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The New Inklings
Contents Spring 2014!
President Jacqueline Kim Vice President Nilu Karimi Secretary Tikva Cohen Social Media Director Christian Gella Outreach Leader Jaime Arambulo Managing Editor Hailey Sanden Submissions Editor Devon Munos Culture Section Editor Salena Quach
Special thanks to our ever-supportive advisory council from the Literature Department: Faculty Chair Stephanie Jed MSO Nancy Ho-Wu Director of UG Studies Jody Blanco UG Program Coordinator Alyssa Simons UG Advisor Danny Panella
Learn more about submitting your work for our next issue here. Read our other issues at Issuu here.
Quarterlies
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Academic
Creative
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Culture
About the Cover This issue’s cover is only a small portion from a large and beautifully detailed piece entitled “Free Fall,” a submission received from Jeff Lau. A third-year Computer Science student minoring in Visual Arts at Sixth College, Lau also provided the cover illustration for our Winter 2014 issue. He has also been the Art Editor at the UCSD Guardian. Lau says about “Free Fall,” “I always had an intense fear of falling. I wanted to depict the vertigo and uneasiness of falling through the use of image and text [in this work]. The word and synonyms of falling is hidden through this piece. The building on the top right [on the top of this page] form the word ‘FALL.’”
• • • • Editors’ Note • • • • • • Dear Reader, As we conclude our first year and start making plans for our second, we would like to reflect on how much The New Inklings has accomplished over the past three quarters. It seems only yesterday that the idea was pitched to our wonderful advisory council, and since then, we've made three issues of The Quarterly Quill in one year and built up a community of almost a hundred literature enthusiasts. We would like to thank our members for attending our meetings; they wouldn't be the same without you guys. And hats off to the talented writers who have submitted their work: We encourage you to continue writing and contributing to our magazine. And last but not least, a special shout out to our fellow officers. There are no words to express how valuable you are to our team. As always, we are more than happy to serve as a creative outlet for artists of all kinds. Sincerely, Jacqueline and Nilu
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Healer
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by Maria V. Snyder
Ready for summer break? Get ready to kick back with our officers’ favorite books.
Find Your Next Beach Read
Young adult books tend to blend together in a blur of vampires, werewolves, and witches, but the recently completed Healer series by Maria V. Snyder stands alone. Her first book in the trilogy, Touch of Power, brings you into a world destroyed by plague. Avery is the last healer after all the others were blamed for the epidemic and killed. After years of running, she has been caught and jailed until a mysterious man named Kerrick and his band of men rescue her. Avery and Kerrick must learn to trust one another in order to bring their world back to peace. After becoming a New York Times bestselling author for her other series, Study, Snyder has outdone herself by creating another captivating set of books. Touch of Power never bores its readers with Avery’s constant escapes from danger and the playful relationship between Avery and Kerrick’s lively team. If you’re ready to venture away from the same YA themes you’ve been reading and pick up something new then get the Healer series and join Avery on her journey to heal the 15 realms. Devon Munos
Anthem
by Ayn Rand
Live for your “fellow brothers” is the motto for the dystopian world painted in Ayn Rand's Anthem where there is no “I” and only “we”. Everything from the way you talk to the way you act and even think must be for the common good. In this world, writing done for pleasure is considered a sin because it serves no greater purpose, and yet Equality 7-2521, the protagonist, writes in secret. He never fit in with others and realized at a very young age that he was brighter than the rest. His only dream was to become a scholar, but was instead assigned the job of a street sweeper without having a say in the matter. However, this work leads him to find his subterranean hideout, and his path to self-discovery begins. This novel, like many other dystopian novels, deals with the struggles of the individual staying true to himself/herself. Struggle is what eventually leads Equality 7-2521 to an ultimate understanding of his limitations. Not only does he make an identity for himself in a world that otherwise stripped him of one, but he also finds goals and reasons to live. Anthem is a great read because of its simplicity. Without “I”, there is no progress and it’s the individual with a purpose who achieves great heights.
Jaime Arambulo
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1Q84 by Haruki Murakami
Aomame is a physical therapist, one of the best in her field. She has mastered both muscle control and nutrition. She also knows exactly where to insert a needle, so as to kill someone without leaving behind evidence. When Aomame is caught in a traffic jam on a Tokyo expressway, the cab driver notices her growing agitation and motions to the emergency stairway across the road, suggesting she take the subway instead. “Keep in mind,” he warns, “Your world will never be the same.” Desperate and curious, she weaves through the cars on foot, climbs down the staircase in heels and a pencil skirt, and emerges in an alternate universe. Meanwhile, Tengo—a second protagonist (Murakami shifts perspective with each chapter)—is a mathematician who dreams of becoming a famous writer. Despite his hermetic tendencies and desire for simplicity, Tengo finds himself ghostwriting a fantasy novel that turns out to be more in line with reality than he could have ever imagined. Murakami takes us for a real spin when we find out that Aomame’s alternate universe has an uncanny resemblance to Tengo’s novel world. Inspired by George Orwell’s 1984, this alternate universe explores a totalitarian commune hidden deep in the mountains of Yamanashi Prefecture. 1Q84 straddles the border between sci-fi and fantasy—a dreamscape limbo where reality is constantly shape shifting. Despite the fact that it was published in three parts, what really sets this novel apart from Murakami’s previous endeavors is its detective work. The characters are minutely interconnected, and it is our duty to put the pieces together. In this way, Murakami creates an interactive novel for those who believe a reader should do more than just sit back and soak in the fiction.
Nilu Karimi
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Wooster and Jeeves !
! Dear L.L.P. on F., Quite the pickle you got yourself into old boy I must say! Strange how it is that I also remember something of the sort happening to a friend of mine, Rocky. I can’t quite recall how it got sorted out in the end though. I seem to recall something about the evil of alcohol and the city and bloody cake of all things. Jeeves, how did that business with old Rocky get solved again?
