Pandora's Box Spring 2021

PA ND OR A’ S

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Pandora’s Box Creative Magazine spring 2021

Cover Photo: Tranquil Canyon Taken in Arizona, 12/26/19 Fiona Li

T

he past year has been unexpected, to say the least. It’s been full of ups and downs, many hard times as well as good ones. As we’ve moved through fall and winter, returning to spring, and as life slowly returns to “normal,” I hope this issue of Pandora’s Box stands as an example of how we’ve leaned on art and creativity during hard times: this issue, and the work featured in it, is a product of all the highs and lows we’ve experienced during the pandemic.

From stunning landscapes to stories of soccer practice, the works featured in this issue truly capture both the big and the small moments of life, the good ones and the bad ones. One of the things I’ve always loved most about Pandora’s Box is getting to see so many of my classmates’ creations and the heart they put into them. During a year in which it was so easy to feel isolated, their art reminds us of our connections to each other, and of the life all around us.

Every year, we have our officer team to thank for their hard work, but this year, even more so: I’m grateful to them for pushing through, even in such a strange, difficult year. I’m especially thankful for Aarohi, my Vice President, and Mr. Dunlap, our club advisor. They’ve given me invaluable advice and guidance as we navigated virtual clubs together. I’m incredibly grateful for the four years I’ve gotten to be part of Pandora’s Box, and for all the art I’ve been able to share with the Gunn community along the way.

As you dive into our Spring 2021 issue, I hope you find inspiration and connection, and remember that even as the end of the pandemic is in sight, so many stories are just beginning.

Yours, Lillian Fong Editor-in-Chief 1

Table of Contents Photography Untitled

peach Untitled 2 peach Saccharine Daze AV Untitled Emily Yu Dark Days Jessica Wang Extensions AV Remote AV Canyon Window F.L. Portal to the Sky F.L. Sunset on the 210 Jessica Wang Tranquil Canyon Fiona Li The Great Escape Jessica Wang

Art

untitled Untitled Grove Untitled Profile Demain Chair Portrait

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peach Nimisha Sivaraman Angela Zhou peach Emma Emma Emma Emma

5 8 14 15 19 30 31 36 37 42 60 72

4 6 18 38 52 53 64 65

Poetry

Ghost Feet Nightingale At Peace Anika Seshadri Windows AV 21, the light Jessica Wang Little green songbird Anika Seshadri The Thoughts in My Head Archith Seshadri The Great Annihilation* Archith Seshadri

7 12 32 40 50 54 62

Prose

Relationships Are Like Phones Sophia Zhang Laments of a Winger Anika Seshadri Not Any Better* Chania Rene-Corail Madrielle Daisy Dimapilis Scenes From a Breakout Room Jessica Wang The Beauties of Last Spring Jessica Wang When Love is Lost* Arjun Shah Mandarin Ducks Sarah Siemsgluess Who Lives In My Memories* S.H. Two Birds, One Stone The Prose Train

9 16 20 24 34 41 43 46 56 66

*Content warning: includes mentions of death and/or violence

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untitled peach

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Untitled peach

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Untitled Nimisha Sivaraman

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Ghost Feet Nightingale This is the forest of intrusion, Where under every step, the dark and thorny tangle of the forest floor Shatters her footsteps Until she can no longer walk.

Where before every step, the branches and vines and weeds Extend their disgustingly needy arms.

She breaks them, quiet and wrathful As she walks with her ghost feet.

Look, translucent girl!

The trees are standing sentient.

What are you so angry for?

The thorns are far below, Covered in a sea of soft leaves.

What are you so angry for?

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untitled 2 peach

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Relationships are like Phones Sophia Zhang When I was in 6th grade, I got my first phone.

It was a small thing, but the perfect size for me. It fit in the small palms of my hands and the small pockets of my jeans.

It was an older brand, but I loved it more for that because it made it modest and humble.

In short, it was perfect.

I had it for three years.

In 8th grade, my phone started smoking up while charging, and my parents immediately disposed of it. My perfect phone had broken, and I hadn’t even realized.

The next day, they got me a new phone—this time, of the newest model.

I hated it.

It was too big for my hands, it couldn’t fit in my pockets, and it was too flashy, like it had something important to say. Worst of all, it was flashy and arrogant.

I hated it.

I wanted my old phone back, though, I knew I was being ridiculous. The new phone was faster, better, and had more to give. In almost every way possible, it was an upgrade from my old, broken phone. But I didn’t want it.

I didn’t want the new phone because it wasn’t my old phone. It wasn’t the phone I had spent three years of my life with.

And really, that seemed to make all the difference.

Because somehow, in those three years, I had formed a bond with my old phone, so much so that it made an imprint on my heart I couldn’t erase with a simple replacement—no matter how much faster or bigger or better it was.

In an almost foolish way, I couldn’t let go. And I began to realize that I had treated my phone like a person, 9

and formed a relationship with it that I couldn’t forsaken, no matter how much better the “replacement” is.

I realized my phone is like my friendships.

I meet someone new, and through time and effort and patience, they become my most reliable person, the one I always go to, the one that sticks with me through the thick and thin of life.

And then, slowly, silently, things start to change. The sand slips through my fingers until suddenly, they’re no longer my most reliable person, they’re no longer the one I always go to, and they get further and further away until I realize holding on would hurt more than letting go.

And initially, because of the time spent together on the lazy days or the sad days, because of the hidden moments and the loud moments and happy moments and the moments I can’t ever forget, because it’s them —I can’t bring myself to give it up.

But I do, because I have to. Because it would hurt more to ask them to come back than to leave things the way they are and ruin those same moments that made me want to stay.

I still use the same phone from 8th grade.

I eventually learned to appreciate my new phone in the same ways, in the same way I grew to appreciate new people, and let them be my support just like I had with others before them.

It has served me well for the past three years.

A few weeks ago though, my phone started acting up. Not like my old phone had, but similar in that I hadn’t realized it was getting old until it was too late.

I talked with my dad. We tried our best, but we couldn’t fix it, and my dad warned me, “You might be due for a replacement.”

I didn’t want to, because once again, the last three years had meant something to me, and it was melancholic to have to say goodbye. But this time, I dutifully nodded, because just like my old phone had, this phone was dying, and there was nothing I could do.

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Like a pattern repeating over and over again, things will change that are too far from my reach to prevent, and though initially I may be sad, I know it’s ok to let go.

Sometimes, it’s for the best.

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At Peace Anika Seshadri The lotus perches on the rippling tides.

Its arms lap up the droplets from the trees, from the once thundering sky plop in the center, and playfully trickle down the leaves.

