Entropy- iliad 2017

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entropy

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iliad literary-art magazine Volume XLII Clarke Central High School

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I lILIA iad D

iliad

literary-art magazine 2017

ENTROPY “Nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed.�

- Antoine Lavoisier

Dedicated with love to Patty Monger, and to Karla Dougan, Kendarius Watson and their families.

Volume XLII Clarke Central High School 350 S. Milledge Avenue Athens, Ga. 30605

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LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Chaos is a cycle; we are always approaching it, swept up in it, and then leaving again. Because everything is uncertain and unpredictable, humans must endure constant change. We learn to take risks and accept the outcomes. We are elated when beautiful things surprise us and devastated when they are taken away. This is the naturality of living.

And so the range of emotions and experiences is infinite.

Within our high school community, there are myriad types of chaos. There are wonderful, happy messes caused by love

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Sara Goodie, Editor-in-Chief

and gratitude and pride. There are scary, terrible losses that shake people to their cores. All of these excitements come together to create one elaborate masterpiece.

Art is chaotic. It has to be. It is wholesome, unscripted, limitless expression. The pieces in this issue of iliad come from genuine and varied places.

Though different, these pieces come together to tell a story of us.

It is a magnificent thing to not know what comes next. This is a celebration of chaos and the

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THEME Art reflects life. Our lives are filled by the choices that we make as individuals and as a human collective. Every action has an effect that ripples into our external and internal environments.

In the physical world, with each step we take to maintain order there is also movement toward chaos as a result. This process, and the theme for this year’s iliad is entropy. Entropy can be divided into distinct phases, so we organized our peices accordingly.

Our first section is order, which focuses on structure and stability present at its height.

The second is catalyst. In this section, we emphasize the abstract or concrete thoughts and events that spur an individual into our next section, descent.

Descent centers on the initial decline away from order and the mentality of spiralling out of control.

The next is chaos, which focuses on a total immersion into disorder and the effects it reaps emotionally and psychologically. The final stage (until the rotation begins again) is realignment. This emphasizes the cyclical aspect of human entropy, focusing on the new life that can be born from chaos.

Elizabeth Jurado, Managing Editor

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ORDER

8. “BELLA” x Lucia Bermudez 8. “GRØNN” x Zoe Peterson 9. “HOPE” x Elena Gilbertson Hall 10. “MACRO” x Aneesa Conine-Nakano 11. “JĪVANA ŚĀLE” x Sophie Fernandes

Table of

11. “CACTUS FLOWER” x Camille Flurry 12. “FRAMES” x Katie Grace Upchurch 13. “BULLET-LIST THOUGHTS” x Anonymous 14. “INHALE” x Karla Dougan 16. “A SPLIT, RED, SEA” x Gabriel Mantione-Holmes 17. “THIS RELIGION” x Sara Goodie 18. “BOOKS” x Savannah Moon 18. “PINE” x Jack Fischer 19. “THE INCOHERENT REPRESENTATION OF 12/64” x Javier Romero 20. “SLIM CHANCES” x Luis Garcia

CATALYST 24. “WHITE DWARF” x Jai Powell 25. “I’M A BOY” x Sorren Gadd 26. “BROTHER” x Katie Grace Upchurch 27. “OCEAN, MOON AND SHORE” x Zoe Peterson 28. “FIGHT” x Sophie Fernandes 29. “SHE WAS SCARED” x Natalie Ripps 30. “SWEET SPOT/BREAKING POINT” x Madeline Hall 31. “UPSIDE DOWN” x Zoe Peterson 32. “WATERS” x Lorena Limongi 32. “FLIGHT” x Violet Merritt 34. “A LATIN DELICACY” x Lucia Bermudez 35. “RUST” x Sunčana Pavlić 36. “I’M SORRY” x Anonymous 37. “WATERFALL” x Kri Hair 4

DESCENt 40. “HEARTBEAT” x Anna DeMarco 41. “HUMANITY” x Shahrzad Roshan 42. “THIS IS HARDCORE” x Anna Julian 43. “COLD HEARTED” x Ilianis Solis-Albino 44. “BLACK MOUNTAIN” x Katie Grace Upchurch 45. “YOU WANTED HER, WE NEEDED YOU” x Beatrice Acheson 47. “ABSENCE” x Delia Adamson 48. “GENTE/PEOPLE” x Lorena Limongi 49. “EYES” x Emma Crane 50. “FORGET-ME-NOTS” x Violet Merritt 51. “PRAIRIE ON PRINCE” x Sunčana Pavlić 52. “REGULAR DAY” x Elizabeth Jurado 53. “FIND A WAY” x Stacee Dillard 54. “BOWL” x Zoe Peterson 55. “FEAR” x Esmé Clark

Contents

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realignment 74. “UNITY” x Marisha Christian 75. “10X” x Sophie Fernandes 76. “ESSENCE” x Trinity James 77. “THE HEART THAT HUMS” x Elizabeth Jurado 78. “THE MAN AND THE MOON” x Emma Crane 79. “COTTON” x Camille Flurry 80. “SYNESTHESIA: A LAVENDER WORD” x Sara Goodie 81. “HEAVENLY” x Sunčana Pavlić

chaos 58. “ZOSO” x Christopher Dellaria 60. “A PERFECT MADNESS” x Andrew Caldwell 61. “TRAIN” x Moss Ivy 62. “SELF PORTRAIT” x Sheffield Bastow 63. “MY GRAVE, MY CITY” x Gabriel Mantione-Holmes 64. “A ROACH” x Mara Bastow 65. “SCREAM” x Kri Hair 66. “ONCE MORE WITH FEELING” x Anna Julian 66. “STARSTRUCK” x Trinity James

STAFF 83. Mission statement 84. Staff 85. Friends of the iliad 86. Index 86. Colophon

67. “ABLUTION” x Sara Goodie 68. “PANTHER CREEK” x Zoe Peterson 69. “DO YOU EVER JUST” x Kaya Pollack 70. “REALIZATION” x Alice Watson 71. “I WOKE UP AND HE WASN’T THERE” x Adonis Calhoun 5

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ORDER

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“My body hangs in / negative spacean ocean beneath me.”

