Pandora's Box Spring 2022 by Pandora's Box Creative Magazine

PA ND OR A’ S 1

Pandora’s Box Creative Magazine Winter 2022

Cover Photo: Firefall Yosemite, California, 2/16/2017 Langston Wu

Our wonderful student Gunn community has delivered once more, and we now present to you the Spring 2022 issue of Pandora’s Box Creative Magazine. This will be our first print issue after a hiatus of 2 years! We received almost 100 submissions - everything from breathtaking landscape photography to inspiring poetry. Thank you to everyone who submitted; this issue would be impossible without you. In this issue, I challenged our officers to learn more about styles of design and layouts, so thank you for stepping up and delivering. I would also like to thank and congratulate our graduating officer and Vice President, Langston Wu, for his hard work and dedication. I would like to express my gratitude to Mr. Dunlap for being the best advisor one could ask for.

I hope you will enjoy flipping through these pages, whether that be digital or in print. Yours, Nimisha Sivaraman Editor-in-Chief

Table of Contents photography

unnamed Ellie Yuan

Stand with Ukraine Ellie Yuan Dying Flower Michael Wu Pinhole Photos Yara Castillo-Denker Untitled Yara Castillo-Denker Untitled Nina Alberts Untitled Rachael Gold North Shore Ellie Yuan Untitled Jaein Chung Boston Skyline anonymous Colorado State Capitol Ellie Yuan Flowers Nickan Soliman Unnamed Kate Wilson Untitled siena Untitled Abby Kuang Untitled Jasmine

hands

Siena Tacy

Double Fantasy Sara Sierra-Garcia

18 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 29 30 31 36 37 42 43 46

Untitled Akshay Patil Mailman Gaurd Jasmine Fan Hand and Flower Kate Wilson Desire Lines Sara Sierra-Garcia Sky High Kimi Sato Photo Anonymous A Road to Nowhere Norman Wang Ferrari SF90 Alex Peters A Trip Downtown Kimi Sato Venezuelan Cliffs Abby Kuang Jungle Sunset Nickan Soliman somber doggie Anonymous Acrobatic Sunset Jack Oralevich Flower on Film Kate Wilson Pinnacles National Park Katie Shih Nature’s Treadmill Jasmine Fan African Flowers Eric Wang Untitled Kailana Baker-Matsuoka Flying over Honolulu Ellie Yuan California State Capitol during Christmas Ellie Yuan

47 48 49 50 51 57 58 58 62 63 64 65 73 74 75 75 76 76 77 78 5

Untitled Eileen Fang Courtyard From the Rooftop Ankitha Raman

Untitled Ellie Yuan

Beach Sunset Nickan Soliman

Shrouded Peaks Langston Wu

Untitled Anonymous

Untitled Kailana Baker-Matsuoka

Along the Waters of Amsterdam Anonymous Starfish Langston Wu Brady Arjun Raja Ladybug Carolina Bazoco-Vazques California Gold Anonymous Bellingham Ellie Yuan Highway 35 Anonymous Trees Kimi Sato sunrise over the canyon Kyra Xue

87 90 91 94 95 99 100 102

art

Lost in Thought Madison Lee Still Life Eileen Fang

9 28

Untitled Eileen Fang

Untitled Anonymous

104

sunday

111

Anonymous

poetry Down From Memory Lane Jasmine Fan

A Killer Duo Matsuko Estrada Nakamatsu The flower that lost its light Matsuko Estrada Nakamatsu

71 88

prose A Broken Seat, and My Country Anjani Mirchandi Morituri Nolumus Mori Sarah Jung Aesop’s Fable Anonymous My Final Confession Archith Seshadri The Meaning of Jealousy Maya Chang

The Single Path Michael Wu Searching For Answers Katie Shih Alone in Antarctica Anonymous

The Day After Arezoo Ghasemzadeh

The Ambiguity of Destiny Anonymous A Body Lives The Prose Train

15 32 38 52

60 66

96 105

Lost in Thought Madison Lee

unnamed Ellie Yuan 11

A Broken Seat, and My Country

Anjani Mirchandani

Being read to after lunch was my favorite part of the day for two reasons: I enjoyed stories; and it was the only time I was sure no one was thinking about me, about the fact that none of my classmates could point out my country on a map. In my country, (projects out into the ocean in an almost crude manner—how could you not know?) teachers did not read to us after lunch. Instead, they’d throw chalkdust-filled blackboard erasers at us with perfect aim if we didn’t finish our homework two days in a row. As a result, I felt that reading to someone, especially with the sole purpose of enjoyment, was the most motherly, loving activity a non-mother could partake in. So when Ms. K, pretty with light blonde-brown hair, read to us, I felt a sense of care and comfort, something I never received from the sharp, critical eyes of my classmates or my previous teachers in India. We’d enter the classroom and walk straight to the corner at the back with the carpet. Sometimes, we’d bring our water bottles, if we’d had too much pasta without sauce and our mouths were dry. The carpet was a deep red. Not bright that might be unpleasant to look at, but also not dark and blood-like that would somehow be incongruous for a fourthgrade classroom. The most athletic boy (Eric), the ruthless, assertive girl (Christie), and the tall Ariana Grande fan (Yunseo), would usually get the best seats on the carpet. I usually just got a cushion for back support against the wall. But the best seats were considered best because as a fourthgrader, despite the extent of your geographical knowledge, you respect versatility. The seats’ most striking feature was their versatility. They could be set at a specific angle with a mere push, and they’d stay there calmly resolved, until the next person changed it. They could handle anything from a thin hard spine leaning back at ninety degrees, to the full 12

