Issues of Ink are printed by aPrintis in Pleasanton, CA. Funding for printing comes primarily from advertisements and grants. Copies are distributed in classrooms, in the Media Arts Center, and elsewhere.
To publish an advertisement in Ink or as part of a bundle with other Incubator publications, fill out the ad contract at inkliterarymag.org and email it to palyjournalismincubator@ gmail.com.
Artificial intelligence and the rise of ChatGPT has brought on discussions of the originality of student writing and art. Ink’s content comes from a community of unique student writers, and the originality of the writing and art in this edition has been confirmed by both writers and artists. If AI is used in any work submitted to Ink, it will be disclosed at submission and upon publishing.
Ink is a literary magazine dedicated to student expression. Our central mission is to create a space for emerging student writers and artists at Palo Alto High School to share their work with others. We believe reading and sharing writing is an essential part of the writerly experience. As such, Ink is committed to providing an open platform for diverse voices and perspectives.
selfhood who am i? noon, after skies drowning in school 18 years old making a wish innate the tale of space bunny the hierophant i am back again nonfiction trapped in tropes anything but static it should end here
ON THE OUTSIDE COVER
“Forget-Me-Not” by Clara Fesslmeier ON THE INSIDE COVER
LETTER FROM THE EDITORS
We are delighted to present Ink’s tenth print issue! As we celebrate entering the double digits, we’ve also grappled with our identity as a magazine: the goals we stand for, the image we present, and above all, the messages we want to communicate with our readers. We decided to answer these questions alongside our writers, which gave rise to the first-ever themed issue of Ink: selfhood, the qualities that make up one’s identity.
Among our six works of poetry, one work of fiction, and many works of art, poet Ava Knapp reflects on the value of persistence, and writer Ellie Donahue chronicles the tale of a space bunny fighting to determine its significance in the universe. In our nonfiction section, staff writer Lara Dumanli asserts that the “trope-ification” of literature is destroying its identity as a medium.
This issue of Ink would not be possible without our advertisers and the MAC Boosters, or without the guidance and support of our adviser, Mr. Kandell. We’re so excited for you to read this issue of Ink!
Submit to Ink’s next issue at www.inkliterarymag.org/submit.
Sarina Grewal and Salem Coyle
editors-in-chief
lara dumanli
cailey lilly quita anika nair artemis quill joyce ma liam giffen joy tan michael yang ellie donahue ava knapp
sthavya chaithanya
ellie donahue
clara fesslmeier
isabelle lau amy zhao aryan kawatra hudson press
mara siegel
alyssa yuan tarika pillay charlotte liu
anya rasmussen ARTISTS
“Tea” by Ellie Donahue
What is morning but the prelude of clouds?
What is noon but the scorching of light?
“But light,” we argue, “is a path towards life.”
But shouldn’t we consider, Sometimes it burns?
We need only turn to Icarus’s plight Though, of course, that is only a tale, A mistake of one who wasn’t bright enough. Bright…ah yes
That is what we are, right?
Keen as a blade, Sharp as a knife
Fresh from the blacksmith,
We are given a destiny.
“Take flight,” we tell the bird, “Shoot for the skies,” we say. But wait —
How will we fly when trapped in a cage? And even if we do,
Have you learned nothing from the fall of the sun?
Because while a bird may fly, a fledgling only falls. But no matter.
We are never shown the cliffs anyway; We are only pushed, Encouraged to master our forms of light.
“My goodness, aren’t they bright!”
“I just know they’ll do great things.”
So we take heed, we follow, we listen,
Turn a blind eye to the brittle structure it is built upon.
We walk the road without seeing the map, Shuffling, single file, into a trap.
“But no, if you learn the steps, you can avoid it!”
So then, where is the guidebook?
“Learn as you grow,” Assimilate and follow.
We integrate to avoid the island of isolate Such a fickle road, one not even paved, Yet we choose them anyway.
For it is us who are blighted with brightness, So we listen; We obey.
