Pandora's Box Spring 2020

PA ND OR A’ S

Pandora’s Box Creative Magazine spring 2020

Cover Photo: WORK 1 Marek Hertzler

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his issue comes at a time of unprecedented change synonymous to the vast changes that result from the transition from winter to spring. With these unforeseen obstacles that have arisen with the coming of spring, new forms of creativity and human spirit have blossomed. In the same way winter frost melts leaving behind new buds that will eventually grow to be new homes for awakening life, the challenges will fade and what will remain is the powerful solidarity and trust with which mankind stood by each other during these difficult times.

The Spring 2020 issue, with dedication and hard work put in by our team, has grown into a beautiful culmination and reflection of the creativity and spirit of the Gunn community. It is a reminder of how we together as a community rose to the occasion and through collaboration, allowed imagination and inventiveness to prevail during trying times. This issue contains nearly a 100 pages of photography, art, and writing, surpassing the breadth of our previous release. Thank you to our contributors for bravely sharing your works and in doing so, planting new seeds of inspiration that will flower into sources of strength and ingenuity.

As my time at Pandora’s Box comes to an end, I would like to express my endless gratitude for our officer team for their dedication and passion. A very special thank you to our Vice President, Liza, and our advisor, Mr. Dunlap, for their immense support and insight and being the best Vice President and advisor an Editor-in-Chief could ask for.

And my best wishes and thanks extend to you, reader, for supporting Pandora’s Box and allowing the ever-growing garden that is the Pandora’s Box legacy, to flourish.

Yours, Rida Khawaja Editor-in-Chief

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Table of Contents* Photography

WORK 2 Marek Hertzler

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WORK 3 Marek Hertzler

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Star Trails Over My Backyard Binh-Minh Nguyen

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can’t fall asleep Tori Fong

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WORK 4 Marek Hertzler

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beautiful girl sitting Marek Hertzler

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maybe i should go Tori Fong

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WORK 5 Marek Hertzler

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September Milky Way Over Stanford Binh-Minh Nguyen

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pre/post goodbye Tori Fong

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sun down triptych Tori Fong

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WORK 6 Marek Hertzler

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*Content Warnings are placed at the top of pieces that may contain 4

strong language or potentially triggering content

Art

i miss the days when Tori Fong

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WORK 7 Marek Hertzler

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untitled Justin Chiao

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untitled 2 Justin Chiao

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split screen Tori Fong

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Skylight Jessica Wang

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Birdhouse Jessica Wang

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Long Shadows Jessica Wang

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Fountain Jessica Wang

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exrubo bhvty Justin Chiao

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untitled 3 Justin Chiao

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My sisters Nessa Kmetec

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Ă rbol que Ama Jessica Wang

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Water Wings AH

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THE MACHINE Audrey Tseng

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My Room AH

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Oscar

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AH

Poetry

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Your Remora Edgar Hsieh

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falling asleep in 180aqi Liza Kolbasov

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Change yourself r. mistry

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There was a zoo Clair Koo

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Wishes of a fisher Clair Koo

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The Summer George Cai

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And then she was gone Sydney Cook

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Prose Tidepool Jessica Zang

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Satin Masks Jessica Wang

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After Everything Lillian Fong

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Shore

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Jessica Zang

Boy at the Beach Sarah Siemsgluess

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Lilac Space Jessica Zang

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The Wilting of Wysteria Vincent Lomeland

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Who I Am Michael Xu

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Stranger Wuffy

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Death of a Spaceman Zev Goldhaber-Gordon

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My Midnight Thoughts Michael Xu

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Your Remora Edgar Hsieh

I’m your Remora if you really care Attached underneath where you do not know.

Residing with your winsome, hearty flair Fulfills Remora’s heart and makes it grow.

The ripples emanating from your tail Of life’s kinesis and your silver grace.

Adore, adnate—to you great shark or whale You spare me from a bad day’s probing taste.

But do you know Remora’s greatest dream?

Your dark eyes someday meeting mine. My dear— I weep. Those teardrops washed away, not seen I hope to give in return—why, my flair!

Alas, I offer none to you above But still a nickname: sucker—for your love.

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Tidepool Jessica Zang

Each tidepool contains her own world, little critters skittering about and seaweed drifting lazily as crabs collect rocks and pebbles. The tidepools are untainted, their clear water thin and silky, making soft ripples as you run your hand through them. The critters disappear, probably peering up at you underneath curved rock and hanging moss. The rocks are slippery under your bare feet as you stand up and take it all in: the sky, cotton-spun clouds streaking a periwinkle blanket; the sea, mighty foam carrying the smell of sea salt ashore; and, most beautiful of all, the reflection of the tide pools, shining like amethyst gemstones, arrogant, strikingly beautiful. Each oblong tidepool mirrors the sky, yet holds a tiny world of life underneath its satiny surface.

Even when you close your eyes, the vision doesn’t escape: your lone figure, surrounded by hundreds of celestial mirrors and the plentiful ecosystem that lies beneath. The amethyst taunts you: you’ll never be as beautiful as me.

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falling asleep in 180aqi Liza Kolbasov squirrels rest in creases of road, die like sleeping. slip-like. fall among leaves— the way you know autumn’s coming. curl in, like fainting. faint-like. exhaustion fills lungs with lead. with the breath of november. inhale bruised blood. is it fog or smoke this morning? cpr like poison. poised-like. ghosts slipping their fingers between your teeth, between threads of your sweater, soft line of neck under scarf, under collar bones, into the gaps of spine—you are all but bone. like pieces. peace-like. like. on the corner, man leans on hood of car, idling. smokes a cigarette. & smoke curls to fog curls to fingers creeping. like breathing. breath-like. not. you see, he is looking for peace like around him, november coughs withering leaves. dying, squirrel-like.

