I am delighted to present Ink’s eighth print issue! Included are three poems, three works of fiction, and a media review, 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.
I am delighted to present Ink’s seventh print issue! Included are nine poems and ve works of ction, each unique in theme and form. It was a pleasure to read the writing in 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 which 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
Submit to Ink’s next issue at www.inkliterarymag.org/submit
Saanvi Garg Editor-in-Chief
Sarina Grewal Editor-in-Chief
Mission Statement
Writers
Artists
Writers Artists
O’Maria Sephers
Leif esen
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.
Ink is a literary magazine dedicated to student expression. Our 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.
Brendan Giang
Simone Batra
Isabelle Lau
Noah Boyarsky
Renny Argast
Amani Fossati-Moiane
Simone Batra
Salem Coyle
Salem Coyle
Clara Fesslmeier
Jeremy Dukes
Lucianna Peralta
Beck Lyons
Alice Sheffer
Alice She er
Sabrina Terman
Mars Bau
Angeline Wei
Kaliope Hendershot
Jack Champlin
Ash Mehta
Noel Ying
Renny Argast
Aryan Kawatra
Mara Siegel
Advertising
To publish an advertisement in Ink or as part of a bundle with other Incubator publications, ll out the ad contract at inkliterarymag.org and email it to palyjournalismincubator@gmail.com.
Arti cal intelligence and the rise of ChatGPT has brought on discussions of the originality of student writing and art. Ink Magazine prides itself on its community of unique student writers and has established policies regarding AI-generated works. e originality of the writing and art in this edition has been con rmed by both writers and artists.
A Child’s Bliss
Involuntary Ignition
Reflection
Moon is Fake
Fairytale Lake
Drifting
Blackbird who Dreamed
Essie Nail Lacquer Willow in the Wind 705
Paint my fingers with that nine dollar Canadian nail polish. Paint my world green as aspens, green leaching from my fingertips, green as the moss that grows on my childhood swingset. Paint my everything green, engulfing me, covering my world, comforting me. Watch as I put on my fern-tinted sunglasses. Watch as I lay on the grass.
Give me matcha lattes, key lime pie, Purell hand sanitizer buildup, kiwis, children’s Crocs, the California woods, crocodiles.
Give me rolling hills, my father and I in the trees, sitting by an algae bloom, drinking cocoa out of green plastic cups.
Give me Starbucks at five a.m. after skating practice, the color I crave on tests, my track jersey, my little green dress.
Give me the color of plants I braid, and the color of his irises when I had my first kiss; give me the color of flower stems painted on my walls,
the color of Expo on the whiteboard, the color of Hozier and Lord Huron and Noah Kahan, the color of entire nights spent on Spotify.
I’m aurora borealis over the North Pole, guacamole on a hot summer day, Trader Joe’s limeade waiting in line for a concert, vegetable hummus wraps spilled over picnic blankets.
I’m homemade Caesar salad on Tuesdays, text messages late at night, Granny Smith slices with peanut butter, the grass underneath my feet when I threw cake at my best friend, moss growing on that branch I tried to do pull-ups on,
the oak leaves pressing into my thighs when I told my boyfriend to kiss me at our school, which was Greene too. Please, let me keep my green thumb and my wildflowers in the garden, please, let the memories of my childhood never fade, please keep me drenched in this green world, god, I never want to leave.
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. When not writing, she can be found with friends, crocheting, or reading.
text by alice sheffer art by renny argast
superst r academic
text by simone batra art by mara siegel
Simone Batra has loved writing poems and short stories since the first grade. She enjoys turning everyday experiences into beautiful, emotional scenes through her works. When she’s not being poetically reflective, you might find her singing, running, planning ASB events, or coding.
Day after day, Chasing after a B
We’re just bored little kids
We don’t get to run free
Just kidding, there’s no way
We’ll get anything below an A
We lock ourselves up
And pretend we’re okay
We hide behind the pretense
Of getting into university
But not just any place
It’s got to be an Ivy
The pressure builds up
And it squeezes you tight
Welcome to our little hellhole
You can’t fight it, so don’t fight
by clara fesslmeier
text by simone batra
art
Starry Night
You open the door to find her with her hand outstretched.
