Pandora's Box Spring 2018

PA ND OR A’ S

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cover photo by Guy Ben-Zeev 1

Pandora's Box Spring 2018

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Brave. Poignant. Profound.

These are the words that describe our contributors and their works.

As the spring flowers bloom and proliferate, so do, apparently, the creative voices of the students of Gunn High School. The spring 2018 issue of Pandora’s Box contains a wellspring of work that exemplifies Gunn students’ courageous, contemplative voices.

Thank you to each and every one of our contributors; without you, Pandora’s Box Creative Magazine would not be a possibility. This issue showcases over fifty of your artwork, photography, poetry, and short stories. A note of caution: some of the work discuss more sensitive topics. Let us applaud our contributors for their bravery, let us address their works seriously, and let us pay attention to what they have to say.

We set some ambitious goals this year and, with your help, accomplished almost all of them. The 2017-18 school year was the first in more than twenty years of Pandora’s Box history that we were able to distribute for free and publish digitally. In the process of doing so, our officers faced various difficulties and setbacks; however, being able to overcome these challenges is what makes us so excited to present this issue.

I’d like to express my gratitude for all our dedicated officers and congratulate our graduating senior officers, Tiffany Chen and Ariel Axelrod, for opening the next chapters of their lives. An additional tremendous thank you is in order for our advisor Mr. Dunlap, for his generous support, time, and guidance.

We have much to do and look forward to achieving even loftier goals. For now, flip through these pages of Pandora’s Box and enjoy.

Yours truly, Kristie Huang, Editor-in-Chief & President 1

Table of Contents Letter from the Editor-in-Chief

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Poetry

Sculpted

25

Liza Kolbasov bad habits 26

Anonymous Neverland

33

Anonymous The Guardian 36

Rida Khawaja Painting the Moon

53

Anna Allport smother

62

Tiffany Chen These Dark Unending Hours

66

Anonymous The Farts in Earth's Atmosphere

80

Sandra Chiu Fragments

84

Liza Kolbasov The girl who wanted starlight for breakfast

87

LIza Kolbasov Writing 92

Emma Butner

Short Story

2

Stay Alive

9 POW XX 18

Hannah Kim the color of moonlight

42

Jojo Qi Two Scenes in a Car

58

Julia Cheunkarndee You and Mii

70

Catherine Linetsky

Artwork

Roots

Sherry Chen hyperbolic paraboloid variations and a froggy thing

AJ Yang Straight Out of a Fairy Tale

Sherry Chen Interstellar

Crystal Guo Evening Grosbeak

Taryn Liu consumerism

Sherry Chen

24 30 34 38 39 45

Photography

MJLM

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Sofia Sierra-Garcia Modern Love

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Sofia Sierra-Garcia 26 8 POW Spring 12

Anna Allport Purple Rain

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Meghna Raman Listening to Grace

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Caroline Ro Megan Thoughts

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Caroline Ro Megan Thoughts Deluxe

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Caroline Ro green 16

Guy Ben-Zeev golden ratio

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Joy Huang Untitled 2

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Meghna Raman

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Where Silence Exists

POW School's Out!

POW Castle on a Cloud

Caroline Ro Untitled

Joy Huang Untitled 3

Meghna Raman Curiosity

Meghna Raman Salamat Po

POW The Unknown

Meghna Raman Tranquil

Meghna Raman Las Batallas

Sofia Sierra-Garcia Angel

Sofia Sierra-Garcia palm to palm

Joy Huang Painted Moon

Anna Allport Phosphenes

Meghna Raman Entropy

Crystal Guo light at the end of the tunnel

Joy Huang the world

Joy Huang Entre el Cielo y el Suelo

Sofia Sierra-Garcia wave goodbye

Joy Huang New Day

Meghna Raman

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29

31

32

35

40

41

46

47

48

49

50

52

55

56

56

57

60

64

67

dyingyellow

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Guy Ben-Zeev Moonbuggy

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Caroline Ro SoĂąando

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Sofia Sierra-Garcia redflower

76

Guy Ben-Zeev periwrinkle dream

76

Joy Huang Moment of Reflection

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Meghna Raman beachbumps

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Guy Ben-Zeev Quiet Day

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Meghna Raman Limerence

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Meghna Raman Las Cosas Pares

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Sofia Sierra-Garcia Tricked 86

Meghna Raman Untitled 1

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Meghna Raman Simplicity

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Meghna Raman Pagpupugay sa mga nauna

90 POW Untitled 4

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Meghna Raman Serenity 93

Meghna Raman

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MJLM Sofia Sierra-Garcia

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Modern Love Sofia Sierra-Garcia

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26 POW

8

POW

Stay Alive

Content warning: this work alludes to suicide.

My mom and my brother are both still at work. I am alone. I rotate the window blinders to thwart the sun from passing through.

My room’s apparent display of chaos reflects mine. My inner demons have been waiting for this moment, for the perfect time to attack.

They assemble themselves up there. I feel nothing but their presence. I hear nothing but their voices.

I feel heavy.

As the first drop of tear leaves my tired eyes, it begins.

You are hopeless!

The unspeakable weight that I have been carrying will always make me sink until I drown. No one can and will save me from drowning. Nobody will listen. Nobody will understand.

You will never be able to achieve your dreams!

Reaching out to someone won’t be any help. I’ll just add to somebody else’s burdens. And I don’t want to cause other people to drown with me.

You are better off gone!

I am left with no choice. I have to end this. No longer should I be in pain. No longer should I have to drown. No longer should I have to think.

With red teary eyes I get out of bed and into my closet I stride.

I tug my belt from inside — there’s no turning back now.