Mr. Todd, sir, got out of deep water by my sending his aunt to a discussion on the evils of the city, sir. If I might be so bold, a way to reinvent the problem for his aunt would be to tell the lady that he joined a religious club and take her to a meeting, then leave her there while he claims that he has class. By the end she will hopefully be more impressed by the moral life he lives away from the temptation of things like fraternities. Ah, yes that would do the ticket, Jeeves! Well off you trot, L.L.P. on F.! Be sure though not to fall asleep while the club leader prattles on! I got the nastiest looks from the matrons last time I did that. What ho! Wooster and Jeeves
As Transcribed by Tikva Cohen
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Lemony Snicket
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Dear Mr. Snicket, Winter quarter was a disaster. Suffice to say, I am very disappointed with my grades. I just don’t know how to make myself feel better. I’ve tried stress-eating and binge-watching reruns of “Friends,” but none of it has worked. I don’t know how to find motivation in time for the new quarter. Helpless in San Diego
Dear Helpless in San Diego, Often times, when people are miserable, they will want to make other people miserable, too. But it never helps. You might find it difficult to see anything but your own sadness, the way smoke can cover a landscape so that all anyone can see is black. You may find that if someone pours water all over you, you are damp and distracted, but not cured of your sadness, the way a fire department can douse a fire but never recover what has been burnt down. So instead of making a list of everything you did wrong, make a list of everything you did right. Remind yourself that it is extremely rare in this world to meet a person who is truly happy with their life, even if they seem successful. The truth is: If you work hard and are successful, it does not necessarily mean you are successful because you worked hard. It could just mean that you were very lucky. You just weren’t very lucky this time around. Blame it on the quarter system. The world is moving at a profound pace, so having three weeks of finals as opposed to the usual two is actually interfering with the natural progress of modern society. The professors who gave midterms during week 9 obviously messed with your ability to tell time. Clearly, week 9 is not the middle of the term. It is not your fault. So relax. You did nothing wrong. In a few weeks, you will be motivated by what should have been your motivation to study for finals—just in time for the new quarter. And Helpless, February is the shortest month of the year. So if you experience existential crises and worthlessness again, try to schedule it for February. I hear it makes spring break a whole lot better. With all due respect, Lemony Snicket
As Transcribed by Salena Quach
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IAGO,
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Femme Fatale of Venice by Tikva Cohen
S
hakespeare has been theorized to be every
stereotype ranging from a feminist to misogynist, or even a gay rights supporter. Shakespeare’s Iago conversely is rarely considered to be anything but misogynistic. Women to him are possessions, as when he called to Brabanzio “Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags,” (1.1.80). He refers to Desdemona as a possession, and one that deserves neither first consideration nor even the last most important consideration. She is put in the middle of the sentence in an almost thrown away space. He also refers to her as a possession and prize by comparing her to a boat, “Faith, he tonight hath boarded a land-carrack. / If it prove a lawful prize, he’s made for ever,” (1.2.50-1). He refers to Desdemona as a vessel. She is only important for what she can deliver to the “owner” in the form of a child or dowry rather than her attributes as a person. If men are meant to own women, then Othello, whom Iago describes as “His soul is so enfettered to her love /That she may make, unmake, do what she list, /Even as her appetite shall play the god /With his weak function,” (2.3.319-22), must seem to be a reversal of order. Instead Iago takes it in stride for when love is involved women gain power in his mind. He views women to be stereotypically controlling and manipulative. Ironically, those stereotypes are often used to describe Iago. Much of what he says and does could be construed as being the female stereotype he denigrates in females, as people who manipulate rather than force. In the case of
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Desdemona he seems to project his own self onto her. In Iago’s relationship to the men in the play, Iago takes on the more feminine role, a role of a homoerotic femme fatale. While he does not use sex appeal, he uses the love and trust that males bear for him to manipulate the men in his life for profit and pleasure turning Iago into the stereotype of a manipulating, controlling, jealous black widow. Iago relates himself to wife of Othello through how he sees women as property. We showed some quotes before of Iago thinking women as property to be picked up. He describes that of himself when relating why he hates “the Moor” to Roderigo at the very beginning “…and by the faith of man / I know my price,” (1.1.10-1). As the females of the play are like possessions being bought and sold, Iago is identifying himself in term of price, that Othello has not paid enough for. Iago is also putting himself in the role of a stereotypically femme fatale by trying to manipulate the trust of both Roderigo for his money and Othello for a rise in position. This also has the effect of turning Iago into a wife. “We cannot all be masters, nor all masters / Cannot be truly followed,” (1.1.43-4). The difference could be master and mistress and while every man should have a wife not all should. Iago talks of following an unwanted master in the same manner as an unhappy wife. The relationship hierarchy is Masters (Othello) and servants (Iago) which parallels the relationship of Man and Woman hierarchy. In this situation, Iago is the less powerful of the pair which parallels the female
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position. The parallel makes Iago the woman with the husband Othello. Largely important in Iago’s role as a stereotypical evil female character is his relationship with Othello, the “Master” and husband to whom Iago keeps himself as one “Who, trimmed in forms and visages of duty, / Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves,” (1.1.501). This is similar to how he views Desdemona with “She must change for youth,” (1.3.342). He sees women as inconstant in their oaths. In act one scene three and in act two scene one, he mentions to Roderigo that he doesn’t believe that Desdemona will keep her promise to Othello when Iago in a similar situation lies about it. Ironically, it is Iago that is closer to a cheating and unfaithful wife than willing Desdemona. Iago swears “My lord, you know I love you,” (3.3.121). Iago lies about his love for Othello and projects that unfaithful image onto Desdemona. He reflects onto Desdemona the embodiment of a cheating and manipulative wife he gives out. Iago’s favorite way of earning the loyalty of the men around him is to claim he loves them. When Iago has such misogynistic views on men loving women, saying things that degraded their worth like, “And I’ll warrant her full of game,” (2.3.18). It seems strange that he should use such terms of love so freely. The words of love that he does use though are all are something that one of lesser position, wife or servant would use toward a higher rank Lord or husband. Each use of the word
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love by Iago is manipulating and only proves to Othello that Iago is the one person that Othello should never doubt. “But I am to blame/ I humbly do beseech you of your pardon/ For too much loving you,” Iago uses this example to pretend to take on blame while shoving it off on someone else, namely Desdemona. While shoving the blame off onto Desdemona he eliminates the competition Iago has to his “general’s” ear. Like a femme fatale he shifted the blame away from himself and monopolized the affection of the duped Othello. Iago also essentially “cheats” on Othello and shifts Othello’s focus away from his infidelity by directing those thoughts toward Desdemona. It is marked several times that Othello would be happier not knowing Desdemona is cheating on him by both Iago and Othello “I had been happy…So I had nothing known,” (3.3.350-2). This is a bit sad, as Desdemona isn’t the cheating wife whispering lies into Othello’s ears, but Iago. Iago is in the highest place of confidence (as a wife should be), but he is misusing that trust for his enjoyment and pleasure as he accuses wives of doing.
