlikely, by the way)… Well, you’ll have to fight her next ex and the five after that before she’s really yours.

All of this being said, I don’t get the opportunity to fight often anymore, so I’m very much looking forward to it. Just let me know if there’s a date or time that works best for you. My flight to Toronto lands this Wednesday, so any time you’re available after that works well for me.

And if you don’t reply by Friday, don’t worry. I’ll come find you… I know that sounds ominous but I’m working with deadlines here. Thanks, Matthew Patel

What is a Woman? soliloquy

Kaydon Jones // 10

Awoman. What is that?

God took women from the rib of a man, created to be his help. In the past, this help has been interpreted as bending to a man’s every whim, but that’s not what a rib does. A rib is structural support to the body. It’s a shield to protect organs like the heart and lungs. It’s crucial for protecting what you breathe with. A rib does not bend, nor bow, nor submit. A rib has to be strong, firm, and resilient. That is where women came from. That is what a woman is.

Throughout time, society has expected different types of help from women. Today, that looks like being a mother, partner, and an employee. Women are expected to do it all with no complaints, as if they’re not working three jobs around the clock. Despite common opinions, being a mother and a partner are hard work. Women should not have to forsake the career they’ve worked long and hard to build simply because they want to be a mother. Furthermore, a woman is expected to do all of this every day while her body is constantly navigating menstrual cycle phases each month. These phases impact her body, emotions, and mind. Through it all, she has to take care of others, but she shouldn’t have to give up on her dreams for that.

“...she shouldn’t have to give up on her dreams for that.”

Being a woman isn’t hard, right? Not even when your body is shedding without remorse, or when the hormones are raging and the overstimulation hits? Not even when you have to take care of your kids, but your body feels like a stubborn boulder, unwilling to move? Not even when your mind is scattered and your emotions are high, but you have a partner who refuses to understand what you’re going through and coworkers to deal with after that? Not even then?

Some argue, “A woman doesn’t have to be a mother.” However, the new abortion laws controlling women’s bodies show us otherwise. A woman doesn’t have to be a mother, but the government says that she does. Unless, of course, she’s on the brink of death, has been physically harmed, or is a victim of incest. Her very survival or a profound violation of her body becomes the prerequisite for a heartbreaking decision, especially if she had longed for a child. On the other hand, when a woman does have a child, she’s not given the time or resources to truly care for or bond with her baby. What is twelve mediocre weeks of unpaid maternity leave to a mother with a newborn child that she has spent months carrying and waiting to meet? Why can’t she have months in return to celebrate the life she has created? Being a woman is already hard, but being a mother is even harder. Motherhood seems to be something expected and not cherished. This is what today’s woman has to be.

A woman. Yes, I know what that is.

The Sun Rises Here Too

villanelle

Olivia Trimble // 9

I reached deep to the place from whence flowers grew

Though armed with a frown

The sun rises here, too

For the dirt on my shoe

For the poor, for the down

I reached deep to the place from whence flowers grew

In the coffee-dark earth with the red clay hue

Where the bugs lie down

The sun rises here, too

To the soul, to the true

Far enough to drown

I reached deep to the place from whence flowers grew

Please never forget what you knew

If you live in the dark, burrowed deep down

The sun rises here, too

From the dirt to the blooms, the seeds, and the new

With dawn behind me, a golden-bright crown

I reached deep to the place from whence flowers grew

The sun rises here, too

Mothering Myself

free verse poem

Molly Dorkey // faculty

I’m afraid she won’t ever be able to see

The magic of tempera and gold on Fra Angelico’s

Annunciation altarpiece at the Museo Diocesano in Cortona

Mary’s message upside down and backwards

Words only God can read, God can see

I’m afraid she won’t be able to see anything at all

I’m afraid she’ll need more from me than I know how to give

I’m afraid she’ll be compared to her sister, made to feel less than I’m afraid she’ll be ostracized in school, made to feel less than

I’m afraid this is all my fault

I’m afraid my optimism can’t fix this

I’m afraid this is unfixable

I’m afraid this is more than we can bear

I’m afraid all the time

I’m afraid my whole life is changing before my eyes

My eyes

My eyes can see this is not good

But I will write anyway

But I will teach anyway

But we will live anyway

I’m holding her now

I feel the seemingly heavier weight of a sleeping baby in my arms

I don’t need to see her to feel the enormity of my love

Maybe she doesn’t need to see me either

Fluctuate blank verse poem

Izzy Hammock // 10

If you walk into a church, you find a place where worship flows to statues and red wines. So many rules, so many truths, except how does one believe all of it with tact? The concept of a god of love could not be bound to images of one face. Yet he’s signified, so permanently frozen in skies forever onward as the old man, the white rabbit, the end. How do you rest, believing not in god, but in a subtle faith, a goodness deep? In how coincidences cease to be?

