Ink Consequential: Summer 2017
Ten Word Tales
Jana A
1. I want you to redefine love. Love is not pain.
2. Sometimes, you remind me of my father, and it’s scary.
3. I wish I started years ago. But I’m starting today.
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Keep reading for movie reviews, short fiction, poetry, and more!
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Movie Review: Gifted
Lucas Brantley
Gifted is a film directed by Marc Webb and stars Chris Evans as Frank Adler, a freelance boat repairman in coastal Florida who is raising his 7-year-old niece, Mary, who is played by Mckenna Grace. They lead a normal, simple life until they discover that Mary has exceptional mathematical skills. This leads to a custody battle with Frank’s mother, Evelyn (played by Lindsay Duncan), as each of the two has a different opinion on how Mary’s talent should be handled in her upbringing.
I thought this film was terrific. Personally, I enjoy films with simple stories about people being people. I appreciate films that don’t feel the need to extend its story to some grand, world-altering scale. Films like this can be very engaging for ordinary people like you and me—but more on that later. And, full disclosure, I saw this film with my mother on Mother’s Day.
Marc Webb is best known for his directorial work on The Amazing Spider-Man films starring Andrew Garfield and Emma Stone. I didn’t like The Amazing Spider-Man 2 primarily because it never gave us a chance to breathe. It was a sensory overload from the start, and audiences around the world agreed, which is why there won’t be another Garfield Spider-Man movie. I’m glad Webb got to scale back his focus in this film because his directorial skills shine brilliantly and prove that he has real talent directing these slower, more character-driven stories.
The acting in this film is also superb. Chris Evans really gets to show off his acting chops in this movie, which I was glad to see; too many times, actors that are best known for a superhero blockbuster franchise can’t escape that bubble. Evans does an exceptional job, and his chemistry with Mckenna Grace makes that central relationship very touching. Mckenna Grace did a fantastic job on her own. She goes toe-to-toe with Chris Evans and Octavia Spencer (who plays their neighbor and landlord Roberta in the film), and she steals the movie in quite a few scenes. I would honestly put this as the second-best child performance I’ve seen in a while, only trailing Dafne Keen’s performance in Logan. Octavia Spencer herself is great, although she doesn’t appear often.
The writing in this movie may be my favorite part. I can’t remember a time when I’ve had so many out-loud reactions to moments or one-liners in a film, and I wasn’t the only one in the theater who did. The humor in this movie is great and well-timed by all the actors, especially Mckenna Grace; she comes off as an adorable little smart-aleck, which is very relatable for me. Overall, however, the film is a drama and it handles its subject matter intelligently, and that’s what I want to get into.
Without spoiling anything, the film’s main conflict surrounds the custody battle for Mary since her mother has passed away and left her in the care of her brother, Frank. Evelyn and Frank have a strained relationship (to say the least), and Evelyn seems to only become interested in Mary after the school discovers she has this talent. Evelyn wants this talent to be nurtured; she wants to send Mary to a school for gifted children and get her into classes more suited to her intelligence level. Frank, however, believes that she needs to grow up as a normal girl and not be treated as special in any way, so he refuses to send her to this gifted school. Thus, the court custody battle begins. The film handles this conflict well in that they don’t overload you with courtroom scenes in the second act; they’re spaced out between watching the characters evolve with this situation in daily life, which makes for an organically-paced story, which is another major credit to Webb’s direction.
I think many people, especially today’s youth, will find this film to be very relatable and engaging because, from what I’ve been witnessing, the main conflict is pervasive in society. Too often, I see that kids anywhere from preschool to high school and beyond are being pushed to be great at something. If it is discovered that a child has a talent for something, be it academic or athletic, parents often make sure that they are engaged 110% in that activity. They push the child to try harder and harder to improve their skills daily. In my opinion, this action by parents, while well-meaning, is counter-intuitive. If you saturate a child’s life with this one thing and push them too hard to be better at it, they will grow to resent you and hate the activity, thus removing any motivation to pursue it. Kids should be able to explore any number of interests they may have. It improves their learning with the added benefit that they can grow to know what they enjoy and don’t enjoy. There is a scene in the film where Mary is staying with Evelyn for a brief period at her home in Massachusetts. Evelyn tries to get her to work on more math problems after going through old photo albums, but all Mary wants to do is try the piano—something she has always wanted to do but Frank could not provide for her. Evelyn refuses her this desire. It’s a small moment, but it resonated with me because I was begging her to let Mary be a normal kid.