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Iago shows some femme fatale qualities of being of a jealous nature. He gives into the stereotypical voice of a female admiring her manly victim even as she plans on destroying him as shown with Othello “The Moor- howbe’t that I endure him not- / Is of a constant, loving, noble nature, / And I dare think he’ll prove to Desdemona /A most dear husband,” (2.1.275-8). You can practically here the cackling laugh of a femme fatale crafting her plan around the personality and feelings of her prey. There could also be jealousy in his speech for Othello forsaking the bond between the males for the marriage bed. He even says to Cassio “Our general cast us thus early for the love of his Desdemona, who let us not therefore blame,” (2.3.13-5). He is talking about Othello missing in soldiers reveling and male bonding occurring. When someone says, “let us not blame” it only leads others to blame that person. Othello is not at his duty because he needs to fulfill his marriage duty. Iago makes a disturbance at that time in which Othello is supposed to be cementing his ties to Desdemona rather than joining in the male drinking, bonding party. The timing could be coincidental or could be deliberately planned to make Othello remember even at the moment when he is to belong to his wife, that he has a duty and bond to Iago. Iago himself has referenced the bonds between men to be equivalent to the bonds of marriage. When two men were fighting, Iago described them at their peak of friendship as
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“Friends all but now, even now, /I quarter and in terms like bride and groom /Devesting them for bed,” (2.3.162-4). How many men would describe two male friends in terms of marriage? If that is the case, then what is the nature of the friendship between Iago and Othello? The bond between them is a strong one that is riddled with scenes that suggest a marriage between them, but with Iago’s nature that marriage is turned into one of trickery. Othello himself has a pseudo marriage with Iago when they swear revenge on Desdemona. Iago tells Othello “Do not rise yet,” (3.3.465), until Iago kneels beside him and they both rise together under an oath. An oath that has Iago sworn to Othello like a marriage vow, “Witness that here Iago doth give up /…To wronged Othello’s service. Let him command,” (3.3.468-70). Afterward Othello says not that he appreciates his promise, loyalty, or manhood, but “I greet thy love,” (3.3.473). This is the second time in one scene even Othello accepts a bond like marriage between them saying before, “I am bound to thee for ever,” (3.3.215-8). The scene ends with Iago swearing to Othello “I am you own for ever,” (3.3.482). Iago and Othello have a bond, whether both appreciate it or not, both have delusions upon it and that bond resembles a marriage bond. Like a female villain, Iago breaks those vows and lies to obtain power. The appearance of Desdemona might be one of the reasons Iago is so angry with his relationship with Othello. Emilia describes males as creatures who, “Say they slack their duties, / And pour our treasures into foreign laps,” (5.1.85-6). This makes Iago the bereft wife in accordance to Desdemona. The first thing Iago asks Othello is whether he is legitimately married (1.2.11-15). This could be because Iago wants Othello not to be married to anyone but to keep Othello’s ear all to himself to control. Iago also keeps his position as Othello’s most important person by diverting Othello each time he seems likely to forgive or pity Desdemona. When Othello starts thinking back to pity his wife Iago pulls him back from it saying, “Nay, you must forget that,” (4.1.173). Thus Iago
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makes sure that every time Othello feels like turning back to Desdemona his status of power remains unchanged. Iago eventually makes Othello regret breaking the male bond between them for the marriage bonds, driving Othello to exclaim, “Why did I marry?” (3.3.247). Iago has made Othello regret giving his heart away from the pseudo marriage relationship they possess to the conventional marriage plot. Iago describes himself like a married woman in the capacity to speak his mind. Iago claims, “I am not bound to that all slaves are free to. / Utter my thoughts?” (3.3.140-1). The parallel to a person who does not speak her mind to her husband is Emilia. When she is slandered by her husband Desdemona remarks, “Alas, she has no speech!” (2.1.106). Emilia is a typical woman in an unhappy marriage. Her relationship with Iago is similar to Iago’s with Othello’s except hers isn’t, despite what her husband believes, false and malicious. He makes himself the worst image of female in his mind by instead of saying nothing like he should sayingjust enough to drive a man mad. Iago also speaks in terms of love toward Othello to gain his trust. Those words of love are the same manipulative words he places on Desdemona while believing her to be fooling Othello. Iago relates his words with “You cannot, if my heart were in your hand;/ Nor shall notwhilst
‘tis in my custody,” (3.3.168-9). He parallels what Desdemona says about her love for Othello, making Iago and Desdemona in the same position for affection. But while Desdemona is true and faithful, Iago follows the femme fatale idea of who cheats. He also claims that he cares for Roderigo “…and even from this instant do build on thee a better opinion than ever before. Give / me thy hand, Roderigo,” (4.2.206-7). This makes Iago the cheating wife in this scenario with holding another’s hand and admiring of their qualities. Othello is sure of Iago’s honesty and loyalty to him yet Iago is the one involved with other men because Iago is playing the field like a femme fatale. Iago plays his role of manipulator, loyal lover, and virtual wife to Othello. He embodies the characteristics of femme fatale, cruel, greedy, controlling, and jealous. Iago ruthlessly rids himself of Desdemona the rival for his power and steps over those who trust him to gain power. Iago projects his own seducing characteristics on Desdemona helping solidifying his plan to destroy Othello. Iago gives true meaning to the words “Black Widow,” plotting herhusband’s downfall and death for riches. Tikva Cohen is a fifth-year Biological Anthropology major with minors in Literatures in English and Literatures of the World in Roosevelt College.
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To one side of the driveway was a brick wall. The bricks were uneven, both in texture and color. Some were smooth and white and just beginning to shed their paint. Others were coarse like desert hills viewed from afar. And red. Red like clay or blood. The grout between the bricks was dried and crumbling from years of sun, and I would often poke holes in it with my fingers to spy on the yard next door. At one end of the driveway, the end nearest the street, stood a turquoise wooden gate with cast iron handles in the middle. The gate was almost always closed and served as more of a wall than an entrance. When balls would fly over it and roll towards the street I would hop the fence rather than opening it. Standing guard over the other end of the driveway was a small garage. Just like the fence opposite, the garage door Story by Tommy Ufland (fourth-year at Thurgood Marshall College) was painted turquoise and Art by Tommy Ufland on an original Michael Alazza painting permanently shut. The ! driveway was like an alley, a little world where I could play and do whatever I liked. racks ran down the driveway like stains. My dad and I spent hours in the driveway, Stains no doubt caused by the little shudders that playing catch (baseball, football, lacrosse, even shook the California of my youth. Back then, that's sometimes hockey, depending on the season). One all they were—small shakes and bursts. Now every of my favorite games to play was hockey. I would earthquake seems like a warning. A prelude to the put on my rollerblades, kneepads, sweats, elbow big one sure to come. pads, and every other sort of pad I could find and head to the driveway. When I was four or five my
And Then, ONLY SPIDERS
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parents got me two plastic hockey sticks. The blades and handles were colored and the shafts of the sticks were white. The stick I used was blue. My dad's was red. I also had a goalie glove that my halfbrother Chris gave me for my birthday. It had so little padding I'm sure it could never have been meant for anything other than a children's toy. The turquoise door was the goal and I was the goalie. With my back to it, I would dive on the cracked cement, sliding on my hard plastic kneepads and elbow pads, reaching with my glove or my stick to deflect my dad's shots. We mostly played this game at night, with the single bright light above the garage door shining behind me and the light from the kitchen window, which hung over the middle of the driveway, behind my dad. In between the lights we would play in a world totally our own. Everything about that world, my skates, my pads, and my sticks was totally mine and my dad's. One day my other half-brother, John, came over to play. I could only have been five or six at that point, because by the time I was seven he had disappeared from my life. All of my half-siblings would, in fact. That was okay with me though. They were much older (the youngest is twenty years older than me; the oldest, John was almost forty when he visited that last time) and didn't make very good playmates anyhow. I also didn't like to share my dad. It was strange to think that these people were also his children. And he was also their dad. He didn't act like a dad to them. They were rarely around and when they were, they were cold and arguments often arose. Even his voice sounded different when he spoke to them. With me, even when we argued, his voice was full of passion and love. With them, it was cold and detached. Like he was on guard, wary of what they might do if were to let down his defenses. John was my brother though, so when he came over I asked him if he wanted to play hockey.
