Pandora's Box Winter 2017 by Pandora's Box Creative Magazine

PA ND OR Aâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; S

Pandora's Box Winter 2017

“If art is to nourish the roots of our culture, society must set the artist free to follow his vision wherever it takes him. We must never forget that art is not a form of propaganda; it is a form of truth.” – John F. Kennedy Each issue of Pandora’s Box is a feat of love which could not have been possible without our many contributors who were brave enough to share a little part of their hearts with the world. It is such an inspiring feeling to be able to recognize and to celebrate the brilliant collection of creativity here at Gunn. We hope that this issue of the magazine is able to transcribe their incredible talent. I’d also like to express gratitude and appreciation for our dear members and officers who have dedicated much of their time both in and out of school to capacitate the production of this magazine and to support Gunn’s creative community. Last, but definitely not least: thank you to our generous advisor Mr. Dunlap, and to Ms. Wilson, for always supporting our work and for their invaluable guidance. So, dear readers: it is with much honor that I present to you this winter 2017 issue of Pandora’s Box. As you riffle through these pages, we hope that you are able to experience the talent of our contributors and savor the love that went into its production. Yours truly, Kristie Huang Editor-in-Chief & President 1

Table of Contents Letter from the Editor-in-Chief

Featured - “What Makes You Happy?” Drive-By 16 Jenny Gao between the thunderclaps 18 Liza Kolbasov It Still Rains 20 Shirley Zhang

Poetry

a collection of moments 10 Ani Banerjee Iago 33 Anna Allport Happiness 31 Ashley Kim To a Friend 38 Buloy Pyromaniac 40 Emma Butner Phi, Pi, and I 53 Anonymous What I Love 45 Grace Williams Explorers 46 Jenilee Chen This One 6 Julia Cheunkarndee

Conversations with God 12 Anonymous dreams 15 Lisa Kolbasov Your Journal 22 Ryan Mei The Day, My Day 30 Sophia Chen

Short Story

Glass 8 Niki Knauer Untitled 26 Anonymous

Artwork

Untitled 1 11 Sherry Chen Untitled 2 25 Sherry Chen Dream 32 Sherry Chen Figure 24 Sherry Chen Conversations with God 13 Anonymous

Photography

Light 36 Caroline Ro Art 11 Caroline Ro Jewelry 7 Caroline Ro Untitled 1 28 Caroline Ro Untitled 2 37 Caroline Ro Untitled 3 39 Caroline Ro Untitled 4 39 Caroline Ro Untitled 5 42 Caroline Ro Untitled 6 42 Caroline Ro Untitled 7 47 Caroline Ro Untitled 8 47 Caroline Ro

Untitled 1 14 Calisa Sana Untitled 2 14 Calisa Sana Untitled 3 36 Calisa Sana Untitled 4 37 Calisa Sana Together in Nature 41 Ellen Cao

Julia Cheunkarndee

This One

This one looks like a nose, And this one looks like a mouth. And that one is shaped like a girl Who looks down on another. This one feels like the mood Of a stiff-fingered pianist, Tapping out old Christmas tunes In the middle of October. Those ones take the form of a dream, Blurred softly at the edges, And no matter how hard you tryâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; All you can get is the Feeling of this, In the end. `

Jewelry Caroline Ro

Niki Knauer

Glass

You have beautiful eyes, as if twin suns were submerged underwater, rays of orange freezing towards a deep blue. Their cores are pitch black, flecked with green, blue, streaks of yellow. Your eyes flicker when you look, crinkle when you smile, are a deep, deep black in the center. Blacker than night, than black, than light, darkness, you are all of those elements. Look closer, they dare, but I am afraid. Blue is the outer lining of a color-coded spectrum, or the center of a fire. Will you burn me if I approach? You have beautiful lips, red ribbons tied at the center. Pull, pull, pull, unravel the bow, stitch the ends through your eyes, tie them into a smile, tangle the knots, extra tight; they won’t unravel if you secure the edges. Despite your efforts, you can’t unsmile, your teeth a checkered zipper. Appear happy, look happy, be happy. Smiling causes wrinkles. But why do you care? If you keep a smile, the wrinkles won’t show. You have a beautiful nose that turns at the end when a smell tickles your nostrils, making your mouth water or sour. Is there a freshly baked cookie teasing you? Still warm, gooey chocolate freckles on its surface. Imagine biting into it, your teeth shattering layers and layers of love. Some flour, some sugar, and a cupful of love in every bite. Feel the warmth as you chew, who was it who loved you today? 8

