Pandora's Box Spring 2023

P A N D O R A’ S

Pandora’s Box Creative Magazine Spring 2023

Cover Photo: jasper donnelly

I am proud to present Pandora’s Box Creative Magazine’s Spring 2023 issue! I am once again amazed with the quality and thought put into all the photography, writing, and artwork submissions in this edition. A special thanks to Ms. Durquet for submitting her photos to this issue. I hope you enjoy flipping through these pages as much as I do.

As my time as Editor-in-Chief comes to an end, I want to thank everyone who made this issue, previous issues, and Pandora’s Box as a whole possible. Thank you to the officers who consistently deliver interesting spreads, and also deal with my sometimes questionable planning. Thank you to Mr. Dunlap for occasionally slandering me so that I get my work done and keeping things interesting in our meetings with goat videos. Finally, I’d like to thank Fiona Li, our current Vice-President and future Editor-in-Chief, for helping me work out every bump in the road our club has faced. I believe that the next couple of issues will be even better than ever.

These last three years as a part of Pandora’s Box have truly been a pleasure, and I hope everyone who has been part of it has had as much fun as I have.

Signing off,

Nimisha Sivaraman Editor-in-Chief (your faithful president)

The year starts off swelteringly hot,

It’s red, the color of sun behind closed eyelids.

Soon, leaves fall, leaving tree branches bare

It’s brown, the color of passing time.

It cools, from occasional rains to frosted grass

It’s blue, the color of windy evenings.

Clouds decorate gloomy, dusty skies

It’s gray, the color of swirling air.

Time brings glimpses of something new

It’s green, the color of freshly grown leaves.

Flowers slowly unfurl on tree branches

It’s pink, the color of pale blossoms.

Warmth begins to creep back into existence

It’s yellow, the color of mellow sunlight.

Heat washes through the air in great sweeps

It’s orange, ripe with possibilities.

Woman at the Getty

Marie-José Durquet

sure to be grounded

Marie-José Durquet

Humera Marie-José Durquet

Kaylee Cheng

i give you my heart

jasper donnelly

i place my heart in your willing hands and at first you caress it gently i am trusting, too trusting, and i innocently watch as you dangle my most vital organ over a deep abyss i stand and watch because there is nothing i can do my fate is no longer within my control i have given it all to you and now you toy with me. and i begin to wonder, do you understand the significance of what i have placed in your hands? do you even realise that it is my future that you are regarding, so casually? that it is you who will decide whether i am to be or not to be my breath catches and my heart skips a beat, i know because i see you fumble a bit, as it bounces about in your hands

and you can hardly handle it anymore it is too much i am too much

pretty Boy

jasper donnelly

i would like to pull a long white dress over my head and twirl around, dandelions woven into my long hair and i would like people to think what a pretty Boy he is

why are you so special to me?

jasper donnelly

i bite back the ever fiery urge to hold on as you let go to keep my arms wrapped tight around your body protecting you and in turn protecting me to wind my fingers through the easily broken yellow yarn so easily broken almost as easily as me

sunny rainy morning

jasper donnelly

squinting my eyes against the sun the cold december air

stinging my nose

sweat beading on my chin

shivering in the sahara desert-like conditions

cheeks rosy in short sleeves and sandals with socks and a mask that’s too hot so i take it off

the man walking by in a down jacket shoots me a glance i cant tell if he’s real or a made up by my brain that’s simultaneously on twelve and zero hours of sleep i ricochet from uneven staggering steps to a brisk walk, almost businessness like as if i’m heading somewhere instead of just wandering the edges of my mind

that i’m not sure is making sense when i speak or write or breathe i go from wishing i could remember history facts from 1863

to wishing i could take unhindered swigs from a bottle of grey goose and drop out of school to sitting in a quiet garden with the birds chirping to ruining my lungs and digging out my flesh to reaching out a finger placing it on the mirror in front of my face wondering if the person who stares back is me

Youth Will Racz

Mia Saad

Ballerina

Mia Saad

All these photos were inspired here in Palo Alto as I walk along and shoot some photos for fun. Thanks to one of my friends, who is a basketball player, let me take a picture of her and capture her love for basketball. The other photos I enjoyed using my artistic mind to capture the beauty of life.

limericks i wrote when i was bored

(a love letter to henry m. gunn high school. thank you for making these poems possible.)

Anonymous

econ tests

i am sitting in econ right now

i am waiting and staring around i finished early and am ready to leave but if i don’t get fifty, i’ll feel down

physical education, ew imagine still taking p.e. sounds miserable, haha heehee you might like it now, but as juniors you shall all agree with me, just wait and see

braindead in math we are learning physics if i think any more, i’ll feel sick i am so bored, and should get a reward for not falling asleep during class

is it lunch yet?

i wait, and i wait, and i wait when was the last time that i ate? the minutes have passed, at least half the class what’s that? one more hour? just great looking back remember playgrounds and recess? and not having to stress about tests? rainbow loom and playdough

i can’t let them go

*sighs* those were the days i loved best

foreign fights

Julia Kang

A foreign location but familiar activities. I stepped out of the car onto the cold pavement, gazing up at the sign at the front of the building. Large vinyl stickers were plastered onto the tops of the large glass windows. Cartoonish cows seemed to be fumbling over basic movements due to their large heads. I wondered who designed such a figure and also who would want to use it for their business. Staring inside from afar, a few parents stood with their backs faced to the entrance as they observed either their own children or the lights of their phones. I didn’t want to enter past the small chalkboard sign and through the open door. Only when I heard my mom closing the car’s driver seat door and inserting the keys to lock it did I reluctantly head inside. I took a last glance at our run-down Sienna as it stood out in the line-up of newer cars in the parking lot of this affluent neighborhood.