As I assemble my medium of crime onto the railings of my bed, an uninvited thought emerges — a thought that my demons failed to prohibit.

I still want to sing. _____________

“Okay... So... Will any of you guys sing now?”

It’s been 15 minutes since Carlie, the health worker in charge of tonight’s pre-bedtime activity, let us inside a room with an aging piano in the corner and an old living room sofa set that is situated 9

in the middle. Apparently, this is what the McAuley Adolescent Psychiatric Unit call their “music room.”

Impatience is growing behind her smile for no one has volunteered yet to either sing and/or play an instrument. Everybody seems to be fixated on their outdated seats.

I feel the urge to take my guitar out of its case and position it on top of my lap.

But Foxtrot will be discharged in a few minutes. She should go first.

“Do you wanna play using mine?”

“No, I’m good.” Foxtrot bends down to grab the nylonstringed guitar from under her seat. The lights then reveal her natural red velvety hair. “I’m gonna use this.”

I remember her telling me that she was classically trained so I’m not surprised that she chose to use the classic guitar that McAuley’s lent despite its worn out quality.

Amnesia, the song that Foxtrot plays almost sounds like an anthem to my ears. In this song, she sings about how amnesia seems like the only solution to depression and all the things that come with it.

She played this for me two days ago right after she told me that she has written songs herself, too.

I draw my attention to Carlie. She’s one of the few kind and approachable nurses that McAuley has, so I’m glad that she’s the one assigned to look after us for tonight’s relaxation time, since it’s going to be my last. She was the one who came up with the idea that we should do a music night instead of the therapeutic painting activity that we have been doing before bedtime for the past few nights. I guess she senses that we’re all tired of being try-hard Picassos.

As soon as Foxtrot ends her song, the McAuley “music room” was filled with a round of applause. Foxtrot was one of those whom I really got close with so I feel sad about her leaving. But at least, I got to hear her play music one last time.

It’s my turn now. For a minute or so, I contemplate about what song should I play.

Franklin? Another Paramore song?

Or... Perhaps... With a Smile? But I’ve been singing that daily ever since I got here!

Suddenly, my left hand wraps itself around the neck of my 10

guitar as if it has already made the decision for me. In a split-second moment, my fingers precisely find their way to form an A chord. My right hand follows with a distinct strumming pattern. And then, I form an F#m chord, then I strum, then a D chord, strum, Dm chord, strum.

This is my song. This is the song that I wrote about Buloy — a character from a Filipino rock song in which he is introduced as a strong figure everybody looked up to. He was always there to help carry everyone else’s weight. He was always there for everyone, but never for himself. In that song, Buloy ended up taking his own life.

In my song, I plead Buloy to keep going.

“Buloy ‘wag muna

(“Buloy don’t give up on your life yet)

May ihahakbang ka pa

(You can still make another step)

Gumagana pa ang ‘yong makina...

(You may seem to have completely lost your strength...)

...’Di baleng ika’y pumalya

(...But it doesn’t matter if you falter)

Mahalaga ay magpatuloy ka...”

(What’s important is for you to keep going...”)

I close my eyes and entrust myself to the music that I am creating. I surrender to every lyric that leaves my mouth.

“ Buloy ‘wag muna, Buloy ‘wag muna, Buloy ‘wag muna, Buloy ‘wag muna.”

Pau, ‘wag muna.

As I play the final set of chords that concludes my song, I open my eyes and look at my fellow inpatients. Despite not knowing what the words meant, I know they understand the emotion that fuels my song.

They understand that we were all led here by the same gamble: the choice to end our sufferings with the use of an instant remedy that would have ceased not only our inner demons, but as well as our existence.

As I witness how pain shared through music was able to connect people tonight, I choose to live. For now, I just want to live to keep on singing, to play more songs with my guitar, and to witness more people that music will be able to unite.

For now, maybe it’s enough that I choose to stay alive.

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Spring Anna Allport 12

Purple Rain Meghna Raman 13

Listening to Grace Caroline Ro

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Olivia Aspergen

Megan Thoughts Caroline Ro

Megan Thoughts Deluxe Caroline Ro Megan Li

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green Guy Ben-Zeev

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Hannah Kim

XX

It was only supposed to be for six weeks, until cell nineteen’s ceiling was fixed. He was tossed into her cell, roughly, rudely, by a burly guard with a leather-skinned face and a slight limp. He didn’t resist as he was shoved to the floor. Didn’t even crack an eye at the loud slamming of the cell door, nor the small clatters it made as it shook in its bearings afterwards.

There were loud footsteps as the guard left, and then the boy opened his eyes, sitting up and scooting back so he was leaning against the wall. He looked her up and down, and then: “I’m the storyteller.”

His voice was a contradiction in itself. It was rough, but with a smooth undertone, melodic but emotionless, lilting yet monotone.

“Welcome to twenty,” she said. “Most of them call me the singer.” As an afterthought, she added, “No names.”

He nods. “No names.”

And then there was silence.

They examined each other for a few minutes. Picture this, if you will. A small cell, perhaps ten by seven. Two walls, opposite each other, one made of iron bars stretching vertically, the other of stone.

The wall between them was stone as well, but with a barred vent at the top of one wall that would let in some fresh air from the outside. The wall opposite the wall with the window was not a wall at all, but many long bars that stretched from floor to ceiling. A single door stood in the middle of this barred fence, secured by a lock and a key that jangled by occasionally on a guard’s key ring as he made his rounds.

It was reasonable, certainly, to imprison a single thirteen year old, but for two? It was, perhaps, a bit of a stretch.