weight of those who just wanted to take a nap (Eric) at oneeighty. Each seat was identical: dark brown and seemingly comfortable—a soft, furry, foldable, bar of chocolate with little squares too. The only time I got a chance to sit on it, I realized that it wasn’t really as comfortable as it looked. At that point, the sixteen-year-old me would have proudly and cheerfully declared that the seat had deceived me, and that no, it was not comfortable at all. I would have gladly given up the seat to the sleep-deprived (Eric, who else), who weren’t going to listen to Ms. K read anyway. But the nine-year-old me inhaled the sense of authority that was emitted from those on the seats, and secretly wished I could sit on one myself. One day, one of the seats broke. Nobody knew how. It had lost its versatility, and could now only be hunched over at an acute angle or completely flat. It was an old man who was trying, trying, trying so hard to be what it was before, but just couldn’t because of reasons out of his control. The first few days, we passed on the blame for breaking the chair between Christie, Yunseo and Eric. After all, they used them the most. Christie denied it vigorously, alarmed that we would accuse her of such a crime. We stopped blaming her because no one could really argue with her. Yunseo whined that she would never do such a thing either, and her little gaggle of five or so friends supported her. Since that was basically half our class, we also couldn’t blame her. That left Eric, who ignored our accusations as a pigeon ignores walkers on a street. He, in fact, continued to use the broken seat for his afternoon naps. But by that point, all three seats, including the ones that were still functional, had lost respect. Yunseo and Christie sat on the bean bags, the next best thing. I outgrew my jealousy too. I was now equal to them. But still, no one could point out my country on a map.

Stand with Ukraine Ellie Yuan

Morituri Nolumus Mori

Sarah Jung

Morituri Nolumus Mori—“We who are about to die don’t want to”— was scrawled hastily on the wall behind the men as each one stepped forward to have their photograph taken. Click. Click. Click. Antonov Molovzky gripped his rifle tighter, stepped away from the camera capturing his last portrait. Everyone in the room knew what was happening around them. The general had woken up their division around 2am that morning, telling them to get changed and meet in the cafeteria. There it had been explained that they were expected on the front lines. A murmur ran through the cafeteria when this was announced. What was the command thinking? Sending a rookie division to fight? They’d only just graduated from being cadets two months ago. As the murmuring settled down, a heavy silence settled over the soldiers. This mission looked like a suicide mission because it was a suicide mission. Command needed people to overwhelm enemy lines. They needed a charge that would dissipate enemy resources before they could send in actual forces; they needed a human sacrifice. Yet, Antonov stood with his squadron, donned in their combat gear, with acceptance etched in their faces. They understood what was happening and decided as a division to go along with the plan. Command had told them they would be remembered with glory, painted in the history books as heroes. After all, glory and gore go hand in hand. And so he watched as his comrades stepped forward and got their faces captured forever in history. The war had been raging on for years. It was all anyone knew 15

at this point. Millions dead and yet no progress to show for it. Antonov thought of his family back in the nation’s capital, living in their one bedroom apartment, far away from the horrors of what he was about to go through. He found an empty chair within the crowded room and thought of the last time he’d seen them, waving goodbye as the train pulled out of the station. His youngest sister, Sasha, had chased after the carriage, stopping as the train picked up speed before waving frantically with a wide smile on her face. Anna, his other sister, only two years older than Sasha, had run up behind her, scolding her gently for running before turning and waving as well. His mother, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her handkerchief while his father stood beside her, a proud look on his face. He hated that that was the last time he’d ever see them again. And he hated that at that moment, they didn’t know that that was the last time Antonov would ever go home with a beating heart. Antonov grit his teeth and sucked back tears threatening to form. This is for them, he thought. This is for Mama, Papa, Anna, and Sasha. If I’m going to die, it’ll be to protect them. He didn’t know who he was trying to convince as he chanted this mantra in his head. But it is easier to die with the intention of protecting your loved ones than serving out your orders. After the last picture was taken, the men filed into the line of trucks waiting to take them to their deaths. Their dog tags felt heavy around their necks and the photographs of loved ones weighed down their pockets. The ride was silent, the only sounds were the occasional whimper and the crunch of gravel under the truck tires. The back of the truck was shut, the only light illuminating the six soldiers inside shone through a tiny crack between the cargo doors. Distant sounds of shouting and gunfire echoed in the distance. 16

Antonov lurched forward as the truck came to an abrupt halt.

“Everyone out,” a gruff voice barked. “Follow the stream of soldiers. It’s best to not fight your fear and just pray.” The light was temporarily blinding as Antonov hopped out from the truck and looked around. Thousands of soldiers, all with sorrow and acceptance etched on their faces, marched towards the direction of gunfire. Ages ranged from as young as a freshly graduated cadet, most likely sent on orders, to experienced soldiers, most of whom Antonov assumed had volunteered for the suicide charge. It was a dull sight with different shades of brown and gray painted across the camp. Splotches of red were splattered here and there as injured soldiers were taken to and from the makeshift hospitals. He fell into line next to a tall, blond man with sizable bags under his eyes. A scar ran from his right cheekbone down to his chin, wrapping around the corner of his mouth. Antonov wondered what this man’s story was. There was no time to ponder such questions. Maybe in his final moments would that thought cross his mind again, but he’d rather not think of that. Antonov followed the line until he entered the trenches, the muck and stench hitting him at full force. This is a rather sad last sight, he thought to himself. Minutes seemed like hours as Antonov stood next to the nameless blond man, awaiting his execution. And finally, a horn sounded, its sound resonating through the trenches. Antonov muttered a final prayer, his family’s faces flashing in his mind’s eye. Mama, Papa, Anna, Sasha, I love you and I’ll always be watching over you, he thought. He gripped the trench ladder with force, hauling himself upward before charging into the onslaught of flying bullets. 17