I was very much sympathetic to Frank for most of the film, as is the intention, but the film does a good job of also presenting Evelyn as a human being and not just “the bad guy”. It would have been so easy to make her a cardboard cutout of a snobbish and unfeeling old lady, but she wasn’t. You do understand her side of the argument as well, though how she goes about pushing her agenda is anger-inducing. You can tell that she genuinely does care about Mary and Frank, though her way of showing it is not ideal for either. The history with Mary’s mother plays an important role throughout the film, and I won’t discuss it here because it gets into spoiler territory, but it determines the film’s resolution.
The ending of the film was very satisfying for me because it compromises. I think this is an important film for any parent of young children to see because it teaches the lesson that you need to let kids be kids. Don’t push them too hard to do something they may not enjoy; just because they’re good at something doesn’t mean they enjoy it. Let them have a normal childhood, and, if they show a talent at something, give them the opportunity to try it, but don’t push them to be the best at it because that puts too much pressure on them. You should obviously encourage them to stick with it, but if they end up not liking it, encourage them to find something else. The character of Frank is a good role model for parents because he does an excellent job of teaching Mary about how life works and doesn’t lie to her; he trusts that she is intelligent enough to grasp the truth when he tells it, which I found very refreshing.
Overall, Gifted is a terrific film that I will absolutely buy on Blu-ray/DVD when it releases. If I had to grade it, I’d give it a 9.5/10 or an A. It’s also an independent film, so I would encourage anyone to support the film because we need more films like this. Films like this—the ones that analyze everyday life in society from a singular situation—can resonate with many people because, quite often, they are situations with which we can empathize to some degree. By doing so, the film reaches the largest audience from a singular platform, which is a quality you find in a lot of the so-called “Oscar-bait” movies. Let’s give this film the attention it deserves.
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First Love
Elise Alarpy
First love, I wish I could forget you; I don’t want you anymore. Years have passed and my traitorous heart Still clings to your memory.
Darling, why is it so hard to let you go? I shouldn’t love you. I shouldn’t love you. I shouldn’t love you. But I do. I do— I do.
Honey, I’m trying to move on, I’m trying all the time. I don’t want you, I don’t need you. Leave me alone.
Dearest, I hate you. I love you, but I hate you. You wrecked us, You did this, And I am left in the aftermath.
Darling, I love you, The words I never said. I hate you. I hate myself for loving you.
Sweetheart, you're my addiction. When I finally think I’m clean, You pull me back in again. And again. And again.
First love, you’re my biggest regret, My biggest could have been. I think of you fondly, I remember you sadly, But I just want this to end.
First love, my heart was yours, Although you never knew it. I shouldn’t love you (I do) Leave me alone I hate you (I love you) (Again and again and again)
But I don’t want to anymore.
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The Trial
Danielle Jeanne
The bed was soft and warm by the time Brougha fell into it at the peak night hours. She could feel the blood from her right arm oozing towards the sheep skins that acted as blankets. She was feeling far too tired to actually get under the covers, let alone deal with her injuries before falling asleep. She could feel the cracked wrist bone and the black eye she had been gifted from the clan chief and knew that they would still be issues in the morning even if she tried to fix them now. She was no healer after all. She was not her mother.
*****
“—ling! Darling! It is time to get up now! The chief is waiting, along with your parents!” Brougha jolted awake at the sound of Carguk’s voice filtering in through her sleep. Her green eyes regarded him thoughtfully, confused as to why he would be the one to come tell her.
“Where is Purdash? Isn’t she still my mother’s lead Curer?” Brougha inquired gruffly, not pleased with being alone in the same room as a full-blooded orc so soon after last night. She knew how talk traveled in small encampments like Burning Blood, especially with it being so late in the morning according to the sun. Chances are that the whole tribe had heard about it by now, even the few human members.