After all, would you choose to brave the sun? Or hide from the light?
Noon, After Skies
text by art by artemis quill amy zhao
I am a fish drowning in water, Struggling to desperately not to sink under the flood of life, Trying to last just one more day.
I furiously swim and swim against unrelenting currents, racing frantically to catch up with the crowd, lest I fall behind and become another meal quickly forgotten by a cold, callous world.
I am a just one frail fish in a school of thousands in an ocean of millions.
A very small, very weak fish, just surviving in a big, ruthless pond.
Is this where I’m supposed to be? Is this all there is?
Can I dream of the land beyond, where others before me transcended, finally able to reach for the shining stars above? Or will I end up flopping to my demise, a fish out of water?
One day, someday, in the future, we’ll all be packed away one by one in matchbox coffins, shipped off in sardine cans to the great beyond.
But for today my heart is beat, beat, beating: Pumping red hot blood through my veins. And for now I am swim, swim, swimming: soaring through the water, scales gleaming brighter than any star!
text by joyce ma photo by aryan kawatra
18 yearS old
10 days ago I turned 18
I am an adult by legal means, masterpieces written by people younger encapsulate what I wish to be.
Written for hunger and for greed and necessity, And yet I feel decrepit, gray, and naive. Will I bleed differently? Am I still me?
I haven’t cried, haven’t screamed since 17.
I have been awake more than asleep but it’s all felt a dream
I looked out the window into a spectacular beam, the lightest light I’ve ever seen.
I recall being 14 and thinking I’d be done blinking by now
I’d be eyes open and bursting at the seams to leave, as I was then. But anyhow:
10 days ago I turned 18,
In 10 days my best friend will too, Neither of us feel cool Nor calm nor collected
I just sit here in retrospective, 17 trips around the sun and not much to show
I awoke throwing up and bathed in a green glow the day I turned 18
What could that say about this year?
What can I write to embody such fear
Horror movies won’t suffice
I sat in a bath of ice because it hurts to cry when you’re cold
It’s best done in the warmth of the morning
When you’re determined and happy and bold. I can no longer cry on my birthday, As now, I am 18 years old.
text by
art by liam giffen hudson press
I handed in my ticket, marked with characters I could not read.
Stone sculptures curled around pillars, guarding something I could not see. It was as if time itself knelt here.
Bright red lanterns swung, casting shadows on the mossy ground Ginko leaves trickled like water into the koi pond History rippling through the waters here Creating a sacred trance.
In the heart of the temple, where incense spiraled, Surrounded by people who looked like me, Talked like me, I blended right in.
Sunlight bathed the temple, where Buddhas stood I marveled at this sanctuary in Hangzhou, where tales of time are told The bamboo whispered secrets Mountains stood as witnesses And people past and present wished.
So, in that moment, suspended in an eternity Surrounded by the golden walls where ancestors and spirits prayed I, too, wished and believed.
Making a Wish
photo by aryan kawatra
text by joy tan
Innate
text by michael yang art by mara siegel
Nothing is inherent. The world will make you exactly what you’re meant to be: everything you are is someone’s fault.
A sleigh dog has his work whipped into him, the crack of the reins at the suggestion of slowing down. Even in domestication, even with the warmth of the world, he will never escape the snow, the reins and the cold, and that’s exactly how he was meant to be.
Even if a starving man is fed, he will never stop starving. I know that even if he ekes out the last of every meal, he will always be empty, I know he will never fill the hole inside him that the hunger left.
I know everyone has these holes left in them, I know that they will never be mended.
And I know that’s exactly how they were meant to be.