HOPE, page 9

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BELLA The crowd follows her, singing her praises in vain.

May she lead them well.

x Lucia Bermudez, junior

grønn x 8

Zoe Peterson, junior

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HOPE That balloon holding me up like a cloud holds the rain.

One popa needle, a gust, and I fall.

That balloon asks nothing of me, but to hold my tightest and tighter.

Sun refracts through the golden ellipse.

My body hangs in negative spacean ocean beneath me.

I forget the fall as I hold... tighter.

x Elena Gilbertson Hall, freshman

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M AC RO x 10

Aneesa Conine-Nakano, junior

ORDER

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Jīva n a śā le Sophie Fernandes, senior

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CACTUS F LOWER* Impossible to avoid More pronounced than ever At first it seemed an empty idea Now a dream silenced The alternative never crossed my mind

A place forging friendships, Now future stories left unwritten.

Words on paper filling my head Wanting something that wasn’t to supposed to be.

Do I twist the arm of fate Or allow the unfolding of my summer Like a resilient blossom that flowers despite the cold?

Running barefoot and fishing in the lake, No elbows on the table, Conversations alive with laughter

x Camille Flurry, freshman

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Iliad Katie Grace Upchurch, freshman

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FRAMES 12

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BULLET-LIST THOUGHTS ABOUT A CRUSH

• I think you’re really attractive.

• But you’re straight.

• And you probably have a girlfriend.

- At least, I know you did last year.

• Damn.

ABOUT A Cat

• You’re really stupid.

• You ran into my leg when my mom threw pants up the stairs.

• You wrestled my blanket and lost.

• You impaled my foot in an under-bed sneak attack.

• You’re really annoying.

• You always want me to pet you.

- Even when I’m on the toilet.

• You’re always hungry.

• And if it’s not one thing to meow about, it’s another.

• But you’re really, really cute.

• Especially when you flop on the ground.

• Or when you curl up in a little ball on my chest.

• Or when I’m sad,

- Or angry, • Or anything other than happy.

• You make me really happy.

ABOUT A SIBLING

• Stop: • asking me about Harry Potter.

• making stupid references.

• getting freaked out by everything.

- And I mean everything.

• forgetting to flush the toilet.

• leaving the bath mats soaking wet after you shower.

• blaming me for things that aren’t my fault.

- If we’re being completely honest, it’s usually your fault.

• being so hard to get along with.

- Because I’d really like that.

ABOUT A FONT • This is my new favorite font.

• I will use it for everything.

• This is no longer my favorite font.

• I used it for everything.

• This is definitely no longer my favorite font.

• Trump used it for everything.

• This may be my new favorite font again.

• EIGHTEEN • NEW • STYLES - That’s a lot more than the previous two.

• Also, Trump no longer uses you.

- That’s a “yuuuge” plus.

x Anonymous, sophomore 13

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INHALE x

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Karla Dougan, junior

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A S P L I T, R E D , S E A x 16

Gabriel Mantione-Holmes, junior

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THIS RELIGION* im scuffing up some darkened alley too submersed to muse that in such a holy beast

this apathy could be repainted this pining hand could be oxygenated this conformity is not eternal numbing through this beaten heart is not flecked with red purpose this edifice is not cold when gnashed off kilter but suffused by grace as we pulsate bewildered and this comfort

or praise

is dynamic but

not yet yawned to

the

surface

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this poet is not a mockery of You. Sara Goodie, senior

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B O O KS A crisp sound, fills the ears, A lovely scent, the nose.

A familiar touch, in one’s fingers, Secrets, soon to be told.

A phenomenon of beauty, A patchwork of sweat and blood.

A magnificent combination, With the complexity of love.

Lost in the cavities of the hollow, Engulfed in the depths of the sea.

Hidden in the clouds of the mountain, Comforted in the arms of the trees.

The story, fully inspiring.

From the ink, ideas are born.

The pages, simply tearstained, The cover, very well-worn.

A guide in the lonely world, A shield from the frightening ways.

A treasure for now and forever, A friend on the gloomy days.

On a shelf, it belongs, Mysteries folded in between.

In the darkness of the library, Greatness unforeseen.

x Savannah Moon, rising freshman Clarke Middle School

PINE Fischer, x Jack freshman 18

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The Incoherent Representation of 12/64

x Javier Romero, sophomore

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SLIM CHANCES O

ur history is more than just important.

Going to school is important. Getting a job is important. But your history is who you are. It is your existence. It’s the reason you are here -- not just where you are at the moment of reading this, but the reason you are alive at all.

life, and they have lived in Georgia for a large portion of their lives.

The chance that they all moved to Georgia in the first place wasn’t very high; the effort and circumstances that went into moving here and being subject to an entire new language and culture were challenging enough, let alone

My story starts with a poor, orphaned boy in Uruguay, raised by his grandmother in a poverty-riddled part of South America.

That’s why, as of recent, I‘ve been finding more value in the story of how I came to be, which goes back for as long as humanity, but for the sake of simplicity I’ll tell as far as the stories my relatives have told me.