She wrenches you through the double doors of the elevator
Out of the apartment building,
Into a starry August night.
You tighten your grip on her hand as you cross the little stream dividing the building from the outside world.
She sprints through the maple trees, stringing you along
While you make your way to the gates of the complex.
You stop, unsure, as she waits by the crosswalk.
Jinqiao is quiet, save for the small crackle of firecrackers across the street at Century Park
Behind you, Family Market is open late – strangely so
You begin to cross the street when she pulls you back on the sidewalk
Pushing you into a taxi cab, she scoffs
And the driver expertly maneuvers through the streets of Shanghai
Up on the lit-up highway
Plastic separating you from the front seats
As she stuffs a moon cake into your mouth
And your hands find each other’s once again
You sit underneath the Pearl Tower
And watch the lit up skyline under the full moon
She tells you about Hou’yi and Chang’e and their forbidden love story
The pain inflicted on both of their innocent souls, fighting for one another
And she tells you how they were not fighting out of foolishness and naivety
But for love that’s what makes
The world go round
The full moon beams
as every other family reunites with their loved ones
But not your family,
And not her family.
Your family fails to see the forest for the trees.
They don’t celebrate these things: it’s foolish, you see
And her?
Her father left three years ago and her mother works late shifts at the Lost Heaven
Every day she’s told it’s meaningless to celebrate when they’re in such deep shit.
Why won’t she understand
You have no one
And you are alone.
So you eat moon cakes and steal kisses
And pretend you had a family
For one starry August night.
Simone Batra has loved writing poems and short stories since the first grade. She enjoys turning everyday experiences into beautiful, emotional scenes through her works. When she’s not being poetically reflective, you might find her singing, running, planning ASB events, or coding.
Beck Lyons is a 17-year-old senior who loves telling stories. He does writing through personal projects and his Writer’s Craft class. He also loves telling stories through films he makes and segments he creates for InFocus.
The sun began to set over the tree line of the mountain lake, which waved in a breath-like motion. The wind blew through a clearing of trees, shaking a group of tents set up around a burning campfire. Stoves were set up on a wooden table, one couple struggling to attach the propane while others unpacked the cooler. In the distance, Kate sat on a dock extending over the lake. She was still in her wet clothes and covered in a bundle of jackets in an attempt to keep some of the warmth trapped inside.
The drenched clothes stuck to her skin, sending her mind back to the weight of the water she had dove into as she desperately swam into the darkness, chasing his blurred outline, fighting her thoughts of losing the one she loved. Her mind had flared awake as she felt the cold surface of the water break away. Finally, she reached him and wrapped her arm tightly
FROM SUNRISE
around his limp body. With all her force, she pulled him up, breaching the surface of the lake. Only now did the panic set in, when she was treading and gasping for air. The others, huddled on the dock, pulled him out of the water while she white-knuckled the post of the dock, breathing almost as quickly as her heart was beating.
She was pulled out of her thoughts by a creak on the wood dock behind her, and slowly turned her head to identify the noise. She saw him walking towards her, the other couples whispering in the distance, knowing everything depended on the conversation that would ensue. More and louder creaks echoed out into the lake as he, also covered in drenched clothes, walked over and sat down next to her. He attempted to gaze out at the lake, but his eyes darted around, and his legs, unable to ease into the serenity, be-
gan swinging in the air over the rippling water. He turned his head to look at Kate, her eyes still gazing at the lake in perfect stasis.
“Hey,” he said, trying to start a well-needed conversation.
“Hey, Jake,” she responded, still looking over the water but her heart beat faster.
“Didn’t think you would want to be back on the dock,” he tried to joke in a tired tone.
“I just wanted to see the sunset,” she replied quietly. A few seconds passed, then Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out an energy bar.
“You hungry?” For the first time, Kate turned her head toward Jake and the bar in his hand, disappointment in her heart.
“I’m good,” she said hesitantly, declining the awkward olive branch. Jake nodded silently, then opened up the bar himself and broke off a piece.
TO SUNSET
“They probably won’t finish dinner for a while,” he said as he popped the small chunk into his mouth. “Might be your only chance for a whi—”
“If you’re just going to pretend like nothing happened, you should just go back to our tent,” Kate interrupted.