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I didn't offer the goalie game. That was reserved for my dad. John and I decided to pass the tennis ball back and forth on the driveway and shoot against the brick wall. I even let him choose which stick he wanted to use. That turned out to be a mistake. He chose blue, my stick, and I was stuck with red. We passed back and forth for a little while and took some shots against the wall. A few of the shots ricocheted past us and rolled into the grass behind the driveway. From the grass I could see into the garage, which my parents had turned into an office when we moved in. The door was glass with a wood frame painted the same color as the garage door and the fence. My mom really liked that cool, blue, turquoise. It along with the beige paint on the house and the Spanish tiles on the roof reminded her of Santa Fe. "It's always Santa Fe," she would say. Once, after racing to get the ball on the grass I threw it back to John on the driveway. He wound up like he was going to take a slap-shot against the wall. I'd never shot the ball that hard. After all, these sticks were plastic and they were some of my favorite toys. Such a hard shot might break one of them. But John played semi-pro hockey for a while (very low level semi-pro; his team played before the Ice Dogs, which were the LA Kings’ minor league team) so I figured he knew what he was doing. He brought the blue blade of the stick down hard and when it hit the cement it snapped. The ball never moved, but the blade flew forward and landed at the base of the brick wall. John stood, holding the headless stick in his hand. A small smile crept across his face as he handed me the stick and walked inside.
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I threw the white plastic stick against the wall and yelled. My mom came outside and stood at the top of the stairway that led from the back door of the house down into the driveway. The stairway was still painted brown then, with paint chipped off the flat parts of the steps. A few years later it would be painted blue like the garage door and the gate. "Look what John did!" I cried to her as I rushed towards the broken stick and tried to put the pieces back together. But they were broken and beyond repair. !!!!!!! With the hockey sticks out of commission, I spent most of my time outside throwing a tennis ball against the wall and catching it either bare handed or with my baseball glove. It was more fun to play barehanded. It was also more difficult. The ball would hit the uneven cement and skip past me into the yard. Sometimes I would throw it back at the brick wall from there, but more often than not I would abandon my game and head into the office. I could see through the glass door whether or not my dad was on the phone or reading. If he was on the phone, I would sneak quietly in and sit beneath his desk, amongst the tangled wires, and listen to his phone calls. If he was yelling on the phone I would peek out and watch his face as he yelled, then practice the same face myself. If it sounded like a boring (peaceful) call, I would crawl across the scratchy grey carpet and pull a book from the shelves full of scripts, manuscripts and books. My favorites were the R. Crumb hardcovers. I spent hours devouring them, sitting on the floor or on the beige couch, with half my attention on the drawings and half my attention on my dad. Movie posters hung on the walls of the office and sometimes I would look at them instead of reading
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or listening or playing. They were all movies he'd either produced or packaged as an agent. My favorite poster was The Duellists. It was red like clay and had a black silhouette of a sword fighter on it. I always thought the sword fighter looked like it was painted in wet ink. Above it, The Duellists was printed in hard straight letters. I remember fighting a lot with my dad when I was a kid and then even more when I was a teenager. It's calmed down a lot now, but maybe that's because I no longer live at home. We still talk on the phone almost everyday, but it's different when you don't live with someone. We spent so much time together, whether it was in the office, which was totally his space, or in the driveway, which we shared, that I realize now the fights were inevitable. I was young and growing up and trying to figure out who I was and am. Much of that time was spent being shaped a certain way by my dad. Mediocrity was never an option for me growing up. How could it be? He was training me to take his place. Training me to be even better than him. He loved baseball and I played it, so we would spend hours taking ground balls at the park. That was the only part of the game I ever liked. And sometimes I hated even that. He would hold the bat in one hand and his glove in the other and smash the ball at me as hard as he could. My fingers are still crooked from years of ground balls on chewed up dirt fields, and they crack and hurt in the cold. He never held up or went easy on me, and because of that a lot of who I am today was formed in opposition to him. I think that all men form a lot of their personalities in opposition to their fathers, though. Whether the men who raise us (or don't raise us, though that was far from the case for me) are old or young, strong or weak, we see ourselves in them and they see themselves in us. They want only the best for the sons and expect so much that we sometimes feel like we can't breathe as we grow up under their tutelage. I think this is even more so with strong, present fathers. Our mothers are often the bastion of safety, the person we run to when we're hurt or sad or scared. Our fathers we might
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look to to protect us, but not in the same way. With my dad, I was expected to take care of myself. He always had my back, but he wanted me to be tough, and he raised me to be. So I would sit under his desk as he worked, listening to him and practicing being a man. He would snarl and flare his nostrils, his eyes growing wide in his already large head when he got mad and so would I. He would snap at what seemed to be the littlest thing, growling and yelling, and so would I. John must have seen this that day when he came over and broke my hockey stick. It must have really hurt him. When my dad was young and he had his first family, John was the oldest son. John was the one expected to pick up where my dad left off, even though my dad wasn't around much when those kids were growing up. He was around all the time though when I was a kid. My growing up right was very important to him. More important than it was with those other kids. I guess John sensed that. How he must have hated me, even when I was just a little boy, for the love that my dad gave me that he'd always wanted. I would get jealous when he or Chris or any of my half-sisters would come by and talk to my dad as if he were their father. Who were they to claim this man who I spent almost all my time with? Who were they to make him upset? They had their own mother and the man she'd married. Why couldn't they just stay with them and leave us alone? As uncomfortable and jealous as they made me (and I was only seven by the time John stopped talking to my dad and twelve when the last of the girls stopped), it must have been so much worse for them. They had a lifetime of anger against this man. A lifetime of things they wished had gone differently and a lifetime of failures. He was a big agent when they were growing up on Point Dume, and his clients would hang around the house all the time. They spent their childhoods and adolescences surrounded by stars and people who would become stars, and they became nothing. How they must
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have hated me for the belief my dad had in my potential. To make it worse, John was now no longer the oldest son. He was simply the oldest in a group of children who had been tossed aside to make room for a new family. I was now not only the oldest son, but the only son. I was the one who would follow his footsteps. The one who would one day be the man. Not John or Chris—their time with him was over. I had no one to compete with for my dad's love. They had all had to compete with not only one another, but also with his clients. And his clients were far more impressive than his children. One thing that my dad loves is talent. So after John got back at me by breaking the stick my dad had given me, my dad and I played baseball in the driveway instead of hockey. Now the spot in front of the garage was his and the spot under the kitchen window was mine. At first he stood beneath the window, but I would sometimes make a bad throw and smash the windowpane. At my mom's urging we switched spaces. We played so much ball in that driveway that I saw the space in front of the garage as my dad's space. The cracks seem to split and run the ways they did to make room for his feet. The light over the garage door shone perfectly, almost like a halo around his head. He dominated the space, much like he dominated the desk in the office, in a way I as the goalie never had. One night, after an especially long catch, I fell asleep as I always did: book left open on my chest, flashlight in hand. I thought I was putting one over on my parents when I read after they turned out the lights, but my mom told me recently she let me do it. She thought it was good for me and she'd done the same thing when she was a kid. Anyway, I drifted slowly, rebelliously, off to sleep and awoke in a strangely familiar dream world. The sun was bright, and the air was clear and cold. I