My story starts with a poor, orphaned boy in Uruguay, raised by his grandmother in a poverty-riddled part of South America. This was my grandfather. Neither of his parents wanted him, and they both had terrible problems with alcohol and drugs. He overcame his circumstances and met my abuela, who herself came from the landlocked country of Paraguay. They married and ended up having six kids, one of whom was my father, born in Buenos Aires, Argentina. He and his family moved to America in search of an opportunity and a better

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during childhood. My father, the eldest sibling, was often responsible for caring for his other siblings while his parents toiled at work to support their children.

The hardships didn’t end outside the house.

At school, my father was bullied for knowing very little English, and when he did slowly learn it, his heavy accent was the object of endless scrutiny. He also peaked around 6’6” in high school, making it nearly impossible to blend in.

My mother and father met on a Falcons chatroom sharing their misery over the Falcons’ Super Bowl loss in 1999. The fact that I wouldn’t exist if the Falcons hadn’t lost that Super Bowl sounds absurd when spoken out loud, but it’s an irreplaceable part of my history

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that makes it all the stranger that I got to watch them lose again, 17 years after their first loss.

My parents divorced when I was a kid. My father remarried in 2014 and now I have a new chapter of both my life and my history. The history of my new family resonates with me as much as that of my biological family. Their stories are the stories of how they came to be a part of my life, and therefore they are my history.

My stepmother’s family grew up in the small town of Evergreen, Alabama. Not many people lived there. My step-grandfather was married and had two daughters, one of whom was my stepmom. They grew up isolated from the rest of the world, where stigmas festered and news spread quickly. When my stepmom was told by her father that he was gay, the first thing

er sister to Atlanta, and my stepmom was left in Evergreen to be raised by her grandparents so she could finish high school. She was picked on often, as the news spread quickly throughout the small town. Meanwhile, in Atlanta, by some improbable chance, her mom and sister met my father’s family. My father met my stepmom at his brother’s wedding, where his brother married my stepmom’s older sister.

My step-grandfather is an amazing person.

While he lived in Evergreen, he had to figure out who he was, going to therapy sessions and talking with people to come to his conclusion.

He currently works as a psychologist, helping people with their problems. He found his way to give back to the world after being as courageous as he was, and it has helped me at times to remember that my history is one of people

The history of my new family resonates with me as much as that of my biological family. she asked him was if that meant he was going to die. She was still a young girl, and she had an innocent concern that she was going to lose her father because of who he was. The way she was raised, to be gay was not a facet of who you were, like having blue eyes or being tall; gay meant infected. It meant different. It was incredibly difficult for him to be in such a position that his own daughter thought of him as different, as in danger.

Her mother split up and moved with her old-

overcoming their obstacles. No matter how easy or how challenging life becomes, there are people without whom I would not have the opportunity to experience the highs and lows that my path has led me through.

My history is who I am. It’s more than just important. It’s the past of those who came before me, and eventually it will become the past of those who are here after I am gone. I don’t want to ever forget that.

Luis Garcia, junior

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C ata

“Didn’t know how to tell you / That I can’t be there day n nite.” *

i’m sorry, page 36

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W H I T E DWA R F * We are a galaxy and you are the sun A white dwarf You shine brighter than your celestial body allows Your rays burn the crust of the worlds among you But you never touch the core Dissipation is inevitable

x Jai Powell, senior

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i ’ m a b oy * x

Sorren Gadd, freshman

I’m a boy Yes, I like flower crowns. (but boys don’t like flowers!)

I’m a boy Yes, I giggle. (boys don’t giggle, sweetie.)

I’m a boy Yes, I can do makeup. (boys don’t even own make up.)

I’m a boy Yes, I like dresses and skirts. (boys don’t wear those.)

Surprised? (yes.)

Confused? (duh.)

Doesn’t mean I’m not a boy I’m a boy Yes, I sew. (that’s a girl thing.)

I’m a boy.

Yes, I like theatre and musicals. (only girls like that these days.)

I’m a boy Yes, I’m a hopeless romantic. (that’s the girl’s job.)

I’m a boy Yes, I don’t like sports. (but you need to be physical!)

I am a boy.

I’m emotional I’m cute sounding I’m still a boy I’m a boy I wasn’t born and wrapped in blue.

(then you were wrapped in pink, which means you’re a girl.)

Are your arms tired yet from tearing anyone like me down?

Why don’t your palms bleed from all the broken glass that you throw?

Why don’t you hurt for this?

I’m a boy.

Yes, I’m tired of explaining this.

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B R OT H E R Grace Upchurch, x Katie freshman 26

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OCEAN, MOON AND SHORE shore i often crave her touch to feel her soothing skin against my surface

ocean i am forced to visit twice a day but retreat quickly back home

she visits twice a day but leaves me soon after i am unwanted, forgotten

for, the one i truly long for is light years away

the love i give her is rich, heavybut she only scrapes the surface of my vast expanse i long for more

sometimes it is hard to love her the distance between us the games she plays her constant and persistent control

moon i push her to the shore for that is where she belongs

but she is the reason i’m awake her loyal serenity keeps me calm and maintains the gentle lull of my waves

a perfect match destined to be

push, pull push, pull

she doesn’t agree and falls back into her icy waters

in, out in, out

chasing, chasing, chasing

i await the next tide like it’s all i’m worth

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her love is the pill that keeps me alive

Zoe Peterson, junior

DIVIDE

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FIGHT x 28

Sophie Fernandes, senior

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S H E WAS SCARED* She was scared Of the monsters under her bed Of the nightmares in her head She was young She was scared Of a boy not liking her back Of forgetting her new backpack She was innocent She was scared Of being alone on the street Of the men with great conceit She was vigilant

She was scared Of leaving the best of friends Of seeing strong bonds come to an end She was loyal She was scared Of the talks her mother gave Of being a woman, being brave She was independent She was scared Of the news that spread everyday Of the vicious men out to prey She was nervous