The Tale of Space Bunny
It was Dawn, and the sky was awakening. Stars blinked their eyes open for the first time, and the great dark void of space yawned. The newborn stars stretched and rubbed the sleep from their eyes; in a nest of stardust and nebulae, a noble child of the universe was stirring. Amassed of stardust and nebulae, the being took the soft shape of a bunny. The stars of its eyes glittered spectacularly as it opened them for the very first time. Somewhere, everywhere, in time, a bunny roams the stars. Made of planets and stars, light and shadow, this space bunny flickers through the sky. Space Bunny spends its centuries exploring new worlds: it roams galaxies, rolls in fields of stars. It bounds through nebulae and chases comets. Every few hundred years when Space Bunny grows lazy with sleep, it melts into the steady wells of gravity circling round and round the largest mass in its vicinity. One fateful day, after many lifetimes of travel, Space Bunny reaches something. Or rather, it reaches nothing. Beyond its starry eyes lay something it has never seen before; sprawling before it is an immense, endless, gaping hole in the universe, devoid of all things familiar: light, matter, sense of place or time. Space Bunny rests at the edge of the universe and stares with its sparkling eyes into the deep, endless void, and the void stares back. And as it does, a deep creeping fear worms its way into what would be Space Bunny’s heart, if it had one. For the first time, Space Bunny feels small. Obsolete. Meaningless. It backs slowly away from that all-encompassing darkness at the edge of space
and bounds back toward the fields of space dust and stars it knows so well. In that moment, as Space Bunny is fleeing from the edge of the universe, it vows not to return to that void until it is worthy of filling it. Through time and space inconceivable to you and I, Space Bunny travels. It flits through the cosmos grazing delicately, yet determinedly, on first planets, then stars, and then whole solar systems. Centuries later, but soon enough, Space Bunny moves on to small galaxies, and then larger ones, as the dread in its not-heart blooms. Yet, its resolve maintains. All the while, Space Bunny draws laggard; that which was once the rushing water of a stream is now a heavy, sticky, flow, thick like molasses from the bottle. For as it consumes, its heavily growing mass slows.
Many a year, decade, century after Space Bunny first departed from nowhere, it turns back from the edge of the universe and begins its lonesome journey. Its bright eyes are no longer measly stars, but entire galaxies, and with its newfound size comes a lingering of its celestial body. But Space Bunny is determined, fueled by the existential fear of deviating from this sacred promise it made to itself. It keeps pace, as slow as it is, and continues on its trek to the Edge it had visited so long ago.
After hundreds of times as long as our sun has burned for, Space Bunny nears the Edge once again. And as it approaches that vast field of nothing, the trepidation seizes its being from the inside out. Like a twisting web, it reaches deep within its being, pulling and tangling itself into a mess of frayed nerves. Space Bunny looks upon the Edge once
again, and the great being’s body flickers as a shudder runs through it. It stares, and it is but an insignificant blip in the face of the Edge of everything. Space Bunny turns away from the Edge of time and space — its dazzling eyes, made of so many worlds, glistening with unease — intending to return only when it can utterly encompass the very void that so terrifies it.
Space Bunny travels the universe, desperately building upon its already massive self, paying no mind to the Time that it devours quicker than any stars. Its galaxies grow into galaxy clusters, and its clusters into superclusters, until the eyes which once held singular stars become a trillion stars, like a never-ending field of flowers born from a single seed. A being that was once but a raindrop is now ten thousand hurricanes, and with its size, Space Bunny crawls slower yet.
As Space Bunny painstakingly turns toward the Edge for the last time, it’s almost certain its stupendous size will be enough now. Surely trillions of stars is enough. Surely nothing can overwhelm a being amassed of trillions of stars. But still its unease remains. Somewhere deep in its essence, it knows. Nothing can compare against the darkness’ yearning desire to consume.
Space Bunny hardly notices the passage of time as only its goal remains: to reach the Edge. By now, Space Bunny is archaic — as antiquated as the universe itself. After many centuries, even millennia, of its journey, now many thousands of times bigger than it began, it moves at such
an excruciating pace that it itself can no longer perceive if it is in fact moving at all.
And so time moves through Space Bunny. Until one day, staring deep into the everywhere-horizon of space from its unmoving place, it sees it: the Edge. If it had a breath to catch, it would stop time to catch it. Except Space Bunny isn’t moving towards that void at the end of space and time at all — the Edge is moving towards it. In the not-so-distant distance, suns are darkened, galaxies are snuffed out of being, and nebulae are sucked into its pull. All the while the great being watches it near, for anything, however big, is nothing in the face of the great absence that is the endless void.