Jake, taken aback, immediately responded, “No, No, I came here to apologize,” trying to save the situation. A silence fell over the dock for a bit. The only noise was Jake nervously fidgeting with the bar in his hand. The sun persisted in its sinking journey down the sky. “How were you able to get me out of the lake?” Jake asked, trying to rekindle the conversation.
“My two younger siblings really love the pool, and some checked-out parents,” Kate joked with a dull chuckle. The conversation sputtered out again. The sun’s reflections continued to retreat from the
lake’s surface, while Jake’s fingers frantically tapped on the wood.
He tried one last push to save it. “Are you okay?”
She turned her head to look at him again, and with an annoyed face bluntly responded, “No.”
“Okay, what’s wrong?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“You went out on the dock knowing you could have an episode.”
“What? Do you expect me to sit around and not do anything?”
“I had to save you from drowning in a lake!” She paused, letting the impact settle it. “We went on this trip to get our minds off of everything. I can’t have you doing stupid stuff like this.”
“I can’t just sit down in fear. I am not gonna waste the best years of my life hiding at home, not knowing if I’m gonna get better or worse.”
The air went silent again. Kate was the one to restart the conversation this time.
“You remember our first trip to this same dock when we watched the sunrise together? We were able to just sit there and take it all in. Nothing else needed to happen. I just needed to sit there. The future felt so bright. I felt free. I felt safe.”
She paused, then holding back tears in her eyes, said, “Now all I feel is cold and afraid.”
Jake opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself. His legs stopped swinging, his finger stopped tapping, and he just sat there thinking.
Kate slowly stood up and walked across the squeaky dock to their tent. The others shifted their attention back to prepping the dinner. Jake was left there alone to get a final glimpse of the sun as it completed its journey.
photo
AN ACCOUNT OF TRANSITION TO apiculture
~circa 3000 BCE~
I finally hit my groove and lose all track of time, mindlessly immersing myself in past-cherished toil. Succumbing to light unconsciousness reunites us with better days — before we became part of the Great People’s world.
Now in a state of fantasy, my mind soars to long ago when I had been content twirling daily beside fellow retinues, our yellow coats shimmering in the golden geometric glory of the hall. Back then our dances were treasured rituals. For the nineteen hours we did not sleep, we honored our kingdom with a series of precursing flounces and dives, before attending to the Queen’s prize chattel.
Outside the golden doors, expanses of blossoming garden would gleam with nectarous radiance. The fierce sweetness of our kingdom’s harvest flowers were the provenance of our prosperity and our delight in work for Her Majesty. After the Extraction, we would dance back inside her hall to leak the ambrosia into the golden floor cellars. Nightfalls carried us to sleep in preparation of waking up to another day of honorable work under golden arches.
But one day we woke instead to a rumble in the Earth and the horror of our noble walls tumbling down. The Great People had found us despite the humble shrubs that had concealed our golden estate for
text by sabrina terman photo by aryan kawatra
epochs. We watched as the Great People slashed through the garden without mercy and shook our palace to evict the rest of us. We watched as they ushered golden pillars and bottles out of the cellar into their carriages. We watched as they seized Her Majesty out of the brambles where she hid, and with a sudden slash, disconnected her appendages. As they bolted us into dark boxes on a journey to the Gardens of the Great People, we wept for our queen.
No one slept on that first night. Morning carried us wearily out of the bleak chamber to labor among the Great People’s gardens. We hesitated before flitting our wings; was it right to perform our treasured rituals for people that had left our gardens weeping, our sweet cellars forsaken to sourness, our beloved Queen dismembered? But we will honor the Queen with our rituals despite the evil that infuses these gardens. The Great People may have taken our Queen’s bodily autonomy, but the Great People will not purloin Her Majesty’s honor.
As we took flight for the first pollination of an invariant garden, our sadness brought us a collective conclusion, a golden truth that would replace our buzz for an eternity: the search for vengeance would become a new sweetness. Today and tomorrow, we will dance to a beat of retributional hope: that someday we will return to the life that was once ours.
Sabrina Terman is a freshman at Palo Alto High School. In her free time, you can find her backpacking outdoors, cooking, or practicing yoga.