It’s center bright like the sun, burning in its effulgent glory.

It seems the source of the flower’s pride, but the petals are a different story.

They do not stand tall.

They do not have the flushed complexion that they should, of a childish blush.

Instead, they are bruised, like an apple plummeting to the ground.

Just beautiful enough to be remembered, but too broken to be found.

The lotus, limp on the surface, carried away by the flow.

While being bashed by the elements: bitter sheets of snow,

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sweltering summer humidity, rain thundering from the sky, pebbles crash against it, as the current goes awry.

It tries to stand tall.

It tries to have the flushed complexion that they should, of a childish blush.

But the lotus, scraped and scalded, petals splintered and shrunk.

Gave way to the tension, as the flower willingly sunk.

Gliding down to the riverbed, its burdens failed to cease.

The lotus laid not in cowardice, but as a survivor, finally at peace.

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Saccharine Daze AV

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Untitled Emily Yu

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Laments of a Winger Anika Seshadri

I always thought soccer was so simple, that all you had to know was how to run, kick, and a few skills to evade pressure.

When I joined my new team, I realized this wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg, but rather a snowflake perched atop. For all I knew, I could have been playing badminton my whole life for the number of positional tactics I’ve had to learn. Thankfully, I have gotten better. According to my coach I have improved from “embarrassingly abominable” to “slightly terrible”. While I know that my coaches have extensive knowledge in the game and Ishould trust their expertise, a lot of the work seems impossible to match their titanic expectations. My coach goes absolutely ballistic over pinching in on the weak side so, after months of begging and pleading, I finally decided to start paying attention to what he was saying. It was quite a rough beginning. For starters, soccer is a game that possesses a sense of fluidity to it. There are not as many stops, which does not fare well for me because of the extreme physical trauma that comes with playing winger. As I was learning positional play, these are (and I cannot stress this enough) realistic encounters between my coach and me.

My coach: Pinch in! Pinch in!

Ok. This seems easy enough.

But, once the ball has moved inches away.

My coach: What are you doing!

You just told me to go there!

My coach: Now go here! ... wait, no go back! Go back! GO BACK! Now, this doesn’t even include making decoy runs.

When your team is attacking, wingers usually make decoy runs to either 1) draw defenders away from the ball or 2) did you think I was going to say “to get the ball”? I wish. In simple terms, a decoy run is an excru16

ciating sacrifice where wingers decide to stop playing soccer for 30 seconds and run a 100-meter sprint. That way, not only do the defenders cease to pay attention to the player on the ball but, begin to question their existence when they realize that they do in fact have to join you on the track in order to cover the ground they missed while they were fixing their ponytail.

Also, at our age, the ball almost never gets switched to the other side. So, you are either 1) running to the point where your arteries might explode at any moment, and your feet are abounded from handling the ball 10 times a minute, leaving you to crawl off the field a maladroit mess. Or 2) having the exact same outcome, except with the ball on the other side of the field for half an hour. Overall, this tedious work is necessary in order to be in the right position to win the ball or receive a pass. After scampering around the field your body is physically shutting down until your legs quiver and lungs are enveloped in fire. Your hard work is finally rewarded by the opponent’s stray pass rolling to your feet, leaving only 4 words to be (secretly) said, “nevermind, take it back.”

While soccer can leave you wanting to dig your own grave, the moments that prevent you from practicing make you realize why it’s worth it. Injury, of all those moments, is the absolute worst. All you can do is sit and watch as your teammates scamper around the field while you have to sit on the bench with a wrap and an ice burn. Not only does your body refuse to comply and rehabilitate itself, but deceives you as well. You take your time and wait in repose until the pain is almost undetectable, but your body has other plans. In a span of seconds, you’ve either reinjured the same mangled appendage or better yet, the other one as well. Extending your vacation on the sidelines from 3 weeks to 2 months. However, after pining to play, your willingness and appreciation for the physical aspect of the game increase, making you not tolerate the sprints required, but rather enjoy them.

That is, until you go back to making decoy runs.

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Grove Angela Zhou

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Dark Days Jessica Wang

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Not Any Better Chania Rene-Corail

A few weeks ago, I received a pretty weird text from a friend —let’s call her Laura. I talked to her pretty often, most of the time to discuss the latest gossip and drama going on at our schools. Nothing important. She always texted me about, you know, who was dating whom, if it was going to last and what people thought of it. Teenage stuff. Well, this day, the message said something along the lines of: “Girl, be careful, Americans are all cray-cray.”

Wow. What a nice way to start a conversation.

Still, I have to admit, coming from her, that kind of text did not surprise me. Laura had been born and raised in France and did not seem to know a lot about other cultures. To put it simply, she had no filter. I had tried to talk to her about some things that she said that could be offensive or hurtful, but every time I said something, she would get upset. So, one day, I just stopped trying.

I had known Laura for about seven years. We had met at a friend’s birthday party in second grade and she seemed approachable. You know the kind, short blond girl with glasses, a bit shy but still friendly, does great at school, and so forth.

Our personalities were pretty similar, but on the outside, it was a completely different story. Our eyes, our hair, our skin… We could not have been more different.

Laura is definitely one of my closest friends. I miss her a lot and try to call her as much as possible since I moved. And don’t get me wrong, she’s not racist, just a bit insensitive. Ish. She’s a good person overall. Doesn’t stop her from being obnoxious.

It lowkey bothered me that my French friends always focused on the BAD things that happened in the U.S., like capital punishment and such. I mean, all my American friends see France as this perfect, beautiful and progressive country. And 20

it’s really not! Sure, France is nice but not THAT progressive.

A lot of crappy things happen there too. For starters, there are so many protests. Sometimes peaceful, sometimes not. And not always for a good cause. One of them, for example, was to keep gay marriage from becoming legal. Honestly, racism, sexism and homophobia are sometimes so present that you can almost feel the tension and the hate floating around you. You just don’t know about it because literally no one in France will admit that their country is flawed. I’ll give this to Laura: guns and the death penalty suck. Still, it doesn’t mean that everything in America is bad.

I put my phone down. I really did not want to answer her text. Why would she send a message like this? What kind of person does this?

After a few minutes, I decided to be a good friend and hear what she had to say. I thought my message through, trying to find the right words. I typed really slowly. Maybe to delay the moment I’d have to start this discussion. I knew that, no matter what, I was going to spark a debate about how France is not better than the U.S. Anyways, I replied something like: “Dude, what do you mean?” I heard my phone buzz. She had answered immediately. I froze as I read the message. Horrible. Terrifying.

She said “Girl, a white policeman shot an innocent black man like seven times.”