A mincing smile grew on Carguk’s face as he looked at her right arm, confirming Brougha’s suspicions. He just wanted to see if the rumors are true. He probably wouldn’t even offer to help bind up her wrist, just to settle some morbid curiosity on the pain tolerance of half-orcs. He straightens up from where he had been crouching next to her bed, “She’s busy at the moment. Your mother’s people have a bad habit of getting sick over the slightest things. I say, getting a fever over raw meat is just being weak—”
“No one keeps you here for your opinions,” Brougha cut him off, “I’m going, get out of my way.” She pushed herself up using her right hand and made her way out of the clay hut that had her bed and not much else. As she walked through the encampment, her ears picked up hushed whispers from the tanning shack as she passed, but nothing clear. She soon found herself standing outside of the Chief’s Longhouse, hesitating before pushing aside the canvas that served as the door as she made her way inside.
She guided herself though the Longhouse and stopped once she was inside the meeting chamber. She saw her father standing next to the chief, solemn. When she notices the absence of her mother, she stays quiet. Instead of her mother, there is another woman there, one with a very serious disposition. The other woman looks at her closely and begins to hum in disapproval.
“You didn’t take the time to tend to your wounds? That is how one dies after battle, you know!” The other woman growls out. “You don’t think when you’re done fighting! You don’t even think when you are fighting! That is why I broke you last night, and that is why I will break you again!”
Brougha stayed still as she listened to the words her chief spoke. It was clear then: she was here for another fight. Another beating, if what her chief says is true. “Fine, then I will think when I fight,” she responds, “And this time you will not break me.”
“Me breaking you was not the point, Brougha. The point is that even with the berries that your mother gave you, you still lost!” the chief roared.
Brougha’s blood froze. She was being accused of cheating; her mother, of helping her with it. She knew of the berries that the chief was talking about: to rare to even name, and too powerful for an orc to even think of using, let alone a half-orc like herself.
“I did not eat any berries before I fought. Do not accuse me of cheating,” Brougha told her chief. She looked over to her father, “Explain this to me.”
“They found a few berry stains in your mother’s tent. It looked like she was trying to dilute the berries for safer consumption. She knew how important last night was to you. She made the mixture and gave it you. That is the only explanation as to why we couldn’t find the mixture in her tent,” Erigg spoke mater-of-factly.
“I was given nothing. The humans are sick, she probably made it for them!” Brougha pleaded. She had seen a few public trials of the tribe before, and she knew that there was little to no chance of the chief going back on her ideas of what went on in the encampment. “Go check with Carguk! That is what he told me was happening in the healer’s tent!”
The chief looked upon Brougha gravely. “You were found cheating and your mother was found in aiding you. Your weakness has cost you your place in the clan and your mother’s shamefulness will be surrendering her own life.”
Brougha stood frozen in place for the decree. Her mother was to die. Her mother, one of the few humans in the encampment that could heal the others, was to be put to death. That was unacceptable.
“I will go, but if I come back and prove that I am better than you, you will let my mother live.” It wasn’t Brougha’s style to ask permission to do something; she found that people tended to accept what was told to them much as she accepted what was told to her. Her charismatic gamble paid off when she saw the chief nod in her direction.
“I will give you three years to become better than me. You will come back in that time and if you do not your mother will be dead. Now go; you have some training to do.”
It wasn’t the orc’s style to have any amount of fanfare when one was banished from the village, and there was certainly no exception when it came to a half-orc. Brougha made her way out of the Longhouse and out of the wooden gates of the encampment, completely bypassing her clay hut. Her things were earned by the tribe, so they stayed with the tribe. She wasted no time in goodbyes or lingering outside of familiar buildings that she would not see for a while. The faster she left, the sooner that she would return.
Brougha had a lot of fighting to do.
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Haiku Hiccups
Esther C
I the journey is long, winding, wavering as I push myself further
II you will not know love until you awaken next to the one you love
III summer’s heat gives way to quenched passion and remorse in the quiet nights
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Ramadan
Jana A
As the first beams of dawn start to light up the night sky, the imam's deep melody begins: "God is great..." and so on until the end of the call for prayers. For the next 16 hours or so, I would abstain from food and water. If you're not familiar with Islam, Ramadan can seem like a daunting challenge.
"Not even water?!" Nope, not even water.