As Time folds in on itself, Space Bunny stares, for the final time, into the abyssal darkness as the lights that make up its magnificent being blink out. One by one, its planets and stars disappear from existence, leaving only the blackest black of absence in its wake. And as the void overtakes Space Bunny, along with the rest of the foreseeable universe, it finally feels at ease. Although it could never fill the void it so sought to conquer, at least in the way it convinced itself it must, it was now the very void it sought to fill. The tension in its heart melts away with the rest of its physical body. It no longer fears, or longs, or dreads. It had been all it wanted to be all along. Space Bunny was the universe was the void. Finally at peace, as it gets tucked into the dark fabric of the absence of space and time, it settles down for a never-ending slumber. And with that, it blinks its eyes for the very last time.
THE HIEROPHANT
My company is devilish: this i mustn’t forget. no matter the hors d’oeuvres he lures me with [looking at the charcuterie brings about a thick nausea]. no matter the pristine nature of his estate [when i squint at the corners i still see cobwebs]. no matter his voice that so resembles the voices of my companions [but contains an unmistakable hiss at the end of each word]. no matter anything the man across the table from me does, i know in my heart that i am nothing like him.
when his thin lips suddenly curl into a smile, i am certain he smells my apprehension.
“TRULY, I THOUGHT YOU’D NEVER RESPOND TO MY INVITE. A TREAT TO HAVE YOU FOR SUPPER.” he pauses, glancing at the untouched charcuterie. “HAVE YOU NO APPETITE?”
“it’s been hard to eat, troubled as i am.” troubled is a grave understatement, and it comes out bitter on my tongue. i am more haggard than the monster has ever seen me before. my hair is unkempt, my cassock in tatters. scabs and flushes of red cover the whole of my aching form. my neck stings badly where my collar brushes it. the monster, in turn, displays himself flawless. even the grey streaks in his long, dark hair seem purposefully placed, framing his high cheekbones. he dresses himself in finery, jewels from china and silks from france. with his mouth shut, he is wholly indistinguishable from the common aristocrat. [when i squint at the corners i still see cobwebs.]
“DON’T FRET. THERE’S ALWAYS THE MAIN COURSE.” his voice rings out, velvety as his carpeting as he snaps his fingers. a gargantuan gold platter is quickly brought out before us, with a matching cloche obscuring its contents.
“I SERVE TO TREAT MY GUESTS.”
as my host finishes his declaration, the cloche is swept away, unveiling a figure curled upon the metal plate. it’s knocked out cold, in shepherd’s garb. the muscles in my shoulders tighten and i flinch.
“GO ON— IT TRUMPS WHATEVER YOU’VE DONE TO SATIATE YOURSELF THUSFAR. I’M CERTAIN OF THAT.” the self-satisfaction in his voice is almost palpable, as if he’s done some wonderful thing.
a retch squeezes the back of my throat and it is everything i can do to distill it into solely a comment. even i have limits.
“you make me sick, quite frankly.”
this rouses a slight chuckle out of my host. a coppery tang wafts over from his mouth, or from the body between us, mixing with the sordid scent already in my nostrils. i am made nauseous by the whole affair— my vision spins, and an urgency claws at the inner walls of my stomach.
he can see me turning green, i’m certain. i expect humiliation, then, some sort of scathing, trivializing remark at myself or the body before us. i am presented instead with words so laced in pity that they cause my brow to furrow.
“CAN ONE REALLY AFFORD TO BE SO PURITANICAL, AS A VAMPYRE? WE NEED TO EAT. WE MAY AS WELL EAT GRACEFULLY.”
my head is beginning to pound. “there is no grace in such an act.” i can’t even tell if the body is alive. i can’t look at it long enough to check if it’s breathing.