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WORK 2 Marek Hertzler 15

Content Warning

Change yourself r. mistry

Just fucking do it !

Your hair is a renewable resource Buzz that shit off or dye it blue or pink or green Even red if you wanna Sharpie in your blood is better than lines on your skin Put a hole in your nose if you want to I know a girl who’ll do it for ten bucks It’s okay to care but If you want to not care, if you want to free yourself from whatever shit you go through, that’s also okay why drown when you can take some action on Something; at least do(!) something To be honest with you, both are okay and your appearance is otherworldly and I will love you No matter what

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WORK 3 Marek Hertzler 17

There was a zoo Clair Koo There once was a duck who ran from the zoo.

Waddle waddle Waddle waddle It flew over the fence, Tripped on a bottle, And boy, did it sense, That it had stepped in a batch of poo.

There once was a rhino who smashed through the zoo Crash crash Crash crash Saw a ghost, Did a dash, Took down post, And scared the lights out of a gnu.

There once was a monkey who ate at the zoo Munch munch Munch munch There was a stand, Which had a bunch, Of yummy fruits at hand, But also a shoe or two.

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There was a kid who went to this zoo Yippee yippee Yippee yippee He jumped with joy Of the animals he’ll see And of course, this boy, Took me to see this chaos, too.

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Wishes of a fisher Clair Koo Wishes of a fisher If all I had Were three magic wishes I’d be quite a lad Drowning myself in riches First I’d wish for a car The Ferrari LaFerrari And drive it like a star Got a ticket? Sorry not sorry Second I’d wish for a mansion The Witanhurst in London, Get it underway for expansion Still not big enough? I’ll ask for a dozen.

Lastly I’d wish for money Maybe a hundred billion Wow I’m so lucky I’d be drowning myself in millions.

But this would only be true If I had myself three wishes

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These kinds of things don’t accrue For now, I’ll go find myself some fishes

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Satin Masks Jessica Wang

They all sunk into bows like cards folding down the line.

There was a breath.

And then the musicians began to saw at their instruments with zeal.

At once, the ballroom burst into color as dresses swirled in iridescent shades of oil.

I searched their faces, but they whirled away, features blurring.

Her fingertips reached toward me for an instant, and then she spun away to the discordant harmony. I was left with her face seared in my mind, familiar but foreign at the same time. In moments, the memory faded.

Gradually, the color leached out of their silks, until they were all drab grey. Not a single dancer stood out.

How was it beautiful?

A dancer rose above the masses, arms extended, eyes closed as if dreaming. As she fell, they twirled away, forming circles that blossomed outwards.

No one caught her.

As one, the dancers rose.

They closed ranks. The musicians continued seamlessly.

Everyone knew he was next. He stood apart singly, back straight.

They turned on him and watched, motionless, as he took his shot. All it took was a shot.

Ribbons of red spilled out as he folded over. They stood as stone statues while he fell to his knees. Their jagged maws stretched open in soundless laughter, leaning and towering

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over him.

They turned their backs.

Chords shattered the silence, and they continued dancing to a rhythm only they could hear, continued turning through the motions, heedless as their ranks fell.

I ran for the door, pursued by an entity with its mouth open in a stifled scream. My hand reached for the handle, pulling it open as sunlight spilled in.

The door shut behind me, silencing the rising chaotic symphony.

The uniformed danced on, hidden behind their satin masks.

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After Everything Lillian Fong

When everything was over, she went and sat at the edge of a cliff.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asked the wind.

Run wild, it replied. You’re free now, you can chase after nothing if you please.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asked the waves below her feet.

Continue, they said, whatever it is you need to finish. Explore the darkness. Be relentless; your work is never really done.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asked the sun as it set.

Move to the next day. And then the next, and the next. You have to move forward to get to tomorrow, to whatever comes next, it told her as it waved goodbye and sunk below the horizon.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asked the rocks at her feet, making her way down a path.

Be patient, they said, and steadfast. Change will come someday, though you might not notice its arrival.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asked the stars.

Maybe nothing, they said. But remember that guidance can come from the farthest places.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asked the mirror. “I can’t find my way on my own anymore.”

Desperate, confused tears ran down her face, but her reflection was brave as it answered.

“You give into yourself. To yourself, and not the rest of the world. Everything looks scary, but you listen to your own head and heart. You don’t need advice from the wind, waves, and stars.”

Her reflection paused, as if realizing she didn’t have to say any of what she just did.

“You have everything you need right with you. So what are you supposed to do now?

Just what you always have.”

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Star Trails Over My Backyard These images were taken in Gunn’s residential area and not some light pollution free place like the Mojave. Although our eyes can not see our night sky like that (a camera is needed to pull out those details in such a light polluted sky), it’s just a quick reminder that there are stars above us. Take a look up sometime. 25

can’t fall asleep Tori Fong 26

The Summer George Cai As the Blooming Spring draws to an end, The Summer Squirrels come out to play.

The blazing sun shines over the land, Warming the earth all through the day.

From the refreshing pools to the splashing waves, The cool, clear water is our best friend.

We enjoy the slides and the tropical caves, The summer seems to have no end.

Smoothies, shades, and sleepless nights The DJ plays music till dawn.

Vacations, adventures, and red eye flights What will we do when summer is gone?