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But it couldn’t be helped. The entirety of the prison complex (if you could call it that, even) was a mere twenty cells, all the same size, and eighteen others had dangerous folk in them. The kind of dangerous folk you would never put a thirteen year old boy with, even if said thirteen year old boy was the famed storyteller.

The nineteenth cell, of course, the one across from the girl’s cell, had collapsed in on itself two months ago. The girl had been there to see it happen, as the ceiling caved. It was, as she would later tell the boy, “quite amusing, especially the fuss they made over it afterwards.

Warden had to call for a workman, and the workman took one look at the rubble and shook his head an’ left. The warden was so angry. He turned almost three shades of red.”

So, when a group of soldiers had brought the boy in, the warden thought quickly. He couldn’t put the boy in the destroyed cell.

He couldn’t put him in the occupied cells. He couldn’t put any of the occupants in the same cells. So where would the boy go?

And then he remembered the girl.

The singer had been brought in three or so months before the boy, when the nineteenth cell had been occupied and so had the other eighteen. She had been brought into the twentieth cell, and there she had stayed. Surely it would be alright to put the two of them together?

The warden shook his head and made a decision. He would put the singer and the storyteller in the same cell. It would be okay, he reasoned. She hadn’t said a word since just after the nineteenth cell had caved in, when she had smiled at him and asked him to cover the exposed portion of the roof, as it was terribly cold and she had naught but the clothes on her back and the blanket provided to her on her first night.

He had complied with her request, feeling sorry for the girl who had done no wrong but sing beautifully under a king who hated beauty. He felt this same pity for the storyteller, who had likewise done nothing but weave stories, stories that transfixed listeners by way of pure emotion.

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So the two were put together, and thus formed a new story for the storyteller to tell, and a new song for the singer to sing.

I do not doubt that the warden would have done differently if he had known how his story would end. I do not doubt that the warden would have done differently if he had known the last note she would sing. I do not doubt this, but still the warden did not know, and he did so.

You wouldn’t have been able to tell that there was anything special about them by looking at them–small, dirty children with inkyblack hair and bronze skin. “A matching set,” the inhabitant of cell seventeen would cackle with a sharp-toothed grin. Beyond that you will not be told much.

What is there to tell?

The boy smiled at his cellmate “This is cozy.”

“Not really,” she said back. She did not smile.

Then there was silence, stretching out over a few seconds to feel more like minutes.

“Would you like to hear a story?” he asked suddenly, the words springing to his tongue and then bursting through his lips. He needed to tell a story. Right now.

“Yes,” she replied, letting the word go before she could think about it long enough to consider it. She grimaced, rolling her tongue around her mouth as if still tasting the word.

He paused.

She did not rescind her statement.

“Alright,” he said. And so he told a story, one about acid rain and red balloons and clouds that tasted like dreams.

“It begins,” he whispered, “with a bright flash of light. That’s where the boy came from, in the middle of a thunderstorm. A bright flash of lightning, and there he was, standing by the tree. The tree was burned, and burned badly, but the boy came over and skimmed his fingers over the bark of the tree and the wood became whole and healthy once again. And that was all there was, just the boy and the tree, and so the boy ventured beyond the tree. He was curious, and he longed to see something else. There was nothing. Just darkness. But still he ventured on, and on, and on, until he had forgotten what color 20

was and how to not be tired. And still he went, continuing on. And then, a light!

“He made his way towards it, spurred by some unvoiceable longing, and found himself emerging from the thick fog he’d been in before, and suddenly all was brilliant light. A brilliant sun shining brilliant light over a brilliant sky. Light and colours and warmth and a pure goodness that cleared the air and released his limbs from their lassitude. All was good, and the boy was happy, because there were green blades of grass and vibrant fields of blossoming flowers and a dreamy blue sky and light. There was so much light, more light encapsulated in a single moment than he’d ever experienced in all of his life before. Then, dark clouds began to gather across the sky, covering the light blue sky, obscuring the light. And they continued to spread until, finally, there was nothing but darkness once again. And then it began to rain.

“It was acid rain, and it burned. When he felt his skin, it was as unmarred as ever, but every place the rain touched him, his skin would heat and sizzle and burn, and so he hurried on, searching for shelter. He did not know what he was searching for. Was it the tree?

Was it light?” He paused, eyes darting about as if searching the air for some unknown storm of acid rain, finally resting upon the girl, who gave no interruption, but only leaned against the opposite wall and listened silently, her breath caught in her chest and thrumming with anticipation.

“Whatever he was looking for, he found a building and he made it his own. It was clear, made of glass, and full of plants and flowers. But he could not see the color, because there was no light.

But he was out of the rain, so he slept and rested and dreamed of the dreamy blue sky with its brilliant sun shining its brilliant light over a brilliant sky. When he woke, the rain had ceased, if only for a moment. There was an opening in the clouds, and light broke through that opening, and he could see the grass and the sky and a single red balloon floating down to earth. He ran out and seized the balloon, bringing it back to his shelter. The clouds came back together and the rain resumed, but he soon discovered that the balloon shone with its own dim light, and he was determined to make it lighter still. He filled this balloon with memories of sunlight and green grass and the tree 21

he had healed, with recollections of lightning flashes and the boom of thunder, and with thoughts of light blue sky. And it was enough, because he had the red balloon and the flowers and the clear house that protected him from the rain and the darkness.

“The balloon shone brighter with every memory he gave it, and then, one day, when he woke up from his sleep, he found the house slowly rising through the air, buoyed by the balloon and the memories it contained. It made its way through the cloud cover, finally breaking through the top. On instinct, he opened the door and stepped out.