She was scared Of the man who did her wrong Of trusting others and staying strong She was forced She was scared Yet she rose above Helped females everywhere; and showed them love She was a Woman.

x Natalie Ripps, rising freshman Clarke Middle School

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SW E E T SPOT

BREAKING

POINT*

a hundred-two hundred? Three hundred, at least, three hundred mornings where the cold air creeps inside my lungs, makes the hair on my arms stand up straight enough to listen to my fingers, warmed by a half empty cup of coffee, telling them that it isn’t all bad some of these mornings hit the spot, give me the feeling of finding that final piece of a jigsaw puzzle. these are the mornings when the beginning of the day is punctuated by a familiar face. sometimes, this face is a salvation. other times, it is a catalyst. either way, the day builds or breaks from here.

x Madeline Hall, senior

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U P S I D E D OW N Zoe Peterson, junior

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WATERS* Your waters were never still They created fire You were always afraid of what Didn’t move. So I stopped By the traffic lights and let you Lead the way.

x Lorena Limongi, senior

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FLIGHT Violet Merritt, junior

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A LATIN DELICACY

“Hot tamale.”

Many Latinas are familiar with this phrase. Even more familiar to our ears is “spicy”.

I understand many Latinas are from countries with vibrant, delicious and well-seasoned foods, but what I have trouble understanding is at what point it became alright to describe us as such.

Similar to the “angry black woman” stereotype, Latinas are often pinned as sexual firebrands.

Words used to describe Latinas such as “spicy”, “sizzling” or “flaming hot” reduce Latinas to food that is craved, drooled over, obtained, devoured and then flushed away.

In describing us the way one would describe a Triple Steak Burrito from Taco Bell, one is reducing us to less than human, a mere object for consumption.

News flash: we are not yours to consume.

This dehumanization of Latinas comes hand in hand with our oversexualization in American culture.

Stereotypes of Latinas are often perpetuated by the media, labeling Latinas as “hot tamales”, curvy and provocative, almost always emblematic of sex appeal.

Examples of this date back to the 1920s, when Dolores del Río played roles of an exotic and passionate lover, to now, as Sofia Vergara’s character Gloria on “Modern Family” is representative of a stereotypical

Latina who wears provocative, skin-tight clothing and is a fantasy trophy wife to her older husband, Jay (Ed O’Neill).

This oversexualizaiton of Latinas is harmful for more reasons than one. It is undoubtedly dehumanizing, but it also denies many Latinas a sense of ethnic identity based on their physical appearance or sexual attractiveness.

How am I supposed to feel Latina enough when I am told my only worth comes from curves or sex appeal?

I recall an interaction I had with a classmate. In revealing to him that I am Latina, his response was along the lines of “Oh, that explains your hot body.”

I was appalled.

One might say I should be flattered he found my body to be attractive, but it felt wrong, as if I was suddenly just my body, just a piece of meat, just something to consume.

I reject that idea.

Latinas are stereotyped, sexualized and dehumanized, but we are strong, beautiful, intelligent, kind and much more complex than a simple label.

I may be a lot of things, but I will never be your spicy Latina. My curves are not for your eyes to gaze upon. My ethnicity is not for your sexual satisfaction. My identity is not a food group category.

And I will most certainly not be consumed by you.

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Lucia Bermudez, junior 34

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RUST x

Sunčana Pavlić, junior

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I’M SORRY* I’m sorry if I hurt you Didn’t put your life to perspective Never considered how you felt The day I had left Thought everything was cool That you knew it would be alright Didn’t know how to tell you That I can’t be there day n nite Let’s talk let’s try To build again A relationship I didn’t know Was growing thin

x Anonymous, senior

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waterfall

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Kri Hair, junior

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DESCENT “You cannot help but adore the destruction/ That/ Madness brings.”

FEAR , page 55

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H E A R T B E AT * You start, it starts fast at first like the rapid beat of a hummingbird’s wings.

You grow, it grows slow.

You stop, it stops.

The last beat echoing, longing not to be forgotten.

Drop-Drop-Drop, tears fall from above.

Buried under heaps of soil years pass, unnoticed by all above that underneath there manicured lawns lies a life once lived but gone for now.

They had their time, have yours now.

x Anna DeMarco, rising freshman Clarke Middle School

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HUMANITY

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Shahrzad Roshan, junior

“This is a verse from a Persian poem by the poet Molavi repeated over and over. The letters are deformed in order to make the shape osfa circle. The verse itself states “Human being is just a wish,” which is to emphasize that the values of humanity are being undermined by human beings themselves. The reason it is in a circular form is to illustrate fingerprints.

With the inhumane actions being enforced all over the world, I believe it is necessary for us to rethink our origins. Actions that undermine our values every day are seen as normal. By this illustration, I would like to ask my audience to keep humanity alive and not forget their responsibilities as human beings.

Just like a fingerprint, everyone’s contribution to humanity and to this world is a part of their identity -- unique and valuable.”

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THIS IS HARDCORE x

Anna Julian, freshman 42

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COLD HEARTED* It’s just a cold heart, It’s been hiding in the dark.

It doesn’t know how love feels, So it pushes its way apart.

It’s been hurt so many times, Just incredible how it’s surviving.

When he opens up a little bit, He regrets it and stays quiet.

You’ll never know how his love feels, He’ll just leave you there wondering.

Just stay quiet and listen to his words And visualize his past.

That is holding him back from getting Something he’s never had. His heart was played Now he’s out there “getting paid.”

He says “get girls, get money,” Cause that’s what’s going to find his way.

Saying he doesn’t pay them any attention, yet he’s still with them.

He’s waiting for a real one, But she’s been right there with him.

It’s hard for him to realize. From the confusion And trust issues he pushes back aside.