Look down at your dog, see your reflection in a gaze hazel-brown. With your fingers, break off a chunk of the cookie, feed it to him, let him lick the crumbs off your fingertips. He begs for more, never satisfied, yet you resist: chocolate kills dogs. Wonder, before he dies, whether you will bake him a chocolate cake decorated with chocolate frosting, his name in cursive chocolate icing on top? Wonder, how would you live if you knew when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d die? Enjoying a saturated sunset? A scrumptious dinner? A family get together? An honest conversation? Challenge yourself to live through those moments despite not knowing, realize their significance and experience what is important. How alive do you feel? Do you feel a heart fluttering in your chest? Does it thump with conviction, marching steps echoing down, down, down into the Earth? Making your presence known? Or is your heart a butterfly, faintly waiting to flutter away? A beautiful butterfly trapped in a jar which a child bounces left and right, up and down, giggling at the wings flashing in distress. Careful, the jar exposes all of you. Hold it tightly with dry palms, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let it squiggle out of grasp, hitting the floor in an epic explosion, shards splintering your perfect little butterfly, splattering its light wings with crimson.

Ani Banerjee

a collection of moments

It’s a happy ending. It’s the middle of summer with no responsibilities. You are lying on the couch: you have been for the past two hours. You’re doing something inane, but you’re not doing it for anybody but yourself. It’s Saturday at 2 AM, sitting warm in bed with your life stretching out before you. There’s rain outside the window, but you can’t see it. You can only hear the arrhythmic drumming. It’s getting up before the sun, nobody awake yet for you to impress. You are the only thing that moves in this pocket dimension. For a few hours, you are the only thing that exists. It’s being surrounded by people who you could talk forever with and never get tired. There is food in the center, and a gathering naturally forms around it, like it has for years and years - there is something about communal dining that reminds us of our coexistence. It’s looking for an answer to a question, not because someone made you do it, but because you are genuinely curious. A niche of information in an ever expanding world, too wide to ever fully understand. It’s the girl in line whose life briefly intersected with yours long enough for her to compliment you and leave; it’s the dog your friend saw and rushed to pet; it’s the stranger who spotted you the extra 27 cents in tax; it’s the smallest, smallest, smallest details. It’s forgetting all the checklists and calendars in your head because for once, you’re not preoccupied with planning the future. Happiness is a collection of moments, and you can’t look for it: you can only live through it. 10

Art Caroline Ro

Untitled 1 Sherry Chen

Anonymous

Conversations with God

“Where is god? I have found him/her sleeping under branches of a christmas tree. They said to me: My angel. Bring me glory. I thought myself a great hindrance and begged he/them to take me back to heaven Take me back so I may not make fools out of yourselves. He/she asked: Do you not like earth? No, I do not love this soil— it is disgusts me. I do not like the way I squirm and wriggle and move. I am stepped on, cut in half, in pain. God, will you not take me back? Very well. They said as they watched me squiggle. Very well— we shall replace you with one more worthy, more beautiful. Being beautiful is not being a caterpillar? He/she/they replied: Would it be beautiful if I had made you human instead? No, they are horrendous creatures. All they do is eat and eat and eat. And with their bloated stomachs they walk across the ground and trample all living underneath. What would you have me make you then? A star. A star. He/she/they asked incredulously: why would you want to be as bright as a star? Light blinds the eyes of men. Stars are shining, gigantic balls of gas that burn and burn and burn out and become no more. Very well— you will be a star in your next life. But no more requests. I am hungry and want to eat.”