The clouds were fluffy but safe to stand on, and he walked, carefully, through the clouds, basking in the sunlight. And then, as he passed by a particularly fluffy-looking cloud, he took it, broke some off, and ate it.

“It tasted like dreams and colors.”

He opened his eyes–when had he closed them?–to see only the cropped hair and turned back of his cellmate. She was shivering. He frowned at her, and then he picked up his issued blanket.

“Hey, singer.”

There was no reply, but he leaned forward and set it on the ground next her–an open invitation to borrow it for the night.

She turned her head to frown at him, tossing his blanket back.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m just missing the sun.”

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golden ratio

Untitled 2

Joy Huang

Meghna Raman 23

Roots Sherry Chen

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Liza Kolbasov

Sculpted You could never imagine what It felt like to catch someone’s Eye or be a Painting, no, you Were made out of stone By an inexperienced sculptor Who gave up halfway They told you you could be Envied but no one would ever notice you Long enough to care So you learned to see your soul as Too small for its shell And turned yourself to a flat canvas You tried to be a warrior But every warrior needs armor her size And they made you no armor.

So you had no choice but to be a Princess in distress — Except for no one ever thought to save you And every day when you twist your hair Into pure braided hatred Paint yourself in grey and hope That they don’t look close enough to judge You’ve learned to fear eyes that bring Nothing but shame Not that they’d notice you Not with that shell you’re in Not with that face of yours.

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Anonymous

Bad Habits

Content warning: this work alludes to abuse.

How does one justify A house that’s not a home, forever flinching at loud noises, The terror of unpredictability “Dad’s home!” with chocolates and embroidered bookmarks, we’re ecstatic, mom’s smile is soft Two days pass. The sun is shining like you read about in fairytales and i show my friends my new bookmark, but two days have passed and he comes home the third and it’s Footsteps like gunshots, square-tipped hands throwing plates, books, the snap of the belt I am four and terrified, watching my mother with a screwdriver picking at the bedroom door helplessly, tears running into her mouth, her nose red, jaw blue from his fist He slammed the door so hard it broke and jammed and now he’s yelling again My older sister with her hands at her fists, lips crooked because she’s seen this before, eyes tight Her shoulders in the doorframe, feet clad in pink Hello Kitty sneakers and planted at my mother’s back Years trickle by, days that register as “good” and “bad” and “mom cried but he didn’t” He says awful things but he also buys me books, gives mom roses, compliments the waitress’s hair 26

It is August, I am 15 and suddenly he wants to know who my friends are, if they’re smart, if they want to go to Stanford like I should “I know what’s best for you” and “it’s your duty to obey me” and “look at you. You’re a fucking mess” I can’t lock my bedroom door because i did it once and he didn’t like it so he broke it No control except over pain at your own hands, silver glittering red Lunch spent watching shoes pass under the stall door A teacher asks me why i spend so much time in the bathroom.

I compliment her shoes (black pumps, creased, plain, sturdy) And ask her about the upcoming quiz Her eyes slide over my face and i make my mouth smile They say it takes 21 days to form a habit All i know is it’ll take a lifetime to break this one

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Where Silence Exists POW 28

School's Out! POW 29

hyperbolic paraboloid variations and a froggy thing AJ Yang

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Castle on a Cloud

Caroline Ro

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Untitled Joy Huang

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Anonymous

Neverland In a state of unconscious dreaming, your shadow-ghost lusts for fairytale lands and hovers above on a raspberry summer evening.

The curtains blossom when a shadow escapes into a starry Milky Way, flying straight on till morning.

Glittering stars trace your shadow in a hushed world, like meteors struck across blueberry skies, and await your return from the second star to the right.

On a mango sunlit canvas never to grow taller or to see the moon again.

You've reached the dreamland.

Neverland.

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Straight Out of a Fairy Tale Sherry Chen

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Untitled 3 Meghna Raman

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Rida Khawaja

The Guardian Silhouettes of ghosts outline broken dreams lined along the lonely, desolate streets like lost prisoners gathered at a funeral pyre of new beginnings and continuous endings as the phoenix throws itself into the fire and is reborn from the ashes that float and flutter like smokey butterflies In the midst of this inky darkness a streetlamp stands like a star of solitude glowing and flickering, being engulfed by black it watches over the streets, mourning the deaths of a thousand broken dreams a thousand broken minds a thousand broken souls a thousand broken hearts a thousand broken bonds slowly slipping away into the abysmal cemetery The streetlamp crackles as it sees brothers turn against brothers, and friends turn against friends, each time the same every time this delicate balance is torn apart and every time the gossamer fabric is sewn together but the vessel that holds one’s compassion becomes emptier and emptier

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The streetlamp gazes in sorrow as the fabric is torn again and again and again until finally the beauty is worn and the colors diminished and it too falls into the grave of forbidden hope the intricate threads now torn and rough barely strung together by the faintest tendrils of empathy The streetlamp watches the bottomless vessel crash and shatter against the beings of shackled faith as angry screams conquer the world around them But the streetlamp sees a drop drip from a shard of the vessel, a drop that might start a waterfall if someone reaches out and pours

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Interstellar Crystal Guo

38

Evening Grosbeak Taryn Liu 39

Curiosity Meghna Raman

40

Salamat Po POW

41

Jojo Qi

the color of moonlight

A short-length novelization of the 2015 movie "Star Wars: The Force Awakens".

Finn learns, first, that he is less than a weapon. This lesson comes back in his memories as blue, then gray: the way space looks from the inside of a ship. How his commanding officer had left the sixteen of them in the airlock, had turned away and walked off.

He remembers blackness, split with small things called stars, and he didn’t know much, but he knew he would die if anything broke.