“THERE IS NO GRACE IN ANYTHING WE DO, IN YOUR EYES.” his words have gone stiff, condescending. the attempt at disrespect falls flat. who would i be, if i felt disrespected by a wretch like this? “HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE YOU KILLED ALREADY?”
“you and your ilk are not people.” it comes out of my mouth with more fury than expected, without the careful consideration behind my usual words. my knuckles are white, nails pressing crescents into my palms. i sense myself coaxing out the fury of the beast before me, that horridness that lurks just below the surface. he and i lock eyes: his gaze is incredulous, and it brings me pleasure to know i’m succeeding.
“BUT YOU ARE, VICAR?”
a sliver of the demon’s fangs show in his scowl, the hiss at the end of his words more glaring than before. it is placating— for a brief moment, i feel wholly justified antagonizing the monster before me. a sliver of hesitation creeps back in
as soon as he reopens his mouth. at heart i cannot help but care for the thoughts of my fellow man, and my host resembles one far too closely for my better judgement to handle everything.
the rapping against my skull intensifies, and i realize with horror that my salivary glands are pumping with increased vigor.
the man on the table will awaken soon— i see how its eyelids have begun to weakly flutter. halfheartedly, i realize that it will die here. i’m certain that my soul pounds with more empathy than whatever resides in the chest of my company. i know how to sacrifice something right.
the tip of my tongue finds one of the tender holes left in my gums, the fraying bits of flesh still hanging off the wounds. it will make this more difficult.
it is a simple dilemma: the pounding in my skull is growing unbearable, and i fear it will inhibit work tomorrow. it has a simple solution: i sink my incisors into the flesh of the man’s throat.
through my ichor-blurred vision, i see shock fill my companion’s face, before the grandmaster of serpents suddenly smiles at me. his eyes glow with misplaced pride— that damned fool. even with my mouth ringed in red, gasping for air, i know in my heart that i am nothing like him.
my company is devilish: this i mustn’t forget.
I am back again
All is the same but still so different
Do I mask it or do I run?
Away or towards something or someone?
On the cusp of something brand new
Only to change again and go askew
You can feel it, can’t you?
Like that chord that just wants to resolve
Or that bell just aching to ring
Like those words that are just waiting to be spoken
Slipping around the mouth, begging to come out and sing.
Like the pulse that charges through the chest because all that wants to escape is the heart
Like that athlete on the line anticipating the shot gun
Or that homework that you simply need to start…
Because starting is all it is, really.
We worry about the things that could go wrong
We hope we don’t drown,
We hope we don’t freeze
We don’t want to be stuck in the sea of uncertainty
Where everything is either red or blurry
Facing a lack of security
With no way to escape ‘reality’
It’s not the start we fear, but the end
It’s when you look back down the path you chose
It’s when you see all the doors you closed
It’s when you see how your life is predisposed
It’s when you understand more than you know
It’s when you see all the things that could have gone wrong
It’s then when you worry it all will.
text by ava knapp photo by tarika pillay
We fear what we don’t know…or so we claim
But if we don’t know, how can we fear everything the same?
Hypotheticals will keep taunting our brain.
“If only I chose that other class,”
“If only that wasn’t my final draft,”
“If only I had been more relaxed,”
“If only I said more when we passed,”
“If only each year didn’t feel like the last,”
“If only I had chosen to laugh,”
“If only I hadn’t got so attached,”
“If only I had the courage to state the truth, the facts,”
If only I had simply asked.
But nothing more than a memory is made from the past.
So I won’t dwell in what has already been done
The past has happened but the future’s just begun I will live in the present and I will carry on through
The running and huffing, The learning and loving, The rushing and blushing, The nothings and somethings; The becoming,
Because complacency won’t get me there. Change is inevitable, but it’s everywhere
Fear is an obstacle, but I am well prepared
Because now I am ready.
I am fully aware.
