Issue 7

Palo Alto Highschool’s Literary Magazine Palo Alto High School’s Literary Magazine Palo Alto High School’s Literary Magazine

Letter from the Editor I am delighted to present Ink’s seventh print issue! Included are nine poems and five works of fiction, 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

Saanvi Garg Editor-in-Chief

Mission Statement

Artists

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.

O’Maria Sephers Leif Thesen Brendan Giang Noah Boyarsky Isabelle Lau Amani Fossati-Moiane Simone Batra Jeremy Dukes Lucianna Peralta Renny Argast Alice Sheffer Mars Bau Kaliope Hendershot Jack Champlin Ash Mehta Noel Ying

Managing Editors

Advertising

Faizan Kashmiri

To publish an advertisement in Ink or as part of a bundle with other Incubator publications, fill out the ad contract at inkliterarymag.org and email it to palyjournalismincubator@gmail.com.

Sarina Grewal

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Writers

Table of Contents POETRY • 2005

• A Child’s Bliss

• Involuntary Ignition

•Sorrow’s Reflection •The Moon is Fake • Fairytale Lake • Drifting •The Blackbird who Dreamed •Here Artifical 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. The originality of the writing and art in this edition has been confirmed by both writers and artists.

FICTION

•A Stork Forlorn

•Cyprus, The Swan • Cadence

• Creative Taxidermy •The Fox’s Wedding

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April 2023 Issue 7

Front Cover by Angela Wan “Shielding the Unknown”

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2005 O’Maria Sephers is a senior who is passionate about poetry. Her favorite authors are Maya Angelou, Porsha Olayiwola, and Rudy Francisco.

Have you ever wanted something so badly Your body aches just at the idea of it?

Back to those nights we looked at the stars and counted how many we could see,

It becomes the oxygen you breathe, The wall around your heart,

When we would travel across the constellations in search of our dreams,

It slowly bleeds within you, Drowning you in the idea of it.

When our only worries were birthday party themes,

And when you begin to stop longing for it, And costumes for Halloween.

The world suddenly stops.

Where we hugged anything that took a Do you ever think about having the ability breath, to travel in time?

And smiled genuinely.

To experience the “once in a lifetime” just once more,

To experience the days we could actually say we were truly happy.

To revisit the best times of our life?

If there’s anything I’ve ever wanted, To the point the idea ate me alive,

Times when we were just children, When we believed boys had cooties, And girls were weird, That Santa had brought presents, And the tooth fairy really gave us money.

It would be to stop us from desiring to grow up, Because now that we’re older, All we want is the chance to go back in time.

Text by O’MARIA SEPHERS Art by LEIF THESEN

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Text by BRENDAN GIANG Art by NOAH BOYARSKY

A Child’s Bliss Little footprints in the sand Dancing, carefree, hand in hand.

In the morning sun and after’s shade, Better feelings could not be made.

In a nest, safe and sound, Tucked away, their minds be.

Unaware of wicked around, It’s not they who hold the key.

Rain, hail, wind, or shine, Matter not in their young minds.

As dark as it may seem to be, It’s not to them. They can’t see.

Careless, ungrateful—oh how they seem: The ignorant cannot be said, and Do not care for what they deem.

For they’ll soon see, if not in their heads.

Brendan Giang is a freshman at Paly who is dedicated to honing his programming skills and using them to make a positive impact on society through APPY CLUB, which he founded. Constantly seeking growth and knowledge, Brendan is a classically trained pianist, an avid thespian, and an enthusiastic singer.

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Text by ISABELLE LAU Photo by JEREMY DUKES

Isabelle Lau is a sophomore who is passionate about fantasy. They are particularly interested in making fiction creative, peculiar and seem almost realistic with breathtaking details written straight from the imaginative mind. The authors that she currently finds inspiring are Alice Oseman, Edgar Allen Poe and Tim Burton.

Involuntary Ignition

Outbursts of lively flames dance and crackle, Wildly scorching the things it grazes.

Rising loops and cowering flickers It reaches the roof of my mouth, now seething through clenched teeth.

It becomes intoxicating as the ashy smoke fills my lungs, Blooming in every corner of my body.

A charcoal aftertaste left bitter on my tongue.

Salty tears well up in my eyes, Evaporating at the touch of my scalding, fiery skin.

My body, leaking with adrenaline and cortisol.

I endeavor to restrain myself, But the candle in my body only burns brighter.

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Sorrow’s Reflection The tear-stricken girl Sniffs and takes the chair next to me.