Conversations with God Anonymous

Untitled 1

Calisa Sana

Untitled 2

Calisa Sana

Liza Kolbasov

dreams i used to look for stars on clear nights i used to complain that i didn’t want to sleep and force my eyes open through the yawns because i preferred dreaming with open eyes now, i only long to spend a moment unconscious the clear night sky is tinted with smoke and i can’t sleep i can’t sleep i can’t but i still remember what it feels like to look for stars i’m not afraid to dream with open eyes for dreams, the sleep is merely a disguise i’d like to say i learned to fly on broken wings i used to be a lark i’ve turned a nightingale but i can fly i can fly i can if only i believe i used to see the world in pink and blue but i refuse to see nothing but shadows come for me, aim for me they’re not okay with me, fighting me

i used to dream of being beautiful but now i only wish i were invincible for i can bear scars but i can’t bear blood i can’t blood i can’t but as long as there is night there will be day i believe in the sunrise i believe in someday everything crumbles, every home every heart, every wish, every hope but not every dream they can’t explode dreams they can’t dreams they can’t as long as hearts beat, drums beat, boots beat i can’t sleep but i can dream

Featured - Winning Submissions of “What Makes Me Happy?” Contest Drive-By Jenny Gao, ‘18 | 1st Place The fleeting lights wave hello, clinging onto the glass. The wind shakes them off, leaving behind smeared fingerprints as we zoom pass in a dreamy blur. Neon green, purple, red, yellow Lingering stained stars tinkle softly before subbing in a brighter dancer. The animation parallels our stillness, Not crippled by the weight of the world heaved by people racing through life Planted with hidden bombs Ticking closer until mute questions about marriage, fidelity, and expectation blow their bubbles into soapy saliva splattered on the sidewalk. Her embrace washes “ocean breeze” detergent and repose over me, Although, my lanky frame is not designed to cram into a 2 by 3 ft box lined with leather walls, A tight belt trapping me in the body of a curled, docile cat. Ironed, papery pants nest my black stream of hair while soft caresses trickle down. Her hand conducts airy strokes to a restful rhythm, Accompanied by her heartbeat thrumming a velvety bossa nova on my eardrum, 16

Content anticipation crescendoing until cold fingertips shock my flush nape Electrifying an army of baby hairs to attention. My eyes flutter open to veiny, translucent hands weaving away tall grassy hairs. She strokes the silhouette of my cheek with chill bones Already evaporating into ash and cleaning product Barely held together by nude saran wrap decorated with navy branches and sick speckles. The aftertaste of sagging skin and ticklish tremor is bitter, And quiet But I savor the tenderness, Addictively tart complemented by my fresh tautness. The streamline headlights skate around us Outside where time hasn’t froze. 6, 8, 19, 26, infinity The second hand’s gears wind until the ride ceases, Airtime still rolling but reel stuck. We lean back in our seats for the finale; Flame devouring film in gunshot bites, Combusting memories in a blink, blowing away her existence like dust unveiling a clean reflection. Soon, I’ll watch the lights dance alone, Without a heartbeat to pump love nor a hand to pluck me to sleep. She houses too much life to sleep forever in a bed of dirt, But not enough punch to knock out death. History resides in the lonely, material world, Etched into a rock soon to be named “Grandma” surrounded by lilies on a hill, far from traffic. The very least, we will enjoy the ride to the bittersweet end. 17

between the thunderclaps Liza Kolbasov, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 | 2nd Place

i. what if we just felt for the moments between the thunderclaps instead of waiting for lightning to strike? ii. she believed that there was such thing as poetry and you found it lying just past the dust of the everyday because, after all, the clouds still have their silver linings and hummingbirds still fly iii. sunshine lights up the leaves on trees but people just hurry past iv. she doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. there is always that one person who notices they are the ones who lurk in the background and smile v. smiles are beautiful, thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s for one. and so are cups of tea full to the brim and staying up till almost first light vi. the sun rises every morning just for us just for her did you ever think of that? 18

vii. isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t that something to smile about? viii. she smiles. every morning. ix. she also cries, you know? we all do x. rain, you see, is just as beautiful as sunshine xi. beauty is where you least expect it the quiet moments and the hidden stories xi. she noticed and she still remembers and still smiles in some foreign bed far away at one in the morning xiii. one of those moments between the thunderclaps that shook her heart beyond return xiv. on her tongue, the taste of true happiness bitter tea they shared on that crisp Saturday morning rain-soaked air salty seas and bittersweet goodbyesâ&#x20AC;Ś xv. i know you taste it too Liza Kolbasov.

It Still Rains Shirley Zhang, ‘18 | 3rd Place

More recently I’ve found myself questioning why each day

seems to be exactly the same as the last. The days are a carnival ride, stopping for no one. Sometimes I will forget why I set my alarm each night, only to realize the next day that I only wanted something to remind me of the passage of time.