Dang.

Now, you might ask “Did you not know about police brutality? How did you not know about police brutality? Have you lived in a cave your whole life?” The thing is, I did know about it. I just never wanted to admit that it was not a myth, that it was real. For thirteen years, I pushed away the idea that people could be killed because their skin was a bit darker. I pushed away the idea that stuff like this could happen to people who looked like me. But, one day, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

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I will always remember the first time I actually heard about police brutality against Blacks. About four months before I got that text. May 25th of 2020. An event that affected the world.

George Floyd’s murder. I heard some people wanted to make his death look like legitimate defense. That’s bullshit. And I’m weighing my words.

Yes, George Floyd was murdered. Kneeling on someone’s neck for eight minutes means deliberately killing them.

When I learned he had died, I had just finished my homework. I heard my mother gasp. Don Lemon was on TV. I actually liked his show. I found him pretty funny. However, this day, none of what he said would make me laugh.

I looked at the TV. I put my hand on my chest. Shivers ran through my body as I stood there, unable to look away from the television. My heart felt heavy, as if something kept pushing it down. I wanted to throw up. Shocking. Disgusting. I had felt lost, sad, or even angry before. But this was new. It was like watching a horror movie but, instead of being funny and stupid, it was actually scary. This horrible thing was a reality. I couldn’t act as if it didn’t exist. For the first time in my short life, I was genuinely afraid.

Of course, this wasn’t my first time dealing with racism.

Heck! Now that I think about it, when living in France, I experienced racism a bunch of times. It just didn’t occur to me that something was wrong since it seems to be the norm there. My mother wearing a fancy leather purse with her initials on it always surprised my classmates. But, believe it or not, I can’t recall a single time when a white kid got asked if the Louis Vuitton bag their mom wore was a counterfeit.

Systemic racism is everywhere in France. In the United States, I can actually relate to actors, journalists, singers, models, writers and so much more. However, even if I think really hard I can only give you the names of three singers, one journalist and one actor who actually got famous in France while being black. And let’s just say that the French Twitter community wasn’t too happy about the latest Miss France being 22

black.

The white adults I interacted with were often teachers or doctors. The black people I knew worked essential but often lower paying jobs. The high-paying job always seemed to go to white people and I don’t believe it to be due to a lack of will, effort or intelligence from Blacks.

I had tried for years to prove to my classmates that this system was flawed but they always thought I was exaggerating things.

One day, a boy from my class came up to me and asked me what my average grade was. The answer was pretty darn high. His eyes opened wide and he told me: “Wow! I didn’t think you’d be this smart! With such high grades, you might even become an assistant in a doctor’s office or something.”

I frowned and furrowed my eyebrows. I’m definitely not the most educated person when it comes to racism but this still didn’t feel like a compliment.

“Could I be the doctor?” I asked.

He laughed before telling me not to get cocky.

What a jerk.

And, of course, my friends did not find it too offending when I told them about it.

As I said before, I didn’t have a lot of black celebrities to look up to when I lived in France. There weren’t many shows about black families either. Yes, we had Everybody Hates Chris and My Wife and Kids. And I like both these shows. But I can say confidently that the latter got streamed in France mostly because it did not trigger matters that were too sensitive. As for the former, it isn’t that well known.

Now let me tell you about one of my favorite shows. A show that is produced by ABC. A show whose actors deserve all the recognition in the world. We’re talking, for example, Tracee Ellis Ross, Daveed Diggs and even Marsai Martin, the youngest executive producer in the history of Hollywood.

Black-ish 23

A show that never made its appearance on French television even though it is absolutely amazing and everyone should watch it at least once in their lives.

Why is it not famous in France?

Because it attacks racism and sexism by showing a rich, educated black family. By showing a mother who is also a doctor. It shows that systemic racism/sexism is a thing. It shows that jokes can be racist, sexist or homophobic. It therefore shows that France, this “perfect, beautiful and progressive” country can be a place where racism takes place.

This seems to be the French people’s secret shame. They hide their own problems and point their fingers at other countries instead of trying to better their society.

Hopefully, this will give some people a reality check.

So, what did we learn? Racism sucks. Some people in France are racist. Some people in the U.S. are racist. What can we do about it? I wouldn’t know. Discrimination has been going on for centuries, and it won’t stop just because a teenager wrote a memoir about it. I still hold on to the naive hope that, one day, my generation will change the world. Maybe we should all write memoirs everytime we get a text from a friend.

Sincerely, A black teenage girl trying to change the world.

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Madrielle Daisy Dimapilis

At the gate, I could see the front door was wide open. The yellow light from her living room flooded out to the midnight sky.

Although I had a mask on, it didn’t feel right to walk in. I wouldn’t think twice before this plague, but the last time I saw her was last July.

The July of 2019 was spent like every other. Walking around Main Street, participating in street events that blocked traffic, tasting brand-new kinds of alcohol, going to the boardwalk, partying, and many other joys.

My loathing of this present moment made me freeze.

Freeze and shudder.

My eyes were fixated on the dark flat-screen TV until it nnbecame a blur.

I heard footsteps coming down from the stairwell followed by a dainty yawn.

My heart kick-started.

And my tongue slowly transformed into sandpaper.

“Hey there,” she submerged with a smile, “long time no see!”

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There was a long silence after that. The ambulance’s sirens sadistically soothed me as it zoomed past her house. My short, black hair flew in the cruel and cool wind like a single raven’s wing flying south for the winter¹.

Her lip quivered. I knew that she felt my pain, but couldn’t pin-point the cause.

Speak, old friend! Speak! I could hear her mind howl.

But I couldn’t! All I could do was pant and cry.

She crossed her arms, tilted her head.

“I don’t know what the hell is….heh, get into the nhouse.”

Miraculously, I walked into her house without pulling a muscle.

Everything that I saw as I walked in, made me feel like the whole past three months were nothing but a Virtual Reality horror game.

The viridian chalkboard with nothing on it, except the piece of white chalk placed strategically in the middle of the tin ledge. The black Kit-Kat clock ticks with its constantly eye-rolling. The scent of Cherry Chapstick flew into the air.

Floors that were slippery on the hottest day of the year.

“I can’t live at my place anymore,” I declared.

She turned her head over her shoulder and sucked some Show Orchid off her bottom lip.

“Wha?” 26 ¹ Scientifically inaccurate

“That house you showed me right after high school…you know that place.”

“They finally fined you for squandering?” she rubbed off some mascara.

I shook my head.

“Look at your hand,” I scolded, “Why are you wearing make-up at midnight?”