Dying Flower Michael Wu

Pinhole Photos Yara Castillo-Denker

Untitled Yara Castillo-Denker

Untitled Nina Albers

Untitled Rachael Gold

North Shore Ellie Yuan 24

Untitled Jaein Chung

Boston Skyline anonymous

Still Life Eileen Fang

Colorado State Capitol Ellie Yuan

Flowers Nickan Soliman

unnamed Kate Wilson 31

Aesop’s Fable

Anonymous

A long, long time ago, when the birds were first learning to chirp, the rivers not yet carved into stone, and the sun was still learning the path across the sky, there lived a dormouse. He was a small, young fellow, constantly skittering about, looking for his next meal. “What’s the point in looking at the sky if food’s on the ground?” he would always say, even when no one was around. He lived in an old rotted root of an oak tree. It had taken him days to dig out the desiccated, darkbrown wood from the root, though he was occasionally rewarded with a maggot burrowed in the rot. This dormouse was quite the hard worker, giving himself no rest days or time to relax. His life was a constant search for food; scouring for nuts on the forest floor, digging for worms, picking berries in the forest, even upturning stones to find little bugs. After each workday, the mouse would take his spoils back to the old rotted log, and store them in a great big pile towards the back of his house. Carefully rationing his food so as to not overeat, he would sit at his table eating dinner alone, thinking about how much more efficient he could be next time, where next to find his food. He wasn’t an antisocial mouse, oh no. On the contrary, he was quite polite, when he did stop to talk (which, admittedly, wasn’t that often). However, it was his firm philosophy that time spent not looking for food was time wasted. After all, food is sustenance, and what more does a dormouse need? One day, about halfway through his workday, he was approached by a small woodrat. “Hey there, Dormouse!” the woodrat exclaimed brightly. “Oh, hello,” the mouse said, very politely. “What have you been up to?” “Oh, I’m so glad you asked! I’ve seen the world, Dormouse. I lived as a nomad for the past couple of months, meeting all different types of animals and seeing lots of interesting things. Did you know that in some places, the Sun 32

takes a longer path across the sky, and in those places you get more light? I heard that from a wizened old swan, who has flown around the entirety of the world many times now.” The dormouse looked at him blankly. “Where’d you get your food? Did you ever go to sleep hungry?” The woodrat gave a small chuckle. “There were times when I had to gnaw on blades of grass to stop the pangs in my stomach. I never had too much to eat, yet where it truly counts, I’m not hungry at all. In fact, I’m stuffed.” The dormouse looked entirely unconvinced. “I would suggest you keep your eyes on the ground, plan for your next meal, and get rid of your silly ideas of the world. Take the sky, for example. Nothing beneficial comes from it, so why look?” The dormouse drew himself up proudly and patted his chest with a claw. “Me, I don’t even know what the sky looks like! I’m all the better for it, too.” “What?” the woodrat asked, eyes wide open. “Not even as a babe, when you were daydreaming, or relaxing under the Sun?” “Nope. Relaxation is time wasted!” The woodrat shook his head sadly, lowered himself to his haunches, and sat down on the ground. In a small voice, he whispered, “I hope you don’t mean that.” With that, he crawled away, a far departure from the jump in his step he had before their conversation. Shrugging, the dormouse scurried aways, thoughts already turned toward food. Many winters passed. The dormouse slowly developed white hairs, his bones creaking every time he got up. Yet still, he continued to forage constantly, never giving himself time to rest. He was alone, yet he was happy. His rotted oak root house had expanded, with more rooms (all of them used exclusively as storage). Still, even with a much bigger house, rooms were starting to overflow. Yet still, the dormouse continued to forage, with not a care in the world besides that of food. One day, after the dormouse’s coat turned a snowy gray, he heard something outside of the door. When he went to open it, he was surprised. It was the woodrat, however the

rat looked as if he hadn’t aged a day since their conversation, so many seasons ago. “Yes?” the dormouse asked? “Did you know my father, the woodrat who traveled the world?” “Yes, he is an acquaintance. How is he?” the dormouse inquired dispassionately. “That’s the thing, Mister. My father was on his deathbed last week, and of all things he was rambling about a little dormouse who had completely missed out on life. He begged me to deliver a message to you.” The dormouse rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s hear it, then. I’m sorry, I need to stay on schedule with my gathering, and this is putting me slightly behind.” The woodrat nodded. “I’ll make this quick then.” He cleared his throat, and spoke. “Look up.” “That’s it?” the dormouse laughed, then swung the door shut behind him. “Too much of a waste of time.” Leaving the poor woodrat at his doorstep, he went out to look for food. As he foraged, the dormouse began to think about the old woodrat. “Maybe I should look up?” he thought. “Prove that old rat that there’s nothing special about the sky, that the really important things are the things that’ll keep you alive.” He continued to ponder this question for many hours, as he continued finding food and bringing it back to his house. Finally, he decided: he would give it a quick glance, then go back to foraging. Lying on his back, the little dormouse looked up, and saw a miracle. The sky was the color of water flowing across shiny rocks in midday, dotted with clouds that looked like little wisps of hair, stretching across the entirety of the sky. In the far distance, the sky was pink-orange, and the clouds were fuller. The sky was so many different colors, it looked as if Earth herself was experimenting on her canvas. “Wow,” the little dormouse whispered. “Wow.” With this one glance, he instantly saw the flaws in the life he’d been living for as long as he could remember. As he realized this, two distinct feelings crashing through his little brain and making him feel emotions he’d never felt before. One, a sense of melancholy, and

two, of tragedy. The old dormouse’s heart began to beat faster and faster, with each beat remembering how he had never stopped to look at the sky. It beat faster and faster and faster, and then suddenly, it stopped. The dormouse was dead, the shock of nature too much for its poor little heart to handle. Everyone and everything knows the story of the little dormouse. Sprinting to the end means you never appreciate the journey.

