THE OUROBOROS,
as a source of inspiration, took root long before this anthology’s conception and remained dormant in our minds. In the stillness of winter, Echoes of Parallel Lives was a natural collection of the quiet yearnings and musings of the season. However, as we transitioned into spring, we found ourselves returning once again to the ouroboros–this ancient symbol of a serpent devouring its own tail. If Echoes of Parallel Lives was a held breath, inviting you in for a moment to reflect, Ouroboros instead demands to be heard; the violent shedding of a year gone by and the reckoning of a new one to come. The voices within these pages form a literary ouroboros–a mosaic of endless recurrence. They do not drift in quiet contemplation but instead unravel, collide, and ignite in an exploration of human ambition, love, and loss.
So we welcome you to the ouroboros, where cycles begin anew.
Written by Snigdha Nair
Edited by Constanza Bayod Carrasco
"Love is whatever you can still betray. Betrayal can only happen if you love."
— John le Carré
Down it fell, a spiral tight, teeth in tail, devouring light.
Through Limbo’s hush and Heresy’s pyre, love turned to blade, to blood, to fire.
O hollow gods and weary men, chasing ruin, bound by sin. Doomed to die and rise anew, each circle carved by treachery’s due.
And still, you whispered —"Go, but return," through all that crumbled, wrecked, and burned.
In ruin, joy claimed its throne—
A bitter crown: to love is to be overthrown.
Part III: The Return (Rebirth)
“Must we not become fire and whirlwind to be worthy of this return?”
Cinders writhe and ashes cry, Cradling birth anew, the serpent rises— Was it rise before the fall?
No path untread, no wound unwound, The end is where all time is bound. Love, unmade, becomes the flame, Love, unmade, remakes its chains, soft as woe, sharp as pain.
A kiss within the jaws of fate— for lovers meet, though love is hate. Through hell we walked, through wrath and spite, our echoes bled to endless night. And in the dark, we dared to yearn—
O Ouroboros, let it burn, O Ouroboros, now return.
AN ECLIPSE OF FALLING STARS
Written by Zara Mitchen
Edited by Purvi Jain
Surprisingly,the worst part about
radiation or the prevalent dust storms that left sand burning down Chloe’s eyes and throat for days. It was the view from the 88th floor of the Innovation Tower. living on Mars wasn’t the toxic
This was the Centre for Growth and Regeneration on the Planet.
Chloe would have thought that an initiative dedicated to cultivating a ‘Sustainable Mars’ could have at least saddled their employees with a better view. Chloe sat by her desk, twiddling her thumbs and waiting for inspiration to strike. She hated being stuck on the highest floor. Sometimes she feared that if she gazed too long out of the window, she too might be sucked into the invisible vortex that drained the life out of everything on the arid planet.
“Are you ready for the light show?”
Javad’s voice was a low, urgent whisper in her ear. He was tapping his pen on their joint office table, something he hadn’t stopped doing for the last 45 minutes.
“Sure,” murmured Chloe.
She turned to the miserable view of sun-baked rock and hazy copper air that permanently stained the desert’s atmosphere. Truthfully, she wasn’t looking forward to staring out the window for any longer than she had to.
Chloe and Javad were the only two left in the office; the others had stretched on radiation suits and swarmed to the base of the Tower for an evening display of falling stars. Well, not falling stars. Once a year, the planet’s toxic fumes parted the sky, and blue gas pockets could be seen shimmering across Mars’ stratosphere. It was said to be stupendous, though Chloe wouldn’t know. The only reason she wasn’t tucked safely in her pod was because she needed to finish her proposal: how to build a better Mars.
If only she thought she could.
The room was starting to dim. Shadows reached across the workspace from the expansive windows, obscuring her view of the empty pages in front of her. Javad jumped from his seat beside her and dashed to the glass.
The eclipse was beginning.
Soon, the room was drenched in darkness. Even the unseemly lights from the two moons far in the distance weren’t enough to spare them from the inky night.
A stillness, followed by an eerie silence, enveloped the room. Even Javad, her usually talkative friend, hushed.
Chloe felt a coil of anticipation unravel within her, which could only be born from waiting in the dark. A blue star appeared. At first, it was a flash. A small twinkle of uncertain light flickered from afar. Then, like a thousand candles whooshing to life, the sky’s match was lit.
Millions of little blue orbs materialised in the blackness. It was like the entrance to the universe had opened, and all its stars were spilling out before their eyes. Chloe gasped. This was not what she expected.
When the stars started to fall, she was too busy marvelling at the ones that remained to notice. It was only when copper light creeped back out from the horizon that she began to see them drop. Her eyes danced as each blue orb steadily fizzled into oblivion.
“The cycle of blue stars.”
Javad’s voice was mellow. “I wonder what Mars they will come to see next year.”
Chloe had never felt at home on this rocky terrain.
Mars felt so far removed from the luscious Utopia she had dreamed of when The Last Survivors of Earth spent years circling the Milky Way for a new planet to inhabit.
It seemed like she was the only one who could not bring herself to be grateful.
Then, today, she gazed at the eclipse of falling stars. In an endless cycle of life and destruction, blazing blue stars found a way to shine every year, even in the harshest of environments.
She remembered that, like the stars, she too would fizzle away, and some other ones would replace her.
What legacy would she leave for the next cycle of stars?
What legacy would she leave for this planet she so desperately wanted to call home?
For the first time, Chloe felt a sliver of hope in her chest. She watched from the 88th floor as the last blue star evaporated into nothingness.
“Let’s go.”
Chloe turned to Javad and smiled.