I could sense her worry. She was right, but I felt far from comfortable to tell her the whole story. My lack of comfort made me wanna change the topic.

“Does all of this,” she gesticulated, “have to do with your mom?”

She sniffed the air haughty.

“I’m going to bed,” she descended up the stairs, “You know, I always have extra clothes upstairs in the bathroom.”

“Our friendship,” I panted.

She poured milk into my bowl of toasted rice cereal.

As she screwed the top onto the jug, she purred, “Is what?”

“I dunno,” I said, “It’s so dream-like, so unreal, so, so ethereal…”

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She leaned back, and looked into my eyes. All four of our eyes were tearing up.

I enjoyed my cereal soggy like some kind of freak. The evening rain dripping over my head and into the bowl actually brought a nice, new tang.

“I didn’t really like my house, anyways,” I groaned, “I’ve always dreamt of living at your place.”

“But why are you crying,” she raised her left eyebrow, “And questioning our friendship?”

“It has nothing to do with my mom.” I lied, “It has to do with this extremely, extremely weird and strangely traumatizing dream I had last night.”

“About what?”

“I dunno. But ‘Baby’ Justin Bieber was in it.” I said.

“Like the song?” she laughed, “Why were you..who did he kill?”

“Yeah, but he killed no one,” I chuckled back, “He just pulled recently hung convicts and stuffed their heads with feathers.

And...poof! The heads came back to life.”

She pulled a newspaper under her rump. It wasn’t an entire newspaper, just the weather section.

“Cool!” she abruptly exclaimed.

“Cool, what?” I mumbled.

She swished the page to me.

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“Look!” she pointed.

I spotted an advertisement talking about a screening of Edward Scissorhands at the local drive-thru theater.

I hate that movie, I thought, It brainwashed my mother! It subconsciously told my mom to abandon me! God, don’t tell me anything about it, don’t, just don’t!

“I don’t see anything,” I raised my arms, “The rain is making the paper soggy! Therefore very incomprehensible!”

“There’s a meteor shower tonight!” she beamed, “that’ll get your mom off your mind!”

“Yeah,” I put on a fake smile, “it will.”

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Extensions AV

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Remote AV

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Windows AV

I woke up one startling morning With the sun hitting my eyes.

And yet, I lay there, blinded, With no energy to try.

Getting up meant hours of working, Filled with overwhelming stress; The deadlines all competing As each night I get less rest.

It was strange to have my best friends All back home, so close once more; But we were stuck with voice calls, Doubting what these calls were for.

There was nothing new to say now, So the phones went silent, still.

We all turned to our own devices For our loneliness we couldn’t fill.

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As the quarantine progressed, Day by day, and week by week, I began to miss my friends so Once again, we started to speak.

We played board games over Zoom calls, Went to bed at two or three, The late lighting so abysmal But we were glowing, charged with glee.

I could hear the birds were chirping, The stars had vanished from the night; The trees were more than outlines As my window filled with light.

It may have been past two or three For by then, it’s hard to tell.

But it reminded me that stars Must also say farewell.

These times are new, we must adapt.

Who knows what happens next?

So let us not forget our friends, When all we need is send a text.

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Scenes from a Breakout Room Jessica Wang

Bare stage, no props. Three students stand in a row, heads poking through square cardboard cut-outs. DAN has pajama pants sticking out the bottom; EMMA is wearing jeans; and RUPERT is just in underwear. MAESTRA enters.

MAESTRA: Scarlett? Are you there?

Silence. Three students look awkward.

MAESTRA: Scarlett? ¿Estás con nosotros?

EMMA: She hasn’t really been participating.

DAN: Yeah, she just keeps her camera off and doesn’t say anything.

A beat. SCARLETT wanders on stage, a black square of cardboard labeled “SCARLETT B.” covering her face. She drags a bed with her and proceeds to recline on it.

SCARLETT: Yeah? Maestra? I’m here.

MAESTRA: Is it possible for you to turn your camera on?

SCARLETT: Oh, no puedo, I’m having WiFi issues. You know, my connection? It’s not very good.

SCARLETT begins to apply nail polish to her pinky finger.

MAESTRA: Okay, but I need you guys to be participating.

That’s why we have the breakout rooms. Okay, Scarlett?

RUPERT (aside): Is there a way I can break out of this room?

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MAESTRA (loudly): Rupert, I can’t hear you. YOU’RE MUTED! The four students wince.

RUPERT: Oh, I was just saying maybe she can participate by staying unmuted. Unless her connection is that bad.

MAESTRA: Excelente idea. Scarlett, can you do that?

SCARLETT: HUH? WHAT DID YOU SAY? I CAN’T HEAR YOU VERY WELL. MAESTRA: CAN YOU STAY UNMUTED? Four students wince.

SCARLETT: Oh yeah, sure I can do that.

MAESTRA: Guay. I need you to be participating, okay? This is for the discussion so you can learn and have interaction.

RUPERT (aside): Oh, is that what they’re saying now?

SCARLETT (unconvincingly): Oh yeah, por supuesto, Maestra.

MAESTRA: Vale.

MAESTRA exits.

EMMA: Alright, let’s get back to the project.

SCARLETT farts loudly. Silence.

SCARLETT: Know what? Maybe I’ll just mute myself.

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Canyon Window F.L.

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Portal To The Sky F.L.

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Untitled peach

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21, the light Jessica Wang

dark days march into a dark abyss silent clocks spheres of light screaming screens hazy dream

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The Beauties Of Last Spring Jessica Wang

They’re all around the same age: three years old.

Just Joey fell over the other day. He is rather unstable, but he still thrives. He hasn’t begun to show his colors yet, but he will. It’s only a matter of time.

Queen Elizabeth arches toward the sun. She is tall, proud, and regal. She is hearty. She is the most healthy of the five, and quite photogenic.

Legends is exuberant. I love his deep color. He is in need of trim, but we like to see him in full glory. He’s such a striking color anyway; one can’t get too much of it.

Strike It Rich doesn’t look alive from far away, but close up, he’s still doing okay. He’s short and squat and a little needy.

He’ll snag you to demand more attention. But he knows he’s majestic—though not as majestic as Legends.

Blue Girl is my favorite. She’s delicate and beautiful, recently recovering her dignity from a trim. She’s actually alarmingly skinny; we should remember to feed her more. Plus, she’s always thirsty. The others drink up her water and only leave her a few drops.

The family’s in high bloom this spring.

—Dedicated to the two we lost

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Sunset on the 210 Jessica Wang

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When Love is Lost Arjun Shah

His mother stood at the edge of the Ganges, her hair flowing solemnly in the wind. He stepped forward, the icy water attacking, sinking its teeth into his feet and reminding him frequently that he wasn’t entirely numb; that part of him still hurt and that an even smaller part still loved.