Summer is the true time of freedom Without the restraints of School and Work With parties all night and days of fun Until the time when again Fall lurks

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Shore

Jessica Zang The sky is an angry gray, outlining dirty white clouds, jagged and bright. The sea is a crushed gray-blue, almost too dark to discern from black—but not quite. It reflects the sky, tainted foam spilling at its lips, intense and unafraid. Its deafening roar consumes you and you know, without even opening your eyes, that this world is enveloped in gray, no light peeking through dusky clouds. The rocks are dark and slick, waves shattering upon their shiny surface as if to break free of the angry water. Salt, laced with sorrow, travels into your senses, the smell of the melancholy sea, releasing violent sprays of ice-cold water into the oppressive air. Rock. Sky. Sea. The scene evokes flashes of memory, tears mixed with sorrow and anger. Waves crash, thunder strikes, the sky parts, and the rocks stand their ground. Then, everything fades to gray.

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WORK 4 Marek Hertzler

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beautiful girl sitting Marek Hertzler 31

Boy at the Beach Sarah Siemsgluess

The boy plants his flimsy red shovel into the sand and wanders off, swinging a matching red bucket in hand.

He leaves the shovel on the ground, a shovel so red that it screams with fury, with violent alarm, calling the boy back.

“Stop!”

But the boy has already turned away, and so the red does not scorch his eyes.

“Noah,” the boy’s mother calls, “Don’t go too far out.” His lower lip puffs out, and Noah takes another step toward the ocean, turning to see her expression. But she has already turned away, reclining in a folding chair. Noah’s eyes roam over the seashore, eventually fixing onto the ocean. The sea is in a particular mood. Some waves lash the shore with rage, some lazily, lovingly roll over the shore. He watches with interest and walks closer, close enough so that the sand is damp but still light and grainy in his hands. Then Noah kneels down and begins to work.

Painstakingly, dedicatedly, he pushes sand into the bucket, packing it firmly into the container with his fingers.

Then he flips it upside dowWhen he lifts up the bucket, ever so slowly, Noah sees a fortress emerge, green-grey in the sun. In the stubby mound of sand, the boy sees vivid flames blazing resplendently before him. He freezes. His face flushed with wonder, he crows in delight, “Mommy, mommy, look!”

“Mmmhmm,” she says, riffling through a magazine.

Noah admires his creation one final time before he runs to the water’s edge. The fortress lies ignored. After all, a sandcastle is so ordinary, so unexceptional at the beach, that it becomes part of the scenery to all but the ocean. Noah discovers a new game. He tiptoes closer, closter to the water 32

as wayward waves pull back into the ocean. The waves coil into themselves. They erupt, smashing against the shore, and chase Noah up the beach. He giggles, racing out of reach.

Noah plays this game of getting the ocean to chase after him several times. The ocean redoubles its efforts, and then the game is not a game. They fight each other with ferocity. He steps closer and closer to the sea, and the sea surges closer and closer to him. With a deafening roar, the waves forcefully, fervently hit Noah. He is swept under the waves. The chill of the waves shocks his skin, and he forgets how to move. Then the ocean ejects him violently onto the sand.

He sits on the sand, stunned, and rises tremulously.

Noah stumblingly makes his way back to safety, back to his mother. Exhausted, Noah sits down beside her. He is glad but astonished to find her sitting peacefully on her chair, oblivious to his breach of the rules, to the violently abrupt experience he has had. He falls onto the sand and sits there.

As the sun begins to set, the seaside starts to quiet down.

One person leaves the beach, and then two. Three.

Noah soon forgets about his fear, his horror, when he sees that his mother is stirring from her comfortable position on the folding chair. He tells himself repeatedly that nothing happened, see, his mother did not notice. He pushes the devastating power of the ocean into the recesses of his mind. Noah does not notice the way the sea air clings onto his clothing and skin, the way the wind carries sand into the roots of his hair, all the hollows of his body, and the spaces between his toes. Noah rises again, begins to hunt for treasure. Slate-grey pebbles, smooth like eggs, go into the bucket, as do glinting shards of sea glass and white fragments of shells. When his bucket is full, he trudges over to his mother.

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His mother has at this point finished her magazine.

She smiles at first to see him. As he comes closer, however, she frowns. His nose, his hands, his ears and hair are grey with sand. But then she is distracted by the contents of the crimson bucket he holds out. “Noah, sweetie, you can’t take the rocks home with us,” his mother tries.

Noah makes no move to empty his bucket. He gazes at her with pleading. After many minutes of coaxing, Noah is persuaded to leave the rocks behind. He empties the bucket as his mother watches.

Before they leave the beach, Noah glances at his mother. She is busy talking on the phone, folding her beach towel. He picks up a pebble and pockets it. His mother is still talking. Noah puts sea glass, bits of shells, everything that he can into his pockets. And then the memory of the waves come to him, coldly and violently. He takes the stones out of his pockets, setting them down. And he remembers that there is a red shovel still out there, waiting to be picked up. He bends over the shovel, pulling it tentatively out of the sand. Noah places it carefully in his bucket. When he leaves the beach, he smiles from ear to ear. His footsteps are light and joyful as he departs.

As the yolk-yellow sun goes farther down behind the horizon, the ocean makes its way, ever so slowly, up the beach. The sea is calm when it at last reaches the boy’s fortress. The ocean washes over it, and when it pulls back, the tower is gone.