How do you rest, when “god” appears more in the trivial, the everyday, than the holy?

When prayers grace lips unmoving, so still, but belief tugs at hearts like nothing else when you connect the dots throughout your life to sense how it always ends perfectly? Not satisfyingly, but simply right?

How does the wine sitting in the chalice become unspoken of on those dark nights, when one consumes so much, but is still there to pull themselves out of the deepest red, from the drowning and the suffocation?

Their own reflection stares up from the deep, and the past has passed, self-triumphantly.

But only one is considered holy— and only one is passive in its help.

How do you rest, knowing that the prayers are intended to take you to a place too high above to truly ever see?

Who are those prayers for? Is it really you? They’re for the man, the gig up in the sky, but seldom for the journey taken.

How can one live, thinking all of these things?

Like the tide fluctuates, so will you.

The daily feelings may not stay astride, but they held my hands and my life afloat, cut previously in two.

Statuettes marker

Peter Atchley // 12 digital photographs

Sunsets I Remember

What I Was Made For

free verse poem

Mary

These hands are not used as they should be. They write words that are safe. They lift what is easy and carry what is given.

These eyes are dirty from what they’ve seen. Stories on the news—the deaths, the rights torn away. They close to try to forget.

These ears are well versed in discrimination. The vile words, the slurs, the cries of innocents. And yet, they just keep listening.

This voice is withered from disuse, while they scream until their’s is gone. This heart aches to stand up for what is right, but fear still whispers: Why help? What for?

Will these hands ever be more than clenched bricks at my sides?

Will these eyes do more than look the other way? Will these ears choose more than acceptance? Will this voice feel the light of day? What would he say?

My hands hold a poster with messy letters on it; they shake.

I think of his dream, his voice, what choice he’d make.

Wicker // 11 Iping film photograph Andréas Dillies // 11

I do not hurt the people in front of me. Sweat slips down my brow.

I open my dry mouth and use my words; he taught me how.

My eyes do not look away from injustice.

My ears do not cower and forget.

My feet carry me towards the noise. My voice is loud; this is something I will not regret.

My hands wrap around one another. We stand tall together on this red hill.

I look at these many different faces and think, “If MLK died fighting for this beauty, I will do whatever it takes to protect it.”

Yes, I will.

Solidifying a Melting Mask

personal essay

Samaya Ellis // 12

Ibecame conscious of my mother’s addiction when I was seven years old. Through my child’s eyes, I watched my mother, knowing she was not like everyone else’s mother.

During recess in first grade, I walked through the grass, the sun’s rays engulfing me in their warmth. Then, a girl came up to me on the playground and told me the answer I had been looking for.

“My mom says your mom is in jail because she does drugs,” she blurted out before returning to the playground. She stared at me from afar, as if the statement that had just opened my eyes to the fact that my mother, who I was taught to avoid, was a joke. My sense of self was ripped away and replaced by a grey cloud; the warmth of ignorance was gone.

to make others feel included like it was my job. Because of this nurturing quality I possessed, I began receiving compliments from the adults around me: “You’re so mature, you must have an old soul.” I liked the attention, because it made me feel seen for once.

As teachers began noticing me as a leader in classrooms, and the only student that could read audibly, teachers pulled me out of class to read to kindergarteners. I would sit in the front of the room, facing the criss-crossapplesauce seated kids. My small fingers flipped through the pages and pointed at pictures as I read the lines. At home, I also read aloud to my little sister.

“I grew to carry this trait that defines who I am today at my core.”

Moments like these helped distract me from the newly-discovered grey cloud over me. I always searched for outlets where I was needed, because I felt like I wasn’t needed by my mother, so I embraced acknowledgement.