He watched her, careful not to wander too close. The box hung precariously in her wide arms, accented with drawings of deities, their fierce expressions contrasting awkwardly with the plain face that his mother wore. He remembered when he had first come to the Ghanghes at the age of seven. He had remarked to his parents that the holiest place on earth seemed to be filled, no, overflowing with garbage. They hadn’t paid any attention to his words and scolded him when his frail 7-year old body splashed around in the water, rejoicing, while women in colorful saris held wooden boxes and conducted silent prayers.

She had put a bright red powder on her scalp, painted the tips of her fingers a vibrant orange color, and hung all of her gold on crooked wrists. It was rare that she would get the opportunity to stand in the very blood of her country, one that she had said goodbye to many years earlier along with a slew of relatives, friends, and memories that had begged her to stay. Her own son had only recently grown to love the land that had birthed him, sometimes she thought that it was only recently that he had learned to love her.

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In the distance, she watched as men leaned against a metallic bridge with yellow paint chipping off. Fresh out ofthe coal mines, they smoked cigarettes, their ashes falling slowly into the river under them. They talked of cricket, politics, wives who they complained were bad cooks and sons who went out too much and studied too little. Sometimes, they would bring fried bread and eat hastily as they watched the sun descend over the solemn widows and garbage heaps.

As she observed them, she turned to her own son and held out her hand, her orange fingertips extended towards him. After pausing for a moment, unsure of whether to accept he took her hand and joined her in the knee-deep water. The cold pricked at his feet and legs, and he stared at the water as small gusts of wind caused miniature tidal waves that lapped calmly against the shore. Without warning, she put his hand against the box and instructed him to close his eyes.

He obliged, and for a moment she was silent. Suddenly, like an orchestral swell, she began to recite a deep and rhythmic chant. He tried to follow along, but the incantations stored inflections that he couldn’t quite muster. She transitioned to a smooth but somber melodic tone. Though he didn’t understand the lyrics, he knew it was about love that had been lost, reduced to mere ashes in a harsh and swirling sea. Tears began to line his sun-stained cheeks and he wished that she would cease her melancholic singing. But despite his desires, she continued, and he began to think of the moments that he had with his father, moments that were now mere flashes of emotion that filled his heart and caused it to sink deep into his chest.

He remembered the black mustache that so often adorned his father’s face and the smile that he wore sparingly, but when he did, he seemed to light up the entire room. The two of them had once spent an entire evening together

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practicing multiplication tables when he was in the 1st grade.

Whenever he would get a wrong answer his father would smack him with a newspaper, telling him that in India they would do it with a ruler. But when he succeeded, his father would smile unapologetically and tell all the other Indian families about his son’s accomplishments.

His mother had finished her ballad and now stood next to him not saying anything at all. Without communication, but somehow knowing that now was the right time, they both lowered the box and carefully undid the metal clasp. Immediately, ashes flowed out of the box and grazed his fingers.

For a moment he wanted so badly to cling to it and hold onto his father; he wanted to apologize for all of the things that hadn’t been said, and time that hadn’t been spent. But it was time to let go, so he allowed his father to be free, knowing that one day he would see him again.

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Mandarin Ducks Sarah Siemsgluess “Oh, how charming! They look almost real.”

With delight, Gwyneth admired the two wooden ducks that sat perched on the mantelpiece. Each duck had been hand-carved skillfully, with a softly curved neck and feathers etched intricately into the wood. The glossy mahogany pieces were painted with vivid oranges and soft reds and creamy whites. The ducks gazed at each other with uncanny warmth.

Diana Wong smiled, “My husband and I had them specially commissioned for our wedding. Mandarin ducks have a special significance in China, you know. Like swans, they only have one mate for life, so for thousands of years, they were regarded as symbols of lifelong love and happiness in marriage. ” “That’s very romantic. Now that I look at them, they do rather look like lovers.”

“Would you like some more coffee?” Diana asked.

“Thanks, that would be nice.” After Diana had left the room, Gwyneth half-rose from her chair, hesitating. She walked over to the mantelpiece and stood there, silent. The ducks looked at each other with a private and mysterious warmth that eluded her. She tremulously stretched out her hand toward the mantelpiece.

“Here’s your coffee.” Gwyneth started, whirling around to see Diana setting a cup down. Reading Diana’s expression, Gwyneth drew her hand back from the ledge as if bitten.

Gwyneth opened her mouth but no words came out. Finally, she managed, “I’m very sorry.”

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“Don’t be. It was nice of you to drop by. A very neighborly gesture.”

Before Gwyneth left, unceremoniously exiled, she took another glance at the pair of ducks. They continued to gaze at each other in a quiet reverie. Gwyneth put on her coat. With a probing glance, she said goodbye to Diana.

Diana stood in the doorway for a few seconds before returning to the sitting room. She strode across the room, straight to the mantelpiece, and looked at the ducks for a moment. She then very deliberately picked up the duck on the right, and turned it. The chip was there, as always. The ducks were identical but for this flaw, a small dent in one duck’s right wing. This was easily hidden by turning the flawed duck’s right wing away from view, nevertheless, it bothered Diana.

Diana sometimes wondered if the chip had always been there, without her noticing it. Treacherously, she would tell herself that it had been there when she received the ducks, and that she, flurried by all the wedding preparations, had simply not seen it. But she dismissed the idea as quickly as it came.

She caressed the dent carefully before setting the duck down, turning the flaw out of view.

Not daring to turn her head, she dashed out of the room. Settling down into her armchair, he looked dourly at the two cups of coffee she now had to drink. Diana thought aloud, “I’d better send Gwyneth an apology. How silly to get worked up over a little carving. Oh, why can’t I forget about the whole thing?” She found her favorite recording (Karajan) of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D, Op. 35, hitting play.

As the first movement began to swell, gloriously resounding through the room, she was struck by the sound of sheer beauty. It shot the stupid ducks out of her mind with its splendor, taking over her senses. Entranced, she wondered as she had 47

every time she heard the concerto that something of such profound exultance and mournfulness and tension and spiritual transcendence could exist in this world. When it ended, the sense of reverie stayed within her.

Vaguely cognizant that she should return her books to the library before it closed, she stepped out of the house, leaving indentations for footsteps in the snowy driveway as she dreamily meandered through the neighborhood. As the chill seeped into her, the euphoria dissipated. Her steps quickened.