Untitled siena

Untitled Abby Kuang

My Final Confession Archith Seshadri

The field stretched endlessly into the distance, accompanied by the pungent smells of adventure and recklessness. My studies in archaeology had brought me here for that sole tale. A British lad such as I was always drenched in stories of these knights, especially of the one my heart was set on finding the truth of: Sir Lancelot. My grandfather stacked the novels of their travels in a small dresser outside his bedroom. Each day he would pick up a different book and engross himself in their stories. With his death, and my fathers, these treasures reached my possession, and my destiny was inclined for their truth. His famed knights of the round table brought glee to everyone of England in their tales of heroism, yet in tales they remained fictional. Past the verdant field which surrounded the area, an isolated castle stood waiting for my arrival. It was his own if my research was not mistaken. I trudged through the long stems of grass, their prickly surface brushing against my palms. My legs began to grow weary and a nervous frown began to envelop my face. Soon enough, I reached the desolate area, sweat dripping from my brow. Vines striped the castle walls, and a small hole was present between the weathered bricks. I stepped through the opening, greeted by a dark gloomy room. The room was filled with critters which roamed along the walls, and dust covered the crumbling surfaces. As I peered across the room, a glimpse of light caught my eye from behind a worn curtain. I slowly slid the curtain to the side, and a hidden passageway murkily stood awaiting behind it. As I tentatively poked my head through the opening, I could hear the shrill shriek of rodents crawling through the walls, and bats fluttering from the roof. I cautiously traversed the corridor, the floorboards creaking with every step I took. Across the passageway lay a small cabinet, dosed with scratch marks. Of the markings, the 38

markings, the date was the only one which caught my eye. 1437 was engraved slightly above the frail door knob loosely attached to the structure. I grasped the knob of the cabinet and turned, yet the rusted material did not bother to move. I tugged forcefully once more, but the wooden structure remained impregnable. Suddenly, in a final effort, a nail popped from the upper drawer, and the cabinet instantly fell apart. As the dust slowly settled, atop lay a paper, carefully placed among the rubble. I picked up the flimsy sheet, blowing the dirt from its surface. The inked writing looked fresh, yet the date of the paper said otherwise, matching what was engraved on the cabinet. The title read, My Final Confession, with Sir Lancelot’s seal and signature draped in the bottom corner. I skimmed through the paper, noting the poetic structure reflective of the knight’s eloquence. My final confession?, I thought, struck with curiosity by my discovery. Slowly, I began to read it: I confess to my crime, My story at its demise, I know not what my path will be As with love comes its plight. With distraught I plore to all With what pride I still maintain, Will be lost at first sight of her, To betrayal of the saint I fain receive such opportunity, To rejoice with his royal grace My king of late knows his power, When he pulled the dagger from its place Of the knights twelve they be, With mettle coursing in their maw. Naught could stop me from being. A man conjoined with law. The scoth of my potential Increased with my ability Whence I gained this power The answer evaded me.

A knight of the twelve The summit of my peak Withal endowed to myself Ere love chose to deprive me. I married a maiden With lust a child hath sprought Yet her trust was never my goal But that of another woman Her beauty level with her soul. And to not betray I tell me I would thou couldst But the smile blazing in the stars My identity evaporates in mist. Anon he figured my truth Thrice he bid me not He quoth of what may occur Yet I ignored what he thought. The news then reached me My companies life had vanished in battle His legacy to be remembered Yet my ill intention is what I scowl I achieved what I sought But with pride comes its cost I was stripped of my life And to my child my power got. My love I hath conquered But I was distraught with what had come My heart was immense Yet my legacy was done. I slowly crumpled the paper in shock. It was all true. The myths, legends, ancient tales, all led to this one paper. As I inserted the crumpled paper into my pocket, a rumble commenced from the cracked flooring. Dust started pouring out of the crevices in the ceiling. The walls even started shrinking to encapsulate me in the defined room. I sprinted out the door, patting my pocket to make sure the sacred paper had stayed in its place. The dust soon settled, allowing me to

peer over the crumbled castle. When time destroys the entails of a story, it had been one artifact that gave reason to its truth. And I had discovered that truth. The tale of Sir Lancelot can now live on in glory. For now we know it had been true.

Untitled Jasmine F

hands Siena Tacy

Down Memory Lane Jasmine Fan

Moments for today Are just memories to fade. I wonder, I wonder, I wander, I wander. I’m wandering down memory lane. The sweet kiss of spring Lands dew drops on my cheek. With everything in full bloom, Would that include our youth too? I’m dancing down memory lane. Summer’s strong boastful wings, The sun in full swing, And the ice cream you bought me Drips eagerly to my knees. I’m strolling down memory lane. The innocent school bell ring, Autumn’s leaves start floating, How it suffocates my mind, But I can’t stop thinking of you all the time. I’m walking down memory lane.

When winter opens to sing. And the wind pierces and stings, The cold rips everything apart, Wrap a bandage around my heart. I’m racing down memory lane. But what about your promise, your pledge, your vow, your pride? You said time heals all And I say that you lied. I’ve left you in memory lane.

Double Fantasy Sara Sierra-Garcia

Untitled Akshay Patil

Mailman Guard Jasmine Fan

Hand and Flower Kate Wilson

Desire Lines Sara Sierra-Garcia

Sky High Kimi Sato

The Meaning of Jealousy

Maya Chang

In life, everyone is a tree. Everyone grows at different rates, but we all need roots to evolve into our future selves. Everyone needs sunlight, water, and soil to survive, but the roots help you thrive. These roots build our trunk. With this, we can extend into our genuine and unique interests and personality. Every experience, unpleasant or extraordinary, negative or positive, flawed or almost perfect, builds our complex, meaningful beauty. My roots are grown from not only my mom’s family or my dad’s family but also my own experiences. My roots grow from having friends, a loving sister and family, and the choices I make every day. The roots of experience support me in every challenge I face. But these roots also connect me to the support of others. They join and relate to other roots to guide me through the challenges of everyday life. Even though I think I have everything under control, my mom’s roots reach out to support me. I was bullied in my sophomore year of high school by someone I least expected it from. She was my “best” friend for almost 10 years. She supported a mutal friend who publically yelled at me at a school event because I wanted to leave early. This root of experience is now a part of who I am because I grew as a person from that experience. Other friends’ roots helped support me, they showed me compassion and comfort. As I grow tall again, I reach my roots out to those who need support the most. Once we grow our roots big enough and we can stand tall, it is our duty to help others around us and give the same empathy and guidance to others. The trunk of my tree is the core of who I am as an individual. My trunk holds my moral compass and beliefs. As our roots of experience grow, our trunk gets bigger and stronger, holding more opinions, biases, wisdom, and moral codes. 52

