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Ink is a literary magazine dedicated to student expression. Our central mission is to create a space for emerging student writers and artists at Paly 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. MISSION STATEMENT
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
I am delighted to present Ink’s ninth print issue! Included are five poems, three works of fiction, and two nonfiction pieces, each unique in theme and form. It was a pleasure to read the writing for this edition and I would like to thank Ink’s contributors for their inspiring work. In addition, I am grateful for our advertisers and the MAC Boosters, without whom this issue would not have been possible. Finally, I would like to thank my adviser, Mr. Kandell, for his guidance and continued support of Ink.
Submit to Ink’s next issue at www.inkliterarymag.org/submit
Sarina Grewal editor-in-chief
Lost Wisdom
“Venus as a Boy” by Björk Cold Feet
Ephemeral
The Anchoress of Shere
A Visit to Laicos Aidem Farm
Inevitable
One Day Humanity of Hip-Hop
Percy Jackson Gets a Second Chance
lara dumanli shreyas shashi alice sheffer aiden w chen ava knapp kira longinova clive rudolph lindsay holman coral johnson sapphire loomis spencer wu-chin xander yap
“Plastic Beach” by Teresa Wang ON THE FRONT COVER
“Past and Present” by David Tomz ON THE INSIDE COVER
teresa wang vivian tang mara siegel david tomz aryan kawatra kira longinova charlotte liu clara fesslmeier
salem coyle
Lost Wisdom
Oh child, you crawl around and touch everything for the sake of discovering life’s potency, and you sit in the rain, beneath the sky’s cold humming. I saw arcane circles in your eyes when the sun set. Wake up in twenty years, when you’ll live among people and their cars and their dogs. You’ve become like them, living for routine: sleep, work, sleep, only interrupted by small tediums such as eating and bathing when you have time. You no longer sing sloppily back at the wind when it blows harshly; you’ve stopped crying when animals die on the side of the road. Sometimes I wonder if you would still be so curious if you didn’t have all the answers, if I kept you among the living.
Clive Johnson is a sophomore at Palo Alto High School. His favorite music includes folk music and screaming music.
Charlotte Liu is a freshman at Palo Alto High School. In her free time, she enjoys choir, piano, and drawing.
text by clive rudolph art by charlotte liu
“He’s Venus as a boy,”
Björk, I can’t help but agree. Just look at you. Kiss me to this song; make it our song, paint it green and pink and yellow and blue. Your hands are soft as a whisper shouted across the room: Why can’t you hear me? I always thought I was too loud, too much, but am I not enough? Are my hands too small to hold your world? What if your hands grow weary of holding me up? Don’t let me fall. I’m scared of heights.
“He believes in a beauty.”
Björk, I can’t help but agree, and my heart aches when he looks at her, not me. She’s just enough. I don’t think I’m right. I don’t think he can see the words I’m shouting: Why don’t you see me? I’m invisible, and that makes me invincible, but I want to hurt. I want to feel life and know I’m living; I want to make memories. Don’t let me forget. I’m scared of having nothing.
“He’s Venus, a Venus as a boy.” Björk, I can’t help but agree, and do you think I’ll ever compare? I don’t know if I’ll meet my match; they’re all Venuses, they’re all right, the right amount. It’s The Birth of Venus, not The Birth of Me. Crescent shells and frothy seafoam, not holding on to the past. I’ll stand steadfast, but everyone moves around — I’m too static. They never see: Will you dance with me? I’m not welcoming. Don’t look into my eyes; I’m not mad. Don’t let me frighten you. I’m scared of being alone.
Alice Sheffer is a sophomore who loves writing short pieces such as speculative fiction and poetry. She often writes about topics such as love, teenage girl experiences, history, and the occasional odd topic.
Mara Siegel is a junior at Palo Alto High School. In her free time, she enjoys bookbinding and making earrings.
“venus as a boy” by björk
text by alice sheffer art by mara siegel
COLD FEET
With the icy weather
Comes frigid feet.