He then becomes fake with love and loses everything that he could have had.

x

Ilianis Solis-Albino, senior 43

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BLACK MOUNTAIN Grace Upchurch, x Katie freshman 44

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YOU WANTED HER, WE NEEDED YOU* Disgusting fast and unknown a unison once clean and healthy now broken and flawed Your relationship is a carrier of disease wrapped in fake smiles and love that isn’t there His ego cradled him it was protective and always there He hid behind it You desperately tried to find him but work came before you she came before you you pushed it down you told no one infidelity consumed you it killed you He killed you.

Beatrice Acheson, freshman

x

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ABSENCE Sometimes my eyes are so full of tears, I can’t close them.

My reality is blurred and I am disoriented, To look in on a world that keeps moving when yours has stopped.

I feel when people look at me, They see you, They see the absence of your presence, And I become a reminder of what is not there.

I often foolishly look to my left, Expecting you to be there, You’re always there, Even when you aren’t.

Delia Adamson, junior

x 47

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GENTE*

PEOPLE*

Portuguese

ENGLISH

E um bicho estranho

‘Tis a strange animal

Que vive

Serves

Sobre vive

Survives

Que finge saber amar

Alleges to know of love

E matematico

‘Tis a mathematician

E numera

And numbers

Numeros passos

Numerous steps

Que passam no continuo

And passes through the constants

E nao lida com silencios;

And cannot handle silences;

Raca engracada

Funny race

Que so ri

Only blathers

Mas nao sorri para nada

But never grins

Nem olha os olhos

And doesn’t glance at stranger

Alheios

Looks

Mas deixa bocas entrarem

But allows lips to burst

No peito

Into their chest

E tenta

And tempts

Encanta

Enchants

Inventa o vento para o proximo poeta

Invents the air to the next poet

Que finge saber amar.

Who alleges to know of love.

x Lorena Limongi, senior 48

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eyes

x Emma Crane, freshman 49

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FORGET-ME-NOTS When my eyes close I can see you The sun pours in, And catches onto your hair, Draping down to bend at your neck, To perfectly frame your face

Like silk,

Like gold,

Like liquid sunshine,

Like the tall grass that

brushes past your leg as you walk, And turn, And smile.

Your fair skin sun-dyed brown, Kissed by the sun And dusted with freckles.

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Iliad Then my eyes open, And you’re not here.

Your hair has lost its shine And your body looks small And your skin is without its glow.

But your eyes, They’re still the same light blue, Like forget-me-nots, Like crystal, Like a captured sky.

And each breath you take is like a passing second on a clock, Like the minutes that turn into hours,

That turn into days,

That turn into weeks

And then months without you.

I guess I just hate that time won’t stop for you.

Violet Merritt, junior

x

Sunčana Pavlić, junior

x

PRAIRIE ON PRINCE 51

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regular day x

52

Elizabeth Jurado, senior

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find a way We can never find our way, the biased insist, which we most implicitly are, and most immediately are not.

For instance, it becomes absolutely clear to not think the people are overlooking currently, for feeling, due to the unwritten stratum of society which is a “force” that could not be thought of productively as a “force.”

We need unity, and by that, I mean equity.

Not divided, but back together like we never were.

That’s the reality we relate the world.

And as a world, words come into action.

Stacee Dillard, sophomore

x

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bowl 54

x

Zoe Peterson, junior

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FEAR Fear lingers, a constant companion: Shimmering, controlling our minds with silver strings.

You cannot help but adore the destruction That Madness brings.

The fire and darkness hidden under your silken skin and satin hair.

Madness and Fear are yet both born out of each other: Dancing, tripping and singing to

Us from the shadows.

EsmĂŠ Clark, freshman

x

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C H AO S

“I don’t lose. / And yet I have lost control over everything, / even the places inside my head.”

a perfect madness , page 60

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zoso x

Christopher Dellaria, junior 59

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a p e r f ec t

MADNESS x Andrew Caldwell, sophomore

I don’t lose.

And yet I have lost control over everything, even the places inside my head I swear it wasn’t my choice.

I used to be so kind.

They’re everything I ever wanted to be, to have I battle with what I know and what I feel on a daily.

I’ve become as common as dirt.

And I can’t help to feel as though I’m playing at real life instead of living it.

But, I know you.

I know you.

I know you like a prisoner comes to know his cell.

My heart twitches.

It aches.

It throbs.

And while there’s nothing so painful, so corrosive, as suspicion, I am a perfect, perfect madness.

With eyes as unforgiving as Sahara desert heat, I see them.

Their hands tied like a sailor’s knot.

They’re what I lost.

I am unusual, tragic.

I am an empty ghost, with a ticking time bomb for a heart, just waiting to go off.

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TRAIN Moss Ivy, x freshman

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s e l f p o rt r a i t Bastow, x Sheffield rising freshman 62

Burney-Harris-Lyons Middle School

Iliad

MY GRAVE, MY CITY* Grey suits surround me Chains of ants separate them The city bustle The poor man passed by Unnoticed and unwanted Nothing to be done The oppressive noise Unable to hear my thoughts My grave, my city Am I uncertain?

I do not have the answer I am uncertain.

Unpracticed preachings Without actions what are words Sermons left empty The filth on the streets Even rain can’t wash the grime A permanent stain I can see lights at night The empty streets now flooded Distant sirens wail The jazz musician he pours his heart in his song The purest vessel

x Gabriel Mantione-Holmes, junior 63

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a R OAC H* x

Mara Bastow, senior

I remember the screaming of my sister.

The snot that ran down her face.

The tears that painted a picture on her cheeks.

I remember my mother, losing sleep to comfort her before the sun was even awake.

Pulling out her swollen breast for my hungry sister, two other mouths still nipping at her heels.