The rest of my tree is the little details. How I speak, how I dress, what I think of myself, and all of this assembles my outer personality. For the longest time, I had speech therapy. Even after I finished, people thought I had a slight accent. I was self-conscious when I speak. But I have gained confidence in my voice. When you first look at my tree, that is what you see. This is the layer that I put around my true self. These leaves of personality cover my trunk and my roots. When writing a piece of literature, the artist composes a story with specific details and precise words chosen to paint a picture. We as humans, portray what we want to be seen as. Each outfit and action showed for a specific reason. Artists spend all their time thinking about how to get their story across, but the image seen by the outside world is almost flawless with almost no cracks. The painting is seen as a masterpiece, looked at by critics trying to tear open the cracks and find the flaws. That is why we chose our leaves, just like in a painting; each color is vetted for a reason because everything adds something to the big picture. Every single stroke is carefully painted to decorate the image, add depth, add contrast, or make an optical illusion. But these leaves of illusion cover the branches that show our true interests, what makes us happy, excited, joyful, and what makes us laugh. Only some of us are brave enough to face the season of Autumn and shed our outer wall of protection and reveal our true authentic and courageous selves. This is brave not because we have to listen to others’ criticism, but because it shows the world that you love who you are and you don’t need approval from others. Yet some people don’t have the courage to shed their leaves. These people then start to care too much about how their outer image looks, and start to neglect their tangle of branches. They soon look at those who shed their leaves and envy their courage because the envious now rely on their shell of protection. This is why there is jealousy in the world. 53

The Single Path

Michael Wu

A forest. A glade. Golden-yellow leaves dance lazily from the branches of ancient oak trees. Birds chirp while small animals rustle in the undergrowth, weaving a song of days gone and futures untold. The emerald grass carpeting the floor of the forest shifts in the gentle breeze, swaying in and out in a trance-like rhythm. Overhead, the sun gleams through gaps in the trees, smiling a warm, blissful smile. A single dirt path runs through a clearing in the glade, disappearing behind trunks and shadow. A man steps out into the clearing, dead brown leaves crunching beneath his boots. He walks forward with an automaton’s precision, marching along the path. The animals skirt away from his intrusion, and a few birds halt their sweet lullabies. The man reaches the middle of the clearing before freezing when a voice calls out: “And who might you be?” It rings from all directions, coming from left and right, forward and back, outward and within. The man glances around, scanning the branches of the sleepy trees warily. The voice rumbles as if awakening from a deep slumber, words sifting out like gravel: “Come then, do not be afraid. Take a seat, traveler, and let me show you my glade.” Slowly, hesitantly, the man bends down and crosses his legs on the forest floor. Back straight, hand placed in hand, eyes looking ahead, the man watches for any sudden movements. His breath grows labored, his heart beats to a frantic rhythm. Yet he remains, rooted in place, sitting in the middle of the single dirt path. All falls quiet now, a deathly silence in the lively forest. Dappled sunlight falls all around the man, no longer a smile but more of a stare. The leaves hang limply from the branches of the trees; the animals are nowhere to be seen. Blades of grass eye each other with suspicion, daring one to make the first move. Yet still, the single dirt path continues on and on. 54

Then, a split. A fragmentation in time. The glade shifts and warps; the sole path becomes many. They fan out, no longer just leading forward and back through the glade. Paths veer off to the left and right, wind up and down, fall inward and outward. They spin around the branches of the old oak trees, hugging the songbirds’ cold, deserted nests. They reach up toward the glimmering light above, tasting the warmth of the sun’s rays. They peer into the strange man’s heart, searching for a spark in the vast emptiness within. The voice speaks again, now barely a whisper. “Do you see them? The paths, the roads, the stories — all around us?” It pauses, waiting with bated breath as the man stares straight ahead, unmoving. Staring right down the single path. For an eternity, the glade stood at a standstill, frozen in time. The man sat in the middle of the clearing, cross-legged on the ground. The forest trees and leaves and undergrowth moved not a single inch. The paths shimmered weakly; the voice watched and watched. Eventually, the man stands up, limbs extending stiffly. Slowly, he walks to a path wrapped around the trunk of one of the golden-leafed oak trees. He reaches out as if to touch it, fingers outstretched. The reflection of the path shines in his eyes, a spark in a black sea. A light at the end of a tunnel. A warm fire on a cold, hard night. A glade in the middle of a dense forest. The reflection burns brighter and brighter, a flame illuminating the darkness. Until it is extinguished. Eyes a deathly black, the man pulls his hand back, finding nothing. He turns and continues along the single path, the first path, the only path. Around him, the many other paths fall away into nothingness as the forest turns an ashen gray. The golden sunlight shifts to an overcast tone; the leaves on the trees crumble to dust. The ground begins to sink, bringing the glade down into the depths. The world ends, oblivion awaits, yet the man does not look back. The voice, weak and hoarse, calls out to the man — yet he does not look back. A forest — a glade — dies, and still the man does not

look back. Alone in the void, the voice begins to fade away. It smiles a sad, pained smile, laughs a sad, hurt laugh. It sighs a deep, wistful sigh, its forest and glade now nothing more than ash blowing in the wind. “Farewell, traveler.”