The air is chilled
As is my heart.
I heard the woes of a lonely man
The world was cold
Yet he was not.
In this time
When frozen dew melts away
So too must my heartache subside.
The love that flew
Now stays frozen
Captured in the memories of the future.
I had no time
And no hope.
But she and I
Our hearts left to cope
Had only cold feet between us.
Aiden W Chen is a junior at Palo Alto High School. In his free time, he enjoys listening to heavy metal music and exercising.
David Tomz is a senior at Palo Alto High School. Beyond art, David likes making music, hiking, and spending time with his friends and family.
text by aiden w chen art by david tomz
Ephemeral
10:28.
Standing, legs, arms, eyes dilate.
Mist dancing, damp clothes await.
Cigarette in two fingers, gun in pocket trousers.
Black locks in a hair net, left in for hours.
Dark uncooked meat and red wine, 10:29
Clatter from the kitchen behind.
A bang. A shout. A hint of laughter?
The voices unrecognizable, muffled hereafter.
Chest pound.
Turn around.
Smoke ring blown dirty.
10:30.
Door. Kitchen. Open
Which intruders break what’s broken?
“Stop!”
Someone is done.
Someone, run!
Someone has a gun.
10:31
Ava Knapp is a sophomore at Palo Alto High School. In her free time, she does track and cross country, and she has written and published her own music.
Aryan Kawatra is a junior at Palo Alto High School, and has a passion for photography, especially experimenting with various styles to capture the world around him.
text and art by
kira longinova
The Anchoress of Shere
I can only imagine how many people have walked these aisles, hand in hand, as we are now. How many people have been born anew here. In this place of worship, of devotion, the iconstases have lost their lustre. The years have taken the warm light from their presence. Not like you.
Graven in the wall is the body of the anchoress. The Carpenter girl. She knelt in these very pews 700 years ago and found home. Solace. The constraint of a hagioscope wouldn’t change her view. The word of God on her tongue, the blood of Christ on her breath, she vowed she’d never need anything but Him so long as she lived.
The best way to prove an unconditional love is to devote oneself to what appears as a benevolent, gracious deity, and still allow Him to kill you in His own temple.
There are cathedrals everywhere for those with eyes to see. On my knees in your transept, I knew. The God-shaped hole in my heart, the aches, the yearning for salvation. I had been starving. I’ve found what I need. Let me fold my hands while you extend your own. Let me be your favorite saint.
Kira Loginova is an artist and author born in Moscow and raised in Palo Alto. She is currently a junior attending Palo Alto High School.
A Visit to Laicos Aidem Farm
We seek out nature when reality makes us feel uncomfortable. Frustrated. Unworthy.
A strawberry! That’s what I craved today. Something small and juicy. A burst of flavor to remedy my day.
So I drove down to the farm to see if I could find one. Laicos Aidem is a community farm near my home where people in the neighborhood can plant all different varieties of fruits and vegetables. It operates like a U-pick: the farm manager rings up your order, and a portion of the money goes to the original grower. Each person is allowed only one basket per visit to make sure there’s enough for everyone.
The purpose of the farm is to promote biodiversity, community, and healthy eating. Last time I was here, some of the tomatoes were starting to rot, but there were still a good variety of berries, peas, squashes and lettuce.
Upon arriving, the farm manager popped out at the gate to greet me, his square face flush with an ombré of pinks and purples. After handing me a small plastic basket, he faded away as quickly as he’d come, and I was left to survey the farm: 1.5 acres of plants.
I quickly got to work, eager to find my strawberry. Putting the basket down, I crouched down at the first row of tall and bushy plants, looking up. Strawberry. There were none in this area.
