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Ink Consequential: Autumn 2017

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Jana A

When you ask me what it’s like where you’re from, my tongue stumbles against the words. I’m unable to understand the question.

Do you mean, what it’s like in my childhood bedroom where my walls are painted pink and yellow and my stuffed animals have been discarded to the top shelves? It was too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter, and I miss my bed dearly. No one in my family would remember to knock before opening the door to tell me that it’s time to eat or to check if I have enough blankets or to ask me about my day.

Do you mean, what it’s like in the house I was raised in where the stones are colored with age and my grandmother’s garden spreads like the gardens of Eden? Full of life, full of noise, full of love, full of family. Each apartment is a foreign country, but my grandmother and uncle and aunt and cousins were frequent travellers. There was always food to be shared; there were always loud arguments to be had, blaring in my mother tongue.

Do you mean, what it’s like in the city I loved and hated? The traffic is always awful and obnoxious men throw “compliments” like grenades, but it has the prettiest sunsets I have ever seen. The dusk makes everything golden: the old white stone buildings, the cracked pavements, even your own skin will glow with the day’s last remaining rays of sunshine. Downtown, people sell used books on the sidewalk. They sell brightly colored spices in glass jars, and the doorways of those little shops always smell like a feast. I miss the call to prayer, taking over everything for just a minute, five times a day. I miss the music they play in coffee shops, violins and heartbroken sighs that are somehow always full of hope. I think the children in my city all have the world’s brightest eyes and most mischievous smiles. Sometimes they will try to sell you roses or gum or bitter chocolate and you should always refuse. Sometimes old men or women in my city will invite you in for a cup of tea, and you should always accept. The deep wrinkles in their brown skin seem as though they might gather dust, as though they have been forgotten for hundreds of years. You could live to be a thousand and you would not have know half of the long lives they have lead. They have seen the world pause its rotation and turn the other way. If you start to smell smoke, you should pause and turn the other way.

Do you mean, what’s it like to have this passport? What’s it like to live in this country with its imaginary borders drawn on our behalf with an invader’s pen? What’s it like to see the barren deserts and urban crawling cities and little villages around the olive tree fields and know that it’s all home? Well, I always complain about the weather, but I wouldn’t prefer any other climate. We are millions and millions of people, some of us who have nothing, but we collectively chose to open our doors for people in need.

It’s a lot like a warm embrace. It’s a lot like you.

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Keep reading for poetry, short fiction, and more!

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Our Goodbye

Elise Alarpy

I cannot hold onto you, You are footprints on the sand. Fleeting and washed away, I hope you understand.

I loved you so fiercely, More than you could know. But I must give you up now, It's time to let you go.

You are nothing but a memory, A wound that cannot heal. Time took you too soon from me, But what we had was real.

I feel your loss so keenly, My heart is a phantom limb. The world has lost its colour, And now everything is dim.

But I know I must move on, There are battles to be won. I am a wilting flower, Slowly blooming in the sun.

Despite how much I miss you, It is time to say goodbye. Just know that you are in my thoughts, And no one loved you more than I.

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A Salesman’s Game

Esther C

The tornado sirens were blaring across the parking lot, but she wasn't afraid; it was Wednesday. The last sounds echoed against the storefront in time with the twinkling fairy lights in the window. The door dinged when an elderly woman walked in, supporting herself with a cane.

She greeted the customer with a plastered-on smile, adding just enough crinkle to her eyes to make it seem genuine to older eyes. They exchanged pleasantries, and she left the woman to shop.

The game had begun.

She offered assistance in any way that she could. Some things were easy to convince the woman to buy, especially when she whisked things away to the checkout counter before the lady had a chance to second-guess herself.

The game was about fear.

Fortunately for her paycheck, the elderly were often easy marks. Buy the candles, she'd suggest. You'd hate to be caught without light in a power outage like the one that happened last year. Some took more convincing, but most were happy to follow the suggestion.

The game was about doubt.

Winter's coming up here pretty soon; are you sure you have enough blankets? You know how heaters like to go out at the worst possible moment, and fireplaces can only do so much.

The game was about influence.

Now this, this was the fun part of the game: it was where all of the pieces landed on the same square and affected the other decisions. This was the element that changed with every mark. Once the fear and doubt are planted, then the player knows that they have influence. There's a sale going on if you get just half a pound more of sugar; it'll only cost a few more cents overall. Reaching out for the canister, obeying the command to wait to dish it out, but not moving to put it back.