I fish a pack of tissues out of my backpack and offer one to her.

I want to ask her What made you this way?

So broken, so excruciatingly in pain?

But the most troubling of it all is I was her. I am her.

I want to ask her Who made you this way?

They stand a hundred miles tall It feels as if they might swallow you up and All you wanted was to reach as high as them Past the stars and the moon And play with them And love them And be loved by them And feel wanted by them You had wanted to belong And that had once been achieved But then you fell off the cliff And no one came to rescue you.

Most of all I want to tell her How strongly I feel I feel that there was a time When we were not strangers.

But I say nothing As she reaches for the tissue.

“Thanks.”

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Text by SIMONE BATRA Art by NOAH BOYARSKY

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, or coding!

The Moon is Fake The stragglers glisten unlike the dark daunting fright that hovers and waits for an arched ceiling to collapse under sight.

Whoever comes to, has only the splints to listen to in the night.

This one wants to leave– long and chasing, she’s gone.

Feeling alone when truly free but alive when comely done.

The reflection of the fake moon waned, accompanied with the billow of the wind as the light blinds from afar.

Seemingly endless this moment lasts, as the plunk of the plunder shivers and banks.

Unable to find the one that listens, that heeds, This leads the light to ascend and tear spirit from breath.

Lucianna Peralta is a junior who enjoys reading scientific-fiction and contemporary fiction in her free time. Her favorite authors are Tracy Deonn and Olivie Blake because of the complex characters and diverse plot.

Text by LUCIANNA PERALTA Art by RENNY ARGAST 9

Fairytale Lake

Alice Sheffer is a freshman who likes to write short pieces and poetry. She’s interested in how short pieces can be impactful despite the small amount of words. Her favorite authors are Italo Calvino, Jane Austen, and Robin Wall-Kimmerer.

Shivering in the wind like a young child, with green leaves quaking in the fierce lake breeze; there’s nothing else to do; be oh so wild.

The perfect fairytale clouds, just unstyled, sitting on the bench, writing with such ease, shivering in the wind like a young child.

Writing wandering waking words, I smiled, looking down at the dirt, hands on my knees.

There’s nothing else to do; be oh so wild.

The loud cicadas in the trees beguiled me as I sat; I was going to freeze, shivering in the wind like a young child— my page: a glimpse into my brain compiled.

Woosh! Off with my book, the wind took with ease; there’s nothing else to do; be oh so wild.

The sun shone; the wind and I reconciled; the quaking aspen moved as it did please, shivering in the wind like a young child There’s nothing else to do; be oh so wild.

Art by RENNY ARGAST Text by ALICE SHEFFER

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Drifting

Mars Bau is a senior with a passion for poetry and short stories. They love to write self-reflective pieces and especially love the work of Olivia Gatwood and Melissa Lozada-Oliva.

At the end of my life I will know no words I will no longer sing I will forget, as I stare at the stars, that I look to the heavens Seeing nothing as I drift into a sea of moons

within my grasp Only the objects I might reach out and touch I will make past obsolete, future meaningless I will breathe empty into the deathbeds of time

my final breath And at the end of my life I will know no words Only the soft sounds of a voice without a face And the clear images of waves rolling through the stars

I intend to remember nothing Names, faces, eyes of a bygone era I will not think of where I’m going I will only know where I am

I suppose I will have regrets I suppose I have always had regrets But I will not remember the feeling or know its name So that nothingness will be my sole keeper until

Everything I am will be pointless Except the white crest of the windowsill that I can see That I will stare at And never try to remember its name

There will be only the things

Text by MARS BAU Art by LEIF THESEN

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The Blackbird Who Dreamed Although it was never caged, wings never clipped, voice never thrown, or feet never tied.

It never tried to claim the sky.

Instead it daydreamed of, humid Mississippi breeze, sun-kissed feathers, or soaring above oceans.

Although it was never caged, wings never clipped, voice never thrown, or feet never tied.

It never tried to sing.

The fear of being, cagedstrange fruitOccupied its mind.

Although it was never caged, wings never clipped, voice never thrown, or feet never tied.

Blackbird didn’t speak unless spoken to, Blackbird didn’t look at their wives, Blackbird didn’t attempt to learn to read, Blackbird didn’t use their fountains, Blackbird didn’t enter their stores, Blackbird only did what they told it to do.

For fear of being, cagedstrange fruitOccupied its mind.

Blackbird only dreamed.