As she walked about the neighborhood, she noticed a chalky pink grin drawn crudely on the sidewalk. She smiled slightly and continued, past the snow-dusted park and the row of shops, all aglow with lights.

Stepping into the expansive library, her eyes rested on the shelves upon shelves of musty tomes that held centuries of wisdom. The library was silent, punctuated only by the susurration of paper and the periodic tone produced by barcode scanners at the checkout station. Diana finished her errand. As she made as to leave the library, she passed the children’s and teen’s section. A flood of laughter and snippets of conversation darted into her vicinity. The hushed voices rising occasionally in delight brought to mind the violin concerto. Exiting the library, Diana found herself recalling those ascending notes, flying and slipping and resolutely clawing their way to the apex of sublimity, then flitting in feats of technical and artistic brilliance, to be joined by the rest of the orchestra in euphonic majesty. Diana returned home. With a strange fluidity, Diana approached the ducks at the mantelpiece. She looked at them for a moment before pulling out her phone. Her husband picked up the phone on the second ring. “Hello, Diana.”

She spoke to Bohai evenly, filling the silence with what needed to be said. For, as Diana explained, there was a chip on the duck’s wing and it was there even when she did not see it. She felt it in her. She could not deny its existence. Bohai 48

listened and then spoke haltingly. As he continued, the words flowed easily. They spoke at length and at the end of conversation she freely told him she loved him.

The phone call emptied Diana of words. Yet at the same time, it filled her. For the first night in a month, Diana slept peacefully. The sky was dark when she woke up, but her mind was restful. Some odd compulsion drew her to the living room. She strode across the room, straight to the mantelpiece, and looked at the ducks for a moment. She then very deliberately picked up the duck on the right, and turned it. The chip was there, as always. For the first time, she smiled at seeing it.

In the night, her mandarin duck was all shades of blue.

It was cool in her hands. Smooth, like rain running down her fingers. Looking at it under the glow of the moon, she felt the stirrings of something strange and new. And she wondered if the starry-eyed ducks were perhaps not gazing at each other at all, but at the vast realm of possibility. For as she looked at her perfectly imperfect mandarin duck, she saw in its eyes a dreaminess which called to her that there were places to explore, adventures to be had, and dreams to discover in the infinite skies above.

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Little Green Songbird Anika Seshadri

“Do you believe in reincarnation?”

Her emerald eyes peered deep into mine.

I scoffed, amused by a confidence I could only describe as remarkable.

“No. It doesn’t exist—” “I want to become a songbird,” she whispered so faintly she could be mistaken for the crisp breeze.

Dragging my hand, she pulled me down the undiscovered trail all the while singing her favorite song.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, You make me happy when skies are grey.”

Her sweet voice cascaded through the canyon.

The frolicking river below seemed to drum a base and left my heart thumping to the beat of her playful steps.

We spent an eternity entwined with sweet words, delicate smiles, and blissful memories.

Leaping over the flames and obstacles with hands entwined because we had each other, and that was enough.

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But I still noticed how her auburn hair was overtaken by wisps of white; the fiery green in her eyes had dulled to a cool grey. She grew weaker and weaker until her gleaming flame snuffed out.

She was gone.

This was the first morning I woke up without her.

I reached across the bed to embrace her, and was met with cool empty sheets.

I lingered on the stairs, our picture frames following me down.

Flooding me with mental polaroids of the way she walked, the way she laughed, and most importantly, the way she sang.

I slowly sank into my arm chair, its bright yellow arms embracing me.

My body heaved and ached with sorrow as I let the anguish overcome me.

I looked outside the window as the sun peeked through the clouds.

The trees in our yard were alive, but barren. Our whole house was void of life.

Suddenly I heard the flutter of a bird, precariously perched atop the branches of our fig tree.

As a familiar tune filled the air I let out a wavering sigh and my grief trickled down the sides of my aging cheeks. As I observed the bird once more, flitting its effulgent emerald feathers, the notes it chirped made my heart swell.

The sides of my wrinkled mouth lifted into a grateful smile, and I softly finished the song I knew all too well. “You’ll never know dear, how much I love you, Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

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Profile Emma

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Demain Emma

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The Thoughts in My Head Archith Seshadri The thoughts in my head Circle around my mind like a rocket, racing to each star in the universe With vigor and exuberance— reaching for eternity.

A beautiful creation.

A fire in a dark cave.

A light at the end of the tunnel.

When these thoughts roam my mind, I become free.

Floating in an ever-changing reality of imagination.

Yet why is freedom accompanied by suffocation?

Trapped with the thoughts of destruction.

Dejection.

Death.

So as my mind wanders, entering this bottomless abyss.

At times I ponder whether I should restrict.

Should I stop?

Hinder my imagination?

Put chains on my train of thought?

Or let it journey on?

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Reaping the consequences of freedom, if there is such a thing.

My consciousness deciphers between the two, and yet in choice I never know which.

Do I bask in the comfort of prudence, or let freedom leave me bewitched?

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Who Lives In My Memories S.H. September 2019 The aura around us felt tangible, like a heavy blanket that had settled over all of our shoulders, insistent and demanding. I followed my parent’s lead as we walked into the church. All of us wore black. I felt small compared to my surrounding family. The rows of wooden benches were empty, but invisible people were sitting there gazing upon us.

I felt their gaze upon my back making me feel self-conscious as we continued toward the inevitable truth. We were drawing near too fast, too fast, like my worry of forgetting him. I didn’t want to see it—I didn’t want to see him.

Still we advanced, drawing closer and closer. My breath seemed to stick in my throat, my heartbeat erratic, but I kept pace with my family. We finally reached the casket, made of cheap wood so that we wouldn’t have to spend too much, with Halbuzie laying there.

A stillness crept over everyone in the room, it rendered even my silent breathing too loud. My eyes seemed glued to what was in front of me, to the familiar face, and I tried to take in every detail, to comprehend what was in front of me.

My eyes swept over his body, so still, so lifeless now.

The grey pallor of his skin contrasted the dark blue of his suit.

His face was plain, missing his usual gold-rimmed glasses that he had a hard time seeing without. Something felt off, like the usual presence of him was not there. Uncomfortable in my own skin, I felt an itchy, prickling sensation of disbelief.

His expression was calm. It wasn’t until after that I realized the beauty of that moment. He was finally able to be at peace, and would never have to wake up from his everlasting dream.

I wanted to memorize the way he looked so I would never forget him.

I could feel the absence of someone I loved, and that 56

absence seemed to drag down on me, like I was stuck in water with weights strapped to my ankles. I think it hit the kids then—my sister, my cousins, and I—that he was really gone. Our sturdy rock in a roaring ocean called life was gone.