The game was about patience.

A beat or two pass, and the player stands a little straighter. She mentally urges the lady to get the half pound more, gently shaking the scoop to level it out, the sound of the sugar filling the silence.

You'd better make it an extra pound while it's on sale, the woman says.

She smiles and acquiesces.

The game had been won.

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On Divorcing My Father

Katherine Sorensen

Do you see my father over there? He is the man his daughter mourns, the memory of a superhero, the man she loves in vain.

His pride is too loud, he can’t hear the sound of his daughter telling him that he broke her heart.

But his daughter glued her heart with the help of her mother, the wisdom to know that women don’t need men to make them strong.

My father ended the conversation, forcing a girl too young and polite to say things she didn’t mean, because a man’s ego is too fragile.

Do you see my father over there? He is the one talking to the girl who is smart enough to know she no longer needs him.

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Haunting

Danielle Jeanne

Despite what many believe, it is not in the middle of the night when the supernatural roam the streets. The supernatural, being what they are, are not constricted to time or circumstance like the mere mortals they live with seem to think that they are. Ghosts are especially terrible at doing what humans expect of them.

It was reading three fifty-five in the afternoon on the clocks around the city on a sunny Saturday when the street lights on 23rd Street began to flicker on and off. A baby begins to cry across the street as it feels a rush of energy flow through them, making the child’s father confused by the sudden outburst from the once happy child. The little nightlight in the corner of the room turns on.

The apartment below doesn’t appear to fare any better from the curious little spirit. Maxwell begins to bark at the lamp in the corner of the room, giving away his owner’s secret of harboring an unregistered pit bull in her home. She gets up from her bed to calm down her dog (god? Her dog god? The spirit isn’t sure) down enough for her to go back to sleep so she can worry about the consequences in minute detail later.

The couple on the first floor, however, is not amused. Simon huffs out a breath, muttering mild profanities while Irena finishes loading the laundry. Upon inspection of one of Simon’s shirts, Irena notices a few specks of crusted, rusty powder on the left sleeve. Heaving a sigh, she liberally applied the peroxide she kept near the washing machine just for cases such as these. She knew Simon was out with the boys this morning, but he had sworn to go meatless until the witch hunt had gone down.

“Hon, why is there blood on this shirt that I know I saw you wear this morning?” Irena asked him.

“Blood? What bloo—Oh! Blood! Well you see, today’s Henri’s birthday, and he wanted to celebrate the traditional way, and we, we—I mean he—he got a little out of control, you see. He might be on the news tonight, just so you know! He has gained so much weight, I doubt you will even recognize him, sweetheart. Going pig’s blood has really done a number on his metabolism,” Simon answered honestly. There was no point in lying to someone who had been able to hear his pulse for the past 50 years.

As Simon explained himself, Irena heard the cackling in the wires. Mimi was laughing at Simon through the lights in the building. As she chuckled to herself, the lights began to flair again causing the dog-god-dog to start barking and child to throw another short fit. Irena groaned, placing her head in her hands as she counted backwards from ten. If Mimi was here, then Simon and Henri had really messed up this morning. “I told you that the witch hunt had picked up! Why did you even try, huh? Why put yourself out there for the cops to get a hold of? You know what they did to Oskar last weekend! It was a total horror show!”

“Hey, what they did to Oskar was no one’s fault but Oskar’s! Oskar was a literal witch who was doing literal blood magic to get that girl in his human ethics class. I kinda think the irony was lost on him with that one, but hey it ain’t anyone’s problem now. What Henri and I did was fair game. She was homeless—”

“She? She?! Oh, no sir! That is almost asking to be drawn and quartered by the cops. You know the high value they put on their women here—”

“Their women’s bodies is more like it.”

“All the same to them! Mind, body, the whole package! Serious jail time for you if we’re caught, mister! And don’t forget that I know you’re still here, Mimi! I got some words for you! If you were there to see them do it, then you were there to tell them to back off! ”

“Wait, how come I would be the only one in the apartment to get jail time? You’re an accessory and an actual witch! You’ll be facing twenty to life with me, babe!”