I picked up the basket and continued down the first row. The plants were thick and tangled, most of them young tomato plants that wouldn’t fruit till August, but mixed in were a whole variety of weeds too. I turned around to look at the second row. This one had many different heights of plants. I’ll find it here, I thought. Strawberry. I searched. I walked by a whole patch of dead looking organic content. It hadn’t been this hard to find a fruit last time I visited. Then, after looking through rows of George’s
flowering vineyard plants, a hint of red. I ran towards it, exhilarated at the prospect of finding a strawberry so soon. I felt the soil pick up beneath my feet as I ducked between the vineyard plants, never taking my eyes off of the target.
Getting closer, I smiled. I was right. The strawberry plant was small, but it was just what I needed. I quickly pulled the little fruit off and bit the tip. It was still slightly white, but the tip was always the best. I savored the soft crunch of the fruit, the texture of the seedy skin, and the juicy interior.
But it only lasted for a few seconds. Soon, the fruit was gone, and I looked up, frantically searching for more.
The plant was small and only had that one fruit. The other strawberry plants around it were all either eaten by squirrels or still unripe.
So I continued along, but it was all just weeds. Or vineyard crops.
I hated wine.
My eyes were burning now from looking so hard, and my back ached from bending over. But the sweet aftertaste from that one strawberry was enough to keep me going.
Four rows of squashes and weeds later, I found my jackpot. A whole row of strawberry plants. I sat down immediately, gorging myself with the sweet fruit of the first plant. Oops. I had forgotten about my basket. I quickly snatched it up, filling the small plastic thing with as many strawberries as I could. I was on my knees now, crawling across the row to scroll through the plants as quickly as possible.
My basket quickly filled up, I had reached my limit. I let out a frustrated groan. I didn’t drive all the way over here for nothing!
I stopped for a second, sitting there on my dirty knees, wondering what to do. It only took a second to realize what I needed to do. The tall vineyard
plants behind me hid me from the view of the farm manager.
I put down the tiny basket, and turned back to my prey. I clawed at the fruits, stuffing them into my mouth and letting the sweet juice dribble down my chin. My cheeks puffed with fruit, and my stomach expanded to make space. More. I needed more.
Soon, half the row was behind me, and I fell on my butt, stomach round, slightly nauseous, gazing dreamily at it all.
Then my mouth filled with saliva, and I felt a pressure pushing upward. I covered my mouth but I couldn’t stop it. A bucket of pink gushed over the plants, and half a row of half-digested strawberries blanketed the soil.
Frantic, I began to scoop up handfuls of clean soil to cover my vomit. The dirt was under my fingernails now, and I buried a plant or two in the process. When I was finished, I stood up, holding the flimsy basket, and admired my handiwork. The area looked almost as it had before, (minus a plant or two).
I turned to leave, and walked back towards the farm manager’s stall.
“Strawberries, huh?” he grunted.
I managed a yeah.
I could feel the buried vomit searing into my back, and my head still swirled at the thought of it.
After he rang me up, I said goodbye and quickly scampered back to my car, basket in hand. I couldn’t stand the thing. It was like a little kid reminding me of what I had done, plastic fingernails digging into my hand. I threw it into my trunk, the strawberries spilling out into the sea of black felt. I slammed the trunk door down. Good riddance. The thought of the little fruits made me sick.
I turned to walk to the driver’s seat, and as I did, the farm’s wooden sign caught my eye.
Laicos Aidem.
Social Media.
Coral Johnson is a senior at Palo Alto High School. She likes to design knitwear, learn new languages, and eat new foods. She writes very sporadically whenever she feels nostalgic.
Clara Fesslmeier is a junior at Palo Alto High School. In her free time, she enjoys printmaking, sewing, painting, and drawing.
text by coral johnson art by clara fesslmeier
Inevitable
text by sapphire loomis art by david tomz
Wet tracks already marked his face before the sky made the rest of him match. He looked up as he stepped off her porch for the last time. The sky spit in his eye with fat glops who possessed both summer’s lingering stick and autumn’s volume. As he tilted his head back down, he looked at the cedar tree.
“It’s gorgeous out,” she complained. “If you’re just going to be boring and write those irritating college apps all day, can we at least be outside?”