And I admit that sometimes it can be challenging. Your body gets tired more easily. Your throat feels like a barren desert. Your movement becomes sluggish towards the end of the 16 hours. Yet, millions of Muslim choose to fast each year, and a lot of people don't understand why.
I love food. I adore food. If each person is born with a vice, then I'll sheepishly admit that gluttony must be mine. I don't just eat food—I devour it, taking the time to enjoy every second of flavor.
When I'm hungry, I literally begin to fantasize about food. I close my eyes, almost purring, remembering how it feels to sink my teeth into a warm, fresh roll of bread. I plan, with perfect attention to detail, future meals. I think of more than just the taste, of course: the smell, texture, and sight of food is an essential part of the experience.
So, since I adore food so much, why do I (a mostly non-religious person) follow the tradition of fasting?
First of all, fasting brings me a great peace of mind. When physical desires are quenched, my mind feels more alive. Instead of resorting to comfort food when I'm feeling down, I pick up the phone to call a friend. Instead of eating lunch at 6 pm alone in my room, I break my fast with family and friends. Instead of carelessly satisfying hunger with whatever is in the house, I relish every moment of the dish that I spent the last 16 hours craving.
Secondly, fasting, more than anything else, brings a great empathy for people less fortunate than I. Not every person who feels hungry is lucky enough to think of the delicious meal they're going to have in a matter of hours. For a lot of people, Ramadan isn't just a month. They are hungry all year round. Some people don't have clean water to drink. When I force my body to undergo a small part of what they go through, I challenge the subconscious part of me that turns poor people into a caricature. When I'm hungry, starving people are not just figures in a far-away land. They're suddenly, joltingly, brought to reality.
Ramadan, for me, is more than the beautiful fairy lights covering my neighbours' porch, or the feasts that cover my dining room table. It's a conversation with a God who I otherwise don't talk to. It's almost like He's telling me, "Look how many blessings you have laying at your feet." And I listen the growling of my stomach, and I listen to Him.
Photo by Jana A
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Mountain Climbers
Esther C
I like to think that I’m known for my adventurous spirit. Roller coasters, zip lining, international travel, you name it. Stuff like that is a cakewalk for me. So, since I was blessed enough to score incredibly cheap plane tickets, I did something adventurous: I went out to visit our own Adrianna for a few days.
During my vacation to the desert, we did lots of things that you’d expect two writers to do. We visited coffee shops and bookstores, had group writing sessions, and played with her amazing kitties (though one did enjoy stealing my pillow, but I digress). That being said, I doubt that anybody expected us to literally climb a mountain.
Okay, not literally. It was actually a really big and climbable rock in Papago Park. It’s beautiful, too. Sand, sun, cacti, bees, and other desert friends all welcomed us on our journey. We did literally climb (while posing for some pictures for Instagram—what are friends for, right?), and this is where my problem began.
When it comes to climbing mountains, my biggest obstacle is, in fact, myself and not the mountains.
I was wearing a dress.
Yes, you read that right. I was wearing a dress to go climb a really big rock in the desert. In the effort of fairness, I had made the dress (I dabble in making my own clothes, and this one actually worked out for me). And, when I had gotten dressed that morning, we didn’t know exactly what was on our agenda for the day except for a bookstore and a coffee shop. You see, it’s not totally my fault that I didn’t have the foresight to bring extra clothes or better shoes, and it’s definitely not my fault that I didn’t wear almost anything but that. (Okay, maybe it’s a little my fault.)
If you’ve never worn a dress in the summer, then you may not know about the torture that is thigh chafing. It’s literally the worst, and I subjected myself to it while climbing a freaking mountain. I cannot remember the last time I was that physically uncomfortable. I’m certain that I complained to Adrianna no fewer than twelve times (I’m not totally sure why she kept listening to me, but I suspect that it was probably the puns). I have promised myself that I would never do that again; leggings were invented for a reason, people.
My discomfort aside, the sight was beautiful: Phoenix was off in the distance, there were other large rocks and many cacti dotting the landscape, and it was warm and sunny. It was a dream. Adrianna and I sat there for a few minutes, taking the occasional selfie and chatting idly. I may or may not have accidentally flashed the whole of Phoenix by sitting down improperly.