It rains, though. Some day I’ll walk out onto the front porch

and only the first drops will have fallen, coloring the sidewalk a darker grey. My mother will rush to the door, scold me for not wearing enough warm clothes, and shove an umbrella into my hand. On these days, it won’t matter which route I take to school, or the library, or to a friend’s house, as long as it takes far longer than it needs to.

Then, it will fall harder. My favorite moments are when it rains

so hard that it coats the unforgiving concrete like undried paint, when you can hear each drop hurtling towards the ground, crashing against each other as if the atmosphere was a blue highway. Maybe I’ll wear rain boots, but probably not, because I hate the way they feel, even if it’s better than getting each sock soaked through completely with rainwater while tiptoeing across dewy fields, sinking each foot into that unavoidable mud puddle. 20

Then I’ll shed that stupid umbrella and actually look—because

we often forget see when we look— into the blinding sky. Have you ever realized how bright it is when it rains? Maybe the sunlight is still trying to shiver out of those thick rain clouds, peeking out behind beaded veils weighed heavy with water. We don’t notice because we’re still rushing, rushing, rushing. I get passed by the next roaring car, or splashing bicycle, or pedestrian with white fingers clutching soaked jackets to freezing chest.

I feel blessed when I stand there, not by a god that science

won’t allow me to believe exists, but by some purposeful force that makes me the only person in the world aware in that one moment. Even as cotton shirt becomes heavy with the cold, I will feel happiness blossoming like a desert flower in the first rain of a new year. The ground is covered in soaked gingko leaves, green and yellow ripped from trees to be plastered onto whatever surface the artist, wind, desires.

Maybe I arrive late. Maybe I drip water into the shiny paneled

planks of my best friend’s house, much to their parent’s dismay. Maybe I am still thinking about how I raised my lips to that polluted skyline 21 and let the water burst against my face—kissing the rain has never given me more joy, so I stew in the warmth of living in the present, and remember that time passes so we can savor each moment.

Ryan Mei

Your Journal

How does one grow? Like a vine? Uncurling his tendrils upwards, growing thicker and longer? Or like the fractal crystal of a snowflake? Molecules locking onto her rigid atomic lattice And becoming a sparkling glass geometry that eventually flits and flutters from the sky. Is growth like a plump red-rubber water balloon? Slowly expanding up and jiggling Until suddenly, It pops! Or is it like a sculpture? Slowly rising out of a block of stone? Maybe growth is like writing a book? Every day a page in its volumes. But, Books are plain, box-like, things, Each of which has a thousand clone copies. Life is not just a book, Life is a journal. Each page of a journal is a new memory, a different experience, Most days are nondescript: a single sheet of copy paper with a few words scrawled in pencil, That dissolve and smear together as time passes and memory fades.

A few days exciting and spontaneous: A thick and messy stack of binder paper drenched in messy handwriting, Never to be forgotten. Some days just arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t that great: a wrinkled post-it note with a single tear stain. And what is a journal without a few imperfections? A small tear in the paper A misspelled word A miserable day A mistake. But why is everyone still afraid of making mistakes? When uncertainty is certain and expected Embrace the error! Embrace the imperfection that makes your humanity real! One can learn from mistakes, One can laugh at mistakes, One can suffer and forget their mistakes, One can make a mistake that changes the world for the better. What would we humans be without our faults? How would we feel anything, when everything is perfect and the same? One cannot feel happiness without despair. Mistakes are beautiful, And never forget: You are too.

Figure Sherry Chen

Untitled 2 Sherry Chen

Anonymous

Untitled

The blaze of the afternoon sun beats down on our backs. “Oh hey, here’s some stuff,” I say to my friend. Crinkly leaves litter the dusty dirt floor of my garden. Little twigs nestle in the dry, golden tufts of grass. Bits of bark patiently sit near the towering asparagus-shaped trees. The little treasures of two pyromaniacs. We stuff the odds and ends of Nature’s junkyard into our sweaty palms, piling it all into a small, messy mound in front of the garage. I grin as I feel the inner spark of crazy excitement.

“I’ll be back. I gotta get something,” I call. I disappear into the

house. I know it’s in the kitchen. I begin rifling through drawers. Aha!