Now is not the time to look back then I will ascend, while being unafraid to depend
On the important family and friends I look towards something different but not an end
Because now I am here and I am back, again.
text
and art
by lara su dumanli
Trapped in Tropes
The rise of ‘BookTok’ tropes has diminished the quality of literature
Whenever I needed to describe myself, the first description that came to my mind was “I love to read.” My shelves were overfilled with books, I obsessed over GoodReads ratings, and the characters I read slowly seeped into my daily life, becoming an irreplaceable part of it. I still reminisce about walking home from school in middle school, a book in hand, trying to avoid traffic as I dove into the fictional world I wanted desperately to be a part of. However, when my interest in reading started to take roots in the BookTok community, I was disappointed by how shallow the writing turned out to be.
BookTok, a subsection of TikTok that allows readers to bond over their love of reading, soon became a flytrap that constantly focused on the “trope-ification” of books. Tropes like “Enemies to Lovers,” “Only One Bed,” “Forced Proximity,” and “Sunshine x Grumpy” have squashed once well-developed ideas into bite-size content.
tropes not only promote the shallow understanding of literature but create a lower standard for future book lovers in the community to accept.
The final straw for me was its effect on romance books. Defending romance and fantasy as valid genres has
While these tropes are valid representations of the content in these books, they started to allow for a certain type of book to emerge: all tropes, no plots. Some books, such as “The Spanish Love Deception” by Elena Armas, have clearly distinguished tropes in their marketing, but a closer look inside proves that’s all there is to it. These types of books have become their own genre, with Barnes and Noble even reserving a “BookTok Books” table in the middle of their stores. Soon emasculating a large section of literature, these
been a sore subject for the classic-lovers elitists in the community. Throughout literature, romance, and fantasy — books that are connected with a large population of women lovers — are often subjected to underlyingly misogynistic commentary that argues their lack of literary merit. The encouragement of “trope-ifying,” especially in romance books, tolerates this fragile genre to take the backlash of our generation’s short attention span.
Literature, an intensely intimate subject, has become a breeding
ground where Sparknotes-esque analysis can pass as a good book. Not only am I disappointed, but I’m terrified of what this means for aspiring writers trying to market their books. Imagine telling George Orwell that he needed to “trope-ify” 1984 to entice readers. I think his brain would explode. As reading becomes increasingly scarce as a hobby, we must protect making novels into 10-second TikToks that condense beautiful storylines into a two-word catchphrase. Novels are more than their content, they stretch further impacting readers years after they fin - ish the book, and by disregarding the complexity of literature by condensing tropes, you are erasing a crucial element of what makes reading so magical. To younger Lara who felt that book characters were the only people who understood her, and the millions of other young readers who feel the same, we must stop “trope-ifying” literature to guard a sacred part of reading: the journey.
ANYTHING ANYTHING
The television crackles with blue-hot sparks, shooting out of the shattered screen as a young boy feverishly claws at his father’s restraints in a desperate bid to plunge his head into the jagged hole. The boy shrieks gutturally as the scene hard-cuts to a hazy grey-brown, interrupted only by the static that begins to pour out of his mouth.
Jane Schoenbrun’s 2024 film “I Saw the TV Glow” is full of heartwrenching scenes like this — it is a unique and dramatic experience, heightened by its surreal visuals and complex themes. The film follows Owen, an awkward, quiet, and often out of place twelve-year-old boy, as he comes of age. His life is depicted through a series of jarring time skips, each plunging Owen’s life into greater turmoil as the secrets of his world begin to unravel.
Through a show called “The Pink Opaque,” Owen bonds with his friend Maddy, the only person who seems to share his feelings of disconnect with the world — that is, until she suddenly disappears without a trace. As the show and reality bleed into one another, Owen must shatter his preconceived notions of what reality is, and embrace parts of himself that he never even knew existed.
“I Saw the TV Glow” uses various techniques to make its visuals stand out. Much to the film’s benefit, its visuals come off as rather unsettling, even compared to other art films. Shots stand still for stretches so long that they’re uncomfortable; the music flits between low, droning synths and melancholic pop; and characters speak with a sort of stiltedness, all under seemingly ever-present fuschia lighting. Every decision blends together to make the film feel starkly artificial.