Nathan, my cousin, started to shake silently and his hands covered his face. Tears pricked my own eyes, but I begged myself to save them for later.

Halmonie, my grandmother, moved closer. She placed her gentle hands on Halbuzie’s unmoving form. Although I could barely speak any Korean, I was thankful to at least be able to understand some. I would never forget the words Halmonie spoke to Halbuzie.

We were standing around the casket continuing to just look upon Halbuzie. This was not going to be enough to see him for the last time.

“Jib-e ga,” let’s go home now, Halmonie said to him, while fixing up his tie, like she always did. Uh oh, I thought, here come the waterworks.

December 2015 I was little again, and eating with my family and grandparents on both sides.

“Let me pay,” Halbuzie argued.

“No! You paid last time,” Grandpa Bill replied, reaching to pull out his wallet.

“But we’re in Toronto! You can pay when we go to Ottawa,” Halbuzie said, gesturing with his hands.

They were going back and forth—bickering like children over who was going to pay for the meal. Siena, my sister, and I were laughing at them. Every single time we went to eat, Halbuzie would always try to pay for the meal. It was meant to show the love he had for us.

“Oh, it’s okay, we can decide later,” Daddy stated, attempting to get the grandparents to settle down. I smiled, wanting to see who was going to win.

Food came and we all dug in. My grandparents on both sides were eating with my family because we were all in Toronto 57

at the same time. Toronto was where Halmonie and Halbuzie, my grandparents on my mom’s side, lived. Grandpa Bill and Grandma Joy were visiting from Ottawa.

“What’s so funny?” Grandpa Bill suddenly asked, startling me. I looked up from my mouth-watering food to see Halbuzie grinning like a maniac. I wanted to know too. He was smiling so wickedly and chuckling.

“I already paid,” he finally confessed. I burst into laughter, unable to stay silent.

It was such a Halbuzie thing to do.

“Il-eona jib-e gaja.” Wake up, let’s go home. Halmonie said a little louder, gripping Halbuzie’s hand. I felt my heart beat a little faster, not wanting to hear what was going to be said next. It was good then that none of the other kids would understand her.

December 2014 My head was buried in the crack between the couch cushions.

I wished everyone would shut up. The world was getting too loud, and I felt like I was drowning in the noise. I didn’t understand how my family could stand this. The arguing, shouting, calling each other bad names, and for what? To prove their point? To win the argument? It was pointless, and yet they wouldn’t stop. I was crying, I could taste the salt in my mouth. The wetness against my cheeks that I tried hard to hide. My frustration and anger because they wouldn’t stop arguing. Wasn’t family supposed to always be there for you? Why weren’t they there for me now? I was drowning in it and all I wanted was for someone to comfort me. Tell me it’s okay.

I jumped as a gentle warm hand pressed against my back, thinking someone must be wondering why I was crying. They might make me talk, then they’ll know I was crying. But the hand just patted my back, created a rhythm I could breathe to. I concentrated on the hand, and let it comfort me, soothe me. Thank you, Mommy, I thought. Because it must be my mom right? She must be the one comforting me.

“What are you doing? Stop fighting,” a deep voice 58

commanded. The hand at my back continued to ground me, and I turned my head, looking to see where Halbuzie’s voice was coming from. It took me a little while to recognize he was the one reassuring me. That it was his hand that gave me what I needed, the comfort and reassurance. I wanted to thank him, to tell him that I wouldn’t forget his warm hand on my back, consoling me while I cried. I never did.

“Wae il-eona?! Jib-e ga.” Why aren’t you waking up?!

Let’s go home. She slapped his chest lightly, in an effort to wake him. I was crying by now. Silent tears trickled down my face as I watched the scene in front of me. I wish he could come home again too, I wanted to say. I already miss him. We watched as Halmonie fell to the floor in front of us, weeping for her husband. I felt empty, we all felt empty, like a dinner party where the host was missing. It was a fragment of what could have been whole.

There are so many memories I wish I could have bottled up, kept for myself to look back upon. When we learned of his cancer, my mom made sure every time we saw him we hugged him and told him we missed him. I’m so glad she always made us do that because I don’t know what would have happened otherwise.

Some nights, I stare at my ceiling, wishing I could see his face. Hair streaked with grey and gold rimmed glasses staring back at me. I’m terrified that the time will come that I’m unable to picture his face and my memories will start to fade. But for now, I am content.

I see his face and I smile. I imagine the smile he had when he knew he was able to pay for the meal. The hand against my back.

An empty body, with its soul waiting to reunite with his loved ones again.

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Tranquil Canyon Fiona Li

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The Great Annihilation Archith Seshardri

The air smelled of suspicion, yet nobody dared to acknowledge.

The inability to take action, Or oblivious is what they called it.

But before the rumbling commenced, there was a slight detail.

One that even me, a little japanese boy could unveil.

I stared through the window expecting hell to unleash.

Instead a crescendo, emanating anything but peace.

The floor started to shake, the walls thundered with power.

With a force that would make, any mortal being cower Cracks in the floor spread, dust rose from the ground.

An explosion sounded from above, unleashing a deafening sound.

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My father came to me, anxiety enveloped his face.

As we felt the earth, shift out of place.

We stared in each others eyes, knowing it may be our last time together.

The roof then subdued to the force, and we were trapped there forever.

My father was still, his body lifeless and at peace.

Tears streamed from my eyes, hoping the trouble would cease.

I slowly crawled along, my head drooping to the floor.

The truth overwhelming me, like no force had done before.

A man walked up to me, his clothes enveloped in dust.

His glasses cracked on both sides, a man I could entrust.

He saw my sorrow.

“Are you okay?” he said “My family is gone,” I replied.

“And Hiroshima is dead.”

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Chair Emma

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Portrait Emma

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Two Birds, One Stone The Prose Train

Lys absolutely hated birds. Despised every single species there was with unmatched loathing. So, of course, one would blatantly poop on her head right as she was about to approach Connor.

If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought it was aiming for her.

It seemed as if the universe kept targeting her, reminding her again and again of what she’d done. At the time, she hadn’t deemed what she’d done to have such an impact, but as the inconveniences built up, the nagging in the back of her mind was growing to a shrieking, like a volley of those very birds.

This was supposed to be her making amends; Connor—she hoped—would understand, would help make her understand.

For, what was the point of this blaming of her if not a reminder of human nature being prone to elaboration and gratification simultaneously, as well as its ability to forgive.

Her steps regained vigor, and glaring at the sky at that stupid black raven, she pulled out a wipe and cleaned off her jacket.