C L O S E D W I N D O W S
“The sky’s blue still manifests through darkness. Under the moon’s fullness, what constellation’s in sight?” The girl whispered into the distant twilight, charmed by her lover as her heart soared in flight. The gentle breeze tickled her skin. Bats and bees in air, or sleeping within. Her partner broke through the rose-covered glaze, chuckled in the night.
“Your eyes outshine all the stars I can see,” he noted casually, setting her life ablaze like the unearthing of a flower. She turned towards him, feeling his eyes on her as they stared at each other, blind underneath the night sky. Suddenly, the night no longer felt cold.
“Chocolate?” the girl playfully suggested, plucking a blue packet of sweetness from her blue jacket.
The boy amusingly opened the box and placed the square of perfection between his teeth. He leaned in, hovering just above the now timid girl. Why was the night so loud now? She saw his eyebrows tighten as he encouraged her covertly. Determined despite her fear, she bit a corner off before shyly turning away, ears ringing. The boy laughed, causing the cold to feel like a warm embrace.
“Why so shy?” The boy inquired, finishing the last few bites of the sweet.
“It’s embarrassing…” the girl muttered, slowly walking towards the boy to feel the warmth of his body.
He returned the embrace gladly, holding her like a fragile glass piece, swaying slowly as the two shared an intimate, wordless exchange. She looked up as her nose met the bottom of his chin. Her eyes smiled for her as she kissed him softly, hands clutching onto him as the coldness settled into familiarity. He held her cheek, gently holding onto her body as he deepened the kiss, feelings flowing through the pair while the stars shined above. Cars flew by as sound disappeared in
the moment, only to return when the two sought air. Cozy giggles contrasted the night as the two held each other, eyes conveying affection akin to the earth’s gravitational pull to the moon.
It continued like this as the calendar pages piled in the trash. Sunrises turned into sunsets, and months felt like mere seconds in the darkness— two lovers and their secret meetings, blissfully naive and unaware. The sky looked red through their glasses. The movie’s timeline moved faster with each passing moment. The window became the gateway to her heart, each day opening at different times to let in the accompanying warmth of a breeze as her lover would greet her with a smile. Oh, the smile that could soothe all wounds. The smile that showed her what those three words meant. The smile that showed her what those four letters meant. The smile that could only enter through that forbidden opening of the window, for her guardians were unsuspecting. But, oh, she would murder stars for that smile. She would do anything for him, even open the window to her heart.
As each moment grew more intense, sacred times deserving of picture frames would be shared between the two. Each is welcomed by the opening of the window—the window that deteriorates with each said opening. Every peck, every embrace, every cuddle shared could only exist after the opening was created. Each memorable second, each wholesome feeling shared, and each wound healed in the soul, could only be done through the opening made. All attachments, all bonds, and all intricacies conveyed could only exist with the window’s permission. She could have never imagined such joy existed within the world, within her. She had never trusted another’s soul, never felt understood on the level that nature understood its
plants, never hoped for the sun’s setting instead of the sun’s rise. But now, she knew the next day would arise bright and anew.
She shed tears shed behind the transparent crystal walls. Tears that had first seen another’s face witnessing them as they flowed to the ground, staining the floor with a puddle as clear as the display of her pain. What more trust could one put in another than to let them see how blue the sky really is? Every ache and every joy was another set of memories made.
Oh, how the memories did make her so fond. But memories are the past. A flower could never bloom again after its death.
On the last full moon, she had smiled under the stars. This full moon, she cries.
A feeling so feared it was banned, a day hard to understand. The sixth day of August was all unplanned. Water flowed as freely as rivers while whimpers and wails penetrated her home after the phone silenced. The transparent windows became foggy for the first time. Her heart was smashed in like the breaking of a mirror, and scattered pieces lay exhausted on the battlefield, defeated. Scattered pieces lay bloody, mistreated.
Shall we return back to the happier days?
Rewind to that breeze that could join those two lovers as they embraced each other, drifting to dreams till the sun rose again the following day. Repeat back when the breeze needs no cracks to pass through.
From the sixth day of summer forward, the window was closed by him.
Angeline Wei is a junior who is passionate about fiction, storytelling, and bringing entertainment to people. Currently she is interested in writing horror. Her goal is to bring curiosity and entertainment through story.