That artificiality isn’t a bad thing, though. The film’s atmosphere helps conjure its themes of childhood nostalgia and reality-bending, even before the narrative explores them. Furthermore, the dreamlike quality of the pacing and dialogue emphasizes the later reveals of the film with more gravity.
As they’re pulled across scenes, ambience echoing throughout, viewers feel just as disoriented in the film’s world as Owen does. Much like the visuals of “The Pink Opaque”, “I Saw the TV Glow” makes each and every one of its shots feel suspenseful — off enough to make the audience wonder if there might be something more under the film’s fogged surface.
Indeed, the film’s narrative parallels its visuals in its ethereal nature. Though it may initially seem clear-cut — structured chronologically through Owen’s life, as
the average growing-up tale tends to be — it steadily becomes more fantastical and disjointed, taking hard cuts between different points in the story’s timeline. Throughout, the story remains steadily fixed on the concept of identity, playing with it in innovative ways, even for an art film. The core story of “I Saw The TV Glow” feels grounded; even amidst deeply fantastical elements, the characters and their realistic depths take center stage.
Owen and Maddy are gut-wrenchingly human characters, even if their stories are told through a multitude of fragmented snapshots. Their opposing struggles color the narrative of the whole film. To repress difficult truths, as Owen does, or to embrace them like Maddy does— that is the primary question that “I Saw The TV Glow” tackles through its characters and story. Audiences can easily transpose the characters’ struggles onto their own lives.
Like any good illusion, the film’s themes are layered, appearing differently to every viewer. To the average viewer, the story comes off as a fragmented identity story that can be interpreted with many different experiences concerning identity and repression in mind.
Queer viewers, however, have near-universally found a very different, much more explicit allegory in the film — “I Saw The TV Glow”, to those looking for it, paints a clear transgender narrative under its broader themes.
The transgender angle of the film can serve as either its crux or just a footnote. To queer and transgender audiences, both Maddy’s disappearance and Owen’s journey are easily seen as a blatant allegory for the act of transition, and the feelings that accompany it: shame, freedom, and solidarity with one’s community. “I Saw the TV Glow” handles its layered themes so masterfully that audiences can take from it what they seek most: whether that be a transgender allegory, broader commentary on repressing one’s identity, or something entirely different.
Through its rich story, visuals, and themes, “I Saw the TV Glow” is a film that pulls its audience in gracefully, wholly immersing them within its narrative. It is by all means a modern masterpiece, with a core both broad enough to interpret in a multitude of ways, and personal enough to have any viewer feel uniquely seen.
“I Saw the TV Glow” is available to watch on Max, Hulu, and Apple TV.
BUT STATIC BUT STATIC
text and art by salem coyle
It Should
“It
Ends With Us” faces backlash for a softened portrayal
The movie adaptation of Colleen Hoover’s bestselling novel “It Ends With Us” is a disappointment falling short of its potential.
The movie was mediocre at best as the writers made many questionable decisions in addressing the central problem of the movie: domestic violence. The film struggles to give enough weight to the topic of domestic abuse and — paired with the multiple off-set controversies and drama involving the cast — the movie’s core message feels lost, weakening the intended lesson.
The film follows protagonist Lily Bloom (Blake Lively), who struggles with her love life while mourning her father's death. There are continuous switches between her childhood, introducing her first love Atlas Corrigan (Brandon Sklenar), and revealing her father's abusive tendencies toward her mother, and the present, where she falls in love with Ryle Kincaid (Justin Baldoni), a man who ends up having the same abusive tendencies as her father toward her.
Lily’s backstory and her relationships with her father. Most of the graphic domestic abuse scenes are preserved. Nevertheless, the producers introduce a questionable twist — many of Ryle’s abusive incidents are portrayed as possibly being accidental, only revealing his abusive nature at the end of the movie. In contrast, the book depicts his abuse as intentional from the start.