The confirmation of the whispers from those who knew the truth created a bittersweet trait of leadership within me that I was forced to adopt. I grew to carry this trait that defines who I am today at my core. My mother’s addiction, although challenging at a young age, was apparent and dictated my generous and approval-seeking behavior towards others.

Throughout elementary school, I helped those around me constantly. Tying their shoes, teaching them concepts, and working

As the years passed, I began to grow more ignorant and avoidant of my mother, but the mask of leadership I put on to avoid my true feelings stayed with me. The mask grew with me as I joined many programs that placed me in a leadership role.

In middle school, I joined a peer leadership program in which I was a mentor for 6th graders who didn’t have friends or struggled in school. During our advisement period, I pulled my mentees out of class to join the cluster of mentors and mentees who camped out in the cafeteria; checking their grades, helping them with homework, talking with them about their day, waving at them in the halls, and becoming a friendly face.

Identification

digital drawing

Amelia George // 12

In high school, I joined a journalism program called the ODYSSEY Media Group. Working in the program quickly set my assumed identity in stone. I was a facilitator who taught freshmen in the program the basics of journalism.

I came into class setting the pace for professionalism. The class acknowledged me, getting their computers and notebooks ready for the day just at the sight of me. I flourished within the organization, finding

a fiery passion for being seen as someone who was a true leader by heart.

“I was more prepared to face the walk than I gave myself credit for.”

My whole life, I fought to find someone I could look up to; someone that would hold my hand and prepare me for the walk of life. However, I found my true path of being a hand for others to hold. The mask I created for myself melted and solidified into my skin. I was more prepared to face the walk than I gave myself credit for. e

Libris Deditus

The Light Leaks In

villanelle

Cooper Jones // 12

I trace the rafters, worn and thin

Dust swirls where old beams bend and bow

The light leaks in where walls have been

Faded floorboards creak, secrets deep within Plaster cracks in shapes I do not know

I trace the rafters, worn and thin

Thick air grows lighter when Clouded panes begin to glow

The light leaks in where walls have been

Corners once avoided now reveal a spin Of shadows, smiles, and half-forgotten woe

I trace the rafters, worn and thin

Shards and splinters found again

Reordered, arranged row by row

The light leaks in where walls have been

Torn down in an almighty din

Brand new thoughts and feelings flow

I trace the rafters, worn and thin

The light leaks in where walls have been

th 5 About the

The iliad Literary-Art Magazine was originally founded in 1969, about 57 years ago. However, the magazine went through various periods of dormancy until Mr. David A. Ragsdale, the iliad’s adviser, came to Clarke Central High School. He refounded the magazine in 2001 with the help of talented students and established a magazine that has been published annually since 2002. Through the years, our program has uplifted the voices of CCHS students, faculty, and rising 9th graders from Clarke Middle School and Burney Harris Lyons Middle School each year.

During the last 20+ years, the iliad has not only been something special at CCHS, but it has also garnered accolades from NSPA, the Southern Interscholastic Press Association, the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, the Georgia Scholastic Press Association, and the National Council of Teachers of English. Over the years, we have been recognized for our work in design, art, and writing, and in more recent years, for our social media and our website.

“We hope to continue the iliad’s legacy of supporting CCHS artists and writers for 50 more years to come.”

In 2010, our magazine “Coffee Break” received our program’s very first National Scholastic Press Association Pacemaker, NSPA’s premier award in high school journalism. We have since won Pacemakers for three more of our magazines: “Okeanos” from 2021, “flourish” from 2023, “Prometheus” from 2024 and “Sound & Color” from 2025.

We have accomplished our 50th volume this year, and this means anything but the end. The theme “Eudaimonia” is in honor of our 50th anniversary to how much we can change and grow into ourselves over time, and how we can leave an impact on others through creativity we develop. We hope to continue the iliad’s legacy of supporting CCHS artists and writers for 50 more years to come.

The iliad program wouldn’t be where it is today without the contributions of many students over the years. To the right, you can see a timeline of perspectives of some former editors on key moments in the iliad’s history.

Margo McDaniel, Editor-in-Chief

Refounding and foundational years

“There were a lot of challenges going into rebuilding and relaunching the iliad because it had a really high bar, and there was no infrastructure on how to reach it. I think the first relaunch issues (of the iliad) are really meaningful because they were basically built from ashes. I really admire how how we were able to breathe life into something that had nothing initially.”