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maybe i should go Tori Fong 36

Lilac Space Jessica Zang At first, all you see is the ocean of soft lavender, gentle as a baby’s breath, seeming to caress your cheeks and sing you to sleep. From far away, even before you see the marsh, you can smell it. The salt mixed in with the reeds and the color purple—from the lilacs—wafts into your nose, wild yet tame, making you close your eyes and unwind, muscles lose tension and heart beats slower. Then, you hear. The sounds of birds feathers rustling overhead and the old logs creaking and the pops of the bubbles in the marsh mumbling among themselves but most of all, the song of the lilacs, sweeping against each other in the slight breeze that is lifting you, carrying you back to a distant memory, and when you open your eyes, the color purple stretches ahead, neverending and vast.

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WORK 5 Marek Hertzler

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September Milky Way Over Stanford Binh-Minh Nguyen These images were taken in Gunn’s residential area and not some light pollution free place like the Mojave. Although our eyes can not see our night sky like that (a camera is needed to pull out those details in such a light polluted sky), it’s just a quick reminder 41 that there are stars above us. Take a look up sometime.

My sisters Nessa Kmetec 42

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And then she was gone Sydney Cook hope builds its’ sturdy tower foundation made of bubbling laughter lit-up amusement parks brag coasters violins hum with excitement and then she was gone time makes stone crack joy fades to a bleak nothing adrenaline loses its’ lively rush strings’ melodies turn sour and then she was gone it all comes crashing down emptiness carves a hollow pit the ability to live, forgotten only a cacophony of the past and then she was gone purpose is forged by the seeker scooped from their heart, mind & soul a body on autopilot a shell without content cannot find a handhold on its’ fall and then i was gone

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pre/post goodbye Tori Fong 45

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sun down triptych Tori Fong

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Ă rbol que Ama Jessica Wang

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WORK 6 Marek Hertzler

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i miss the days when Tori Fong

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Content Warning

The Wilting of Wysteria Vincent Lomeland His lips begin to twist, a tongue begins to tap.

“Emerson,” he whispers, secreting words like sap.

We have yet to join our hands, no, he floats above in space.

The seraph, the messiah, a näcken out of place.

Does he care to view my worldly wastes, or feel my fetid flesh?

Does he mean to tear apart my words akin to prose undressed?

I walk alone, crooked, cast aside.

Then, with arms untiring and eyes not fit to cry, He lifts me from the floor and decorates my sight.

His lips begin to twist, a tongue begins to tap.

“Emerson,” he says, beginning to love me back.

His eyes glow akin to gold, his flesh akin to light, Then he deigns to grasp me: a touch of foul delight.

He turns my face to nectar, I secrete the things of dreams, Bleeding out with wine and crying tears of cream.

Does he pause to send my thoughts to sleep or take my heart to bed?

Does he know I suffer dearly, underaged and underfed?

Does he know I scream his name at times unfit for art?

Does he know I lose my sight each day and replace it with words from my sweetheart?

His lips begin to twist, a tongue begins to slow.

“Emerson,” he says, speaking a language they’ll never know.

I hold him by the wings and scream for things I’ve yet to see, Thinking, unceasing, dreaming of exquisite catastrophe.

“I do not deserve your daughters nor do I deserve your son!

You’ve made me into something worth unending supplication.”

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What do others know of the world that I’ve made mine?

I wear the silks of the Olympians and defy the laws of time.

My head is pale perfection, unworried and untouched.

And memories of misfortune are merely fantasies I’ve clutched.

What do others speak of me when placed behind their shades?

Yet what does it matter to me, my love? They live lives most retrograde.

Without your voice, without your form, without your feathers to kiss, They walk in the tarnished streets of man, depraved, unsightly, unmissed.

His lips begin to twist, a tongue begins to slow.

“Emerson,” he says, calling to a voice no longer far below.

I walk alongside nymphs and the goddesses of yore, Yet I begin to see faults in things I’ve never observed before.

The men who walk on mortal grounds, they walk with crooked bends.

Mothers sing their kids to sleep as if to say “The End.” The working class falls victim to these vile and great machines.

Children write “Fuck you” on walls, corrupted and unclean.

What do my lover and I know of dirty mortal woes?

The life of human Emerson ended such a long time ago.

All I see is yellow, all I see is gold, And in my sleep, I whisper the words of prophets and scream prophecies untold.

Human life is fallow, human life is nothing but vapid streams Of Faustian degenerates, unceasing inexperience, deferred American dreams.

His lips begin to twist, a tongue begins to falter.

“Emerson,” he cries, falling victim to romantic slaughter.

Infancy, religious ecstasy, I dream of nothing but the best.

Whenever I lack sight, my lover fills in all the rest.

He hands me a pen, whereas he wields his bleach.

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And I dream of a world once far out of reach.

With intimate agony, lovely cacophonies, in a bath of heat and skin, We fix all those who walk so limply, weeping from within.

I douse the crooked men in fires that set aflame all that is unart.

I cut open their hollowed chests and jab arrows in their hearts.

The unholy educated, the out of reach, those who long for things unwed, Lose their hues and, through Midas’ touch, become fantasies instead.

They want what I have, they crave what he delivers, For aren’t we all but nothing when cast into exquisite embers?

His lips begin to twist, a tongue begins to falter.

“Emerson,” he cries, praying to my altar.

Our love is a metropolis built from blood and steel, And my hands are holding tools that even gods have yet to wield.

Above my head they hung the fateful sword of Damocles, While I dream of manic worship and man’s lost theophanies.

I scream out loud, in lust, with painted, sugared teeth, I wring my paper hands in fear, loving all that is pristine.

“I can’t bear to ruin your daughters nor do I wish to claim your sons, I am nothing but a cog meant to destroy the fated ugly ones!