So tell me Blackbird, When will you act upon your dreams?

When will you attempt to fly?

Attempt to be free?

O’Maria Sephers is a senior who is passionate about poetry. Her favorite authors are Maya Angelou, Porsha Olayiwola, and Rudy Francisco.

It never tried to move.

Wrong movement lead to, DeathCagedBeaten until unrecognizable.

Although this Blackbird was never caged, wings never clipped, voice never thrown, or feet never tied.

Text by O’MARIA SEPHERS Art by RENNY ARGAST and AMANI FOSSATI-MOIANE 13

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Here Kaliope Hendershot is a sophomore who takes comfort in writing poetry. She prides herself in capturing aspects of the feminine experience and making poetry feel human. Other interests include watching movies and baking for her loved ones. Her current favorite authors are Sylvia Plath and Robert Frost.

I wept the whole way to the airport the green pastures made my eyes swell the driver recognized I was unwell it was just too beautiful to say goodbye so my hail mary was to mourn and cry the taxi driver reminded me not to worry and that my life was in no hurry he said, “you have a whole life at home” if only he had known: this city just understood me so let me live while I’m still healthy this was no longer just a vacation at last I had found my destination after a fifteen-year-long nap I woke up in that taxi cab the idea of staying gave me no fear So I replied “but my life is here”

Text by KALIOPE HENDERSHOT Photo by JEREMY DUKES 15

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Text by JACK CHAMPLIN

Art by LEIF THESEN

A Stork Forlorn Jack Champlin is a junior who is passionate about all kinds of storytelling. He is particularly fascinated by surrealism and all of the oddities accessible through writing. His favorite author is Kurt Vonnegut.

Blackbird didn’t speak unless spoken to, Blackbird didn’t look at their wives, “Catfish.” She told me.

Blackbird didn’t attempt to learn to read, Blackbird didn’t use their fountains, “What?”

Blackbird didn’t enter their stores, Blackbird only did what they told it to do.

“Catfish.”

For fear of being, She spread her wings and soared away. cagedstrange fruitWhat on earth was she talking about? Talk about an inconsiderate final Occupied its mind. word to tell someone. I’m only left with more questions now.

Blackbird only dreamed.

My walk home is filled with fog and little noises. Those little noises are nice, like the clinking of fine cutlery. Although it wasn’t fine cutlery, I think it So tell me Blackbird, was bugs. A bird flies above me. I look up, partially expecting her return.

When will you act upon your dreams?

Instead, all I get is some half-hearted Déjà vu.

When will you attempt to fly?

Attempt to be free?

There’s a crack in the path. I stepped over it eventually, but I stood there and looked at it for a while. This crevice was like a friend, so I wasn’t too hasty to leave. But eventually, I did.

O’Maria Sephers is a who is dark. passionate The clouds were gone today, butsenior the sky was about poetry. She is particularly interested in anyIn the distance is a mountain covered with leftover snow. I can see a small thing that can be related avalanche occurring. too. Her favorite authors Angelou, I was feeling strangely alright forare theMaya first half of thePorwalk, but then I reached sha Olayiwola, and the halfway marker. I saw the shabby wooden signRudy attached to the shabby wooden stake in the ground.Francisco.

My legs were out of tune. I collapsed, but the ground caught me. I can still smell the alloy formed of gravel from the ground and the skin that scraped off of my knees. Someone must’ve left the faucet in my brain on, because the water was beginning to come out of my eyes.

I sat there frozen for easily a year. Maybe two. 730 days and still no clouds.

Why couldn’t I move? If I were unable to see them, I would’ve thought my legs were gone altogether. Soon I mustered up the courage to stand. I arose and then fell again.

Text by O’MARIA SEPHERS A cloud of apprised dust stained my eyes.

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Text by ASH MEHTA

Art by NOAH BOYARSKY

Cyprus, The Swan They always said Cyprus descended from the heavens.

She was an angel, with her goldtipped, pearly-white feathers, and she floated, glided across her homeland in a way no swan had ever seen before. In the days of Cyprus, the idea that she was born of Aphrodite was not unreasonable.

Cyprus never saw herself as a god, nor did she see any of her peers as such. It was the humans, those tall, beautiful humans who promenaded the shores a few feet above her, who were divine.

One day, Cyprus didn’t recognize her soft flesh, the hair curling against the nape of her neck. She had lost her dewy feathers and the elegant curve of her beak. She was a human. One of those strange, godlike creatures. She couldn’t imagine it– what it meant for her.