Sitting next to a box of keys is the pride and glory of our mission, the one to make it all happen: a dollar-fifty Daiso magnifying glass. (Never underestimate merchandise–it often has secret almighty powers to accomplish the incredible.) “What are you doing?” my mom asks from the living room. “Huh? Oh nothing,” I reply, making a hasty retreat outside. She follows me, her hawk eyes glaring into my non-existent soul. “Don’t make any trouble.” “Okay, okay,” I reply as she shuts the door on me. I see my friend looking uncertainly at our pile. “Oh right! The water can,” I exclaim. Safety first. Very important.

I quickly fill and lug over my family’s happy, green watering can. 26

Right. Now, let us begin.

Crouching next to our tumultuous pile, I tilt the magnifying

glass to create an amber spot of light on a dried-up leaf. Blue smoke curls. Leaves and grass wither. No flame. We adjust the magnifying glass. Smoke, but no flame. Hours pass. No flame. Grant us this single wish. We only want to make a cooking fire. Please, to grill our Trader Joeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

processed cheese and already-cooked ham. Still no flame. I sigh. Soon, the sun begins to set. My friend must leave to go home. With a heavy heart, I trod back into my own house. Five years later, I realize that yes, I was not left with a beautiful platter of cheese and ham, but instead a memory. A memory of my friend and I trying to start a fire in front of my garage on a hot summer day. A memory I will remember forever. A memory that makes me happy.

Untitled 1 Caroline Ro

Sophia Chen

The Day, My Day Day

Mr. Big Star quits hide and seek,  I hold his 5 buck soulmate to my cheek.  The drink was warm, gentle, delicate, and magical. It grew me wings to escape for a day. Alone I’ll be for a day,  Stripping my duties and hiding my guilts.  Away I’ll be from the evolving sphere  That is stuffed with money and hatred and a lavish ounce of ardor. In the lounge, I nap,  Relaxing from living each and every bit. Under the pages, I cap,  My lazy face and blooming zit. Waving bi-bi to my fluorescent babe, Kissing farewell to my cape of blame.  For one day, twelve hours or probably less, Tones ring no more,  Snaps chat out the door.

Tick and tick and tick.  Chirp and chirp and chirp.  My friend makes his way west, Too bad he’s stuck in one old nest. Ms. Luna strides under spotlight, Struggling to inhale all gloom in sight. She has succeeded, I’d say,  Since she gave it her best. On the rigid floor, I lay,  forgetting its roughness and forgiving their toughness. In the dark, I blink,  Once, twice, three times, and a fourth. That’s my day,  My sincere and genuine recipe of cooking happiness.or not. That’s what stretches my corners up after crossing the finish line of a living marathon, Whether I win or not. Y’all say it’s 12 hours wasted, But nah, it’s worth wasting. Good night. Sweet dreams.

Ashley Kim

Happiness

Happiness is a cup of hot cocoa under a grey sky filled with rain. It is a sweatshirt on a cold, rainy day. It is finding a five dollar bill next to a puddle and it still being dry. It is warm clothes straight from the dyer. It is drying your face from puppy licks. Happiness is a lick of a cherry lollipop, turning your tongue into a brights shade of red. It is the redness of the sun, melting into a sea on a summer’s evening. Happiness is a sea’s touch on sandy toes, Gradually washing them with salt water. Happiness is pouring salt onto mashed potatoes next to a slice of turkey on Thanksgiving Day. It is the November crisp air that bites your nose. Or a bite into a cupcake. Happiness is a cup of coffee. And the cough that clears your throat. Happiness is a clear night sky, splattered with stars so bright you can see them twinkle in his eyes. It is the eye contact before a slow and comfortable kiss. A chocolate kiss on Valentine’s Day from a secret admirer. Happiness is the secretive notes passed through friend’s fingers, row by row. It is the rowing of an oar against the harsh rush of water in a raging river on a sunny day in Oregon. Happiness is a sugar rush at a sleepover filled with Skittles and movies. It is an extra ¼ cup of sugar added into the cookie batter. It is a piece of Extra mint gum given to you by masculine hands. Happiness is a sturdy hug with hands grasping your waist. It is the helping hand when you are not strong. And it is the times when you are. 31