“Oh, don’t you call me ‘babe,’ you son of a…” The conversation faded out as Mimi left the building the way she came, through the wires and back to the light post across the street. Mimi began to make her way to the station to laugh at Henri some more before Irena found a way to summon her back to the apartment. The clocks in the city read four fifteen in the afternoon as Mimi continued to live her death as she’d died in her life—hanging from a wire as she waited to see her friend’s reaction to the chaos that they themselves had caused.

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I Dated A Girl

Adrianna Nine

I dated a girl once who was a real peach. She just about smelled like one, too. And even on bad days or ones filled with rain Her smile lit up the room.

I dated a girl once who said she was haunted. Where she went, a ghost also came. She was so cute that if it weren’t creepy I’d honestly do just the same.

I dated a girl once who loved to paint. On her canvas she’d copy the sky. And when she asked if next she could paint me I blushed so hard I thought I might die.

I dated a girl once who traveled the world. She practically lived on a plane. I would’ve asked her to live with me But she needed a spur, not a chain.

I dated a girl once who dressed in all black Even when it was a hundred degrees. My cats left fur all over her dress And unfortunately oft made her sneeze.

I dated a girl once who was a barista. She tasted like sugar and cream. The first time I saw her was at her café And the whole day then felt like a dream.

I dated a girl once who loved to write. She said it made her feel free. I came to her once with a poem I’d written her And it turned out she’d made one for me.

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Editorial

Esther C

Those of you who follow Ink Consequential closely know that I finally gave up the ghost on my pseudonym with our last issue, which is equal parts terrifying and freeing. Sure, I’m still a person on the internet, but isn’t everybody reading this? I must admit that I do like clinging to my anonymity, to that name I’d chosen for myself. Amelia has twice the syllables that Esther does, but it rolls off the tongue a little better without any plosives and doesn’t have any silent letters lending itself to misspellings.

Amelia means industrious or hardworking, and that’s an image I like to portray. I mean, I’m definitely at work enough to give off that particular vibe, but it’s not just about work. I run a litmag for fun, for goodness’ sake, and it’s been an enjoyable adventure thus far. Speaking of adventure, it was Amelia Earhart who said, “Adventure is worthwhile in itself,” and it’s one of my favorite quotes that isn’t from the Bible (but is anybody shocked by that?). I must admit that I admire her life. Amelia was truly adventurous, pushing and stretching the limits of what it meant to be a pilot and a woman. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, and she never gave up on anything. She disappeared living her dream, and, while it’s tragic, it’s also very cool. But then we come to Esther.

Queen Esther, a woman formerly admired for her beauty, became a woman admired for her courage. Haman, one of the king’s highest officials, set out to wipe the Jewish people from existence. (In my opinion, he often sounds like a petulant child whenever I read the story, but that’s up for different interpretations.) Anyway, Haman successfully convinces the king to allow the annihilation of the Jewish people through some underhanded means. Chosen queen by the king himself, Esther was in a unique position of power for a Jewish woman: it becomes her duty to beseech her husband to revoke the order. Mordecai (Esther’s cousin who raised her after her parents died and the discoverer of a plot to murder the king) has to convince her to speak before she’s willing to go to the king (something that can bear the penalty of death if done unbidden) and reminds her of something that I often hold close to my heart: “Maybe you were chosen queen for just such a time as this.” So, Esther goes to the king, and (skipping over some events) Haman ends up executed, Mordecai takes over his position and issues a new edict to counteract the old one, and the Jewish people are saved.

With those stories in mind, what do I want people to think of when they think of me? Do I want people to think of Amelia, a woman who dared to dream and was willing to give her life to fulfill it? Do I want people to think of Esther, a woman who dared to stand up for what was right and was willing to give her life to live it out accordingly? I think the answer is both and neither. I want to be a woman who dares to dream, who dares to stand up for what is right. I want to be a woman who lives life boldly, letting faith dictate her steps, relying on compassion to guide her words. I want to be ardent and considerate, someone known for her ideas and the follow-through as well as kindness.

Am I any of those things right now? I couldn’t tell you with certainty. I think I already am a dreamer in that I have hopes for the future. I stand up for what I believe is right by preaching peace and love to those around me, by speaking when I feel called to speak. I don’t know how boldly I live life right now, but I definitely see that the path of faith will take me to that place of boldness. I looked up the definition of ardent to make sure I had the word I was thinking of, and it seems to fit me already—having intense feeling, passionate, devoted, eager—though I have plenty of room to grow into it further. I feel like my kindness can only be judged by the people around me, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t strive for it in my life (usually; I am only human, after all).