Old Ship, New Waters
In March 2022, nestled quietly between the releases of gargantuan Disney shows “The Book of Boba Fett” and “Moon Knight,” “Our Flag Means Death” dropped 10 episodes on HBO Max. There was little expectation for the small, historical rom-com to make it particularly big. Against all odds, it skyrocketed.
The first season of “Our Flag Means Death” introduced its vibrant cast of characters, following the real life “Gentleman Pirate” Stede Bonnet and his misadventures with the infamous Blackbeard. Though praised for its charming humor and talented cast, the show received the bulk of its unforeseen stardom from its bold, open displays of LGBTQ+ love, as it avoided pitfalls of queerbaiting that queer audiences have been burned by
of its comedic elements — the show takes itself far more seriously in its second season, putting its characters in greater peril than it did in season 1. The results are, admittedly, mixed. Though the tension isn’t executed quite as smoothly as it could be in the overarching plot, there are still times where the audience keenly feels the added pressure— namely, within Blackbeard’s internal arc.
It was an instant hit. Queer viewers everywhere reexploded with art and edits, and it even usurp “Euphoria” in popularity after the airing of its season finale. Fans were desperate for more — director David Jenkins was open about the show’s planned three seasons — and from Oct. 5th to Oct. 26th, the continuation they hungered for was finally re-
Season 2 of “Our Flag Means Death” plays up what brought season 1 its cult following, expanding on the romance between its main pair as well as adding new relationships for the fans to enjoy. Its romance feels as authentic and tender as the first season, but at the expense
Not only is “Our Flag Means Death” a treat in terms of narrative, it is also a treat to look at. The cinematography is arguably even better in the show’s second season than it is in its first. Both the cut placement and set design are masterful, and it’s shocking that the show’s budget was decreased, not increased. The show takes on a new aura of grandeur thanks to its brandnew and beautiful New Zealand landscapes, the sets are intricate and well-designed, and the costumes are campier than ever before. From traditional Chinese silks to pirate leathers, frilly coats to glimmering drag, “Our Flag Means Death” puts historical accuracy last and fun first, a decision that works heavily to its benefit.
This decision is reflected in its characters, who follow much the same principle. Despite its generally serious tone, the returning characters stay consistent between seasons 1 and 2, goofiness and all. The crew of the Revenge and their shenanigans are a pleasant break from Stede and Blackbeard’s melodrama, although some fans may consider their adventures to be filler. Between them and the main plot, there’s never a dull moment on screen — everything is either too entertaining to skip,
or too important to look away from.
Though the charac ters are consistent, they are by no means static, and a number of strong arcs play out as the season goes on. Though the focus largely lands on the pro tagonists, the supporting cast changes in an equally mean ingful way. Izzy Hands, played by Con O’Neill, has the great est character development of the season by far. O’Neill’s mas terful acting endears Izzy to the audience, making the character development he experiences — something fans have longed for since Season 1 — feel all the more impactful. Izzy’s story demonstrates the strength of the found family dynamic of the crew of The Revenge, which this season shifts away from. How ever, it shines whenever present, a less overt — but equally important — queer aspect of the show. Pirate life becomes a stunning allegory for the queer community, one that few pieces of media have been able to replicate with such finesse.
Although many fans wanted a larger focus on this aspect of the show, there simply wasn’t enough time to include it. Compared to Season 1’s comfortable 10 episodes, season 2 only has a meager eight, though director David Jenkins has stated this was the plan from the get-go, the pacing falls short of that expectation. The first seven episodes move at the same pace that Season 1’s episodes did, leaving episode eight to hasten a climax that would have greatly benefited from more breathing room. The result is a season finale that
steamroll through what shaping up to be a fascinating final conflict, and in the process, neglected the crux of the show’s spirit. Though most character arcs escape the finale unbutch ered, a number of important ones are sloppily tied up. From a show with such strong charac ters, this choice is disappoint ing, and sours the otherwise stellar season.
Though the second sea son of “Our Flag Means Death” doesn’t quite reach the heights of its predecessor, it is well worth a watch for anyone who enjoyed the first season. With ever-talented actors and feed back-receptive writers, fans can safely hope that the third and final season will close off the se ries with a bang, not a whimper.