Photo Anonymous

A Road to Nowhere Norman Wang A road running through the mountains near Sequoia Nat’l Park

Ferrari SF90 Alex Peters

Untitled Eileen Fang

Searching For Answers Katie Shih

I dragged my feet as I walked back home, trudging up the steps, my backpack feeling like bricks weighing me down. The door creaked as I pushed it open. “Mom?” My voice echoed in the vast room. For the first time, I realized how dark the room actually was. Why didn’t we ever open the windows? “Are you home?” No response. I dumped my backpack on the ground and pulled out the newspaper, stuffing it into my sweatshirt pocket. Carefully I made my way to the dining room. No mom. I quietly crept upstairs to my room and locked the door. She must be out shopping for groceries. I went over to my desk and flipped open my laptop. Double-checking to make sure that I was in private mode, I typed “Missing child 1930 Danielle Devin” into the search bar. The first result led to the same poster I had seen in the newspaper. I scrolled down. Nothing. I switched to the image search. A picture of a different newspaper heading caught my attention: “Danielle Devin goes missing after leaving school, May 21, 1930.” I clicked the picture, zooming in, eager to get more details. A small blurb was typed above. “On May 21, 1930, Danielle Devin was reported missing by several friends. According to her friends, after leaving school, they were supposed to work on a group project together, but upon approaching the house, it was discovered empty as if abandoned. See below for attached picture.” I looked down, sighing. I was the same as the one I was currently holding. I was about to exit the tab when I noticed a caption under the photo. “Danielle stands with her mother Vanessa in front of Little Boulder Middle School.” BANG! My heart leaped, fingers already punching my trackpad, erasing the article from my screen. “Oddessa?” I heard my mom ask. “Are you home? 60

What’s wrong? Why aren’t you at school?” I I opened the door slowly and walked down the stairs, where she was waiting. “Uhh…I wasn’t feeling well,” I mumbled. “Oh. Okay…come have some tea with me then,” she replied. My heart thudded. Was that suspicion I detected? She turned and walked toward the kitchen. I was probably just imagining things. I followed her in the kitchen where the water kettle was already humming and sat down at the dining room table. “So. What actually happened?” my mom teased. Wait, was she teasing? “You were fine this morning.” “I…” I gulped, wondering if she could hear my heart trying to burst out of my lung cage. I knew what I had to do. “Mom… how long have we had this house?” “Oh. Um… it’s been in our family for seven generations,” she replied, not quite meeting my eyes. “So…your family lived here when the Great Depression happened?” Her head jerked up, eyes piercing through my soul. “We’re learning about it in history,” I stammered quickly. Her face softened, but her eyes continued to stare into me. “Yes, my family has been here since then. I know it was a hard time for them. Is this for a school project?” “No… I just was curious… you never talk about your family.” I was cautious to avoid sounding like I was probing. Something was definitely up. I’d never seen my mom look at me this way, with such hesitation and suspicion. “Well, there’s not much to say about it. We got through all right,” she said stiffly. “Now why don’t you go back to your room if you’re truly not feeling well.” We hadn’t even drank the tea. Weighing my options of trying to uncover more information or leaving it be for now, I got up and went up the stairs, back to my room. I felt her eyes watching me the whole way.

A Trip Downtown Kimi Sato

Venezuelan Cliffs Abby Kuang

Jungle Sunset Nickan Soliman

somber doggie Anonymous

Alone in Antarctica Anonymous

I tried opening my eyes. All I saw was this bright white stuff. Nothing except a couple of mountains in the distance. My eyes started to burn, so I closed them back up. From what I saw, it looked like heaven, or whatever heaven looked like. Everything was white. I tried once again to open my eyes, but once again, I was forced to close them almost immediately. I quit trying and laid there on my back, demoralized. Once I had finally garnered enough strength to open my eyes for a prolonged amount of time, I cautiously opened them. I looked into the distance. Only mountains. I looked to my left. White bare lands. Then, I turned around. And there it was, a plane entrenched in the snow. The memories came flooding back to me, albeit in fragments, as I stared at the plane. I heard the sharp scream of the woman in the back as the plane lurched forward. The oxygen masks falling from the ceiling, and the person next to me passing out as the plane went into a nosedive. I snapped out of my daze and stared at the wreck. The plane was torn in half, and the wings were unattached. I panicked and tried to get up. But, a combination of my lack of strength and pain in my leg prevented me from standing up. The plane had hundreds of people. I wanted to find at least one more person who survived. I gathered all the rest of my strength to stand up, grimacing at the pain in my leg. I looked down and saw the origin of the pain. There was a big piece of metal lodged into my leg. Blood was flowing out but seemed to be frozen due to the cold weather. How come I haven’t felt cold yet? The bruise started producing weird colors and I knew something was wrong. Gathering all my courage, I pulled the metal piece out of my leg. I hobbled to the plane to find the medical kit. When I reached the plane, I saw the horrifying sight. Everyone was slumped in their seats. No one seemed to be alive. Blood was 66

everywhere. Some had their faces completely disfigured, not that it mattered of course. I started doubting myself and my chances of survival. I had no companion and no clue where I was. The medical kit was in a convenient location, so I quickly cleaned the bruise with some alcohol swaps and applied some antibiotics. There was already some weird greenish-yellow stuff forming around the wound. I quickly grabbed some gauze and tightly wrapped my leg. This was the extent of my medical knowledge (all from watching random nature survival videos on Youtube). Then, right after treating my wound, the adrenaline rush wore off, and I suddenly felt the sharp, cold wind blowing by me. I immediately started feeling chills and rushed into the plane’s cabin. Then, I remembered that I could get more clothes from the luggage under the plane, so I quickly made my way to the cargo hold. It was dark. I was trying to feel my way around, but it was impossible. Everything was slimy, presumably from the water, and there was no visibility. I quickly rushed out fearing the worst. Maybe a big ass snake was going to crawl out and eat me. Maybe the plane was going to crumple like a can and leave me trapped forever. Maybe I was going to get lost and never be able to get out. I waddled my back to the passenger cabin to gather some phones to use as flashlights and then ventured back into the cargo hold. There, I searched through the luggage scattered on the floor. Everything was, to some extent, damaged, but it’ll do. I found a suitcase in decent condition and started stuffing as many clothes into it as possible. I tore everything up looking for the clothes that would keep me warm. Unluckily for me, the plane was originally going to Asia in the summertime, not an ideal situation to find clothes suitable for cold weather. But, after hours of picking through piles of clothes and other random things, I finally prepared enough supplies for what was going to be a long trip back home. I spent the rest of the day at the plane resting and

gathering more supplies. The food situation was dire, but I was going to have to figure that out along the journey. After spending the rest of the night at the plane wreckage, I set out at dawn into the snowy wastelands. The beginning of what I later learned was a year-long journey back to America.