I started writing this by asking myself the question, What’s in a name? Just as Amelia means hardworking, Esther means star. Sometimes, I overthink it and feel as though it gives me a deeper connection to the cosmos, to the universe that I believe God created. Sometimes, I think it means that I should be willing to shine in the darkest of times even if my light is only minuscule. Sometimes, I hope it means I’m destined for notoriety and fame—but that’s a little far-fetched even for me. Sometimes, it means that I may never learn everything about the world around me, but that feeling of excitement and wonder is definitely still there. Maybe it means all of these things; maybe it means none of them. But maybe, just maybe, it means that I should be myself, whoever that woman is.

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#ink consequential #autumn 2017 #writing #poetry #microfiction #editorial #poem #litmag #literary magazine

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ink-consequential · 7 years ago

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Ink Consequential: Summer 2017

Ten Word Tales

Jana A

1. I want you to redefine love. Love is not pain.

2. Sometimes, you remind me of my father, and it’s scary.

3. I wish I started years ago. But I’m starting today.

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Keep reading for movie reviews, short fiction, poetry, and more!

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Movie Review: Gifted

Lucas Brantley

Gifted is a film directed by Marc Webb and stars Chris Evans as Frank Adler, a freelance boat repairman in coastal Florida who is raising his 7-year-old niece, Mary, who is played by Mckenna Grace. They lead a normal, simple life until they discover that Mary has exceptional mathematical skills. This leads to a custody battle with Frank’s mother, Evelyn (played by Lindsay Duncan), as each of the two has a different opinion on how Mary’s talent should be handled in her upbringing.

I thought this film was terrific. Personally, I enjoy films with simple stories about people being people. I appreciate films that don’t feel the need to extend its story to some grand, world-altering scale. Films like this can be very engaging for ordinary people like you and me—but more on that later. And, full disclosure, I saw this film with my mother on Mother’s Day.

Marc Webb is best known for his directorial work on The Amazing Spider-Man films starring Andrew Garfield and Emma Stone. I didn’t like The Amazing Spider-Man 2 primarily because it never gave us a chance to breathe. It was a sensory overload from the start, and audiences around the world agreed, which is why there won’t be another Garfield Spider-Man movie. I’m glad Webb got to scale back his focus in this film because his directorial skills shine brilliantly and prove that he has real talent directing these slower, more character-driven stories.

The acting in this film is also superb. Chris Evans really gets to show off his acting chops in this movie, which I was glad to see; too many times, actors that are best known for a superhero blockbuster franchise can’t escape that bubble. Evans does an exceptional job, and his chemistry with Mckenna Grace makes that central relationship very touching. Mckenna Grace did a fantastic job on her own. She goes toe-to-toe with Chris Evans and Octavia Spencer (who plays their neighbor and landlord Roberta in the film), and she steals the movie in quite a few scenes. I would honestly put this as the second-best child performance I’ve seen in a while, only trailing Dafne Keen’s performance in Logan. Octavia Spencer herself is great, although she doesn’t appear often.

The writing in this movie may be my favorite part. I can’t remember a time when I’ve had so many out-loud reactions to moments or one-liners in a film, and I wasn’t the only one in the theater who did. The humor in this movie is great and well-timed by all the actors, especially Mckenna Grace; she comes off as an adorable little smart-aleck, which is very relatable for me. Overall, however, the film is a drama and it handles its subject matter intelligently, and that’s what I want to get into.

Without spoiling anything, the film’s main conflict surrounds the custody battle for Mary since her mother has passed away and left her in the care of her brother, Frank. Evelyn and Frank have a strained relationship (to say the least), and Evelyn seems to only become interested in Mary after the school discovers she has this talent. Evelyn wants this talent to be nurtured; she wants to send Mary to a school for gifted children and get her into classes more suited to her intelligence level. Frank, however, believes that she needs to grow up as a normal girl and not be treated as special in any way, so he refuses to send her to this gifted school. Thus, the court custody battle begins. The film handles this conflict well in that they don’t overload you with courtroom scenes in the second act; they’re spaced out between watching the characters evolve with this situation in daily life, which makes for an organically-paced story, which is another major credit to Webb’s direction.