“Mr. (David) Ragsdale gave space for people to care a lot and try hard because he did (first). That was crucial for me, and these moments of recognition felt like a little bit of validation that effort could lead somewhere.”

- 2009-2010 “Coffee Break” iliad staffer Carlo Nasisse

Development of iliad logo and brand

“(In my time in iliad), it felt really good to put something creative into the world. I hope that the iliad continues to strive for success and not perfection. I hope that the young people in the iliad Editorial Boards continue to work together more and try their very best at everything that they are told to do.”

2021 2025 2001 2010

- 2023-2025 iliad Editor-in-Chief

Olivia Hendershot

- 2002-2004 iliad Editor-in-Chief

Roxanne Gil

First Pacemaker

“I had a really fun time working on the redesign of the logo and the whole rebranding campaign that happened during my year as Design Editor. I’m glad that I was able to contribute something that has outlived my tenure as Design Editor and continues to be used even after I’ve graduated.”

- 2021-2022 iliad Design Editor Eva Orbock, creator of iliad logo and branding elements

Present day

Club and Staff

The iliad Club met once a month in Room 231 for the 2025-26 school year to explore various art mediums, including but not limited to photography, creative writing and collaging. Through our club, we hoped to inspire creativity, provide a safe space for students and build a community within our program.

Club meetings were also opportunities for students to submit to our magazine by giving them the time and materials to create something they were proud of and might have wanted published.

“I don’t always have the crafting materials or the time to sit down and make something fun. It’s nice to have a set date where I know I’m going to go and express my creativity.”

- Soleil Thompson, sophomore and 2025-26 iliad club member

Our members were an integral part of the iliad program and helped expand our outreach inside and outside of Clarke Central High School. To officially become a member, students had to attend at least three meetings each semester. If interested in becoming a member next school year, information will be posted during the fall and spring semesters on our Instagram, @iliadmag, and on hallway posters.

Thisyear’sclubmembers: KatyalBagayogo-Zeltner, SashaBarkan,BrionyBrown, CopperCallahan,DaphneDunbar, Menina Chamosa, Nora Devine, Lucca Fleenor, Lou Pifer-Mills, SoleilThompsonand TessVanWagtendonk.

Editorial Board

The 2025-26 Editorial Board consisted of four members, all of which were students at Clarke Central High School. Our board met every Tuesday morning, in addition to regular after-school work periods on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

During these sessions, we discussed outreach for potential writers and visual artists, planned for upcoming events, created content for our website and other tasks related to the production of our magazine.

The Editorial Board maintained strong bonds built upon foundational values of respect, communication, hard work and creativity. These values guided goals that were set throughout the year, which motivated the team during the busy cycle.

Specialthanks:AngelaPendley, Bruster’s,Burney-Harris-Lyons Middle School, Clarke Middle School, Davina Swaim, Derek Maxwell, Dr. AnnieTurman,Dr.ClaireStephens, Dr.EuniceKang,Dr.HarrisonScott Key,Dr.SwadeHuff,EllaAdams, HeatherGarland,JenniferTesler, JessicaShelden,LorienCampell, Mama’sBoy,MarkCallahan,Naomi Craver,Nuçi’sSpace,Rachel Dunston,ShawnHingerandThe ODYSSEYMediaGroupBooster Club.

“We are proud to showcase another year of our school’s creativity, and look forward to continuing our legacy as a program.”