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was standing with my back to the blue fence. Everything was exactly as it was in the waking world. The cement was rough and cracked beneath my bare feet. The bricks in the wall were uneven and worn by years of sun. At the bottom of the driveway, down by where my dad always stood, a dark shape huddled. Fear clawed at my gut and my legs felt heavy. I looked up at the sky. I could feel the warmth of the sun on my face, but the air around me was still cold. Confused by the shape by the garage door, I stepped slowly towards it. My feet scraped along the rough cement. The kitchen window was dark and the day was silent. No birds flew overhead or sung in the trees. No wind rustled the bushes above the brick wall. I squinted, trying to make out the shape, and as I came closer it began to take form. It was a man, old and withered, slouching in a wheelchair. His clothes were black and a black blanket was rumpled around his waist. His skin and hair were pale. So pale that they seemed to reflect the light of the weak sun, so that I couldn't make out his face. I stepped closer. Closer. Closer. Now the sun relented and I recognized my dad, sinking into the black wheelchair. His hair (white and black in real life, but with body) was white and wispy. He'd always seemed older than other dads (he was 55 when I was born) but an air of vitality and life surrounded him. Now, barely able to hold himself up in the wheelchair, he seemed frail, as if he were slowly slipping away. Terror ran through my veins and my feet were heavy like stones, but I forced them forward. I had to make sure that this was him. Maybe if I touched him, the process would reverse. Maybe then he would look alive. I took the final steps towards him until I stood only a foot from the wheelchair. I stared at his face, his hair, his skin (which now hung from
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his bones like wet paper), and reached out to touch him. As I did, movement, black movement, near his wrist caught my eye. My gaze dropped to examine it, and as I did, more black escaped from under his other shirtsleeve. Spiders, tiny black spiders, poured from his shirt and from the blanket. They came slowly at first, then faster, faster, until they devoured his hands. They crept up his neck, eating away his chin, his jaw, his nose (crooked and swollen from being broken so many times), until he disappeared. Then for a moment, the shape in the chair was no longer my dad. It was just a swarming mass of black. I caught a glimpse of his eye for just a second beneath the black and it looked dull and flat. Then the eye disappeared, along with the rest of him. And then, only spiders remained. !!!!!!! I awoke from the dream in a sweat. Sheets clung to my small, damp body and my pillow was soaked. My legs were wrapped so tightly in tangled sheets that I couldn't move. I kicked them back and forth, back and forth, until the sheets began to loosen. But I kicked so hard that the top half of my body fell to the hard wood floor. My feet stayed stuck in the sheets. I reached up and untangled them, finally falling free with a thud. I hurried to stand then crept, nearly running but not quite, down the dark hallway towards my parents' room. The floor was smooth beneath my feet and for a second I was transported back to the dream world. The black shape huddled at the end of the hallway, just out of the shadows. The black shimmered, then retreated into the darkness as I approached. My breath came fast and the air in my lungs was cold, but I raced on. I had to make sure my dad was okay. Their bedroom was just down the hallway from mine, but to my small legs the distance seemed to go on forever. Feet slapping the cold floor I raced, through the shadows that had hidden the wheelchair, through a ray of sharp moonlight that cut through the darkness. My feet looked pale as I crossed the shaft of light. Pale and glowing like my dad's face in the dream.
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Murmurs and grunts drifted towards me through the night air. The only sound I heard was the smooth slap of my feet on the wood floor and the grunts, ungh, ungh, swimming softly through the hallway. Face to face with their bedroom door, I paused for just a moment before reaching for the metal knob. What were those sounds? They sounded slightly familiar, like I'd heard them before, but I couldn't remember where. Forget the sounds, I told myself. You've got to make sure dad's okay. What if the sounds came from him? What if the spiders were back? My hand shot forward and wrapped around the cold knob. Slowly, I turned it then inched the door open. I craned my neck and looked into the room. Strange white moonlight washed over the bed from the big window in the wall. The white sheets rose and fell and the white metal bed frame creaked. I watched for a moment, then bolted, unsure of what I'd seen, but scared nonetheless. My legs carried me down the hallway, towards the kitchen which was flooded in the same cold, white moonlight. I climbed up onto the counter and reached into the cabinet to get a glass of water. Spinning and facing the sink, I looked out the kitchen window and once again, the black shape was huddled before the garage door. Blue moonlight filled the driveway like water. I dropped my cup into the sink and ran to the back door. My feet stopped at the door and I stared at the driveway through its window. I was scared but there was no one to hide behind. No one to save me. My dad and my mom were in their bedroom with the strange noises and the moonlight. I was all alone, there by the door. Alone with the wheel chair. What would dad want me to do? I asked myself. But no answer came. Gathering my breath and squeezing my eyes shut, I flung the door open. I stepped out onto the stairway, scared. The ground was smooth. I forced open my eyes and gripped the railing feeling the blue light wash over me. There the wheelchair sat, in my dad's spot. Waiting. I stepped slowly down the stairs, taking my time with each one, but never taking my eyes from
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the black shape. Finally I made it down to the driveway. The cracked cement was familiar beneath my feet. The air was strangely warm for nighttime and the light seemed to come from everywhere at once. I stepped forward slowly, like in the dream. The cement scraped my feet and my hands shook. My skin crawled with fear and my gut wrenched. The chair sat silently in my dad's spot. I felt like it was watching me, judging my every move. What would happen if I touched it? I wondered. Would I wither like Dad did in the dream? There was only one step left between the chair and me. I clenched my hand into a fist, then opened it, stretching my fingers. Reaching slowly through the blue light a movement on the chair caught my eye. It still swarmed with spiders. They scurried all over it, but as I reached forward again they all seemed to rush backwards, away from my hand. A soft click filled the night and the chair began to roll towards the garage. With another step I followed it, now standing in my dad's space. The cracks crept around my feet like snakes, as I watched the chair roll slowly backwards. It glided slowly, like a ghost, through the garage door, and just as suddenly as the clicking had started, it was gone. I turned towards the house, taking in the driveway, the light, the cracks. My hands no longer shook and for the first time I felt like I filled the space. The garage behind me was small and the driveway before me empty. The window hanging over the cement was dark. I watched the world the way I'd seen my dad do so many times, when he stood in this spot. Taking a deep breath, I considered the night, the air, the cracks and whispered to myself, "Ah, so this is what it feels like to be him."
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!
The Devoted Rain by Jaime Arambulo (first-year at Warren College)
Thunder thunder hear it boom Hear it crackle hear it fume Drip drop Drip drop announces the rain Here comes my master, please help he’s in pain He’s lost all control and he’s filling with doubt Help him please help him, just hear him shout He can’t seem to find her, the one with the colors The one he holds dearly, his wife, and his lover She is just like a dream, so close it seems true But never in reach, so I’m asking can you Help me find her, help me find the colored one I heard that you’ve seen her after all you’re the sun Up in the sky shining your light I’m sure if we both use all of our might We’ll find her and finally bring my master to ease Knowing his lady is again his to appease I’ll look in the east while you’ll look in the west And at that moment, as you might have guessed The thunder found his rainbow, in beauty so plain All thanks to the sun and the devoted rain
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The Life of an Existentialist Mannequin
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by Samantha Wong (first-year at Thurgood Marshall College)
M
y arms are killing me! The five-foot, ten-inch
model groaned internally, cursing the very day she was cursed to be a mannequin. Oh, the joys of being created in a factory, of having a fiberglass body molded by a sculptor, of arms and legs being torn off and set into the most uncomfortable positions. Miranda longed for the mall to close. She had been standing in the same pose for twelve hours, and the familiar pain began halfway through the day. That meant six full hours of excruciating, throbbing soreness. Miranda’s friend Shelly stood beside her. Shelly’s elbow was bent near her torso, and her other arm’s hand was set on her hip. Shelly was far from experiencing Miranda’s pain; Miranda’s right arm was stretched out loosely, her palm upwards as if holding something. Her emotionless expression betrayed no hint of her burning struggle, only the common blasé look all mannequins shared. The last of the customers walked out through the door after the robotic P.A. announcement. “Pearlfield Mall will close in five minutes. Please make your purchases.” Miranda began to count down the seconds until the tired mall employees locked the doors and headed home. Yet a mere three seconds into her countdown, she was interrupted by two teenage girls who sat rather obtrusively down by her feet. The redhead’s shoulders shook as if she was crying, and her brunette friend put an arm around her shoulder in a vain attempt to comfort her. “What am I going to do without him?” the redhead wailed loudly.