I think many people, especially today’s youth, will find this film to be very relatable and engaging because, from what I’ve been witnessing, the main conflict is pervasive in society. Too often, I see that kids anywhere from preschool to high school and beyond are being pushed to be great at something. If it is discovered that a child has a talent for something, be it academic or athletic, parents often make sure that they are engaged 110% in that activity. They push the child to try harder and harder to improve their skills daily. In my opinion, this action by parents, while well-meaning, is counter-intuitive. If you saturate a child’s life with this one thing and push them too hard to be better at it, they will grow to resent you and hate the activity, thus removing any motivation to pursue it. Kids should be able to explore any number of interests they may have. It improves their learning with the added benefit that they can grow to know what they enjoy and don’t enjoy. There is a scene in the film where Mary is staying with Evelyn for a brief period at her home in Massachusetts. Evelyn tries to get her to work on more math problems after going through old photo albums, but all Mary wants to do is try the piano—something she has always wanted to do but Frank could not provide for her. Evelyn refuses her this desire. It’s a small moment, but it resonated with me because I was begging her to let Mary be a normal kid.

I was very much sympathetic to Frank for most of the film, as is the intention, but the film does a good job of also presenting Evelyn as a human being and not just “the bad guy”. It would have been so easy to make her a cardboard cutout of a snobbish and unfeeling old lady, but she wasn’t. You do understand her side of the argument as well, though how she goes about pushing her agenda is anger-inducing. You can tell that she genuinely does care about Mary and Frank, though her way of showing it is not ideal for either. The history with Mary’s mother plays an important role throughout the film, and I won’t discuss it here because it gets into spoiler territory, but it determines the film’s resolution.

The ending of the film was very satisfying for me because it compromises. I think this is an important film for any parent of young children to see because it teaches the lesson that you need to let kids be kids. Don’t push them too hard to do something they may not enjoy; just because they’re good at something doesn’t mean they enjoy it. Let them have a normal childhood, and, if they show a talent at something, give them the opportunity to try it, but don’t push them to be the best at it because that puts too much pressure on them. You should obviously encourage them to stick with it, but if they end up not liking it, encourage them to find something else. The character of Frank is a good role model for parents because he does an excellent job of teaching Mary about how life works and doesn’t lie to her; he trusts that she is intelligent enough to grasp the truth when he tells it, which I found very refreshing.

Overall, Gifted is a terrific film that I will absolutely buy on Blu-ray/DVD when it releases. If I had to grade it, I’d give it a 9.5/10 or an A. It’s also an independent film, so I would encourage anyone to support the film because we need more films like this. Films like this—the ones that analyze everyday life in society from a singular situation—can resonate with many people because, quite often, they are situations with which we can empathize to some degree. By doing so, the film reaches the largest audience from a singular platform, which is a quality you find in a lot of the so-called “Oscar-bait” movies. Let’s give this film the attention it deserves.

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First Love

Elise Alarpy

First love, I wish I could forget you; I don’t want you anymore. Years have passed and my traitorous heart Still clings to your memory.

Darling, why is it so hard to let you go? I shouldn’t love you. I shouldn’t love you. I shouldn’t love you. But I do. I do— I do.

Honey, I’m trying to move on, I’m trying all the time. I don’t want you, I don’t need you. Leave me alone.

Dearest, I hate you. I love you, but I hate you. You wrecked us, You did this, And I am left in the aftermath.

Darling, I love you, The words I never said. I hate you. I hate myself for loving you.

Sweetheart, you're my addiction. When I finally think I’m clean, You pull me back in again. And again. And again.

First love, you’re my biggest regret, My biggest could have been. I think of you fondly, I remember you sadly, But I just want this to end.

First love, my heart was yours, Although you never knew it. I shouldn’t love you (I do) Leave me alone I hate you (I love you) (Again and again and again)

But I don’t want to anymore.

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The Trial

Danielle Jeanne

The bed was soft and warm by the time Brougha fell into it at the peak night hours. She could feel the blood from her right arm oozing towards the sheep skins that acted as blankets. She was feeling far too tired to actually get under the covers, let alone deal with her injuries before falling asleep. She could feel the cracked wrist bone and the black eye she had been gifted from the clan chief and knew that they would still be issues in the morning even if she tried to fix them now. She was no healer after all. She was not her mother.

*****

“—ling! Darling! It is time to get up now! The chief is waiting, along with your parents!” Brougha jolted awake at the sound of Carguk’s voice filtering in through her sleep. Her green eyes regarded him thoughtfully, confused as to why he would be the one to come tell her.