-

Margo McDaniel, Editor’s Note, pg 3

Patrons

Ruby - $300

Alicia Nickles & Matt Alston

Bob & Rachel Sleppy

Lisa Glaser

Lórien Campbell

Mary Garrison

Sandy Wienert

Platinum - $100

Buddy Sims • Cathy Rumfelt

Courtney Gray • David Ragsdale

Dr. Carla Williams • Dr. Meg Hines

Elise Robinson • Elizabeth Hammock

Ellen Walker • Erica Gilbertson

Greater Georgia Printers

Hannah Dunn-Grandpre • Hilari Reagin

Jana Harwell • Jenn & Seth Hendershot

Keith Wilson • Krista Jones

Lateefah Gresham • Leslie Borger

Margaret Gurtcheff • Rebecca Ash

Roxanne Gil • Stacey Barnum

Susan D. Mull • The Atchley Family

Theresa Wright Vera Lake

Bronze - $10

Ashley Larson • Angelina Cantrell

Codie Martin • Chris Luken • Evan Adams

Emily Hopkins • Eman Abdelrahman

Fran Thompson • Julie Darnell

Jonathan Kirkpatrick • Jason Taylor

Jessica Dockery • Jacquelyn Michelle Brooks

Loran Posey • Lorinda Chagnon • Monira Silk

Michelle Beatty • Peter Alvanos • Pierce Alston

Roan O‘Reilly • Sara Cranston

Shannon Baker • Scott Stuart

Tatiana Tejada • Tonya Pringle

The Caspary Family

Will Fleenor

Diamond - $500

Caroline Foster David Sleppy

Dustin & Sonya McDaniel

Jamie D’Angelo

Nissa McKinney

Troy Coleman

3tree Realty, LLC

Gold - $50

Bonnie Braswell

Caroline Singletary • Clare Norins

Daniel Malec • Dr. Amanda Price

Dustin Ellis • Henry Liang

James Geiser • John & Carla Braswell

Joshua Barkan • Kathryn Durocher

Kristen Bach • Kristina Coulter

Lillie Brooks • Robert Fecho

Sally Ross • Susan Goff

Tom Reichert

Silver - $25

Allyson Mann • Amanda Trimble

Andrea Nason • Chris Braswell

Drew Alston • Drew Wheeler

Emlyn McKinney • Emily Gossett

John & Toni Brown • Jill McDaniel

Jackie Mitchell • Jessica Wilcox

Jessica Chicken • Larz Bass

Lisa Price • Melissa Roberts

Rachel Dunston • Tom Izzo

Wanda Roncali

Thank you for making 50 years of the

Alston, Scarlett

Mr. Clown // 17

Scribbled Face // 28

Atchley, Peter

Sunsets I Remember // 56

Bagayogo-Zeltner, Katyal

Morning Ritual // 36

Baker, Jane

Show Pony // 11 Bird, Issac

The House That Wasn’t Home // 26

Braswell, Jay

Twelve O’Clock // 16

Braun, Jacqueline

Act of Creation // 33

In the Shade // 41

Brinson, Singer

Dissolution // 29

Callahan, Arrow

SX-70 // 8

Earworm // 18

Cederbaum, Calum

Roman Woman // 52

Davis, Vycktorja

Aura // 25

Dillies, Andréas

Iping // 59

Dominguez, Jazlyn

Lady of Luck // 49

Dorkey, Molly

Mothering Myself // 53

Ellis, Samaya

A Spotted Satsuma // 16

Solidifying a Melting Mask // 60

Fleenor, Lucca

Statuettes // 55

Forrester, Olive

Thank You, Marantz // 19

Freeman, Dream

Baking Brotherhood // 10

Gallego Lomax, Flora

Reaching Out // 14

George, Amelia

Identification // 61

Hammock, Izzy

Fluctuate // 54

Index

Hamman, Adah

To the Monster Under My Bed // 32

Harris, Jordyn

The Pool // 40

Irwin, Ailynn

On Our Way // 12

Jones, Cooper

The Light Leaks In // 62

Jones, Kaydon

What is a Woman? // 47

Kilpatrick, Noah

Rethinking Culture and Self: An Ongoing Reflection // 39

Lumbra, Vincent

Starchild // 30

Raincloud // 27

Martinez, David

Mi Identidad // 43

McDaniel, Margo

The Email Scott Skimmed // 44

Mojock, Cameron

Stripes // 45

Pittard, Mattie

Sips of Light // 42

Presley, Ay’anna

The Polished History // 15

My Beautiful Skin // 37

Ramirez, Bella

Infallible Capability // 24

Schliekelman, Novix

Symbiosis // 46

Sleppy, Finley

Incomplete // 22

Streetman, Kye

Alive // 38

Taylor, Liya

A 16-year-old’s Guide to Adulthood // 22

Trimble, Olivia

The Sun Rises Here Too // 48

Vanderbilt, Meg

Where I’m From // 9

Wang, David

There’s Always Light Inside

You // 31

Wicker, Mary

What Was I Made For // 58

Libris Deditus // 63

Colophon

iliad headlines were printed in Josefin Sans. Subheadlines were printed in Josefin Sans. Bylines were printed in Frank Ruhl Libre. All body copy was printed in Frank Ruhl Libre.