Turning back towards Connor, who still hadn’t noticed her, she hoped her plan wouldn’t fail her as it had before.

She walked towards him, but just as she arrived, the school bell rang, and a tidal wave of students pushed them apart.

That bird must have been aiming for her.

She stumbled into history, her jacket still smelling of bird poop and Lysol, her mind replaying the scene from two weeks 66

ago over and over. She could still hear his shocked voice saying, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” . . .

Two birds, one stone. An idiom Lys lived by, both because of her desire to finish any task as quickly as possible, and because she often wished she could throw rocks at the pesky fowl that constantly threatened to ruin her day. That idiom was what always led her to look for the quickest way out, the easiest corner to cut, and the ways to turn her many problems into one.

Unfortunately, the quickest method wasn’t always the best, and racing to the finish inevitably meant shoving people aside along the way. Lys learned that the hard way.

For so many years, she had raced to the finish out of fear of getting left behind. Only now did she turn back around and see all the people she had hurt, scattered along her path of careless destruction.

Her thoughts brought her back to that day, the day that it had all gone down. She remembered the deep blue sky, the chirping of birds, the feeling of the sun on her skin.

The bright atmosphere hadn’t jibed with her feelings, however. As she’d walked towards Connor’s locker, she’d felt slightly apprehensive. She supposed this jumbled worry was partly a reflection of Connor’s own behavior recently—he had been skittish, quiet, withdrawn.

So although she only intended to borrow some notes from Connor’s locker, Lys wondered if she mightn’t hit another bird with this stone, this opportunity. Perhaps in looking in his locker, she might not only acquire the notes, but also a clue to Connor’s erratic behavior… something indicating why he was so unhappy. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely her business, but maybe she could help.

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Two birds, one stone… the notes for tomorrow’s test and a possible clue to Connor’s behavior, all packaged neatly in the opportunity of searching his locker. Lys wasn’t one to pass this up.

The notes she was looking for sat on the top shelf, right where she knew they’d be. (Connor had given her his combo and she had given him his, as a sign of mutual trust.) She quickly pulled them out and scanned the rest of the locker. Everything seemed normal, except for— A crumpled piece of fancy stationery lying at the bottom of Connor’s otherwise neat locker caught her eye. After a moment’s hesitation, Lys picked it up and tucked it into her arms along with the notes.

“Lys?” At the sound of Connor’s voice, she spun around, eyes wide.

His face was flushed, brows creased together. They made eye contact.

She quickly broke it, willing herself to act natural. “hhhhhhEeYY.” His eyebrows stayed raised.

“I, erm, I was just, you know, the notes.” She pointed frantically with her left hand at the jumble of assorted papers tucked under her armpit. “For, erm, the test. Yea, the test. I needed them and you weren’t around, so I just… took them?”

Connor sighed. “Lys... What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s not like you’ll need them anyways, so why not, right?” She knew her words were harsh, and she let out a little laugh as she stuffed the notes in her bag.

“Just because I won’t need them doesn’t mean you can have them.”

Connor reached for her bag but Lys quickly swung it out of reach.

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They both knew each other wanted that little piece of fancy stationery, though neither was willing to say it outright to the other.

“I’ll give them back when I’m finished.” Lys tried for a more relaxed tone, thinking to herself, Well, I’ll give the notes back. But not the other one.

“All of them, okay?” Connor tried to keep desperation out of his voice.

“I only took one,” said Lys, forcing a smile. “I’ll see you around, okay?” She pushed past Connor to get to her next class, trying to ignore the skeptical look on his face. Once she was settled in her seat, she opened up the crumpled piece of stationery, searching for answers.

It was a letter from a Mr. Will Nguyen, addressed from the psychiatric ward of St. Clarence Hospital. Will Nguyen… Lys sat up with a gasp, the name jogging something in her memory. That was Connor’s father—Connor’s father, who was supposed to be dead.

Lys quickly folded the letter as soon as she realized, knowing it wasn’t any of her business. Nevertheless, a small voice inside her persisted, urging her to open the crumpled piece of paper. She told herself that she would just glance at it when she noticed her name written across the recipient line in a neat cursive handwriting. Now, Lys wasn’t one to deal with confrontation or drama of any sort, but this might just be her yearly exception. After all, she was technically part of it, since the letter was addressed to her anyway. She took a shaky breath, and continued reading.

It seemed to be a desperate plea, written in frantic handwriting, begging Connor to let him out.

“Please Connor, you know me, please, I swear I’m not crazy,” it read.

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It took Lys a little longer than it should have to recognize her own address transcribed in the note. Fingers like ice swept down her back, and she couldn’t shake the sensation that something was terribly wrong. The note asked Connor to go to her address and ask for a woman named Mrs. Laney—Lys’s mom.

There was a section at the bottom addressed to Lys’s mom, and Lys couldn’t resist the temptation.

“Laney, I know it’s been a while, but I want you to tell them the truth, please, I don’t have much longer.” - Will. . . .

Two birds, one stone. The principle had never let Lys down before, but now she was the bird, the victim instead of the villain, the chosen instead of the chooser, and her hands were empty. No. Her fingers closed around the scrap of stationery in her pocket. She had always been good at taking action; now, it was time to do it on behalf of someone who felt powerless: herself. It was time to write a letter. She was the chooser, and her choice would be her apology.

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About The Prose Train The Prose Train is a collaborative story-telling project where each participant writes 2-15 sentences. We connect writers to produce short stories that are a tribute to the creativity and minds of 10+ different writers. To learn more about how we’re amplifying literary voices or to join, visit theprosetrain.com.

Writers (in chronological order) Irene Tsen Helena Surwillo Troy Woodley Eileen Hung Kelson Cantrell Amann S. Mahajan Lillian Fong Joel the Great Nessa Kmetec Fiona Li Carly Liao Diya Sophie Hahn Jane Fairfax

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Reaching Through The Fence

The Great Escape Jessica Wang

Climbing Over The Wall

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Peeking Around The Corner

Running

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Spring 2021 Staff & Contributors Editor-in-Chief: Lillian Fong Vice President: Aarohi Gupta Layout Officers: Katie Kudriavstev, Sarah Siemsgluess, Nikki Suzani Publicity Officers: Katie Kudriavstev, Nikki Suzani Managing Officer: Sarah Siemsgluess Club Advisor: Mr. Dunlap Rotational Layout Members: Julia Kang, Fiona Li, Nimisha Sivaraman

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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 and creative magazine, featuring work by student artists, poets, writers, and photographers. Pandora’s Box provides an outlet for students to explore their creativity and showcase their talent.

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