While my father sleeps. Snoring. Loud.

My mother finding peace even in him, a bomb.

Insomnia driven, I stayed glued to the couch.

Drooling, talking to myself.

I remember counting all my fingers and toes, I needed to know that I was still awake.

I remember my mother begging me to sleep.

But if I’d slept, I would’ve never seen the truth in her eyes all those restless nights.

What are you hiding?

He wakes up and pushes her and pushes her to make his coffee.

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Her hands hold my sister’s infant body.

She balances her on one hip and his coffee on the other.

But even she knows, they are not wide enough and spacious enough to carry all of that weight.

Are you happy?

We sit down at the dinner table and my sister starts to scream again, but my mother is cooking dinner for my father, he is getting impatient, please do not yell at her.

“Here.” My mother says. “Here is one for you, and one for you.” She pulls out both breasts, and her eyes still speak that same tune.

Does he make you happy?

She swallows and chokes on the words she has to say.

I am happy, I am happy, I am happy, her lips say.

But I remember her eyes and how they told me she was lying.

Listen to her.

My father, a roach, crawls into her skin and eats at her heart.

My mother did not sleep for 13 years, I remember.

Iliad

scream x

Kri Hair, junior

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ONCE MORE WITH FEELING* Anna Julian, freshman

x

these fingers are not my own and i am not Love i am not brash i am not plump here is the deep south six bullet shells strung togetherin the fashion of a harp and here is my mouth the unnamed sweetness on the underside of my tongue and there is a teaspoon of untruth turned on its head and tipped, backwards she is named deliverance 1977 at the age of thirteen expelled and exiled following the 1969 split i am i am i am not

S TA R S T R U C K x 66

Trinity James, freshman

Iliad

ablution x

Sara Goodie, senior

I sit upright in the tub and notice how warm the top of my thighs get when I submerge them under pale bathwater.

I trace lye tracks across my body to feel it again because since the loss of my lover, my skin has forgotten itself.

I touch my hair again and it is light.

Above me is all silvery as glitter rushes into my ears with the water.

The tub is dripping twice as fast as my pulse and everything is silvery.

I start to remember myself a different way.

I hold up my hand which is a glorious sunrise red and pink and hinting purple in the center with dewy rivulets that reflect the light.

A soporific quiver flicks them back into the bath.

I am slippery from the fragrant oils that have dissolved around me.

Water drains through the faulty stopper.

I wonder if I will dream her back tonight, then erase the wonder.

It is late and my family sleeps in other rooms.

At first I was afraid of waking them with the rushing tumbling water, but it is quieter now.

I touch my stomach and my legs and arms, feeling the soft textures I have with me, running my nails down the sides.

I will try to love them more.

The bathwater lulls beside me. my kneecaps and shoulders and toes float above.

I consider sinking down and eventually I do.

I hear the bathwater running through my head.

It takes an hour more to scrub off the silver.

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panther creek x 68

Zoe Peterson, junior

Iliad

d o yo u e v e r j u s t * Kaya Pollack, junior

x

Do you ever just Wonder Wonder how all the things in your life come together as haphazardly as they do How you can hang on tight for years But only by a thread Do you ever just Cry Out of sight so it will be out of mind Do you ever just Scream in the car And deafen your own ears Because your scream would fall on deaf ears otherwise Do you just Hope That tomorrow will be a better today Do you just Close your eyes And wish to dream because now all that comes is nightmares Do you ever just Want to give up

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REALIZATION I am 10. My “best friend’s” brother calls for me to come outside.

My friend beckons for me to look at him from the window.

I can’t stop shaking. My feelings flow like a landslide.

I don’t want to go.

She nudges me to the door.

I say no. I don’t want to go.

She isn’t my friend anymore.

“He just likes you you know” I am 12. I have no best friend.

I am walking through my neighborhood and I pass his house.

I avert my eyes, I try to pretend.

He smiles from his porch as I button up my blouse.

I refuse to walk down his street.

I am afraid of what his smile means when he looks at me.

Even at 12, I know that his smile isn’t just sweet.

I lock up this memory and throw away the key.

I am 15. I see my old “best friend” again.

She cries about her brother being in jail.

I know that I must keep my relief from hearing this restrained.

I ask her why. She replies with a wail.

He was caught with a girl under half his age.

My breath catches in my chest.

My fear and anxiety are something I can’t even gauge.

This is something that is hard to digest.

I sit on my bed with my head in my hand.

I wonder what could have happened to me if I had stepped outside that day.

My fear of that thought alone sends me into a dark land.

For the first time in a while I sit on my knees and pray.

I thank god I never stepped outside.

I thank god I stayed away.

I thank god that he never tried.

I thank god my feet never left that doorway.

x

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Alice Watson, sophomore

Iliad

i woke up and he wasn’t there* I woke up one morning and he wasn’t there.

They all said we looked alike, that we had the same hair.

How is it that mostly everybody grows up having one But he wasn’t there.

I’ve seen pictures, letters and many more to come But why is it that he isn’t here every day like The sun rising in the morning.

It’s too much stuff that goes on when he’s gone Like grades ain’t right, keep getting in trouble And gangs coming up to ya son.

It’s a cold world, if you ain’t got that one above But I bet he’s always watching, it’s just kind of hard to feel the Love.

Chains on him, and shackles on his feet, I know my sister wish he was there when she was Growing up telling her baby girl you on Fleek.

All his son wanted was to play ball or go out For a long pass.

But he grew up around some negativity, now it’s ‘bout Getting cash.

Maybe he wanted some discipline, or to get whooped On the ass.

And run from the belt like his last name was Flash But his heart is about to break he can feel A lil’ tear.