“Hey,” the brunette said, chomping on her gum. “You’re better off without him. He’s an asshole.” “He cheated on me! He was with another girl…” The redhead couldn’t even finish the sentence, her sobs turning into choking gasps. Water streamed down her face, her shoulders shaking visibly. Before she had time to have a complete meltdown, a mall guard arrived and awkwardly escorted the two girls outside, then locked the doors behind them. Miranda, unable to go anywhere, watched the entire scene with a strange, stirring sense of fascination. Aside from boring gossip and the occasional child’s tantrum, Miranda hadn’t seen much in the wide scope of human interaction and emotion. The room was eerily quiet after the girls left. Lights still on, the other mall guards set up their posts in the main Pearlfield Plaza. The metal gate went crashing down, separating Miranda’s department store from the rest of the mall. Three…two…one! Miranda moved. The first thing she did was blink. She blinked like her life depended on it, eyelids fluttering furiously. The slightly bent elbow of her right arm straightened with a crack, joints flexing and squeaking; she lowered her arm as the throbbing soreness gradually began to dissipate. Fingers wiggled, each one showing a dull red nail polish shade. Mannequin makeup was often dull. They could only do so much to make the fiberglass models “lively” when their purpose was to show off the latest fashion trends.
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!
She stepped down unsteadily, not because she was wearing four-inch heels but because she hadn’t walked all day. Her body felt more tired and drained than usual. While she adjusted her simple cardigan and baby-blue dress, Shelly stepped down next to her, swearing under her breath at light speed. Shelly usually got the better-looking dress (as in a strapless, sparkly red mini-dress that showed off Shelly’s toned but fake legs), so Miranda couldn’t fathom why her friend was so worked up. “They should have given me a better pose to fit with my dress,” Shelly complained. “We don’t have any say in the matter,” Miranda deadpanned. They’d been over this many times before. She and Shelly started walking through the department as they usually did every night, getting used to walking comfortably. As they approached a mirror, Shelly stood in front first, pursing her lips back and forth in a ridiculous way that made Miranda want to snort. Her friend fixed her dress, pulling it dangerously low for a strapless. The song “My Humps” by The Black Eyed Peas suddenly went running through her head. Despite having the same body proportions, Miranda couldn’t help but feel like an unattractive stick compared to Shelly’s ostentatious and demanding presence. The feeling never disappeared, night after night, day after day. The farthest she had been from Shelly was the day the
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mall employees switched things up and placed her across from Shelly, forcing her to stare at the mannequin’s blonde, wavy locks and effortless modeling. Miranda’s only consolation was her great, handsome, and loving boyfriend Joe. Joe seemed to be content with her dark curls and violet eyes. “Men’s department?” Shelly asked her once she had finished admiring herself. Miranda nodded, like she always did, starting to feel anxious butterflies at the thought of seeing Joe. As soon as they climbed the frozen escalator to the second floor, Shelly squealed, pointing a long nail to a male mannequin sauntering slowly towards them. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows and the top three buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned. He lifted his chin at them, apparently too cool to wave a hand. “’Sup?” Shelly giggled and flirted shamelessly while Miranda stood beside her passively. Maybe it was the pose during the day. Maybe it was her dress. (Blue wasn’t exactly her color.) Or maybe it was those two human girls at her feet. She couldn’t even begin to imagine crying, much less having her entire body tremor and shake in such an awful way over a…man? “Miranda, baby! Hey!” Joe’s voice brought her back to the present. He walked up to her, swiftly kissing her cheek. “What, I don’t get one?” Shelly pouted, pretending to be sad. Joe laughed pleasantly. “Sorry, Shelly, didn’t mean to leave you out.” He planted one on her cheek as well. Something more than butterflies began to build within Miranda’s stomach. The anxious flitflit that had been present before morphed into a frantic beating of a million wings, all pounding against one another and the walls of her insides. It almost hurt, making her hold her stomach unknowingly with one hand. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Joe asked, noticing. He stared into her eyes, and there was most
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definitely concern there—but after receiving no answer from her, his attention drifted to Shelly once more. “It’s nothing,” Miranda said, shaking her head. She reached for Joe’s hand, dismissing her worries as a result of what she had witnessed moments earlier. “What should we do tonight?” she asked. “The usual?” he winked. “See you later, babe,” he said to Shelly, leading Miranda up the escalator. The third floor was none other than the lingerie and pajama floor, or the “party” floor, since it featured flashing and pulsing multi-colored disco lights, a killer music system, and mannequins not afraid to show some skin. Dancing was the last thing Miranda wanted to do at the moment, though. Joe literally had to drag her to where scantily clad lingerie mannequins had gathered, giggling and gossiping. “Joe,” she started to say over the music, but he shushed her with a finger to her lips. He flashed her a smile, followed by several squeals. Miranda whirled around to see three lingerie mannequins fanning themselves in a way that displayed no dignity whatsoever. Then again, they showed so much skin they didn’t particularly need to care about stupid behavior. “Can we, like, dance with you?” the one in the center asked. “Sure,” Joe answered unhesitatingly, without a single glance Miranda’s way. “All of you join us!” Seconds later, Miranda found herself staring at Joe’s dark-haired head standing out among three nearly naked mannequins fawning over his every body part. The physical discomfort she had experienced during the day reappeared. Most of
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the pain, however, centered in her chest cavity, making her feel helplessly short of breath. Her supposedly great, loving, and handsome boyfriend was about as deep as a kiddie pool, and she, a mannequin, was having an emotional crisis of some sort. Mannequins weren’t supposed to do anything but have fun, an end to a tiresome day of standing in one position the entire day. It was a life they all knew and acknowledged without complaint, and never gave any thought to what waited outside Pearlfield Mall’s department store. “Miranda! Come join!” Joe called her over, beckoning with his hand. Sometime amidst the dancing and crowd of underwear girls, he had lost his shirt. It was too much for her to take in. Without another word, she turned around and walked away, letting her legs take her far, far away from a life she no longer wanted. She found herself back in her own department, reveling in the stillness and quiet of her floor. Stiffly, she sat down on her platform. For
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!