As she walked down the street, she felt

the eyes of the men dissecting her, her newborn strange clumsiness, and felt hot pangs of shame down her back. She attempted to drink from the lake in the center of the city, and was yelled at furiously.

She expected… she didn’t know. Catharsis, maybe? Pleasure? She had seen humans as so clever, so beautiful, but being one felt like being in a cage. No freedom to go where she wanted, and cold, cruel eyes like flint from the people on the streets. She felt herself desperate for the freedom of her wings, the freedom of uncoordinated flight.

Cyprus stumbled into a diner, breath heavy, lungs tight. Tears welled up in her eyes: an unfamiliar feeling, for swans didn’t cry. Swans didn’t feel pain.

But nowhere was safe from the hungry eyes of men.

And the gods heard her pain and drew her up into the sky.

Ash Mehta has absolutely adored writing since second grade, and especially loves writing fantasy and contemporary novels, and creative nonfiction short form. They’re currently querying for their Young Adult novel, Fateful Equinox. In their free time, they love dancing, hiking, and hanging out with their siblings and friends

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Text by MARS BAU

Cadence

Art by NOAH BOYARSKY

Mars Bau is a senior with a passion for poetry and short stories. They love to write self-reflective pieces and especially love the work of Olivia Gatwood and Melissa Lozada-Oliva.

I remember there were keys in the cupholder. The light on the digital clock was green, blinking one-two against the darkness of the dashboard, flashing in time with the seconds it counted: one, two, three, four. The threads of my seat belt fell from right to left, the shiny vinyl flickering with every lamp we passed. My hands were so stark against the blackness of my pants— it was so easy to see them shake, folding and unfolding like paper cranes.

Grace was driving the car. She was my Youth teacher, a spiritual leader of my younger days.

She was every bit the sound of her name—quiet and serene, calm and peaceful. Her hands on the steering wheel were lean, fingers long and curling all the way around. She wore a ring on her right hand, although she told me she’d never dated anyone. It glinted, sparkling one-two in the light of the moon.

I wanted to tell her. Distinctly, I knew I wanted to tell her—even as my hands rubbed flesh over knuckle, I could feel the words bubble up beneath my tongue, pushing it flat against the roof of my mouth. I felt she needed to know—needed to know that I’d spent the last few days of my life grappling with butterflies I’d never known before, needed to know that I’d spent the moments waiting for her to arrive recalling the flash of a smile, the curve of a cheek. I felt that God had told me she needed to know—to know there was someone on this Earth who had eyes like melted suns, like liquor on a winter’s day, like the forest floor or the trees humming one-two out the window of the car.

I didn’t know how to tell her. The beds of my fingernails were white as I drew them up, over the darkness of the dashboard, over the blinking of the clock, down to the keys rattling noisily in the plastic cup holder. I picked them up, clutched them tight. The car fell into silence.

Grace’s eyes slid over to me. If she was any other person, she might have opened her mouth to ask. But the question was there all the same. I stared at my fingers, watching them rub one-two along the length of the key.

“I think,” I said quietly, “I’m in love with a girl.” And in the streetlights dotting one-two, one-two, onetwo, I saw her knuckles whiten.

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Text by ALICE SHEFFER

Art by NOAH BOYARSKY

Creative Taxidermy When I was younger, I was afraid of the woods.

My mother would tell me stories about the monsters that lurked behind every bush, tree, and boulder. My brother worsened my fear by saying that in the other village, people went missing, and their corpses turned up mangled. Once, my father returned from the woods with the head of a terrible beast and mounted it on the wall above the fireplace in our little log cabin— I was too terrified to set foot in the room for weeks; the gaping maw of the beast was too much for a child to bear.

My father took me into the woods when I was thirteen.

He said it was time for me to face the fears that had haunted me from my childhood to the start of my teenage years.

I froze with dread for the first hour while we were there. But he started showing me the buttery yellow flowers my mother adored, and he told me that they grew in the shade of the towering trees, surviving off the little bits of sunlight that filtered through the canopy. All of a sudden, I knew that the woods weren’t a genuinely inhospitable place if flowers could grow in the almost pitch-black darkness.

As I grew up, I spent most of my time in those woods, getting accustomed to the colossal trees and leafy ferns. I used to hear tales about the woods, the monster infestations, and the missing people turning up dead. Those were old wives’ tales told to children to keep them inside at night. Some people claimed that there was evidence to prove the truth, but I

didn’t believe those stories. And I had a good reason: I had spent so much time in the woods that if there were monsters or mutilated corpses, I would’ve come across them.