He just wants to know why he wakes up and He isn’t there.

x Adonis Calhoun, senior 71

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Realignment

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“But the fire is still going / still softly glowing / warming me down to my core�

the heart that hums , page 77

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UNITY* x

Marisha Christian, senior

I see ya mr. with ya suit and ya tie I see ya sista with ya heels and ya head held high Walking with ambitions, We are not just images we are masterpieces Little boy pull your pants up and put the guns down Fight with your words, and if they don’t hear you speak louder Little girl pull your dress down and walk like you got dignity And act like a queen and wear your crown Wipe your tears and touch up your makeup too And have the sense God gave you Little ones, you are more than just your looks and money Don’t be afraid to go out and make a change and help feed the hungry Little ones you are worth more than cars, clothes, and pride

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Iliad Just because you’re little doesn’t mean you can’t take a stand And lend a helping hand and help change the world to a better place Little ones don’t separate because of skin color Change this world we live in and love one another Little ones we need more doctors and lawyers and firefighters Not just another casket or has been Stamp your name and when you make that fame So the world won’t forget when your body does no longer exist Because you was worth it Little ones don’t let “I can’t,” be your reason Stand up for what you believe in Cause you have a dream and I have a dream I have a dream that in 2017 there will be a change I have a dream that 2017 will be filled with positive moments that in time will never get old I have a dream that in 2017 men will stop being cheaters, liars, deceivers and be God men and leaders I have a dream that in 2017 this community will become a unity, that this nation will become a unity Unity, unity, one more time, unity

10

x

Sophie Fernandes, senior

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ESSENCE x

76

Trinity James, freshman

Iliad

THE HEART THAT HUMS* My heart jumps, its rhythm offbeat like the keys of a piano played by a small child amazed by the sound.

A small fire has taken residency in the pit of my stomach.

Heat rises and it crackles and pops as the child’s hands hit the keys.

Smoke rises up and embers coat the inside of my throat, making me contentedly muted.

But the keyed hum of a live flame is like the buzz of a bee in summer.

Attracted to the light, the beauty, the aroma of something: new, bright, and unwithered.

Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die.

But a bee’s wings hum because that’s what bees do.

And the humming won’t stop because the bee rests on the strings of the child’s piano As the smoke swirls up up up it covers the once white, now faintly stained ceiling of my heart I wish it were unmarred I wish it were uncharred I wish I were untouched unsullied by the flames that burned there before that burnt me before But the fire is still going still softly glowing warming me down to my core and the keys are played again and the heat rises up and I’m speechless the hum of my heart, the warmth of his hands, the fire in the pit, and the keys are played again and again and again Elizabeth Jurado, senior

x 77

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THE MAN AND THE MOON* The gentle people walked hand in hand under the sleeping moon They were careful and graced the earth with their legacy beneath the joyous moon They realized the world was to take The dominant couple walked with strength under the submissive moon They trampled all creatures in their path under the frightened moon They had everything in their favor The reckless couple vanished in an instant, under the grave moon They heard a shot, then felt, their chests implode, under the solemn moon They lied on the ground, burgundy velvet rushing out.

The man trudged back to the riverside under the silent moon He threw his rifle in the river under the tenacious moon He knew he was the hero, not the villain, under the victorious moon.

The man and the moon walked hand in hand, under the vacant sky.

x 78

Emma Crane, freshman

Iliad

COT TO N Camille Flurry, freshman

x

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SYNESTHESIA: A LAVENDER WORD IN·VIS·I·BLE: ADJ. a misty grey gloom, followed by fire crackling electric blues and ending with a green twist

For most of my life, I assumed everyone saw words like this. I went through school writing with words that made sense in my mind, words that looked good. Writing is a visual art only I could see.

PER·CEIVE: V. firetruck red which then fades to yellowish-orange; is pointed at the end, but not sharp

This past summer, I started to research synesthesia and discovered that there was a form that sounded like me. There were people who saw letters in color, and who used their perceptions of things to create art. They talked about dealing with their differences and expressing themselves. This was a loaded discovery; what I had was real, but it wasn’t universal.

U·NIQUE: ADJ. a pinkish, round hue with hints of soft magenta at the middle

For me, words have colors.

I hear or see a word and in my mind, there’s an image of what that word looks like.

The word “classical” is sunrise blue, but it yawns a blood orange color. “Picket fence” is stripes of pale pink and green.

I have synesthesia, a neurological condition in which the senses are crossed.

BE·LONG·ING: N. earthy brown along the edges, but burnt orange and turquoise speckling a dry sandy core

x 80

As I came to realize that my synesthesia was a way to connect with the world around me, I started to hone in on it. I started talking about it with my friends. I wrote down a list of random words and how they looked. Suddenly, I was identifying as a synesthete in my daily life. It was wonderful.

Sara Goodie, senior

Iliad

H E AV E N LY Sunčana Pavlić, junior

x 81

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T

he iliad Literary-Art Magazine is proud to be Clarke Central High School’s open public forum for student expression, under the guidance of a faculty adviser, by means of any and all writing, artwork, original music, photography and any other creative work.

As a staff, the members of the iliad have come to a consensus that in certain written works, stylistic and grammatical errors are intentionally made by authors and are therefore left in their original states. This is meant to accurately reflect the intention of writers and to preserve their artistic freedom.

Such pieces are marked with asterisks* next to their titles.

WHEN THE FOREST BURNS Kri Hair, junior

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S TA F F The 2017 Clarke Central High School iliad Literary-Art Magazine staff, from left to right; back row: Moss Ivy, Jack Fischer, Adviser David Ragsdale, Emma Crane, Everett Vereen; middle row: Camille Flurry, Beatrice Acheson, Trinity James, Katie Grace Upchurch, Anna Julian, Elena Gilbertson Hall, Denise Sunta; front row: Sara Goodie, Elizabeth Jurado.