“Where is Purdash? Isn’t she still my mother’s lead Curer?” Brougha inquired gruffly, not pleased with being alone in the same room as a full-blooded orc so soon after last night. She knew how talk traveled in small encampments like Burning Blood, especially with it being so late in the morning according to the sun. Chances are that the whole tribe had heard about it by now, even the few human members.

A mincing smile grew on Carguk’s face as he looked at her right arm, confirming Brougha’s suspicions. He just wanted to see if the rumors are true. He probably wouldn’t even offer to help bind up her wrist, just to settle some morbid curiosity on the pain tolerance of half-orcs. He straightens up from where he had been crouching next to her bed, “She’s busy at the moment. Your mother’s people have a bad habit of getting sick over the slightest things. I say, getting a fever over raw meat is just being weak—”

“No one keeps you here for your opinions,” Brougha cut him off, “I’m going, get out of my way.” She pushed herself up using her right hand and made her way out of the clay hut that had her bed and not much else. As she walked through the encampment, her ears picked up hushed whispers from the tanning shack as she passed, but nothing clear. She soon found herself standing outside of the Chief’s Longhouse, hesitating before pushing aside the canvas that served as the door as she made her way inside.

She guided herself though the Longhouse and stopped once she was inside the meeting chamber. She saw her father standing next to the chief, solemn. When she notices the absence of her mother, she stays quiet. Instead of her mother, there is another woman there, one with a very serious disposition. The other woman looks at her closely and begins to hum in disapproval.

“You didn’t take the time to tend to your wounds? That is how one dies after battle, you know!” The other woman growls out. “You don’t think when you’re done fighting! You don’t even think when you are fighting! That is why I broke you last night, and that is why I will break you again!”

Brougha stayed still as she listened to the words her chief spoke. It was clear then: she was here for another fight. Another beating, if what her chief says is true. “Fine, then I will think when I fight,” she responds, “And this time you will not break me.”

“Me breaking you was not the point, Brougha. The point is that even with the berries that your mother gave you, you still lost!” the chief roared.

Brougha’s blood froze. She was being accused of cheating; her mother, of helping her with it. She knew of the berries that the chief was talking about: to rare to even name, and too powerful for an orc to even think of using, let alone a half-orc like herself.

“I did not eat any berries before I fought. Do not accuse me of cheating,” Brougha told her chief. She looked over to her father, “Explain this to me.”

“They found a few berry stains in your mother’s tent. It looked like she was trying to dilute the berries for safer consumption. She knew how important last night was to you. She made the mixture and gave it you. That is the only explanation as to why we couldn’t find the mixture in her tent,” Erigg spoke mater-of-factly.

“I was given nothing. The humans are sick, she probably made it for them!” Brougha pleaded. She had seen a few public trials of the tribe before, and she knew that there was little to no chance of the chief going back on her ideas of what went on in the encampment. “Go check with Carguk! That is what he told me was happening in the healer’s tent!”

The chief looked upon Brougha gravely. “You were found cheating and your mother was found in aiding you. Your weakness has cost you your place in the clan and your mother’s shamefulness will be surrendering her own life.”

Brougha stood frozen in place for the decree. Her mother was to die. Her mother, one of the few humans in the encampment that could heal the others, was to be put to death. That was unacceptable.

“I will go, but if I come back and prove that I am better than you, you will let my mother live.” It wasn’t Brougha’s style to ask permission to do something; she found that people tended to accept what was told to them much as she accepted what was told to her. Her charismatic gamble paid off when she saw the chief nod in her direction.

“I will give you three years to become better than me. You will come back in that time and if you do not your mother will be dead. Now go; you have some training to do.”

It wasn’t the orc’s style to have any amount of fanfare when one was banished from the village, and there was certainly no exception when it came to a half-orc. Brougha made her way out of the Longhouse and out of the wooden gates of the encampment, completely bypassing her clay hut. Her things were earned by the tribe, so they stayed with the tribe. She wasted no time in goodbyes or lingering outside of familiar buildings that she would not see for a while. The faster she left, the sooner that she would return.

Brougha had a lot of fighting to do.

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Haiku Hiccups

Esther C

I the journey is long, winding, wavering as I push myself further

II you will not know love until you awaken next to the one you love

III summer’s heat gives way to quenched passion and remorse in the quiet nights

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Ramadan

Jana A

As the first beams of dawn start to light up the night sky, the imam's deep melody begins: "God is great..." and so on until the end of the call for prayers. For the next 16 hours or so, I would abstain from food and water. If you're not familiar with Islam, Ramadan can seem like a daunting challenge.