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the first time, she truly felt like something manmade. A fiberglass, human-sized doll. For a while, she simply sat there, not knowing what to do. The memory of watching those two human girls steadily reran in her mind, tempting her to glance at the locked doors. Curiosity led to questions, questions that not a single one of her fellow mannequins could answer. The thought of Joe evoked that sharp pain in her chest, and the thought of Shelly just made her bitter. Perhaps all this time, these feelings existed within her. They just never had any reason to come out until something made her realize that there was more to life than being a statue by day and brainless follower by night. She wanted to be one of those teenage girls. She wanted to chew gum, to go outside, to feel tears roll down her cheeks. But it was virtually impossible—inside the mall. Miranda walked slowly towards the windowed doors. Answers waited for her outside, she just knew it. “Goodbye,” she whispered.
Aaron often walked alone in town. He didn’t care that it was past the generic “walking time” like the morning or afternoon; he enjoyed the silence when the sun began to disappear along the horizon. His hands set in his pockets, Aaron walked along the sidewalk, not at all swayed by the darker shadows of the trees. He was thinking about an appropriate whistle-like tune when he saw the flashing lights and heard the horrible wail of blaring alarms. It was the town’s Pearlfield Mall. Aaron began to jog, wanting to be a curious witness to all the commotion. He reached the huge building, prepared to see fires blazing or a mysterious white van waiting for masked robbers. Instead, he was met with the sight of a tall, beautifully shaped figure standing frozen in front of a broken glass door. Aaron approached the figure, nearly yelping in surprise when he realized that she wasn’t human, but a mannequin. On the occasional times he visited the mall, he had never liked the strange, stoic, and almost creepy beauty of the display mannequins. However, the one standing in front of him held his attention, not because she was striking, but because her expression contained the impossible combination of hope and hopelessness. He felt sorry for the beautiful creature standing in front of him. Brushing glass shards from her face, Aaron stared into her violet eyes.
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My Dog Ate My Homework by Martin Zamora (third-year at Thurgood Marshall College)
Sorry my poem is late I've been busy. My mother died. No! Not that mother. My step-mother this time! She slipped on an ice cube and fell down two flights of stairs. Broke her back and neck at the same time. She died instantly. I was just starting my poem when I got the call... Why didn't I tell you earlier? Her last words to me, "Drop everything you're doing and organize my burial." You know I put my education before everything else, but this was too important! Where's my proof? I was going to bring it today. I'll bring it next time. I swear!
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Just Like Dad
!
by Savannah Sparkman (third-year at Eleanor Roosevelt College)!
F
orced. I could not escape. I yelled. I cried. He
would not stop. This stranger has taken everything that I have. Stolen a part of me and left me with this. !!!!!!!
"It is not that I hate her. I just hate the reminder." Ben, my psychiatrist, wrinkled his forehead and gave the look everyone else in the world gives me. He thinks I am a bad mother. I cannot deny this. She is seven-years-old and looks just like him. Long black hair, big blue eyes, a tall and thin model-like body. Every time I see her, I cringe. The thought lingers that this is with me forever. She is my "souvenir" to the one night I wish I could forget. But she is supposed to be my baby. Her long hair should be tied up into a tight bun, with her waist covered by a pink tutu. She should bow and I should applaud. When she smiles, I should be filled with an overwhelming feeling of this is mine. In reality, it reminds me of the disgusting smile he had plastered on his face the entire time. The sound of her voice is the only pure thing about her. I cannot in any way relate it to him. When she calls me from my mother's house on weekends, I love her. I can hear my baby on the other end. Something that grew inside of me for nine months, I brought her into this horrid, dark, and disgusting world. The dark feeling goes away when I cannot see her face. "Can you explain?" Ben repeated. I nodded. I do not want to let him into this part of my life. I can tell him my childhood fears of being taken by the boogieman or the emotional effect my parents divorce had on me. But this...NO. When she looks at me with those monster eyes and asks me to go to the park, I feel like I am back in high school making excuses on why I
cannot "hang" today. "I have to wash my hair. I have to make very important phone calls. I have work to do." All I actually want to say is, "I'm sorry, but I cannot stand the idea of being around you and have better things to do, like pick the fuzz from in between my toes than spend time with you." This makes me a horrible mother. What kind of person hates her own flesh and blood? She did not ask for this. She did not spend her entire time in the womb plotting against me and wishing to look like him. It is not her fault that I cannot get past this. I know she can sense my feelings towards her—she often asks me why I am "not like the other mommies who braid hair and play dress up?" I wish I could, but her hair would suffocate my hands with the haunting of my past. !!!!!!!
I never loved her. I tolerated her constant kicking in the womb, the late night feedings, fevers, crying, first steps, and first time on a "big girl" bicycle. When I was five months pregnant, she had wrapped herself around the umbilical cord and the doctors were worried she was not going to make it. She had a few hours to unwrap herself before they would go in and try to fix it themselves. I wanted her to stay wrapped. I knew then that I would not be a normal mother to her. I had thought about abortion and adoption. I could not go through with abortion; I made three appointments, and canceled all three. I did not want her to come find me one day and ask why I gave her up. So I kept her and prayed for something tragic to happen. It never did. !!!!!!!
He pulled out. He stood up. He left. He left me with a fetus. A life. A baby living inside of me. He stole from me but gave me something in return. A trade. The worst trade.
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Student Spotlight Adám Netanel
25 !
Written and Reported by Nilu Karimi Sure, UCSD is a predominantly science-minded universe. And with some of the highest-ranking research programs in the U.S. and a supercomputer the size of a small planet, we tend to sidestep some of the university’s more creative endeavors. This stops here. Our university is home to many talented artists who deserve to be recognized. For this issue, we interviewed Adám Netanel, a fourth-year psychology major from Austin and Los Angeles. QQ: Do you affiliate with any genre? AN: Ah, hard question. It’s somewhere between folk, electronic, psychedelic, and dream pop. It varies a lot depending on the song. I like to think it’s experimental. I guess it’s as experimental as I’ve dared to be. QQ: What can you tell me about your instruments? AN: It’s mostly my guitar and my voice, and other sounds I make with my body or from objects lying around. And I’ll add whatever instruments I can get my hands on… drums, piano, violin, sitar, sarod, didgeridoo. I love anything that can make a drone. QQ: What are the main themes or topics for most of your songs? AN: It’s a mix. I get my strongest inspiration from more visceral emotions, and those songs feel most natural. But with more cerebral inspiration there’s usually some larger point that I’m trying to make or at least touch on. I’m interested in connections between social issues, consciousness and nature, so I think a lot of my songs are an attempt to make sense of that in some way. QQ: Do you think learning about literature and writing has played a role in your music-making experience? AN: I definitely think being in that "literary" environment stimulated a different type of songwriting. And actually I think that's part of the reason why I've been more inspired to concentrate more on the structure of my songs than I have been, or trying to find [a] compromise between rational/intuitive.
Check out Adám’s music on SoundCloud.