David A. Ragsdale, Adviser

Not pictured: Violet Merritt, Maddie Hall, Parker Dillard, Joseph Mullen, Perry Thomas.

EDITORIAL B OA R D

Sara Goodie, Editor-in-Chief

STAFF

Elizabeth Jurado, Managing Editor

Violet Merritt, Writing Director

Maddie Hall, Visuals Director

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FRIENDS OF THE

iliad

red diamond

diamond

x 600+

x 300+

Troy B. Coleman and family

John Lewis Campbell and family Troy B. Coleman and family Dr. John L. Campbell and family

platinum

GOLD

x100+

x 50+

Rachel Allen and Joe Polanezcky Dr. Robert A. Fecho

Dr. John S. Whithead and family Liz and Michael Conroy

bronze x25+ Jodi Bolgla

SPECIAL THANKS TO: Julie Alpaugh Catherine DeCocco Sandra Evans Karen Farnsworth Valeria Garcia-Pozo Marion Montgomery Eleanor Sams Marie Yuran

...and any of our friends we’ve left out.

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INDEX Acheson, Beatrice

You wanted her,

we needed you 45 Adamson, Delia

Absence 47 Anonymous

Bullet-list thoughts 13 Anonymous

I’m sorry 36 Bastow, Mara

A Roach 64 Bastow, Sheffield

Self portrait 62 Bermudez, Lucia

Bella 8

A Latin Delicacy 34 Caldwell, Andrew

A Perfect Madness 60 Calhoun, Adonis

I woke up and he

wasn’t there 71 Christian, Marisha

Unity 74 Clark, Esmé

Fear 55 Conine-Nakano, Aneesa

Macro 10 Crane, Emma

Eyes 49

The man and the

moon 78 Dellaria, Christopher

Zoso 58 DeMarco, Anna

Heartbeat 40 Dillard, Stacee

Find a way 53 Dougan, Karla

Inhale 14

Fernandes, Sophie

Jīvana Śāle 11

Fight 28

10x 75 Fischer, Jack

Pine 18 Flurry, Camille

Cactus Flower 11

Cotton 79 Gadd, Sorren

I’m a boy 25 Garcia, Luis

Slim chances 20 Gilbertson Hall, Elena

Hope 9 Goodie, Sara

this religion 17

Ablution 67

Synesthesia: a

lavender word 80 Hair, Kri

Waterfall 37

Scream 65 Hall, Madeline

Sweet spot/

Breaking point 30 Ivy, Moss

Train 61 James, Trinity

Starstruck 66

Essence 76 Julian, Anna

This is hardcore 42

Once more with feel-

ing 66 Jurado, Elizabeth

Regular day 52

The heart that hums 77 Limongi, Lorena

Waters 32

Gente/People 48

Iliad

Mantione-Holmes, Gabriel

A split, red, sea 16

My grave, my city 63 Merritt, Violet

Flight 32

Forget-me-nots 50 Moon, Savannah

Books 18 Pavlić, Sunčana

Rust 35

Prairie on Prince 50

Heavenly 81 Peterson, Zoe

Grønn 8

Ocean moon and

shore 27

Upside down 31

Bowl 54

Panther creek 68 Pollack, Kaya

Do you ever just 69 Powell, Jai

White Dwarf 24 Ripps, Natalie

She was scared 29 Romero, Javier

The incoherent

representation of

12/64 19 Roshan, Shahrzad

Humanity 41 Solis, Ilianis

Cold hearted 43 Upchurch, Katie Grace

Frames 12

Brother 26

Black Mountain 44 Watson, Alice

Realization 70

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Colophon iliad headlines, bylines and section dividers were printed in AXIS Extra Bold. Title page was printed in The Woodlands. All copy was printed in Georgia.

The inside cover features a design by Sara Goodie. The Order section divider was taken by Aneesa Conine-Nakano. The Catalyst section divider was taken by Isabelle Germain. The Descent and Chaos section divider was taken by Zoe Peterson. The Realignment section divider was taken by Kiki Griffin. The staff page portraits and group photo were taken by Julie Alpaugh.

The 2016 iliad, Dimensions, was recognized as First Class by the National Scholastic Press Association. The magazine received Marks of Distinction for Content, Writing and Editing.

The 2016 iliad placed seventh in the Best of Show competition for Literary Magazines at the Journalism Education Association/Scholastic Press Association National High School Journalism Convention in Indianapolis, Indiana.

The 2016 iliad earned an All-Southern rating and the Scroggins Award, top honors, from the Southern Interscholastic Press Association of the University of South Carolina for the seventh consecutive year.

The iliad accepts short stories, editorials, articles, poetry, essays, art, photography, original music and other creative work from the students of Clarke Central High School in Athens, Ga. All submitted works are evaluated by the iliad staff. The magazine’s adviser, David A. Ragsdale, has approved all work for publication.

The iliad actively recruits rising freshmen at our two feeder middle schools, Clarke Middle School and Burney-Harris-Lyons Middle School, allowing them to submit pieces.

The goals of the iliad are 1) to encourage creative writing among students and faculty; 2) to support work in the fine arts among students and faculty; 3) to publish creative work in each academic year; and 4) to involve interested students in the selection and publication of literary and artistic works.

It is iliad policy to not publish explicit language where it may appear in submitted work. In accordance with the age of high schoolers, censorship of explicit language follows guidelines similar to a “TV-14” rating. Submissions containing profanity will be edited appropriately with the creators’ consent before publication.

The editors, staff and adviser are grateful to everyone who submitted work or otherwise contributed for this issue of the iliad. We would also like to thank everyone for their confidence and support in this endeavor.

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