Although this change provides a more surprising plot twist, it still diminishes the story’s realism, reinforces the film’s excessive dramatization, and means the film lacks the weight needed to depict domestic abuse accurately.
According to Alanna Williamson, Palo Alto High School’s Composition and Literature of visual media teacher, the choice of portraying the scenes with domestic abuse as accidents were unexpected.
“When we saw the revision, I was like, ‘Oh, I got duped [by the movie],’” Williamson said, regarding the move portraying Ryle’s true colors. “That's an important lesson about how your brain can trick you into thinking things are fine or that it didn’t happen. It’s kind of a visual representation of gaslighting.”
Although this change provides a more surprising plot twist, it still diminishes the story’s realism, reinforces the film’s excessive dramatization, and means the film lacks the weight needed to depict domestic abuse accurately.
Some of the film’s casting choices don’t seem to fit. For instance, comedian Hasan Minhaj, who plays Marshall, the husband of Lily’s best friend Alyssa Kincaid (Jenny Slate), feels out of place in a movie about abuse. His comedic background doesn’t make sense for a serious film, undermining the film's gravity.
In addition, the movie omits many scenes from the book, including important parts of
In the movie, Baldoni acts phenomenally, seamlessly transforming into a complex villain and bringing depth to the role necessary to the plot. In contrast, Lily should have much more depth and emotion, but Lively cannot bring that to the screen. In the big, emotional scenes, her acting falls flat, and she doesn’t capture the mix of strength and vulnerability that makes Lily such a powerful character in the book. Overall, her performance isn’t what fans were hoping for and makes it hard for us to connect with Lily’s story.
Aside from Baldoni and Lively’s drastically different levels of acting, another huge difference is their dedication to spreading the film’s main message.
“If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic
End Here of domestic abuse, sparking debate among audiences
violence, help is available,” Baldoni’s Instagram bio reads, also tagging and linking No More, a non-profit organization with the mission to end domestic violence, sexual assault, and abuse. He also posted recorded conversations with members of the organization and other podcasts where he continues to spread awareness of domestic abuse.
Conversely, Lively’s Instagram bio currently includes tags and links to her beverage lines, but nothing abuse-related.
In addition, her attitude toward promoting the film in other parts of her social media presence isn’t as serious as needed fwor a topic of this serious nature.
“Grab your friends, wear your florals, and head out to see it!” Lively exclaimed in a TikTok promotion posted on Aug. 6 regarding the film’s release.
Lively’s excitement and exclusion of anything abuse-related in this video seem to promote the movie as a romantic comedy instead of treating it with sensitivity, as Baldoni does.
“I can see how if she [Lively], at least on the surface, isn’t treating it seriously in the press and using it as an opportunity to talk about domestic violence and more like a rom-com, then I think that might make other people think ‘Wait what, why are you doing this?’” Williamson said.
Sibongile Mafu, a video creator on TikTok, agrees. One of her videos, captioned “If movies with heavy themes were marketed as It Ends With Us,” mocks Lively’s insensitive promotion of the movie. For example, Mafu jokingly told audiences to “wear your thorn crown and Jesus sandals” to see “The Passion of the Christ.”
While Mafu’s videos are meant to be joking and sarcastic, if this insensitive behavior continues, future movies will not be viewed with understanding and maturity. We hope mature themes will be handled with more care and attention in the coming years.
SPLATTERS
ofInk’s gallery of small writing, art, and photos is blindly evaluated by our editors. Submissions are accepted at www.inkliterarymag.org/submit/.
These emotions swirled in my confused mind like a maelstrom that was hard to unwind.
Immediately!
My father and I made a bind as my eyes were momentarily splashed/blind.
Then, the Argentine cliffs were smeared with water and fluorescent rainbows. This made my stomach feel like a bunch of volcanoes!
But in the calm that followed, The tiny water droplets on my coat were refreshingly dewy.
And as the days went by, The falls preserved its immense beauty.