The taekwondo studio itself was much larger than my previous one. It had a relatively spacious entrance perfect for containing rowdy kids before and after classes as they got their shoes off the racks and took their water bottles in their hands to head home. Inside the studio, they were sparring or kicking paddles. The loud clapping of the paddles, the uncoordinated yells of each kid, and the instructor silently observing everything while sauntering around. All things I was familiar with, all things I had done for years. But it felt so foreign.

I was in my uniform and belt, the one I had worn for years, worn like how I always wore it, but it was different from theirs. It felt different even though it was the same sport and the same type of uniform. That’s the interesting thing I realized about uniforms in that moment: they promote unity and give you a sense of belonging, but they can do the very opposite of their intended purpose if you stand to face off against a unified group you are not part of.

I was pulled to a back room, now standing barefoot on floors lined with foam puzzle mats, each interlocking with the other. There I met this master. He was an old Korean man. Perhaps you could tell he was balding. He had a stern, strict expression on his face, exerting an aura of authority. He didn’t seem very eager to meet me, as if I was wasting his time by being there in front of him. Very intimidating. His black belt was worn and you could see the edges of the knot fading in color. You could tell he had done the sport for a while.

I don’t remember exchanging many words with him, if I said anything to him at all. The only thing I remember clearly is the feeling of fear that struck me down to my bones, almost to the point that I couldn’t move to serve my purpose of demonstrating my skills to him. He ordered me to perform a few forms—combinations of stances, blocks, and kicks to mimic true fighting sequences. This was my opportunity to prove that I knew what I was doing and was deserving of my rank. I had started at the age of five and had acquired five years of experience and a first-degree black belt since then. I felt certain that I would be able to impress him with my techniques.

But he only watched me do one form, the first one in a series of about ten. He didn’t even let me finish because I was cut off after the first few moves. But he looked at me with an astonished gaze. Almost as if he couldn’t believe the atrocity I had committed.

“This is the old style. I haven’t seen this in years. Nobody does this anymore.”

At first, I was confused. I had done the form correctly without mistakes. Questions started filling my head. What do you mean ‘old style’? It was literally just a form, how could you do it with an old style? What were you expecting of me? But the longer the words held in the air, the more my eyes started to sting and tear up. I wasn’t sure what the words meant but I was sure that they had wounded my confidence and self-esteem. While those words may have been meaningless to them, each word left scratches and scars for me to bear for the rest of my life.

It was a combination of factors that led to my overflow of emotions. I wasn’t used to being criticized about my forms. I had won medals at competitions and I had the highest sidekicks out of everyone I knew. I wasn’t used to criticism at all. The competitive atmosphere around me, in this studio, in this city, in this area, I wasn’t used to it. I was used to my quaint city of Port Coquitlam with its comforting rain. I had encouraging peers and a friendlier environment, one where I felt comfortable. I felt comfortable with the instructor, with the people, with the routine of each class. But here everything was intimidating and agonizing.

He left swiftly by saying he would be back later, leaving me standing in the center of the room on the verge of tears.

I cried for a while.

I just wanted to leave I just wanted to go back to Canada.

I didn’t want to be here I didn’t want to come back. I didn’t want to continue this sport that I loved if this is what it meant to continue it.

I just wanted to go back home

Not my new “home” here on San Antonio Road

But home back in Canada on Amazon Drive

Where everything I knew and grew up with was.

The home that was definitely not here.

Carmel-by-the-Sea

Henry Eide

Dog with Sun

Otis Murray

Mohar and Nandita

Marie-Jose Durquet

Hotel View Julia Kang

Welcome spring

Zairy Poot Arcos

Jaguar Phoebe Mota-Judges

Essaouria Children

Marie-José Durquet

untitled Rachael Gold

Blue Door

Nickan Soliman

The Beatle Talya Schube

Untitled Matthew Lawrence

Floating Aditi Jain

Cact-eye

Olivia Souter

Bloom Michael Zhang

Spring 2023 Staff

Editor-in-Chief: Nimisha Sivaraman

Vice President: Fiona Li

Layout Officer: Julia Kang

Publicity Officers: Abby Kuang

Managing Officers: Julia Kang, Katie Shih

Club Advisor: Mr. Dunlap

Rotational Layout Members: Emma Cao and Stephany Handoyo

Pandora’s Box Creative Magazine has been a part of Henry M. Gunn High School’s student community for over 25 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.