"Not even water?!" Nope, not even water.

And I admit that sometimes it can be challenging. Your body gets tired more easily. Your throat feels like a barren desert. Your movement becomes sluggish towards the end of the 16 hours. Yet, millions of Muslim choose to fast each year, and a lot of people don't understand why.

I love food. I adore food. If each person is born with a vice, then I'll sheepishly admit that gluttony must be mine. I don't just eat food—I devour it, taking the time to enjoy every second of flavor.

When I'm hungry, I literally begin to fantasize about food. I close my eyes, almost purring, remembering how it feels to sink my teeth into a warm, fresh roll of bread. I plan, with perfect attention to detail, future meals. I think of more than just the taste, of course: the smell, texture, and sight of food is an essential part of the experience.

So, since I adore food so much, why do I (a mostly non-religious person) follow the tradition of fasting?

First of all, fasting brings me a great peace of mind. When physical desires are quenched, my mind feels more alive. Instead of resorting to comfort food when I'm feeling down, I pick up the phone to call a friend. Instead of eating lunch at 6 pm alone in my room, I break my fast with family and friends. Instead of carelessly satisfying hunger with whatever is in the house, I relish every moment of the dish that I spent the last 16 hours craving.

Secondly, fasting, more than anything else, brings a great empathy for people less fortunate than I. Not every person who feels hungry is lucky enough to think of the delicious meal they're going to have in a matter of hours. For a lot of people, Ramadan isn't just a month. They are hungry all year round. Some people don't have clean water to drink. When I force my body to undergo a small part of what they go through, I challenge the subconscious part of me that turns poor people into a caricature. When I'm hungry, starving people are not just figures in a far-away land. They're suddenly, joltingly, brought to reality.

Ramadan, for me, is more than the beautiful fairy lights covering my neighbours' porch, or the feasts that cover my dining room table. It's a conversation with a God who I otherwise don't talk to. It's almost like He's telling me, "Look how many blessings you have laying at your feet." And I listen the growling of my stomach, and I listen to Him.

Photo by Jana A

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Mountain Climbers

Esther C

I like to think that I’m known for my adventurous spirit. Roller coasters, zip lining, international travel, you name it. Stuff like that is a cakewalk for me. So, since I was blessed enough to score incredibly cheap plane tickets, I did something adventurous: I went out to visit our own Adrianna for a few days.

During my vacation to the desert, we did lots of things that you’d expect two writers to do. We visited coffee shops and bookstores, had group writing sessions, and played with her amazing kitties (though one did enjoy stealing my pillow, but I digress). That being said, I doubt that anybody expected us to literally climb a mountain.

Okay, not literally. It was actually a really big and climbable rock in Papago Park. It’s beautiful, too. Sand, sun, cacti, bees, and other desert friends all welcomed us on our journey. We did literally climb (while posing for some pictures for Instagram—what are friends for, right?), and this is where my problem began.

When it comes to climbing mountains, my biggest obstacle is, in fact, myself and not the mountains.

I was wearing a dress.

Yes, you read that right. I was wearing a dress to go climb a really big rock in the desert. In the effort of fairness, I had made the dress (I dabble in making my own clothes, and this one actually worked out for me). And, when I had gotten dressed that morning, we didn’t know exactly what was on our agenda for the day except for a bookstore and a coffee shop. You see, it’s not totally my fault that I didn’t have the foresight to bring extra clothes or better shoes, and it’s definitely not my fault that I didn’t wear almost anything but that. (Okay, maybe it’s a little my fault.)

If you’ve never worn a dress in the summer, then you may not know about the torture that is thigh chafing. It’s literally the worst, and I subjected myself to it while climbing a freaking mountain. I cannot remember the last time I was that physically uncomfortable. I’m certain that I complained to Adrianna no fewer than twelve times (I’m not totally sure why she kept listening to me, but I suspect that it was probably the puns). I have promised myself that I would never do that again; leggings were invented for a reason, people.

My discomfort aside, the sight was beautiful: Phoenix was off in the distance, there were other large rocks and many cacti dotting the landscape, and it was warm and sunny. It was a dream. Adrianna and I sat there for a few minutes, taking the occasional selfie and chatting idly. I may or may not have accidentally flashed the whole of Phoenix by sitting down improperly.