The Day After

Arezoo Ghasemzadeh Author’s note: A lot of the times when students switch schools they feel lonely and outcast. Through writing this story I hope to show others that they’re not alone in feeling outcast and lonely at hard times. In fourth grade, my parents decided to change my school almost halfway through the year—in November. From that transition, I remember fear, anxiety, loneliness. My parents had left the decision up to me; I could stay at my old school, which according to my parents would’ve wasted my time and cost me an opportunity for studying at a great school; or, I could’ve switched to the new school—where the richest enrolled their children. Now, I had to go to school with these people: “the famous soccer player’s daughter,” “the actor’s daughter,” “the politician’s nephew.” I wish all this difference was just in appearance; however, the disparity affected relationships. Kids from more affluent, well-known families treated others as their lessers, their subordinates. In our games, they would be the queens and princesses, everyone else, maids and soldiers. I remember the day which would change my life for the next four years vividly. It was the day after my tenth birthday. I had invited all my friends over the night before, and though it was only my second year at that school, it was starting to finally feel like I had found my group of people, my community, the people who cared about me. Little did I know this would all change the very next day. I remember I had wanted a slide that year, so when my parents finally got me one on my birthday, my friends and I spent that whole night playing with it. Under the dark blue night sky, that night was the sounds of crickets and nightingales chirping. But amidst the sound of nature was the sound of laughter, happiness, community. When my friends left, my mom told me I would be 69

going to the new school the next day. With the night coming to an end, it seemed as if all the happiness and joy were giving way to loneliness and fear. The last thing I remember from that night was picking up the new school uniform, which a friend I knew from that school was going to lend to me. Looking back, I wish I could pause time and not let it get to the part where everyone would leave my house, with it, taking my comfort. With the night gone, so were my friends. That night would be the last night I ever saw those friends. The next day came. Packing my purple, flowery, Hello Kitty bag, I put on the uniform which my friend had lent to me. With a pink, thick thread, her name was sewed to the front of the uniform—Setare. She was the one person I knew from that school, the one who was to help me figure everything out and be by my side. Though it was a bright, sunny day, the fear and anxiety seemed to be blocking the pleasantness. It was early morning, and it was very cold. As I walked to the main office, the lady in charge greeted me, telling me that if I ever needed anything I should come to her. Walking into the building, I felt desolate, lonely, outcast. The dim lighting, the gray and orange walls, the cold breeze from outside made the day all the more dismal and comfortless. With my mom leaving, I walked up the white stoned stairs with a teacher guiding me to my new classroom. Saying “Classroom number six is your class,” she left me. Now, I was truly alone.

A Killer Duo

Matsuko Estrada Nakamatsu It started off as faint whispers at first, Over the years the whispers turned into voices echoing, Till it finally had its own voice and personality showing, I gave them names just casually since they seemed to always be speaking, Hades the voice who tells me to give up, and questions why I even bother to even be alive, Mortisha the other voice that overthinks and questions everything, Both became known as the killer duo, Trying to ruin my mind while Hades didn’t want me alive, “Don’t worry it won’t hurt, just get on with it” words that Hades would say,

Whenever I give up and just relapse once more It gets harder to pick myself back up, The self destructive urge to just let go, It may feel relieving in the moment, but in this whole game I call “life” Hades and Mortisha always seemed to win each and every time, The name killer duo, The partners in crime that tried to make me end myself exactly 7 times, A killer duo I use to refer to the overthinking severe anxiety I’ve always had, And the deadly depression that continues to have me living, And breathing with such dread, “Its not that bad” “What the hell are you so depressed about”, I’ve heard enough to stay quiet about my thoughts and emotions, So that they don’t become a burden to anyone else, I tried to fake the happiness, Even though it never occurred to me to feel that way, I would force my muscles to laugh even when I didnt want to, When asked if i was doing okay a infinite response would be,

“Yea of course I’m fine” yet both the killer duo were at work, Consistently trying to take over so that I could snap, Slowly but surely they seem to try to take over and consume every shred of hope,

Every ounce of it was drained and my true self was never coming back, The killer duo seemed to always be by my side, Yet, I have to remember That I ultimately have the control and the power, The will to change and the power to get rid of the voices.

Acrobatic Sunset Jack Oralevich My little sister wanted to work on her cartwheels and I wanted to work on getting know shutter speeds it ended up perfectly, for we got a beautiful Hawaii sunset

Flower on Film Kate Wilson

Pinnacles National Park Katie Shih

Nature’s Treadmill Jasmine Fan

African Flowers Eric Wang

Untitled Kailana Baker-Matsuoka 76

Flying over Honolulu Ellie Yuan

California State Capitol during Christmas Ellie Yuan

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Courtyard from the Rooftop Ankitha Raman This photograph in Black and White film that was taken with a disposable camera from my roof.