After a while, we ventured back down the rock in search of air conditioning. I must admit that I sat in a very unladylike fashion to rid myself of the discomfort. This should go without saying, but I changed clothes later in the day when I climbed another mountain, but that’s a story for another day.
All in all, I would love to go back. You know, when I’m not wearing a dress.
Photo by Esther C
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For My Sister
Jana A
To my sister:
You were born in December, just before Christmas, and I remember wanting to hold you like you were hand-wrapped just for me. I held you like I thought you might break, and spent the next decade or so watching you break. Sometimes I would be the one to push you.
I would apologize to you, I'm so sorry, but I was trying to make you indestructible. Here is an apology: I'm sorry I saw in you everything I hated in myself. I'm sorry I always told you that Mama loved you best. I'm sorry that I tried to raise you. You rose by yourself like ashes from a burning home. You have taught me to look in the mirror with clearer eyes.
I love you more than I have ever loved anything in this life. If I could, I would redefine all the words in your dictionary, but it's too late: you have already learned how to speak and read and write.
I don't know if you need me anymore. I hope you always know that I still need you. I hope you always know you are the only part of home that I will cry over.
Who's going to wake you up from your nightmares when I'm away? When you're sad, are you going to hole yourself up in your room like I did? Will you trust me enough to call me and say, “Listen, listen, I did something wicked and awful and bad so please show me how to fix it, but please don't tell Mom and Dad"?
I hope you will because it has been an honor to watch you grow, and I hope I never have to stop.
Love,
Your BIG sister (even if you're my height now)
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Six Word Sagas
Danielle Jeanne
I You never pick up my calls
II I never hated you, only feared
III Fear is power, but also weakness
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Editorial
Esther C
If there were a drinking game inspired by my life, I would probably request that the players take a drink every time I did one of the following:
Talk about grammar (my default conversation topic)
Talk about Jesus (since I’m at church at least once a week, that’s beyond simple to do)
Make a bad pun (my other default conversation topic)
Get upset about how things could be done better (injustice irks me)
Do math for a stranger (hello, day job)
Say something sarcastic (excluding during Lent, of course)
Internally roll my eyes (which can be hard to identify unless you know me pretty well)
In all honesty, if you played this game, you’d probably suffer from alcohol poisoning within the hour. It’s easy to reduce myself down to a list of traits that would fit a character on a TV show—like the girl from the Midwest who’s probably the comedic relief of most episodes—but I also have the occasional heartfelt moment or memorable story arc. I’m in a constant state of acceptance of who I am as a person, of growing and strengthening my identity as a woman. I sometimes have to come to terms with my inherent worth as a person on a weekly basis.
More about that last point—it’s a sticky situation, but I’m not going to sugarcoat it. So, without going into the gritty details: I've struggled with mental illness for the better part of the last 8 years (I'm 21, for context). I had a conversation with someone lately where I mentioned that, and it occurred to me that I don't know who I am without it. I've grown into adulthood without an important piece of healthy living. I'm slowly making amends to fix that, but it's difficult. I’ve often stared at myself in the mirror and wondered to myself what I'd be like without the illness, and it finally struck me: I'd be the same person I am, just healthier.
I would still love fiercely and altogether too quickly. I would still sing in my church choir, still edit and write, still delve into my artistic side on occasion. I would still have a job (hopefully; one never knows the future). I would still be sarcastic and wear lipstick like it's armor while listening to music that many people in my life wouldn't like. I would still be a woman, a person, someone who breathes and has a soul and a spirit. My faith would still be important to me—and I imagine that it always will be.
I look at that list and see that I’m so much more than comedic relief. Sure, humor is an integral part of my identity, but it isn’t the only factor by a long shot. I am a created being, a woman loved by my Creator because of that. I am constantly in awe of the complexity with which He pieced me together, honestly. Everything I listed before and more is true, right down to the illness. Yes, I’m struggling, but I’m far from alone in this, and I’m far from the single qualities that I often peg myself as.
I don’t know who I will be tomorrow, but I know who I am today: I am a person so genuinely unique that it would be impossible to write everything on a piece of paper and have a complete picture of me, and that’s the way it should be. But, in the meantime, feel free to take a shot of something whenever I correct your grammar. Amid all the negativity, it makes life a little more fun.
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