There’s no shame in admitting that the first time I ventured solo into the woods, I was absolutely terrified. It’s typical behavior for a young adult to believe whatever anyone tells her, but I soon came to my own realization that those woods were a safe place to sit and sketch if I stayed on the wellworn path. And for the next many years, those trees became my escape from the monotony of the outside world.

One morning, I strode confidently into the woods and decided to deviate from my normal route. Rounding a corner when I normally continue forward. I instantly regretted that decision because I was met with the most horrifying sight I had ever seen. One of those monsters, the same one my father brought home and the same one that I convinced myself was just creative taxidermy, was looming over a doe that had fallen on its side. The deer’s flank was ripped open, and its belly was heaving with the effort it took to stay alive. Saliva dripped from the monster’s gleaming teeth and fell onto the ground with heavy splatters, further soaking the already blood-drenched dirt. I looked at the doe’s face and saw the end of a life in those glassy honey-brown eyes that were starting to dim and darken.

I ran.

Alice Sheffer is a freshman who likes to write short pieces and poetry. She’s interested in how short pieces can be impactful despite the small amount of words. Her favorite authors are Italo Calvino, Jane Austen, and Robin Wall-Kimmerer.

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The Fox’s Wedding A junior at PALY, Noel Ying is an avid fan of fairy tales and fantasy. In their free time, Ying illustrates whimsical comics and writes stories about what it means to be human.

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The girl first met the old fox by the riverbed. He, sly and proud, had been admiring his handsome reflection in the rushing waters, when he noticed a young lady step into the clearing to draw water from the stream. Startled, he jumped and fell into the river - splash! - and was swiftly swept away. Noticing this, the girl plucked the struggling fox out of the water.

“Thank you,” the sly fox croaked, already forming a plan upon seeing her pity for him. “However may I repay you?”

“You’re so skinny, your bones don’t have half a stew’s worth of meat on them,” the girl replied.

“Oh, but watch!” cried the cunning fox, leaping away and soon producing three plump rabbits.

Cautiously, the girl took the rabbits before sprinting off; one did not trifle with the arcane. From behind her, the old fox cried, “I have not repaid you in full!”

Day after day, the girl found baskets of berries and nuts left at her doorstep, or a small pile of fat game, or pails of spring water clearer than that of any earthly well. While she put it all to good use, whispers ran throughout the village.

“Magic,” said the women.

“Enchantery,” said the men.

Fie, thought the girl.

On the next clear day, the girl returned to the riverbank. “Fox,” she called. “Come out.”

The old fox slunk out of the brush. “Do my gifts not please you?”

“They are nice,” the girl sighed, “but people are suspicious. It is witchcraft to have food and drink appear on your doorstep every morning. Every night I return to my bed under such accusations, and I must worry that I may never again see the light of day. How could I tell them that this is all because of a generous little fox?”

The sly fox thought for a moment, then smiled a conniving smile, with all his teeth on display. The girl did not like that smile much. “Very well,” exclaimed the fox. “I shall dispel those accusations posthaste and bother you no more!”

The fox disappeared, bounding back into the forest. The girl returned to her housekeeping duties, and in time, the whispers of witchcraft died down.

One day, the village’s sentry raised a cry from the watchtower.

“Look there!” he yelled. “Travelers!”

A glorious caravan of swordsmen on horses guarded a splendidly plush red carriage, from which a stunning young man bearing a delicately embroidered crimson robe stepped out, his long black hair hanging sleek, and his visage dripping with jewels and furs.

“A prince!” cried the women.

“The lord is here!” cried the men.

But the red pelt hanging from the young lord’s waist was what riveted the girl.

The villagers gathered their best fare for the lord’s meal and constructed a dwelling for his lordship. However, the young lord declared that he had but a single purpose for his journey.

Pointing to the girl, he declared, “I shall marry this young lady, if she will have me. With her permission, we shall have a ceremony tomorrow!”

The girl hadn’t wanted to agree, but her old mother pushed her to accept, furiously whispering to her that this was likely her only chance to ever rise from village girl to lady. So the girl

accepted, even if it was because she knew that the young lord would have had his way even if she said no.

At her acceptance, the visibly relieved young lord called forth his retainers to bring out the roasts and rice cakes and prepare for the celebration to be held posthaste. The girl had never seen, let alone tasted, so many splendid dishes at a single setting before.