They scream to me in sleep, at night, ripping metal down my seams, ‘What right have you, the madman, to tear apart our dreams?

To mutilate, to cut and paste, to conflagrate, The throes of love you wish to animate?’”

Phantasmagoria, utopia, Elysium, they come to me in sleep.

They fill my veins with ichor and turn my life to gory reveries.

Yet the fantasy, it claims me, turns all stone to dust.

The Grecian blade aims to exsanguinate, reddened with its rust.

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I see him take his elfin hand, extending it to tragic me, No longer starry-eyed, I touch my battered boyflesh and am set down on my knees.

Enervated, compensated, not the man from dreamt-up picture shows, He weeps to me and says that I existed far too long ago.

All I see is yellow, all I see is gold, My clouded eyes are painted over with daubs of sacrilegious mould.

It is here I ask my lover to reach inside my virgin head, To take my failed pink matter and make my inhuman visions dead.

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WORK 7 Marek Hertzler

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Water Wings AH

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Who I Am Michael Xu “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars” ~ Jack Kerouac.

When I am on my deathbed, breathing in my last breath, I want to be able to truthfully say that my life was meaningful, and that I had made a significant positive impact on the world.

I want to find my footprints on the dusty road that the world traverses through. If my life’s journey is to be snipped out of the video reel of history, I want my absence to be a noticeable void in the lives of my friends and family, for it would affirm that I played a key role in their happiness.

I did not emerge from the womb into the light just to wait 70 or so years, twiddling my thumb, before crawling to the darkness of the tomb. No, I plan on, to the best of my abilities, contributing to humanity’s glories, whether that be through taking leadership in a project, acting as a peacemaker in conflict situations, or even simply being a supportive friend for those facing tough times. If I decide to do something, I will follow all the way through with it until its completion.

After all, there is no point in painting only half of the Mona Lisa.

The clock is ticking. The sand is slowly, but inexorably, trickling through the hourglass. Every second that passes marks the closer arrival of the day I turn to dust. Under this mindset, I try to never waste time. But I wasn’t always like

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this. I used to squander my precious time on pushing away at buttons and chasing little balls of light on a screen. Until one day, I was overburdened with activities, and I was confronted with a fateful decision: do I sacrifice my gaming, or do I sacrifice my life? The choice was obvious. Now, having stopped gaming for a long time, I realize that I don’t miss it at all. It was merely a mindless habit – an obsolete, vestigial part of a time when I did not have my eyes set on the moon. I had an epiphany how pointless and trivial gaming is, and instead, how much value there is in family, friends, enriching academics and extracurriculars, and my true passion: contract bridge.

Although I occupy and challenge myself with the toughest classes that my school can offer, I don’t forfeit the growth of my body. Sports have always been a prominent aspect of my development. Basketball taught me that as long as I leave my heart on the court, I can out-work those who are naturally talented. Soccer taught me how to be a team player. From badminton, I cultivated a love for being physically fit, focused not on vanity – but rather, on the benefits like reduced risk of health problems, ability to protect friends and family from danger, and decreased stress.

When I first read the above quote, I disagreed strongly with what I perceived to be its message. I interpreted the “mad ones” as insane people, who are not reasonable in what they say and do. Of course I would not want to associate myself with people who don’t desire to be fair to other people.

However, I now think about how it applies to ME, how it relates to the way I live my life and not to other people.

Applying the quote, I am a “mad one”. I am “mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time”.

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THE MACHINE Audrey Tseng 64

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My Room AH

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Stranger Wuffy A land shaped of neither ice, fire, wind, earth, stone. A land where eleven suns roam the sky colored of old copper, a land where the moon is a dragon’s grave and the smooth gray of her elegant wasted wings spread across the starless sky.

It lies far beyond the edge of the world, beyond our sun, our moon, our stars. Few can reach it; it is the hidden land of our family.

There is no end to the ocean and no end to the sky.

They meet, at the horizon capturing the world in a snowglobe. Seasons do not visit this place in shifts; instead, the weather is a smooth blend of all four, choosing a cool wind at night and a warmer breeze during the day.

My small boat swishes placidly through the endlessly blue waves, the bright pink of the sail catching onto the warmer, gentler daytime breeze. There is nothing below me but endless briny water, and nothing above me except for the eleven suns, endlessly quarreling, and the aged sky.

Time doesn’t move here; never has, never will; has never stopped, has never started.

When my sailboat tows to shore, a desert of sand transitions from the docile waves, and buried beneath the shifting gold lie the treasures of the world. if you looked, you might find yours.

They are trinkets, mostly. Small earrings, watches, books. Pencils, pens, erasers, diaries, water bottles, binders, backpacks, even. They shift under the sand, yearning upwards every once in a while, peeking above the imprints of my footsteps. I don’t look back; none of them are mine, anyway.

Beyond the shoreline, darker trees line up, thrusting a forest of jackets, shirts, pants, shoes. Some of them are old and fad68

ed, threads rubbed away by an eon of movement. Others are more recent: here and there, a tag still floated on the breeze.

Houses line the island. Many are ghosts of what they once were, torn by gales, floods, and earthquakes. Boards fly and dangle, windows are empty and jagged. Rocks and branches line their marble and wood. A few are newer, and the faint scent of new paint wafts through the air. Black dirt lies in front of their porches, ready to become lawns.

Inside doors, both broken and glossy new, there are people.

The shadowed players, moving around, aimless, gray, immortal. Some of them are old, weathered by age and paled by everything they’ve seen. Younger ghosts roamed as well, their gazes just as empty. Trauma displayed themselves on many of the walking shades, Trauma displayed themselves over their bodies. A torn arm, a bruised neck, broken bones, spines, lives, and dreams. None of them see me.