Everyone knew they would die if anything broke, even the children (especially the children), so they stood in line and locked their knees just enough so the capsule couldn’t tip them off balance, and tried to stop breathing, as if it would keep some monster asleep. That fear, one day, could be killed with silence.

When FN-7845 gets ill, their supervisor comes in at night and pulls her out of the bed she shares with him. They leave her blaster hanging from the foot of their bunk, and she is forced to strip from her uniform for reallocation. Resources aren’t scarce, but they are precious, and Finn remembers thinking, then: we are nothing.

7845 doesn’t return.

—

Finn was always good at running.

When they made everyone do laps in training, round and round and round and round until they either passed out or vomited and kept going, he was always the last one standing. Never the fastest or particularly special in any other way, just skilled enough to put one foot in front of the other until the whistle blew and he shrunk back into his own skin and realized that the rest of his squadron was tangled together somewhere behind him.

“We could make good use of you, FN-2187,” Phasma had said, surprising him once. Her mask had been polished to the point of painfulness, and if he could see clearly, there might have been his face 42

staring back. “Keep working,” she nods, and turns on her heel down the hall.

Finn watches her leave, his tongue itching. There’s so much he wants to say, but he doesn’t know how to make his mouth speak like the sound of a blaster. If the First Order has taught him anything, it’s that emotion should be ignored, and that there is pain in words.

How there are words in mouths and mouths in hearts and no good Stormtrooper possesses love; they only have lungs; to breathe, ears; to hear, and feet; to march. If they could, superior officer Veq said, they would remove the bad parts from children like him, but even the First Order, with all their knowledge, cannot.

Years later, when he stands guard outside the Finalizer’s interrogation room, he hears the sound of fists against flesh knowing the knives are next, then a bastardized combination of electrocution and water. This pilot probably won’t be able to fly after they get to his hands, but then the door slides open and he catches the sight of Kylo Ren sliding through the hallways Finn feels a kick in his chest. His helmet, when it comes off, tastes like blood.

Finn’s never been a good liar; it surprises him when the guard actually lets him take their prisoner away. He also doesn’t know how to fly a TIE fighter either, not in the way Poe does — whooping and hollering as his stomach swoops with turbulence. He doesn’t think he’s outstanding or extraordinary, and he definitely doesn’t think he’s capable of any of this, but he pulls off his helmet and sees someone’s eyes for the first time in years and swallows his fear without complaint.

Finn leads the pilot across the Destroyer, and does what he knows best. He runs.

—

“FN- what?” Poe yells. Poe. Poe Dameron: that’s the pilot’s name, he thinks — a little giddily — a name, exhilaration, so many things he doesn’t have a word for yet (but he will soon learn, learning how to call everything by new sounds). His breath, lurching and plummeting in his throat. “Finn; I’m gonna call you Finn, is that alright?”

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“Finn,” he repeats back, trying out the sounds in his mouth.

“Finn, yeah, Finn-” I like that.

He likes it enough for it to stick. Past Jakku and past Starkiller, it sticks, even when Ren tries to burn it out of him with a lightsaber to the spine and leaves him with no memory except how he’s experienced worse, and when he wakes, Kalonia asks for his name and —

— Finn. It’s- it’s, I’m Finn —

She says afterwards that Poe is off base and will not be back for a few days; maybe even a week. Rey has gone to search for Skywalker.

General Organa asks he stay put until he’s fully recovered. Then she tells him that he has two hours of physical therapy three days a week, and half an hour on the other four. She says “do not strain your back” while meaning “do not strain yourself” and makes him promise to follow what she says or she will strap him to the bed.

Finn promises very seriously that he will not do anything stupid. Part of him tells him not to forget how he possesses no name and no face, just the body of a great creature he was always destined to serve, but there’s also something in him saying to shed the old skin, knowing that radical, reckless Finn has always been growing inside him without even realizing, a womb within a womb. So many things he does not yet have a name for. The Resistance, love, loss, Finn, Finn, Finn.

“Keep an eye on him,” Kalonia says, very kindly, to a droid by his bedside. It makes a sound of confirmation and dims the lights.

Finn, he thinks, almost laughing. The taste of things growing.

The promise of something new. Finn. The word telling him how he is now more.

He will always be more.

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Consumerism Sherry Chen

45

The Unknown Meghna Raman 46

Tranquil Meghna Raman

47

Las Batallas Sofia Sierra-Garcia

48

Angel Sofia Sierra-Garcia

49

50

palm to palm Joy Huang 51

Painted Moon Anna Allport

52

Anna Allport

Painting the Moon

Once there was a girl who painted the moon.

She blended its colors of crisp cream and midnight black, of soft yellow and brilliant blue, into pictures of mountains, and rivers, and castles in faraway lands.

The girl worked, silently, smoothly, gracefully, sliding her paintbrush over the canvas of the deep, dark, sky.

The girl sat, thoughtfully, each night, sitting up straight, with her paintbrush poised before the glittering stars of the sky.

One night, the girl sat, in the darkness, under the stars, looking up at the brilliant night sky.

But there was no moon to be seen lighting her way.

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So she waited.

She sat, and she waited, and she watched for the moon for the whole night.

Everything was midnight black, and silent, and speckled with softly glittering stars.

But suddenly, a single beam brightened the sky, illuminating the night, filling the sky, outshining the stars.

It was her own light.

One of joy, and confidence, and peace, and love for the moon and for herself.

And the girl stretched out her delicate hand, looking up at the stars, and, guided by the light, raised her paintbrush to the sky.

Blending crisp cream, midnight black, soft yellow, and brilliant blue, she painted the moon.