After a while, we ventured back down the rock in search of air conditioning. I must admit that I sat in a very unladylike fashion to rid myself of the discomfort. This should go without saying, but I changed clothes later in the day when I climbed another mountain, but that’s a story for another day.

All in all, I would love to go back. You know, when I’m not wearing a dress.

Photo by Esther C

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For My Sister

Jana A

To my sister:

You were born in December, just before Christmas, and I remember wanting to hold you like you were hand-wrapped just for me. I held you like I thought you might break, and spent the next decade or so watching you break. Sometimes I would be the one to push you.

I would apologize to you, I'm so sorry, but I was trying to make you indestructible. Here is an apology: I'm sorry I saw in you everything I hated in myself. I'm sorry I always told you that Mama loved you best. I'm sorry that I tried to raise you. You rose by yourself like ashes from a burning home. You have taught me to look in the mirror with clearer eyes.

I love you more than I have ever loved anything in this life. If I could, I would redefine all the words in your dictionary, but it's too late: you have already learned how to speak and read and write.

I don't know if you need me anymore. I hope you always know that I still need you. I hope you always know you are the only part of home that I will cry over.

Who's going to wake you up from your nightmares when I'm away? When you're sad, are you going to hole yourself up in your room like I did? Will you trust me enough to call me and say, “Listen, listen, I did something wicked and awful and bad so please show me how to fix it, but please don't tell Mom and Dad"?

I hope you will because it has been an honor to watch you grow, and I hope I never have to stop.

Love,

Your BIG sister (even if you're my height now)

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Six Word Sagas

Danielle Jeanne

I You never pick up my calls

II I never hated you, only feared

III Fear is power, but also weakness

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Editorial

Esther C

If there were a drinking game inspired by my life, I would probably request that the players take a drink every time I did one of the following:

Talk about grammar (my default conversation topic)

Talk about Jesus (since I’m at church at least once a week, that’s beyond simple to do)

Make a bad pun (my other default conversation topic)

Get upset about how things could be done better (injustice irks me)

Do math for a stranger (hello, day job)

Say something sarcastic (excluding during Lent, of course)

Internally roll my eyes (which can be hard to identify unless you know me pretty well)

In all honesty, if you played this game, you’d probably suffer from alcohol poisoning within the hour. It’s easy to reduce myself down to a list of traits that would fit a character on a TV show—like the girl from the Midwest who’s probably the comedic relief of most episodes—but I also have the occasional heartfelt moment or memorable story arc. I’m in a constant state of acceptance of who I am as a person, of growing and strengthening my identity as a woman. I sometimes have to come to terms with my inherent worth as a person on a weekly basis.

More about that last point—it’s a sticky situation, but I’m not going to sugarcoat it. So, without going into the gritty details: I've struggled with mental illness for the better part of the last 8 years (I'm 21, for context). I had a conversation with someone lately where I mentioned that, and it occurred to me that I don't know who I am without it. I've grown into adulthood without an important piece of healthy living. I'm slowly making amends to fix that, but it's difficult. I’ve often stared at myself in the mirror and wondered to myself what I'd be like without the illness, and it finally struck me: I'd be the same person I am, just healthier.

I would still love fiercely and altogether too quickly. I would still sing in my church choir, still edit and write, still delve into my artistic side on occasion. I would still have a job (hopefully; one never knows the future). I would still be sarcastic and wear lipstick like it's armor while listening to music that many people in my life wouldn't like. I would still be a woman, a person, someone who breathes and has a soul and a spirit. My faith would still be important to me—and I imagine that it always will be.

I look at that list and see that I’m so much more than comedic relief. Sure, humor is an integral part of my identity, but it isn’t the only factor by a long shot. I am a created being, a woman loved by my Creator because of that. I am constantly in awe of the complexity with which He pieced me together, honestly. Everything I listed before and more is true, right down to the illness. Yes, I’m struggling, but I’m far from alone in this, and I’m far from the single qualities that I often peg myself as.

I don’t know who I will be tomorrow, but I know who I am today: I am a person so genuinely unique that it would be impossible to write everything on a piece of paper and have a complete picture of me, and that’s the way it should be. But, in the meantime, feel free to take a shot of something whenever I correct your grammar. Amid all the negativity, it makes life a little more fun.

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