“Fine,” he sighed, closing his laptop. The summer sun laid a blanket of relaxation over him as she dragged him under the massive tree. It upset the straight path of the street by being too old to uproot. He sat against its impossibly grand trunk and opened his laptop. Her head was already on his lap, grinning up at him and turning what should have been his passcode into an ever-elongating string of dots. He tried with all his might to scowl at her, but his treacherous face formed a loving smile.
As the memory faded, so too did the sun’s warmth on his skin. His chest complained at the sudden cold and cried out for heat. He lowered his gaze further and approached his car alone.
“Goodnight,” he said, reaching towards the frozen handle.
“Absolutely not.” He stopped and stared blankly at her for a moment. Her eyelashes were almost white with snow. “You’re forgetting something,” she offered. He patted his pockets. Phone. Keys. AirPods.
“Ugh, you idiot,” she sighed with an exasperated smile, and leaned in. Molten gold started in his lips and spread within him. Snowflakes fell onto his face and transformed into drips that rolled off of his nose and onto her cheek. The cold only enhanced her heat.
He shut his eyes and only the wet beads remained. His head tilted up again. Drops splattered down randomly on his face but followed the paths his skin created before falling.
His eyes opened and he got into his car. He paused and rolled down his window. Raindrops continued to speckle his skin as he drove around the great tree.
Sapphire Loomis is a junior at Palo Alto High School. They have been writing from a very young age and greatly enjoy it. In his free time, Sapphire enjoys watching old movies, volunteering at food banks, and spending time with her friends.
David Tomz is a senior at Palo Alto High School. Beyond art, David likes making music, hiking, and spending time with his friends and family.
text by lindsay holman
photo by aryan kawatra
ONE DAY AT A TIME
Let’s start class by going around the room and saying what we did this summer.”
I almost leave then and there. I’ve had enough of people asking where I was last summer, let alone the past two years. I tell them I was living with my sick grandma or me and my family moved to Tokyo for dad’s work. I’ve always impressed myself with how quickly I can come up with a lie. You have to give me credit for my creativity.
“Nothing much, I went to sleepaway camp.”
I’m relieved when my teacher doesn’t make me elaborate. I doubt she heard me. She probably should have retired a decade ago when she could still hear and see more than two feet in front of her. I’m not lying–wilderness therapy is basically summer camp, but for those of us who decided substances were our best friends. We made friendship bracelets and went on hikes to “help us realize the value of our lives” and “send
us on the right path”, just not necessarily because we thought it would lead to some summer fun. The kid in front of me makes a 180 in his desk.
“Hey, man, how have you been? Do you remember that project we did together in 8th grade? It’s been a while.”
If I remember correctly, Thomas Bicudo spilled a whole glass of milk on our civil rights poster the day before we presented it. People laughed when they saw our smudged poster, and I had to explain to everyone that it wasn’t me who was incompetent.
“Yeah I’ve been good, I was staying with my uncle in California.”
I wonder how long it will take for people to realize I’m lying. It’s a little bet I’m making with myself. I’m not a serial liar, I just think it’s nobody’s business.
What’s worse than the people who quiz me about where I’ve been all this time are the ones who won’t even look at me.
Even those whom I used to call my best friends don’t acknowledge my existence. I passed by Theo Carter in the hallway after 1st period. He’s gotten tall, almost as tall as me. He’s built like a football player, broad-shouldered and built. The kid whose house I would go to every day after school from ages eight to twelve, I am now trying to avoid eye contact with. I even told him about my parent’s divorce. It’s the same face, even under the four o’clock shadow, but a completely different person. I wonder if I look as different to him as he does to me.