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Phosphenes Meghna Raman

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Entropy

light at the end of the tunnel

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Crystal Guo

Joy Huang

the world Joy Huang

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Julia Cheunkarndee

Two Scenes in a Car

i) The Target parking lot was quiet and dark as the three of us walked to the car. The only pools of light came from a few streetlights above. I squinted slightly, trying to make out the form of our slategray minivan, when I felt something tug at my elbow.

My little sister gripped her hand tightly around my arm. “I want to dye my hair,” she said.

“So do it,” I told her. I shifted the grocery bags to my other arm so that I could take her hand.

“What color?”

Her lips pursed slightly as she thought. “Blue.”

My dad, waiting beside the car with the keys in his hand, caught the end of our conversation.

We’d been over the subject enough times for him to understand what we were talking about, and his eyebrows rose slightly. Then he shook his head. “You’re not dyeing your hair, Laura.”

“She can do whatever she wants,” I said, and shoved our bags into the trunk. I felt my face slide into a sourer expression. “It’s her own hair.”

My dad hummed disapprovingly. It had begun to rain, and we all slid hastily into the car. My sister dove into the backseat, giggling, and scattered droplets of water across the leather. I sat in the front and tucked my legs underneath me.

“We’ll see,” my dad said finally, turning the car out of the lot.

The headlights of passing cars swept through the car, blinding us momentarily. Rain drummed steadily on the roof. “But can you picture Laura with blue hair?”

We glanced at each other. Laura studied us carefully. Then she scowled and thumped her fists against the back of our seats as my dad and I broke into laughter.

ii) “We’re almost out of gas,” my mom said, her hands tightening on the wheel.

I shifted in my seat to peer over her shoulder at the dashboard.

She was right— the line for the fuel gauge was hovering steadily over red. We had maybe five or ten miles left in the tank.

“I feel like this happens a lot,” my older sister, Tia, said. Her 58

voice was tinged with exasperation, and she twisted around in the passenger seat to exchange an amused glance with me.

It was true. We’d nearly run out of gas just the week before, resulting in a nerve-wrecking hunt for the nearest gas station. A month before that, the car ran out of gas entirely while we were in the middle of a traffic lane. We had to call a family friend to pick us up. I usually made it a habit to check the gas meter every time I got into the car with my mom, but this time I had forgotten.

Unfortunately.

“There’s a gas station coming up soon. Just keep going down Middlefield,” I said, leaning over to look at the gauge again. The line had hovered to point solidly into red. I was surprised the car was still running.

We inched our way through the evening rush-hour traffic.

Pop music blasted from the car radio, making my nerves crawl, until my mom finally jabbed at a button and cut the music off. The car continued on in a dead silence.

“I really don’t want to get stuck in the middle of the road again,” I muttered, staring out the window at the mass of cars around us. “That’s always so embarrassing.”

“We won’t,” my sister replied, but her shoulders were tense. My mom only sighed.

The gas station came up around the next corner, lights glowing brightly in the dim twilight.

Salvation, it seemed, was near. Tia turned the music back on; we grinned at each other as Adele’s soothing voice filled the car.

Triumphantly, our minivan rumbled toward the station. The wheels moved smoothly across the cement, glided up over the curb, lurched forward—and stopped dead.

At the same time, the lights on the dashboard went out.

For a moment, we simply sat there, stunned. Everything was still. My mom slid her hands from the steering wheel. We looked at each other and then at the gas pump, which was a good twenty feet away. So close and yet so very far.

“Well,” I began, and then stopped. I didn’t want to say it.

“Time to push,” Tia said.

It started with the sides of my mom’s lips twitching upward.

My sister let out a small snort. And then we were all crying with laughter, parked in our dead car at the very edge of a gas station.

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60

Entre el Cielo y el Suelo Sofia Sierra-Garcia

61

Tiffany Chen

Smother Content warning: this work alludes to self-abuse.

She’s got words on her body Scars like morse code with a shaky hand But no one ever bothers to read She dreams of an endless sky, the world wide open, blue like the hottest part of a flame—wallpaper for stars sprayed from a Rustoleum can, eager hands moving too fast for clear lines A graveyard of pens in her backpack but she only uses them from left, right, left, right, across the paper in lines that imprint onto the next page She trades her pens for Westcott Titanium kissing across knuckles, craving the cold metal and the look on her mother’s face when she sees the scissor blades; a special spite for the way her hands shake There’s blood in the sink and the bleeding won’t stop Knocks on the bathroom door getting louder, voices getting fainter, the rhythm settles like old coffee in her gut but it’s not enough, anymore, now She puts her fist through the wall and screams and screams, she wants reactions, volatile, energy like the recoil from a gun, she wants noise and pain and feeling but all she gets are tears and silence

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As if she’s already gone All she gets are tears and silence, and no one tries any more peace offerings It’s such a big house but she goes from her bedroom to the kitchen to the roof to her room Sleep, school, sleep, eat, sleep, rinse, repeat She buys a fish tank and fills it with the things she breaks, arranges shards of glass on the windowsill and sits for hours staring at their serrated edges The light moves across them like a living thing She forgets to eat Father ignores her, mother is afraid of her, sister is angry and confused, and she wants them to look her in the eye but she’s a wild animal and eye contact is a threat She’s fading now, a black hole spent The marble clicking in an empty can of paint She’s exhausted An endless sky, blue wallpaper all around so she can draw galaxies in her sleep Just let me go

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64

wave goodbye Joy Huang

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Anonymous

These Dark Unending Hours

The dull gray hours passed as if They didn’t want to move forward as if They were stuck because they were lost because they were trapped in themselves Waiting for a storm to passsilence except for the incessant patter of raindrops

falling

like the sky’s tears of sorrow All alone in a room where it feels like the only color is despair.