Through the gray, a spot of black, obsidian black, violent shadow, dances in the fog. He is solid, a drawing with color, finished and vivid. Amber eyes framed by dark lashes sparkle on his young, handsome face. A fringe of dark bangs flies above his innocent gaze, and his long ponytail trails behind on the wind.

He waves at me, and comes closer. I count the three buttons trailing down the folded collar of his shirt. The creases from where he’s rolled up his shirt crackle with his movements. “Ah, hello, I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” He says, his voice a melodic ring in the echoing island. His smile is honest, as well, and cuts through the half-hearted fog.

He shines like a bright crescent moon on a dark night.

“I have,” I reply, “I’ve seen you before.” He seems confused, and he tilts his head.

“Really? Huh, that’s strange...but I guess it makes sense.” He gestures at the drab world around him with a hand. “Ever since I woke up here, I can’t seem to remember anything at all.”

“Who are you?”

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He shakes his head, almost as if he is embarrassed. “Yeah...I’ve forgotten that as well. But what about you? Who are you?” In turn, he directs the question back.

“That doesn’t matter.” I dismiss it with a wave of my manicured hand.

“Why?” “Because it doesn’t. Not here, at least.”

“If not here, then where? Are you another shadow, then?” He asks me, looking over my blond curls, blue eyes, and pink dress. “But you seem...alive. Not like the...others.” It seems like his words escape him like birds.

“I am. I’m alive. But why are you alive?” “...why shouldn’t I be alive?” He returns, a small crease between his eyebrows.

“Because the rest of this place isn’t.”

“Then what about you?”

“I’m different.”

“Can’t I be different as well?”

“You can’t be.”

“Why not?” He points out, “I’m alive, just like you.”

“Because you’re not.You’re not different, simply odd.”

I tell him. I turn around and walk away, my flats slapping sharply against the floor. His footsteps, soft and silent like a wolf’s gentle run, follow after me. “...why do you decide that?”

“Do you know who I am?” I ask. Those destined to live forever in the frozen immortality, lost to the world, are meant to linger permanently in their spells. His striking presence in this faded world is a painful ripple, a crease necessary to straighten out.

“No, you never told me.” He points out. “...then I won’t.” I take a deep breath. The conversation circles like a serpent, head to tail “Let’s start over. Why aren’t you faded?”

“How would I know?” His response is guarded. A vague thread of doubt darkens his eyes, a shadow I cannot throw away.

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“I suppose that’s true. Yet, fading away isn’t necessarily horrible.” I imply, “In this lonely world, no one will ever talk to you once I leave. You have no friends. You have no family.

You have no memories.” “...?” Confusion flits across his face. He’s guarded.

“The only thing you have left is thought: the thought of being alone, of living, a single candle, in the forever darkness. Wouldn’t it be better, if you just forgot?” I offer.

He reflects on the question, gazes at the final of the eleven suns scampering on their rooster legs over the horizon, the rusty blue fading to smooth black. The last rays leap in his deep, candle-colored eyes. “Because at least...I’m not in the dark.” He shrugs.

“And is that better? You’re only in more pain.”

“Well, I...guess it’s better.” He tracks the moon with one hand, its soft rays outlining him in spectral silver. “There are still...things tying me back. I don’t want to go.”

“What ‘things’?” I press.

“I can’t exactly tell...they’re very...fragile. Vague. Small things, like this.” He pulls an unpaired earring from his pocket, and a hair ornament as well. The earring is crafted of delicate ebony, with elegant designs and dark blue opals set sparingly against the black. The hair ornament is simple as well, straight and tapered, cut from the same wood, matching opals beading on gossamer silver chains. A single dragon’s scale, deep black swirled with cobalt and shimmering, is set on the longest chain. A mist of gentle darkness radiates from the jewels, drawing the brightness of the scale and opals out against the shade.

I reach out. He closes his hands and returns them to his pocket.

“Let me see.” “...I don’t know why, but I get the feeling you might... not give them back.” He says softly, “and they mean the world to me.”

“No, they don’t. They’re old pieces of wood and gems. I

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have prettier ones.”

“Does it matter?” “...fine, it doesn’t. But is that really all? You know that even when you’re faded, you’ll still see them?”

“I guess that’s true, but that’s not all, either.” He points to the barren moon and smiles sweetly again, his dark hair tossing in the evening breeze. “On the moon, you can see a…”

“Dragon. It’s a dead dragon.”

“A dragon, yes. She may be gone, but there’s something about her wings, stretching across the sky. There’s such an untold story there; I wonder how it ends.”

“It ended. A long time ago. Do you see its skeleton?

Cold and dry and gone. It has ended.”

“But her story might still be going on, right? What if there is still someone out there, someone who still thinks about the dragon in the sky? And even if no one out there exists, I still do. I like to think that at the very least, she’s still someone to stay alive for.” He tells me, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. It’s not for me. The dragon in the sky, its old bones and collapsed skeleton, it’s for her. It. Even in death, Irure’s influence does indeed stretch. I sigh.

“You’ve explored this island thoroughly, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I’ve explored it. Time doesn’t seem to flow properly here, except for the suns and moon, but I’ve seen all of this island: over and over.”

“There is nothing else here. There is no one else. No one here can finish the story. There is no way out of here, no way in, so you will forever be alone, just like the dragon of the moon.”