Pages 2-3 and 68-70 were designed by Jay Braswell. Pages 28-29 were designed by Scarlett Alston. Pages 16-17, 22-23, 40-41, 44-45 and 66-67 were designed by Finley Sleppy. All other pages were designed by Margo McDaniel. All spreads were designed using Adobe Indesign and Photoshop.

Art photos by were captured by Anna Flath, Finley Sleppy and Margo McDaniel. Staff headshots were taken by Iliana Tejada.

The iliad printed 250 copies of this 72-page magazine on 100 lb gloss for the cover and 80 lb fir the inside pages using Greater Georgia Printers in Crawford, Gerogia.

Patrons and featured creators of the iliad receive a complimentary copy of the iliad upon publication. Additional copies of the iliad are available for a $10 purchase upon request.

The iliad is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, Georgia Scholastic Press Association, National Council of Teachers of English Recognizing Excellence in Art and Literary Magazines, Southern Interscholastic Press Association and the National Scholastic Press Association.

“Sound & Color”

Awards

The 2025 iliad won sixth place Best in Show for Literary-Art Magazines at the JEA/NSPA 2025 National Fall High School Journalism Convention in Nashville, Tenn.

The 2025 iliad Literary-Art Magazine was recognized by Recognizing Excellence in Art and Literary Magazines (REALM) with a rank of First Class by the National Council of Teachers of English.

The 2025 iliad Literary-Art Magazine received the rating of All-Georgia in the category of General Excellence for Literary Magazines by the Georgia Scholastic Press Association.

The 2026 iliad received the 2026 Scroggins Award: Best of South by the Southern Interscholastic Press Association.

The 2026 iliad received first place Best in Show during the 2026 Southern Interscholastic Press Association Conference.

The 2025 iliad was named a Crown Award Finalist by the Columbia Scholastic Press Association.

The cover of the 50th edition of the iliad, “Eudaimonia,” is a mixed media painting entitled “Development” by CCHS junior Koah McClellan. The “Genesis,” “Ephebosune,” “Helikia” and “Kleos” subsections are a series of acrylic paintings also by McClellan entitled “Big Dreams,” “Difficulties,” “Success” and “Reflection” respectively.

Learn more about McClellan and the “Eudaimonia” art here:

Policies Cover Art

Mission Statement:

Vision Statement:

The iliad Literary-Art Magazine is a student-produced Clarke Central High School literary-art magazine. The iliad serves as a conduit of expression for creativity and passion for the CCHS student body and faculty, 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.

Policies:

The iliad Literary-Art Magazine seeks to be an inclusive platform for creative voices that represent the diversity of the Clarke Central High School student body. Programmatically, the iliad strives to provide a venue to develop student leaders and communicators.

All contributiors may submit as many pieces as they would like from the start of the academic year until February. Submissions are reviewed by members of the Editorial Board. Once the submission period is officially closed, all artists will receive an email on the status of their submission.

The iliad, as a student publication under the domain of the Clarke County School District, must be mindful when choosing submissions of the appropriateeness of its content. Inappropriate content may be edited by the creator to maintain a “TV-14” rating, but the integrity of the work and of the magazine is always preserved.

Additionally, if there are significant grammatical or structural issues with a piece of writing, then the piece may only be edited with permission from the author and in collaboration with them.

Diversity Statement:

The iliad Literary-Art Magazine seeks to be an inclusive platform for creative voices that represent the diversity of the Clarke Central High School student body. Programmatically, the iliad strives to provide a venue to develop student leaders and communicators. (scan the QR code to read more).

fOnline iliadlitmag.com

Commemorating a legacy: iliad’s 50th Volume Celebration

The iliad Literary-Art Magazine’s Editorial Board celebrated its upcoming 50th volume on March 22 from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. in CCHS’ Gladiator Gallery.

Painting the way

iliad Literary-Art Magazine Outreach Director Jay Braswell discusses their journey as a young artist joining the iliad.

Interacting with

“Interactions”

The 2013 edition of the iliad, “Interactions,” serves as a time capsule for the culture of the CCHS community 13 years ago.

Sketching Success

CCHS’ Visual Arts Comprehensive I course is focused on teaching students in all grades foundational skills that can be beneficial to their personal growth and development.