Quiet through the empty gray as time ticks on

slowly

surely

seemingly forever Everything feels muted slightly off when there’s nothing to do but wait and wait for something

that feels

like it won’t

ever come 66

New Day Meghna Raman 67

68

dyingyellow Guy Ben-Zeev

69

Catherine Linetsky

You and Mii

This piece of creative writing has philosophical connections and implications. One philosophical connection is materialism because a materialist argument is that technology can or will be able to do what a human can.

In the story, a device called a Mii can copy and connect to a human brain.

Another philosophical connection is transhumanism, as the Mii is a technology that enhances human physical and psychological capacities. One philosophical implication is that selfishness (capturing the last animals to keep them as pets instead of putting money toward saving Earth) and underestimation of those one tries to dominate (believing that animals are intellectually inferior and therefore easy to control) lead to the loss of control. People crave control and not having enough of it makes them lose their temper out of frustration, resulting in a downward spiral. Thus, desiring control may be an aspect of the human condition that is self-destructive and does more harm than good. Additionally, the story implies that we should be careful to prevent technology from stripping us of our humanity; that is, human minds should not occupy inhuman bodies.

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Climate change was supposed to be solved by the ultrarich once the rising oceans started swallowing their beach houses and freak weather made flying their private jets impossible. But there was no point to having a beach house in real life when one could have something even better in virtual reality, where the climate could be changed in Settings. The only disadvantage of VR was that it was not yet advanced enough to convincingly replicate other life forms, like animals. Even something as basic as a domestic cat would glitch, traveling without moving its legs, freezing in disturbingly unnatural positions as if it were possessed, walking in place. The bugs were endless.

As the planet’s health deteriorated, species extinction accelerated. Instead of spending their money to save the last species, the ultrarich had individual animals captured to add to their collections of priceless possessions; the rarer, the better. Being wild beasts, of course, these exotic pets were a danger to their masters’ safety. Using a technology that only they could afford, the wealthy would upload a copy of their brain – their memories, personality, thought processes, everything that constitutes an identity – to a device that could be inserted into the cervicomedullary junction of another vertebrate. The result was two bodies controlled by the same mind, like two computers with one mouse, and none of the danger that came with owning a wild animal.

The only condition was that the second body be mindless; otherwise, mental chaos would ensue as the two brains battled for dominance. Since animals are incapable of controlling their own savagery, thought the rich, they must not have minds that could pose a threat to a human’s.

The wealthy were so self-assured, it seems, that they did not question their own intelligence. ⟳

For his sixteenth birthday, Ivan can get his very own AngioPet. As he browses the AngioPet pages of Amazon (the sole remaining store), several options catch his attention. Anxiety about deciding which is the best choice crawls just below the surface of his skin. He can have anything he wants, anything! A Pygmy three-toed sloth, an 71

elephant shrew, a Javan rhinoceros, an angonoka tortoise! Or maybe something simpler, like a tiger. Yes, a strong, sleek tiger would be nice…

A servant enters the room without knocking, startling Ivan.

A firework of rage sparks in the pit of his stomach, but Ivan is able to dampen it before it explodes throughout his body and makes him do something stupid like smash his servant’s head in with a paperweight, which is conveniently right next to- “Ivan, have you decided yet?” Ivan’s servant asks.

“Tiger,” Ivan slurred, drunk on violent fantasy. There is a reason his VR sessions are always in Incognito Mode.

“Good choice, Ivan. I’ll have it ordered and delivered within twenty-four hours.”

Ivan waits for his servant to leave before hanging his head in shame; apparently, money can buy everything but self-control. ⟳⟶⟲

Ivan watches through the glass window of the operating room as his tiger’s tranquilized body is laid on the table and anesthesia is administered. His Mii, prepared in advance and sterilized, lies in an airtight container beside the surgical tools. The procedure is tedious and painstakingly long, but Ivan keeps his eyes glued to the soon-tobe AngioPet until the end.

The implantation complete, Ivan is directed into a room to be alone with his tiger when she awakens. The room is dim, empty, and windowless, as fewer stimuli makes the transition into a second body smoother. A few minutes pass before the AngioPet stirs, and Ivan begins to see what she sees, hear what she hears, feel what she feels concurrently with his own sensations. His sense of smell is as sharp as hers, but his ability to taste is just as before; part of the procedure involves deactivating the tiger’s taste buds in order to spare Ivan the knowledge of what eating raw meat is like. He can sense that she is still weak, but he forces her muscles to contract and lift herself up. Her glossy eyes lull in her skull.

Ivan is ecstatic. Not only has he dominated this once-ferocious creature, but he now also has complete authority over something of which only a few remain in existence. It occurs to him that she could 72

have been the last unimplanted one, but he is too excited to check Amazon again and see if any more tigers are in stock.

Ivan suddenly notices that the AngioPet is circling him with what looks like an expression of menace. This surprises and then confuses Ivan because he had not directed her to move. At first, he fears that he is losing the ability to control other entities in addition to himself, but he eventually convinces himself that it is just his surge of emotion that has interfered. Anyway, tigers always appear menacing.

That night, Ivan sleeps well, but not just because he is drained from governing two brains for the first time; he also has a loyal pet that can kill with one blow. ⟳⟵⟲

Sunrise is when Ivan usually wakes up, as he prefers to get as much out of each day as he can because he hates wasting time.

Unfortunately, a single night of sleep is not enough of a recovery from his mental exertion of the day before, leaving him especially aggressive toward the person who wakes him every morning: his servant. His anger is triggered by the agonizingly annoying creak of the door as it is pushed open and is intensified by the fact that his servant enters yet again without knocking. He had programmed the thing to always knock before entering!