Dream Sherry Chen

Anna Allport

Iago

Anna Allport is a dedicated theater student at Gunn High School, and loves reading and analyzing William Shakespeare’s plays. The following is a poem based on Shakespeare’s Othello, and is written from the perspective of the wife of the play’s villain. “But he that filches from me my good name/ Robs me of that which not enriches him/ And makes me poor indeed” (Othello, Act III, Scene iii.) “O mistress, villany hath made mocks with love!/ My husband say that she was false!” (Othello, Act V, Scene ii.) Honest, honest Iago Why are you thus alone? Thinking by yourself in the moonlight, With only your thoughts To break the silence, Open up your heart to me. Strong Iago, We used to fight together in the wars Of life, Braving its twists and turns, Its uneven ground, Its spooky shadows, Its long and unending deserts of pain and suffering. We fought together, Won together, Lost together, Lived and breathed and laughed and cried and died together, All with the undying and everlasting Knowledge Of our alliance in the battles. 33

Kind Iago, Now, You have grown cold. You have grown old, and mean, and wise, and cruel Batting your string like a cat on the loose Sneaking out at night, Yawning at the moon, Scratching at your own fate With the claws you hope to one day earn. Valiant Iago, We used to laugh At the sorry sight of soldiers so caught up in their own lives They never quite looked up To see the sun. We laughed at troubled couples, Jealous husbands, Weeping wives, Unconscious of their own despair And of the easy fix with which to cure them of it. We used to laugh at sorrows, And angers, And worries, And secrets.

Wise Iago, Who is keeping secrets now? It is not I, I, who has listened to your thoughts, I, who has conjured up joy From the depths of your soul, Who has played with you Like a cat batting a ball of string, Who has whispered, snuck, smiled, ran, From the rest of the world Only to find myself alone While you are murmuring the plans of secret plots That once used to be ours, While you are fighting in the wars Of life, with no one on your side, Winning, losing, living, breathing, laughing, crying, dying All alone, With no alliance to be seen. Dear Iago, I know not what you are, nor who you say you are. I am your loving wife, Your honest wife, Your strong wife, Your kind wife, Your valiant wife, Your wise wife, Your dear wife. Villainous Iago, Your unkindness not enriches you, And makes me poor indeed.

Light Caroline Ro

Untitled 3 Calisa Sana 36

Untitled 4 Calisa Sana

Untitled 2 Caroline Ro 37

Buloy

To a Friend

To a friend, I’m sorry if, for the past couple of months, I haven’t been able to ask you how you’ve been or tell you what’s been going on with me. Please don’t think that I don’t trust or care for you anymore. I may be 7000 miles away, but distance won’t ever define the friendship that we built. I’m sorry if I’m no longer someone who’s one call away. Someone who you can always go to whenever you need someone to listen. Someone who will try his best to come up with the right set of words, which he hopes will help you better handle your problems. But friend, I can only do so much—and I’m still learning to accept that. Somehow, I’d forgotten that I have to face my own demons, too, before helping others face theirs. And no, I’m not making you feel guilty about it or anything. I’m not saying that I regret deciding to take part in carrying your weight and keeping it from making you drown. In fact, I am grateful that you had trusted me enough to reveal some of the imperfections of your life—I sometimes wish I had trusted you the same way. But whatever happens, wherever life takes us, what’s important is for you to know that you will always matter to me. I say that because I saw you at your worst and you saw me at mine, too. And I truly believe that friendship is a connection between people who can accept each other’s vulnerabilities without prejudgements. Our friendship goes far beyond talking daily and giving each other an update of our lives. It holds much more depth than the songs we sang, the food we ate, the fights we had, or the people we gossiped about. What we have is something I will never, ever be able to explain. And maybe, the words that perfectly describe our friendship are forever in the safekeeping of our hearts—and that’s all we need to know. Love, Kuya Buloy 38

Untitled 3 Caroline Ro

Untitled 4 Caroline Ro 39

Emma Butner

Pyromaniac

I look to the heat Am I hallucinating? In the center of the dark, there is a light looking back. Love at first sight with leering colors; Red, orange, yellow, even blue. Dancing creatures... Bewitching to touch OUCH! Passing through with haste, Bending to your wind. Fire. Gift to me, curse to the world. Unyielding beauty.