“You came here, didn’t you?” His gaze studies me intently, piercing like a blade. “I’ve never seen you before, and I’ve been everywhere on this island.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“I saw your boat,” He tells me, waving at the ocean. A spot of pink filters brightly through the boughs of the trees.

“It won’t last,” I point out, “No memory lasts long here,

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on this island.”

“I lasted this long.”

“Not much longer. You won’t. Just like the dragon’s grave and starless sky, you won’t. It ended, and you will, too.”

Anger escapes into my voice, flaring like the sudden bloom of a Morning Glory. “This is the island of those lost, and your presence, here, means you are lost as well.”

“How do I trust what you’re saying?” He defends, “As far as I know, somewhere, the dragon’s girl might roam a different sky. Somewhere, there is only one sun, and stars in the sky instead of the wings.” The waves from the ocean hiss, rising with his voice.

I don’t reply directly. He still remembers small stirrings of his past. I’ve never mentioned Irure’s young dragon, the girl of cobalt wings and the inheritor of his ‘prized’ jewels.

Despite the curses binding this land in time and history, he escapes the bonds and flaunts it without realizing it. Memories, rooted too deep, stand solid in his thoughts, seeding the future of a violent storm.

A storm that carries the potential to upheave my entire world.

Abruptly, I turn around. The dragon in the sky seems to look down on me, her empty eyes and collapsed bones gathering and waking up in my vision. He already knows too much; my trip is futile. Better leave before he sees more.

I turn around and run away.

“Hey! Where are you going? Who are you?” He calls out, starting after me. A cold wind has started to wail, pulling the curls from my hair.

I continue to run, retreating through the valleys of forgotten passion and mountains of broken hearts. The forest whips past me. I slip on the hiding sands, the lost treasures stirring beneath my feet. Finally, I leap into my boat and start pushing off, into the deep waters, somewhere I can leave.

He appears on the shore, panting. “Where are you going?” He repeats, “Who are you? Please, at least tell me that!”

I pause. I meet his desperate gaze. “I am Rita Majora, and I am going where you will never go. I am the god of this

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world, and you are my servant. You will stay here, and you will fade. Farewell, Arc, we will never meet again.” The wind catches my sails. The waves vanish, his amber gaze fading as well.

I wake.

The walls around me are covered in beautiful pink wallpaper with magenta swirls. The moon, a silent crescent, waltzes through the starry night sky, framed by my elegant window. I sit up in my bed, shift my nightgown a little farther up, and sigh. The plush, rosy satin sticks to my white skin.

“Sister?” Next to me, Kayla wakes up. She rubs her eyes, dark and star-dusted like the sheen of midnight. Her long black hair is a straight, tangled mess, weaving haphazardly across the pillows and covers. “Why are you up so late? And what is Arc?” “What did you hear?” I ask, faintly offended.

“I don’t know, you were talking in your sleep.” She admits, looking away.

“It was just a dream, darling,” I tell her soothingly.

“Now, go back to sleep. Arc is no one.” “...alright, then.” She lies back down and turns over, the moon traveling further overhead. Soon, she falls back to sleep, and I lie down as well. I pull the covers back up, and the world goes into silence.

“Rita Majora…” I muse, staring out at the ocean where she vanished. The waves call me, endless and black-blue, like a bruise. Should I have demanded to go on the boat? Is she speaking the truth? Is she lying? The dragon in the moon watches over me, her wings holding the sky. I look up, at her silver glow, and pull out the pretty ornaments I found years ago in the sand. They sparkle at me, stories hidden inside their gems.

I put them back in my pocket and zip it tightly, then glance at the moon-dragon again. Rita Majora said I was to stay here, fade here, and quietly vanish into another mindless ghost. She said that the dragon in the moon is gone, and so is

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her story.

There’s a gentle prick of ice against my feet; the ocean seemed to have climbed further up the golden sand, pulling treasures back along with it.

The water is hollow, and the air is cold.

And yet, Rita Majora, the blond girl with the pink dress, managed to row away on it.

For the next fifteen minutes or so, I stare at the dark water.

The cold of the water wraps further around my ankles, drawing the sand from underneath the soles of my shoes. In all the times I’ve visited the shore, I’ve never so much as played my hand across its waters. Slowly, I wade in. Ice crawls up my legs and sodden pants.

At waist deep, I look back, the island of all things lost looming behind me, shaded in the gray of used charcoal. The ends of my jacket float around me, tugging further out at the open water.

I dive in, the water black and cold around me. The gravel falls away underneath me, and I’m plummeting through the void, screaming without a sound.

Faintly, the luminescence of the dragon starts to fade, but before it vanishes, she raises her head and opens her eyes. Her gaze is black, midnight-sheened and deep.

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untitled Justin Chiao

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untitled 2 Justin Chiao

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split screen Tori Fong

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Skylight

A new view of Gunn

Birdhouse 80

Long Shadows

• Jessica Wang

Fountain

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Death of a Spaceman Zev Goldhaber-Gordon

Andrew wouldn’t have a good view of the earth for a

few hours, but he knew exactly what he would see once the International Space Station rotated away from the sun enough to provide a view of humanity’s home. He was split on whether he wanted one last look — the gravelly, monotone voice on the secure line from Houston, bereft of his handlers’ typical texan drawls, had made it clear that any clouds above the planet’s surface would already be of the mushroom variety. Perhaps it was better to be blind to the pain and suffering below.