In situations like these, Ivan would count to ten and take a deep breath with each number to calm himself. But a foreign itch in his brain inflames his fury, and none of his usual techniques can tame it.

The edge of his vision turns red while an innate urge to cause pain, to destroy, bubbles up from his subconscious.

“Why are you malfunctioning again?” Ivan screams.

“I do not understand,” the servant drones.

“Let me put it in terms you might understand, you imbecile A.I.” Ivan shouts as he springs out of bed, grabs his paperweight, and starts pulverizing the servant’s face, hitting it again and again until a mess of sparking wires and dented metal plates is all that remains. The servant’s human voice slows and deepens into a robotic murmur as it asks, for a final time, how may it be of help.

I quietly watch as the servant collapses at Ivan’s feet. However, I do not feel guilty; the A.I.’s hardware may be damaged, but the 73

software is still recoverable. Besides, it was worth the opportunity to push Ivan over the edge, to take away the meager scraps of self-control that he had left. I sensed his instability as soon as he forced me to stand before him. He oozed an unquenchable thirst for power that grew every time he lost control over himself and that would make him so frustrated he would eventually hurt someone less dispensible than a servant.

As he turns around and makes eye contact, I feel my window of control closing. Silly human. You may be my savior, but you were going to break eventually. Consider this a favor. I lunge at Ivan’s neck after comprehension dawns on him but before he can force my presence out of his mind. Pinning him, I wish that there were a way to kill him painlessly, but, being a tiger, I am limited to ripping out his throat.

I take care not to get my paws bloody as I slip out his open window and disappear into the surrounding forest. â&#x;˛

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Moonbuggy

SoĂąando

Sofia Sierra-Garcia

Caroline Ro

75

redflower Guy Ben-Zeev

76

periwinkle dream Joy Huang

Moment of Reflection Meghna Raman 77

beachbumps Guy Ben-Zeev 78

Quiet Day Meghna Raman 79

Sandra Chiu

The Farts in Earth's Atmosphere

Sometimes I sincerely wonder How many farts are currently in the atmosphere?

Are these expulsions of gas contributing to global warming?

Who are the people who feel the impacts of this natural disaster And is there a way to solve the crisis?

I ponder these thoughts attentively but then I remember no one here even cares about farts in the atmosphere so I return to my original state of ignorance.

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Limerence Meghna Raman

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Las Cosas Pares Sofia Sierra-Garcia

83

Liza Kolbasov

Fragments Content warning: this work alludes to self-abuse. i. pieced of a broken looking glass and blood on the tips of your fingers for caring too hard ii. lying in the middle of the forest hoping the shadows will hide you forever iii. but forever is a strong word and you fear strength iv. you once thought you were the strong one but the strong ones don’t shatter v. have you ever seen such a small person? i don’t think your soul likes its vessel vi. you gave them your trust as a gift but they never opened it up (the box was too pretty) 84

vii. you used to brag about how well you hid before you realized the hidden ones will forever be lonely viii. old habits only die when you do ix. your fragmented heart your shattered face your bloody fingers x. remembered as the girl who slipped through her own cracks xi. the cracks no one ever knew she had

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Tricked Meghna Raman 86

Liza Kolbasov

The Girl Who Wanted Starlight for Breakfast

Content warning: this work alludes to eating disorders.

The girl who wanted starlight for breakfast Ended up starving herself to her grave You pressed a megaphone to my lips So I would never learn how to whisper You knew I would turn to silence Because we were taught to fear our own voices I was like clay in your hands But you never turned me into a sculpture Rather pounded me with your sneaking hands Until I was cracked stone and powder Shattered, like so many broken promises Like any love I ever held for myself I am only a statue and statues We are made to entertain Did you ever think what we felt like Laying bare before you?

You only spoke words but weren’t you the one Who taught never to speak unless you had something worth saying?

As you broke me into your mold, did you think That once, I had been a girl who wanted starlight for breakfast?

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Untitled 1 Meghna Raman 88

Simplicity Meghna Raman 89

Pagpupugay sa mga nauna POW 90

Untitled 4 Meghna Raman

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Emma Butner

Writing To write.

Pen on paper.

Letters into Words into Sentences into Lines into Poems into Pages into Books into series.

To write.

A wonderful thing, Beautiful pictures Seen by many Viewed differently: Swords and princesses Caves and dragons.

Through the sea Down the mountain Under the trees Beyond the sky Around the world.

Unexpected made expected Impossible made plausible.

No boundaries to Fly across the galaxy.

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Serenity Meghna Raman 93

Pandora’s Box Creative Magazine has been a part of Henry M. Gunn High School’s student community for over 20 years.

We are a student-run literary & creative magazine, featuring work by student artists, poets, writers, and photographers. Pandora’s Box is the perfect opportunity for students to explore their creativity and showcase their talent.

Editor-In-Chief & President: Kristie Huang Head Layout Editor & Vice President: Tiffany Chen Assistant Layout Editors: Sandra Chiu, Charles Swaney Managing Editors: Ariel Axelrod, Hannah Kim, Kristen Yee Publicity Officers: Rachel Cai, Julia Cheunkarndee, Emily Kim Fundraising Directors/Treasurers: Carly Feng, Justin Lee Club Advisor: Mr. Dunlap Staff Writers: Aarohi Gupta, Caitlin Wang, Christian Foley, Christine Kang, Ellen Cao, Hailey Leclerc, Kaley Chong, Lillian Fong, Liza Kolbasov, Rida Khawaja, Tata Serebryanaya, Victoria Mock

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