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Maleficent I know I watched this before on Once Upon a Time. Maleficent is Disney’s new take on a beloved classic, “Sleeping Beauty.” The first thing that crossed my mind after hearing about the movie was that Disney was trying to mix Once Upon a Time with Game of Thrones. For the record, none of what they shown us so far has any hint of this being incorrect. I once described Once Upon a Time to a friend as Disney screwing with its own canon: It is taking the Disney classic and making it darker. Now, that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Fairytales were originally dark, scary, and not at all kid-friendly. In the original “Sleeping Beauty,” Aurora is raped while she is sleeping by a married farmer and bears his children. I sincerely doubt that this plot thread will be anywhere in the story, but Disney adding darker tones and themes of retellings of fairy tales doesn’t bother me. They’re intriguing. The major question is: Do I think that Maleficent the movie will be any good? Honest answer: I can see it going a couple different ways. My first concern about the film is that with Maleficent being the main character and anti-hero, she will need us to root for her on some level, which will be difficult since she is one of the scariest villains of all time. Worry number two is that this is the first live-action film Disney has made revolving around a villain. Again, the writers do well with Once Upon a Time, but those episodes jump around in time and are an hour long. On the positive side, the visual effects look gorgeous. I had lovely Lord of the Rings flashbacks with the trees warriors (Ents will always be awesome) and the overall shots look amazing. The main reason that this film is such of great interest is the big bad herself, Angelina Jolie. First, she looks amazing. How they got her cheekbones like that, I don’t know, but the few scenes that have already been shown give the perfect feel of Maleficent: elegant, cruel, manipulating, cunning, beautiful, and deadly. This is not a woman to be crossed. So out of curiosity and a love for fairy-tales and Disney films, you’ll be pretty obligated to see this, and it could end up meh or pretty good.
Tikva Cohen
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Based on “Sleeping Beauty” Release Date: May 29 Directed by Robert Stromberg Starring Angelina Jolie, Elle Fanning, Sharlto Copley !
The Fault in Our Stars
Based on The Fault in Our Stars by John Green Release Date: June 6 Directed by Josh Boone Starring Shailene Woodley, Ansel Elgort, Nat Wolff
Those who have read the book or watched the author John Green’s vlogs know what’s in store: The Fault in Our Stars is a grippingly tragic novel about a cancer patient named Hazel. But will a movie do it justice? Absolutely. With Shailene Woodley (Hazel), Ansel Elgort (Augustus), and Nat Wolff (Isaac) as the leading roles, there’s no doubt they can pull off their respective characters with their already impressive background in acting (the former two have starring roles in action flick Divergent, while Wolff appears as a prominent role in the musical comedy “The Naked Brothers Band.”) All three are more than capable of carrying the heavy emotion and maturity that the novel conveys with the versatility they’ve displayed in their past works. In his video commentary, Green praises the artistic nuances of the cast and cinematography. The director Josh Boone even brought in surviving cancer patients to act in the movie, adding a dimension of reality to the mix. The Fault in Our Stars is under a lot of pressure to do well, especially considering its large fanbase (Its trailer garnered over three million views on the day of its release), but with strong actors and directing, it’s likely to be a hit.
Christian Gella
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The Giver
Based on The Giver by Lois Lowry Release Date: August 15 Directed by Phillip Noyce Starring Jeff Bridges, Brenton Thwaites, Meryl Streep
At long last, Hollywood pays homage to the work that broke dystopia into the middle grade/YA market, Lois Lowry’s The Giver. Set in a future rid of war, disease, and discomfort, The Giver follows the story of Jonas, a young boy who is selected to receive the memories of mankind’s past before the establishment of their utopian society. Complete with medications that eradicate emotions, “family units” that aren’t biologically related, and mysterious “releasings” of rule breakers, The Giver touches upon many philosophical themes that exist as far back as Plato’s Republic and proliferate the YA dystopian market today. Changes to the novel may be trying to fit modern standards and cater to today’s YA viewing audience. First of all, the technology in the film appears much more cutting-edge than was portrayed in the novel. Pills are updated to injections, bikes to high-tech electric scooters, and hover cars that make no appearance in the book have been featured in the film’s early promotion. Additionally, some borderline-gimmicky lines absent from the novel pepper the script. The village elder (Meryl Streep), who appears to be a President Snow/Jeanine Matthews trope, proclaims: “When people have the freedom to choose, they choose wrong.” Such changes may Hollywood-ize Lowry’s story, but they have the potential to transform this work of children’s literature into a blockbuster film with appeal for teens and adults alike. Just because an adaptation is not perfectly loyal to the novel it inspired does not mean it will fail as a creative endeavor, so there is certainly hope that The Giver will be a film worth seeing. Hailey Sanden
THE NEW INKLINGS
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VOL 1, ISSUE 3
The Maze Runner
29
Based on The Maze Runner by James Dashner Release Date: September 19 Directed by Wes Ball Starring Dylan O’Brien, Thomas Sangster, Kaya Scoledario
The Maze Runner breaks the mold for YA film adaptations in more ways than one. Unlike a majority of popular YA ventures, this novel and film successfully execute a male point-of-view. Protagonist Thomas (Dylan O’Brien, Teen Wolf) begins his journey without a single memory other than his first name. The novel and the film portray the same opening scene: Thomas awakens in a mechanical lift that deposits him in a grassy expanse, which fellow teenaged-boy inhabitants call “the Glade.” The Glade, he soon learns, is nothing more than an elaborate prison, positioned near an ever-changing maze that a group of the captive boys runs daily in search of an escape. Life in the Glade changes drastically after the arrival of the first girl to arrive in the Glade. A note from that also arrives from the lift warns the boys that she will also be the last addition to their unfortunate population. In addition to the refreshing male perspective, the adaptation of The Maze Runner also appears to offer a more dramatic, cinematic take on the story than has been seen in a majority of past YA adaptations. Author James Dashner commented on the film’s trailer, “To see my world come to life, so stunningly and so professionally…just overwhelmed me.” Indeed, the world of The Maze Runner is perhaps even better suited for the big screen than for the page, making this adaptation one to look out for. Hailey Sanden
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Photo Credits All images taken from Pixabay and StockVault, sites that give stock photos free for commercial use. Exceptions include student artwork, which have been credited, as well as the following: Pages 4-5. Background image taken from The Cutest Blog on the Block from the free Blogger template “Chillin at the Beach”. Page 9. Still of Kenneth Branagh as Iago in Othello (1995) from ComicBookMovie.com Page 10. Still of Laurence Fishburne as Othello and Kenneth Branagh as Iago in Othello (1995) from Wikipedia. Page 11. Still of Dominic West as Iago and Clarke Peters as Othello in the Sheffield Crucible’s 2011 production from The Telegraph UK. Page 23. Image from top-10-list.org. Pages 26. Stills of Elle Fanning as Princess Aurora and Angelina Jolie as Maleficent in Maleficent (2014) from AceShowBiz. The Fault in Our Stars (2014) movie poster from AceShowBiz. Page 28. The Giver (1993) book cover from literarytreats.wordpress.com. Still of Brenton Thwaite as Jonas in The Giver (2014) from Parade. Still of Jeff Bridges as The Giver and Brenton Thwaite as Jonas in The Giver (2014) from Business Insider. Page 29. The Maze Runner (2009) book cover from Wikipedia. Still from The Maze Runner (2014) from AceShowBiz. The Maze Runner (2014) movie poster from AceShowBiz.