“I think it’s time we stepped outside.”
Written by Radhika Singhal || Edited by Elizabeth Scheer
torn from restless dark, I claw at the void for scraps of sleep nothing but silence mocking spitting me back into the day no point in delaying. my world is coming swallowing it doesn’t wait for the slowthe ones who d r a g their feet still taken whole breathe listen. too loud. too quiet. this is the calm before my storm.
silence lasted four years. four years. resistance was almost enough. almost. before my beast’s teeth sank in gnawing chewing tearing… through the walls I built against it
then one day, the parasite came back. not a whisper, not a warning. a tsunami. drowning the days, stretching
s t r e t c h i n g
s t r e t c h i n g the nights, never a moment to call my own. dawn arrived but darkness had already taken possession of the house
crawling into the walls, seeping through the floorboards, nesting in my bones
it let me think i was free. it was patient. crouched in the corner breathless waiting. waiting. waiting. waiting. waiting.
waiting. make it stop. make it stop! a hunt. a never-ending one. I run. I trip. I bleed.
but my opponent glides. i will never reach the escape I will never escape at all. the bathroom mirror. worst part of the day. it isn’t me staring back. can’t be. I sit in the backseat, something else drives. where are we crashing today?
I smooth my hair. pluck them out. one by one.
why do I do this every morning? step closer. the mirror calls me forward. it puts my own will in the backseat. it’s never my own choice! but what the mirror demands. poke. press. under-eye masks too close. maybe too close. maybe enough to blind me. temporarily of course. peace is never permanent. not for me. I think too much. but i never win any awards brilliance won’t claim me thoughts pile up but they never add to anything hidden cameras inside my skin. blinking unblinking recording every flaw watching. dissecting. judging. I must be perfect. or invisible. nothing else. it doesn’t matter what I want. I am just the monkey trapped in an endless clang
It’s a brand new day, the sun hums low, I rise from bed, stretch soft and slow. The mirror waits, my daily space, A moment of calm, before the race.
My curls need nothing but gentle care, A pat, a press—they settle there. My eyes, oh weary, under strain from others, But masks can act as the perfect covers.
With care, I place them, smooth and tight, While brushing my teeth in the morning light. A timer sings—twenty gone, layer by layer, the creams sink in, one by one.
My closet calls, a sea of choice, Each outfit speaks in a vibrant voice. But jeans and sweaters, tried and true, Will last me through the day’s bright hues.
A glance around—my space is clean, No clutter here, no in-between. Order brings me peace of mind, Where nothing’s left misplaced behind.
The fridge door hums, I reach with ease, For a cup of yogurt, my daily please. Two days fresh, yet still I stare, You never know, best to beware.
A spill—no matter, no need to fret, A paper towel, the floor is set. Once, then twice, again, again, No trace remains—no proof, no stain.
Bag in hand, my final test, The mirror calls, it checks, it probes. Once. Twice. One last glance, Perfection holds, I take my stance.
The world awaits, its eyes are keen, But I step forward, neat and seen.
BURN, RETURN, -- SNIGDHA NAIR
When I first heard the theme for this issue, I thought of the idea of right person, wrong time— a cycle of missed chances, something that should fit but never quite does. Much like the ouroboros, endlessly consuming its own tail, this piece explores the inevitability of returning to something that once burned us, as if drawn by fate or habit.
At its core, Burn, Return, is about the tension between destruction and renewal, love and loss, endings and beginnings. It captures the way we revisit past versions of ourselves through the people we’ve known, how certain connections seem fated to resurface, even when they’ve already left scars. It questions whether the cycle is truly inescapable and if we return because we want to.
AN ECLIPSE OF FALLING STARS -- ZARA MITCHEN
The Ouroboros symbol reflects growth and change - the ability to accept the new, even if it’s hard to let go of the old. In this story, Chloe is adapting to life on Mars. Her mission is to help build a sustainable planet, but still she is lacking purpose. Somehow, the stars shift her perspective on the endless cycle of life. I had a lot of fun using visual imagery from astrology to explore themes of acceptance and change, while creating a new world to embody these concepts. There are many epic developments in our lives that can leave us feeling lost or stagnant. I hope people leave my piece questioning how they can add meaning to their lives.
NEAT, SEEN, AND UNRAVELING -- RADHIKA SINGHAL
My piece, a poem about the chaos within the narrator’s mind and her attempt to fight it by imposing order on her surroundings, explores the battle between chaos and control. It shows how your own mind can become your worst enemy, no matter how hard you try to control it. The narrator’s meticulous actions- fixing, cleaning, scrubbing- are not just habits but survival. It almost acts as a shield against the storm of her thoughts. She is a victim to her own judgement, and the only solution she has is ensuring she is perfect in all other ways. The poem is meant to feel dark, overwhelming, and uncomfortable, mirroring the suffocating nature of an overactive mind.
ARTIST’s INTENTION
Reading Zara's piece ignites a sense of wonder and uncertainty of humanity. Motifs like the galactic explosion emphasizes the contrast of Chloe's corporate deadlines with the human fact of always marveling at the unknown natural phenomena, no matter how much technological progress we make.
To my team, thank you for your dedication + all of the special opportunities we’ve had together this year! To my home in California, I celebrate ouroboros in honor of your resilience and strength through the fires; through destruction and rebirth, and so to endings and new beginnings.
Head of Design,
To the writers, thank you for bringing your beautiful visions to life. To the editors, thank you for always carrying them forward. Alan Watts said, “We are the universe experiencing itself.” May Ouroboros remind you that you are forever becoming, yet always whole!
Head of Literature,