Once the villagers brought out their wooden tables and feasted on strong wine and meat, the excitement of it all faded down. One by one, the lord’s retainers and the sated townsfolk trickled away until just the girl and the lord remained, sitting at the opposite ends of a table with only the moon to illuminate them.

The girl was the first to speak. “Pray tell, my liege, for what reason are you so sudden in your choice to wed? I myself have no dowry to provide, and though I am beautiful by this humble village’s standards–” here, she gestured to her own brittle dark hair and then to the lustrous ebony hair of the young lord “–I stand nothing against the beauties of a city province.”

At this, the lord smiled a mysterious smile and touched the pelt at his waist. “That, my lady, would be a strange little fox’s idea.” He elaborated no more, but his toothy smile gleamed in the moonlight. The girl did not like how pointy his teeth seemed in that moment.

Abruptly, the lord stood from his position at the table. “I must be going,” he said. “Rest, my lady.” And then he glided into the darkness, and the girl was left shivering alone in the moonlight.

The next morning, the villagers led the lord and the girl to the altar of their shrine to be wed. The priestess who oversaw the wedding vows had only just set out the cups when suddenly, without a cloud in the sky to obscure the sun, a droplet of water fell down to the ground.

Ever so slightly, the lord’s upturned lips tugged downwards.

Two, three, four, five droplets fell, before a torrent of rain drenched the ceremony and its attendees.

“Rain during sun,” whispered the women.

“Demons’ work,” muttered the men.

“Fox!” cried the priestess overseeing the ritual. “Rain in clear skies is the omen of a fox’s wedding!”

All eyes turned to the girl. Slowly, a murmur started within the crowd and rose up to a roar. “Kill the fox! Burn the demon who dares seduce our lord!”

The young lord rose from his seat at the altar to speak, but a man from the audience leapt to the wedding table and ripped a ceremony light from its stand. “Burn the vixen who dared to eat my righteous son’s liver less than a moon ago!” he cried, thrusting the torch into the girl’s hair and setting it aflame.

‘But it wasn’t me,’ thought the girl. She turned her eyes, glazed from the pain, to the young lord.

He had stepped up to help, but the villagers shouted, “Burn the fox!” One by one, rocks flew from the audience and pummeled the girl until she fell to the ground dead, a stream of blood trickling from her scalp and forming a puddle on the altar.

“Imbeciles,” muttered the lord.

“My lord, we have killed the fox that had you under her spell!” said the villagers.

And suddenly, the young lord was no longer a young lord in his red wedding raiments but an enormous red fox, as large

as two horses, with nine plush red tails waving in the wind.

“You have murdered my wife-to-be, and for that, I will have you dead,” the fox growled.

The uniforms of the fox lord’s soldiers melted away until all that was left was an army of raccoon dogs that swarmed the villagers and bit them all dead. After snapping up the livers of every one of them, the fox gently picked the girl up by the collar of her wedding garment and ran to the abode of the King of Hell.

“My king,” the fox cried. “My wife-to-be has been murdered at the altar, and I beg of you to return her to me.”

The King of Hell stared down at the fox. “What can you provide for this one in exchange?”

Only slightly hesitating, the fox turned to nip off one of his beautiful tails, carefully presenting it to the King of Hell. He said, “I have little means, so the most I can give you in return is my tail.”

Upon seeing how wonderfully maintained and soft the fox’s tail was, the king was greatly pleased. “My good fox, you have not only earned your wife-to-be back but also my favor. May you both be blessed with happiness.”

At this, the girl’s corpse glowed, her injuries healing and her stilled eyelids fluttering open. Being blessed by the King of Hell, the fox and the girl were permitted to use the king’s altar to be wed. The ceremony proceeded without a hitch, with demons of all sorts attending the proceedings and giving the pair well-wishes.

Near the feasting’s end, the girl frowned. “Fox, why would you give away one of your beautiful tails for my life?”

Smiling, the fox replied, “I would have lost one in the river if it were not for you, wife. And how could I marry you if you were dead?”

“That’s a stupid reason to fall in love,” the girl said. But, she thought to herself, better a fox than a lord. She preferred demons who wore their skins on the outside.

Text by NOEL YING Art by RENNY ARGAST

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Cristina Ballerio, MD ­Real Estate Broker Associate DRE License #01963063

650-245-3307 cristinaballerio@gmail.com 505 Hamilton Avenue Palo Alto California 94301 24