Together in Nature Ellen Cao 41

Untitled 5 Caroline Ro

Untitled 6

Caroline Ro

Anonymous

ɸ, π, and I

In a world made of numbers, a boy was contrived. A being of numbers to the world arrived, And when he could talk and could stand and could kneel, He’d wander and look and the numbers he’d feel. The numbers in the path of the water he drank, The numbers in the digital boats that he sank, The constructs of humans yet entirely real, Inside every little thing he could feel. In a world made of numbers, a boy he grew. The pervasive numbers were all that he knew. Through science and math and industrial tech, The numbers dwelt and brought order to wreck. A whole universe of matter and light, All held in by numbers, rigorous and tight. Numbers were servants and tools of this boy, Numbers were logic and reason and joy. In a world made of numbers, a boy said with glee, That driven by numbers emotion would be. Numbers never failed him, his σ and Φ, So in the complex plane emotion would lie. He opened books after melancholic days, To see all his numbers dancing in his gaze. But they told only of things material. Not of emotion, a thing ethereal.

In a world made of numbers, a boy lived his life, Numbers marched for him like armies to fifes. In the air that he breathed and the words that he said, The things that he wrote and the life that he lead. But often emotion brought terror and strife, Cut the fabric of numbers like a deadly knife. And the numbers scattered and tore and broke, To a world of emotion the little boy woke. In a world made of numbers, a boy looked around, The bulwark of numbers nowhere to be found. He picked up his pen to go patch up the hole, To put his world back into numbers’ control. But his walls of numbers were utterly felled, Emotion could not, with numbers be quelled, So the boy left his numbers and embraced the notion, That before his numbers should come emotion. In a world made of numbers the boy he would die, A body of numbers, of e x and π. He still loved his numbers but knew that that land, The nebulous place where all numbers were banned. Of joy and his anger and sadness and guilt, Was the true place where humanness was built. Without which his death was but numbers to view, “Here lies a little boy born in oh two”

Grace Williams

What I Love

Mornings are my favorite time of the day. Days begin with fried eggs and pancakes. Pancakes on the first day of school. School days go by and by without any regard for time or speed. Speeding through life without certainty or direction. Directions take me speeding down the highway late at night Nighttime stars is what I love. Love from my mother is unconditional and warm. Warm hot chocolate on a chilly winter day in December. December brings the love and joy and the thanks for all we have. Having a movie marathon during a rainy day. Days of presents and cheer are the best. Best times with friends and family in the blazing sun. Sunny weather calls for a day on the beach. Beach air fills my nose as I rush to the cold water. Water rushes through my hair and dress as I stand in the rain. Rain patters softly on the window like a sweet melodious song. Songs play continuously in my head through tests and homework. Homework takes up most of the afternoon and evenings. Evenings turn into bright new mornings.

Jenilee Chen

Explorers Remember when we were explorers? The world was a blank slate which we drew upon The squiggles of lines leading to no direction that prying eyes can find. Remember when we were explorers? The music that we listened to Was sweet and incoherent To everyone elseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;sâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; ears Our words were a gibberous language Filled with pitches of impossible frequencies Our gestures were animalistic Our home was in a world that no one else knew existed Filled with mutual understanding and unending empathy

Untitled 7 Caroline Ro

Untitled 8

Caroline Ro

Pandora’s Box Creative Magazine has been a part of Henry M. Gunn High School’s student community for over 15 years. We are a student-run literary & creative magazine, featuring work by student artists, poets, writers, and photographers. Pandora’s Box is the perfect opportunity for students to explore their creativity and showcase their talent. Editor-In-Chief & President: Kristie Huang Head Layout Editor & Vice President: Tiffany Chen Assistant Layout Editors: Sandra Chiu, Charles Swaney Managing Editors: Ariel Axelrod, Hannah Kim, Kristen Yee Publicity Officers: Rachel Cai, Julia Cheunkarndee, Emily Kim Fundraising Directors/Treasurers: Carly Feng, Justin Lee Club Advisor: Mr. Dunlap Staff Writers: Ani Banerjee, Daniel Barszczak. Ellen Cao, Christian Foley, Lillian Fong, Aarohi Gupta, Chiara Jurczak, Christine Kang, Nessa Kmetec, Tjasa Kmetec, Liza Kolbasov, Hailey Leclerc, Victoria Mock, Tata Serebryanaya, Caitlin Wang