Andrew watched Ivan from across the chamber. Ostensibly, today’s agenda was to expose a set of microbes to radiation in a vacuum as a favor to an old friend at the CDC. Andrew was supposed to be testing some of his own, but he couldn’t focus on anything but Ivan, who had paused to take a message of his own from the private Russian channel. Andrew knew what call Ivan was getting, and soon Ivan would know what the confidential call for Andrew had been. Not that it mattered, anyway, seeing as how neither of them could make it back down the gravity well without backup from the ground, not to mention both of them manning their stations.

As Ivan’s muscles tensed under his suit, Andrew whispered a word of apology under his breath. He’d chosen to go on this mission with the stolid cosmonaut, and had inexplicably grown to appreciate his wry irreverence, as day by day their limbo had dragged on. No matter. Houston had given him a job to do.

He hurled his test tube at the ground and it silently shattered, vacuum muffling its crash. Glass fragments floated lazily across the module, a school of fish in the open sea. If 82

only those fish weren’t dead by the billions, irradiated by the folly of man and the power of nature...

Ivan stepped forward, but couldn’t go too far; a single fragment puncturing his suit would mean a quick death by asphyxiation. His gloved hands fumbled with the intercom link, and his voice, incisive despite an accent thickened by uncharacteristic desperation, filled Andrew’s helmet.

“It does not have to be this way. I know what high command told you to do, and we both know the training we underwent, but it is of no relevance. I do not care that some apparatchik with a high security clearance told you that the United States needs sole control of the ISS so that you can oversee our collective nuclear doom, or that the Kremlin told me the opposite, for that matter. We have supplies to last at least a few months up here, and they have bigger worries than us.”

“You know that’s not true, Ivan.” Andrew kept his voice firm, more for himself than for Ivan. ”I have to do this, and I can understand if you blame me. But know that in a better world, I would—” Ivan pounced.

It all happened in less than a second: Andrew blinking in shock, Ivan flying through the cloud of glass, fragments tearing his spacesuit, Andrew limply collapsing to the ground with his visor smashed in, and Ivan spinning dizzily across the room until he steadied himself against a control panel and fell to the “floor.” The second ended, and a deathly pall fell upon the small pod, drifting silently through space.

As Ivan looked across the module toward the window, his and Andrew’s oxygen reserves quickly depleting, the station rotated back towards the Earth and light spilled over his pale face.

He averted his eyes, reluctant to bear the sight of the great blue dot in such a poor state, but decided to sneak one last glance anyway.

The Earth was as it always had been, blue and green and massive, with none of the anticipated destruction. In fact, there were no traces of any radioactive warfare at all. The only detail out of the ordinary was a spiky purple ellipsoid, about

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the size of a large satellite, heading silently past the ISS and towards Earth at an unnatural speed. There was no sign of a cockpit on its mottled, pulsating surface, its design at once familiar and alien, evoking the origami-esque folds of a stealth jet. No radar system could spot such a craft. Ivan scrambled for the radio set, but he knew that it was too late to warn the people below.

Ivan shivered as the monotone, gravelly voice from the Moscow channel came into his earpiece once more, once again devoid of emotion; indeed, of humanity. The three words it spoke chilled him to the bone. “Thank You, Ivan.�

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Oscar AH

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exrubo bhvty Justin Chiao 86

untitled 3 Justin Chiao

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My Midnight Thoughts Michael Xu It’s midnight as I type this. I have school tomorrow.

Why am I writing this article? I’m not entirely sure. I guess it’s because I just feel expressive and I want to let my thoughts and feelings be known.

My family has a computer that, if not touched for a while but not powered off, it would start a slideshow, displaying a conglomeration of pictures that we had stored up.

I just finished showering. My skin notices the contrast between the hot, palpable force of the water and the soft chill evening air. My hair still has a tinge of wetness, despite being thoroughly rubbed at with a towel. And as we all know, the remaining enshrouding warmth from a shower and the calm, serene setting of midnight evoke desires to self-reflect.

Settling into the cozy chair in front of the family computer, I began to scroll through the photos. I saw photos of myself at summer camps, photos of family vacations, photos of momentous events like my older brother’s graduation ceremony, photos of our old house before we moved, photos of my dad when he was still in college, and of course, photos of me playing at a bridge tournament.

And whenever I saw photos that were bridge related, such as a picture of me at my first youth bridge nationals in Toronto, 88

or a picture of me eating with my teammates in the World Youth Bridge Team Championships, my heart raced, passion burned; I felt a sense of joy, excitement, and camaraderie. I felt alive.

I want to acknowledge to you that I cannot deny how much I ardently love bridge. I cannot deny the fact that I had dreamt 3 times of the youth bridge nationals. I cannot abandon nor renounce my emotions; when I think about playing in a big tournament, my legs get shaky and my heart beats faster as if I just saw my crush. I cannot dismiss the love I have for my fellow bridge peers, a love forged through our mutual love for bridge, to be fake. And even though I may not know you readers personally, I want to hug and crush you into a different dimension, a dimension where there is no worry, where we can just enjoy the mystical wonders of bridge for eternity.

I love bridge. I want to eat, sleep, and breathe bridge. I love the bridge community. It is the only community that I put my identity in. I want to be at the next youth bridge nationals. I want to be with my people, excitedly discussing interesting hands we encountered that day.

Ok, time to sleep.

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Spring 2020 Staff & Contributors Editor-in-Chief: Rida Khawaja Vice President: Liza Kolbasov Layout Officers: Lillian Fong, Melissa Ding Managing Officers: Daniel Barszczak, Aarohi Gupta Fundraising Officers: Ruhi Mistry, Jonathan Fang Publicity Officer: Sulaiman Khawaja Club Advisor: Mr. Dunlap

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 provides an outlet for students to explore their creativity and showcase their talent.

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