Today I’m going to my first ever therapist meeting after school. My dad never encouraged me to talk about my feelings, he called therapists and counselors frauds on multiple occasions, and he was a firm believer in the rule that boys shouldn’t cry. I think it was his new girlfriend’s doing, a 30-year-old Vietnamese woman whom he met on a cruise a
year ago. I met Kim a month ago and she’s already roleplaying as my mother. She loves to insert herself into my life and give me advice on how to “manifest a better future.” She and my dad meditate outside every morning. He’s a different man than he was when he was married to my mom, and sometimes I wonder who I would be if this version of him raised me: with love and patience instead of anger.
The therapist’s office is cold, blasting its AC despite the Michigan weather that never seems to go above 80 degrees. I walk up to the lady at the front desk, who doesn’t look up from her furious typing for at least five minutes.
“Hi hon, give me a second.”
Another few minutes pass by. I wonder what she’s writing. Maybe it’s a novel on how to be the world’s worst receptionist. She finally looks up and peers at me through her glasses.
“Well, I didn’t expect such a handsome young man. Do you have an appointment?”
I laugh just enough to pass for a thank you.
“Yeah, for 3:30.”
“Ok. Anthony? Take a seat.”
I nod my head and walk over to an ugly blue chair by a window and a stack of magazines. I’ve gotten used to middle-aged women calling me handsome – I almost expect it now. The men usually call me pretty boy and give me a pat on the back, afraid that any hint of a real compliment will make people think they’re gay. The best part about being attractive is that I don’t always have to put on my A-game personality for people to think of me as charming and likable.
The office is empty, and I start to wonder what kinds of people this place has seen, how many people have sat in this chair and looked out this stained window. There’s a tree a few feet away from me that is identical to the one outside my old house, except duller, and the leaves fill it more sparsely. After a couple of minutes, a tall bald man in a polo and blue jeans comes out with a clipboard.
“Anthony?” He says, looking at me.
I try to smile and walk ahead of him into his office.
“Your mom called and said you have been struggling lately, and you just got out of rehabilitation.”
“My mom?”
“Kim is your mother, correct?”
“Oh, no. That’s my dad’s girlfriend.”
“Well, I’m glad to see someone is looking out for you.”
I give an unconvincing smile and feel a new pit form in my stomach as I realize it’s not even my own parents trying to help me. They never knew how.
“So anyway, I understand you used to live in Chicago with your brother and mom until you went to treatment. How is the adjustment to living with your dad now? Or even getting out of rehab?”
He looks bored and tired. Like asking me a simple question just took all the life out of him. At least we both don’t want to be here.
“It’s been fine. My dad is trying to get me to do construction work with him.”
I smile and try to keep it lighthearted, but he looks at me long
enough to let me know he can see through that. I start playing with a rubber ball he put out on the table until I realize how much of a child I must look like and immediately put it back down.
“What were things like back at your mom’s house?”
Blood rushes to my face. I think back to the end of 9th grade when I was still with her and Luca. Tears come to my eyes and I can’t speak. When I think of her all I can see is the pain in her face when she found my stash. She held it up to me and asked me why, why I would do this to her. It’s the reason I asked to stay with my dad. I didn’t ruin his life. I clear my throat but my words still come out shaky.
“Fine.”
My pulse beats in my head, and before I know it, I’m halfway out the door. I keep my head down and make it to the alleyway by the building before the tears finally slip out. I walk all the way home thinking of nothing but the interaction I just had and praying no one I know sees me and my puffy eyes. When I get home, Kim’s in the kitchen.
“You’re home so soon?”
“Yeah, it was a short session, just getting to know each other.”
I walk past her. I just need to make it to my room and then I’ll be okay. I lay in bed and finally let myself go. My crying starts out soft and then the heavier wails begin. I bury my face into my pillow, deep enough so no one hears. The crying doesn’t seem to make the piercing pain in my heart go away. Why did he have to ask me about my mom?
Hours pass by and my room is bright with lights that I don’t have the energy to turn off. I hear the door open and I close my eyes as fast as I can, pretending to be asleep. I assume it’s Kim, coming to bombard me with more questions, but I hear my dad’s voice.
“Hey kid, how’s it goin’?” His tone is something I’ve never heard from him before: soft and compassionate. I open my eyes and lift up my head to see a bowl of soup in his hand. He puts it on my nightstand.
“Kim made you some food.” I sit up and avoid his eyes.
“Thanks.”
“Dr. Baker called me. He said you left early after he mentioned your mother. He wants to up your
meetings to three times a week.”
I feel a wave of anger and look up at his face to argue until I see his eyes are glassy and his eyebrows are creased with worry. My mind goes back to the time when I was ten and I fell off my bike outside of our house back in Chicago. My dad was the only one home and came running out when he heard me screaming. My arm was twisted unnaturally and I was desperately crying. He looked at me with the same expression he does now.
For a second, I saw myself how he must see me. His firstborn son. His little boy he used to go fishing with and read to sleep every night. His baby, who would run into his arms every day after preschool, who he bragged to his friends about when he was the best on the baseball team, who he went to Cubs games with, who he called his “little buddy,” who he helped with homework and taught how to shave, and who he had to take to rehab after finding him on the floor of his room with throw-up staining his carpet.
“Please, Anthony, please try.”
His voice is almost a whisper.
“Okay.”
Lindsay Holman is a senior who loves writing realistic fiction. Her favorite movies and books are psychological thrillers that end with a twist.
Aryan Kawatra is a junior at Palo Alto High School, and has a passion for photography, especially experimenting with various styles to capture the world around him.
Humanity in Hip Hop
When it comes to poetic masterpieces in music, most people will go to genres such as country or classical music — genres that have a reputation of complex lyrical meaning. But one genre that gets overlooked for its underlying messages is hip-hop. In an interview with Ink, Isaac Phillips, a Grammy-nominated songwriter and producer, explained that there are a few things that need to be understood about hip-hop.
1.
Rap is not shallow
Rap has gained a reputation for a lack of deep lyricism, whether people mention how it touches on surface level concepts such as drugs and money, or how it has a lack of ability to convey sentimental messages like country or pop songs do. Phillips says that these ideas are far from the truth. “In order to be successful and relevant, hip-hop artists must exhibit a high level of creativity,” Phillips said. With compositions that introduce both profound flow and delivery, it’s evident that hip-hop music’s components stretch farther than most believe. Take Kanye West’s “All Falls Down,” for example. “It seems we are living the American Dream./But the people highest up got the lowest self esteem the prettiest people do the ugliest things./From road to riches and diamond rings,” West raps. Here, West talks about the reality of America, and how it may not be the “dream” many find it to be.
3.
Art comes in many forms
Hip-hop artists don’t deserve the negative connotations that come with their successes. For example, rap artists that have tattoos, grills or anything that doesn’t follow societal standards don’t necessarily lack intelligence. In fact, Phillips explains how art is subjective to the artist’s life, meaning that overlooking its artistic talents isn’t doing it justice. “For some artists, their art imitates their life and of course that includes pros and cons. Just like famous painters, some artist’s work gains a higher level of appreciation and respect after they are no longer present with us,” Phillips said.
2.
Glorification of morbid ideas
Phillips mentions how there are a variety of influences that can impact the lyrical decisions in a song. “Things like cultural relevance, even socioeconomic and political status can be of importance in some instances. Then there are times that the consideration of the artist conveys meaning,” Philips said. This idea is prominent in all genres of music, including hip-hop. In 21 Savage’s latest album, he writes “came from rats and roaches/I’ve seen plenty of homicides and still kept my focus” depicting his humble beginnings and how his transition from rags to riches developed his character.
text by lara su dumanli & shreyas shashi
art by vivian tang
Percy Jackson Gets a Second Chance
Percy Jackson and the Olympians comes to Disney Plus
hat’s the first book you think of when someone says middle school?
With over 180 million copies sold, Percy Jackson and the Olympians was one of the most popular middle grade book series of its time. Subsequent ly, it was adapted into two live-action movies, to lukewarm reactions.
composition and litera ture of film teacher
Alanna William son, “adapta tions of existing media have be come very com mon recently,”
as studios have gotten more comfortable recycling old stories.
Still, this isn’t a new phenomenon. Williamson pointed out how Shakespeare, for example, is constantly readapted over and over again.
But when a franchise’s best adaptation is its fan-made musical and not its multiple movies, it can feel like it’s run itself into the ground.
ney, with much greater involvement from Riordan himself. The cast, first looks, and updates all seemed promising, and 13.3 million hopeful fans tuned in to watch the season premiere earlier this year.
Simultaneously visually distinctive and earnestly faithful, Disney’s “Percy Jackson and the Olympians” was a breath of fresh air into the dreary world of Percy Jackson adaptations.
Rather than being jarring, seeing the new changes in characters was refreshing, as each character got a new look for the adaptation. The central cast — Walker Scobell, Leah Jeffries and Aryan Simhadri — all play their characters well, and it’s nice to see a more diverse set of faces on everyone at Camp Half-Blood. As Williamson said, “a good casting director working with the original writer tends to make very good choices.” The change of Clarisse from “pig-eyed” to normal teenage girl is an especially welcome addition.
This more diverse cast feels like Riordan righting some past
wrongs from his first round of writing. His later books in the Percy Jackson universe feature more diverse casts, in ethnicity, sexuality, and gender expression. By starting the story from scratch a second time, Riordan got a chance to build a better foundation for the new story he wanted to give to the future, starting with the faces that filled up his world.
As far as the actual content of the show, the story was surprisingly coherent and well paced. After every episode, the weeklong wait for the next episode became increasingly frustrating, as each story beat brought back fond memories of middle school reading. Of course, the series isn’t without its faults. For each episode, the show had a budget of 12 to 15 million dollars — on par with “The Mandalorian,” another Disney+ production — but there are moments where it doesn’t show. The absence of certain monsters and expensive scenes, which would have been understandable in a show with a thinner budget, leave the show feeling a little flat. The Underworld was especially underwhelming. Rather than feeling like a powerful realm, the final resting place of every person who has, is, and will ever live, it was empty and barren, visually boring and underwhelming.
One other disappointment was in the action-filled scenes. Many of the tense scenes are rewritten out of the story, far more
than expected for the company behind action-filled titans like Marvel. In particular, one scene in the abandoned amusement park was switched, turning from an out-ofcontrol boat barrelling over an edge into an emotional beat, complete with a monologue from Annabeth. Whether the writers thought the scene was better, or didn’t want to create the set to send the boat flying, the loss of many high-octave scenes is a little disappointing.
This draws a parallel to the dream scenes, where instead of an intense evil voice that talks deep from the pit, the show portrays it as his school headmaster. While the camera shots that barely show his face would be creative and intriguing for a show of smaller budget, they feel lazy for a show of Percy Jackson’s supposed caliber.
The last major disappointment centered around character development. In the transition to the big screen, you lose the thoughts of the main characters — most no tably, Percy, whose internal mono logue provides much sarcastic wit in the book. The series just isn’t the same without Percy’s inner voice chomping at the bit to kick every man he meets in the nether region. The lack of internal monologue is simply a limitation of visual media. Still, as Williamson said, “comparing every detail of a beloved property to an adaptation in a different media is never going to make everyone happy.”
Still, as a whole, the show is a
bright spot in Disney’s recent track record. Despite the online protests of racists, the cast and show as a whole turned out to be great. Williamson emphasized how the original series was “written in a different time,” when audiences were more comfortable with less diverse casts, and our modern world requires “a story that represents the people who live in it.”
Ultimately, Percy Jackson and the Olympians didn’t need another show. After all, several movies, a musical, and a graphic novel series is more than most franchises get, even if their quality leaves much to be desired. But still, the show gives a well-deserved second chance to a wellloved property in a faithful and charming way that is sure to put a smile on any fan’s face.