Untitled Ellie Yuan

Beach Sunset Nickan Soliman

Shrouded Peaks Langston Wu Untitled Anonymous

Untitled Kailana Baker-Matsuoka

Along the Waters of Amsterdam Anonymous

Starfish Langston Wu

The flower that lost its light Matsuko Estrada Nakamatsu To the flower that lost its light, That almost died in the hands of a man, A man that couldn’t keep those hands to himself, To a monster who wanted to use that flower to get off, While that flower was alone and was almost dead, That same flower represented a girl, She was afraid and scared Scared that she might end up dead All alone in the dark, No one to help her, No light only the demons leading her on, Rocking herself awake while she was trembling, Her tears burning her cheeks, The exhaustion that flowed in her body, Her skin cold while she thought she was going crazy The room seemed so small she couldn’t make it out it seemed all hazy Who was there to call? Who would even answer her screams and pleads? When not even god could save her at all. What happened to the divine mercy that she was taught from the Sunday’s she attended church?

What kind of guardian angel would let this happen to a girl who would always remain hurt,

All that was heard was the sniffling and tears she shed, While the minutes passed, What was she to do when she was scared to even walk, Or talk, It felt like those hands were still touching her,

And for so long, She grew disgusted of her own body that night, Flinching at the sight of anybody who touched her, She was numb, And she felt cold, Yet she could still see his face To this day the family did nothing, “It’s a delicate topic” was the excuse they would say, Until my father got a phone call that day, “He was just trying to scare you” those words rolled off his tongue Who scares a girl with touching her in places they shouldn’t have, To kiss her neck and grope her breast, To pull her pants and be scared of what happens next, What could have been done for her to deserve such thing? Was it her fault? Did she deserve it? Even after those thoughts cross my mind, I still can’t sleep in peace without the nightmares coming back to haunt me. Yet I have to accept that it wasn’t my fault that night, That I didn’t deserve it, That I’m a victim A survivor

Brady Arjun Raja Picture of my dog shot on a disposable camera

Ladybug Carolina Bazoco-Vazques Somewhere in the middle. Somewhere in between, there is a ladybug. A pretty thing with wings, but fragile. Somewhere in the middle. Somewhere in between, there I am. Learning to fly. I am the ladybug.

WHAM! Katie Shih

It was a regular day in the first grade. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and it was the best time of the day. Lunchtime. I speed walked to my backpack, eager to finish lunch quickly so I could go on to recess. The sound of kids chattering filled the small, yet cozy campus. I plopped down next to my best friend, Caitlyn, the “Peanut Free Zone” sign dividing us. Within five minutes, kids were scrambling to put away thermoses, zip-up backpacks, and head to the playground. I stayed at the bench, shoveling food into my mouth as fast as I could. What’s taking so long? friends pestered. I have to chew and swallow you know I would sassily reply. Finally, after scooping the last morsel into my mouth I hurried to the playground. Each day we would decide on one thing to do during recess, as there was only so much time to play. That day, we settled on swinging on the bars. There was just one problem. I was too short to reach the tall one, which looked so much more fun than the short one that you couldn’t even swing on because your feet still touched the ground. My friends could tell I really wanted a go on the tall bar, so being the geniuses that we were, we decided that one of my friends would lift me up until I could grab onto the bar. Try after try we failed. My friends were just too weak. Finally, in I think the sixth try, one of my friends gave me a big hoist. WHAM! My mouth collided with the bar causing me to yelp with pain. My friends put me down sensing something was awry. I could feel my mouth slowing starting to fill my mouth, threatening to spill over my lips. What’s wrong? Are you okay? I think I lost my tooth I said, or rather gurgled, desperately trying to avoid staining the ground with blood. Arh thin Arh los ay tooh.

I was sent to the office nurse, unable to explain my situation, furiously attempting to hide the tears that were starting to well up in my eyes. Luckily, the nurse understood the minute I tipped back my head and opened my mouth. Quickly, we rushed to the sink. I opened my mouth, staining the clean white sink bowl with my red blood. I watched as the water washed it away. The nurse came and gave me a cup to rinse my mouth with. Finally, in what felt like forever, my mouth stopped bleeding. One of my friends suddenly burst through the office door. We found it! Miraculously, they had found my tooth amongst the green flooring of the play structure. Here the nurse said, handing me a small white box in the shape of a tooth. You can put your tooth in here and bring it home. I carefully placed my tooth, somehow blood-free, into the little container. In the distance, the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. I walked back to class, slightly shaken from the experience, but holding my head high because I’d survived. After this, losing teeth surely wouldn’t be too bad right?

California Gold Anonymous

Bellingham Ellie Yuan

The Ambiguity of Destiny Anonymous

When I was born, my parents called me a “destined child”. That’s normally a good thing, right? You’d be jealous of a “destined” person, right? But what does “destined” really mean? What does that imply? What was I destined for? What was I destined to do? Was I going to be the savior of the world? What horrific evil was I to face? Or was I going to create some kind of super drug that would cure all diseases? What kind of crazy convoluted concoction would that have to be? Or what if it was something mundane? Like helping bring my family out of poverty? I’m sure that’s it. After all, no one would be happy to live like this. In this piteous crippled shack that we call home. Surely they need to escape from these putrid, pale, peeling walls that have smothered us for much too long. So it’s up to me to help them escape. Of course. That’s it. No doubt about it. Triumphantly, I strutted over to my mother to reveal to her that I’ve already figured out their bemusing quandary. But when I told her, she suddenly cracked up. I could feel the blood rush up to my cheeks and I soon burnt bright as a cherry. I stood there confused and flustered. So I asked her, “Mom, what do you mean when you say that I’m destined? Am I going to become something great?”

She paused a bit and forced her eyes shut, wrinkling both eyebrows in the process. I could tell that she was trying to come up with something funny. Her usual. But surprisingly she said, “Whatever you want dear, because you are destined to be great… Now shoo, I have to finish making dinner.” This behavior puzzled me. No joke? Absolutely no way. There was no way that was my mother. She always makes a joke whenever she does that. Did she forget this time? No. That’s not it. It must have been the question. Wait. What does she even mean by, “Whatever I want”? If it really is whatever I want, then it isn’t really destiny is it? Ugh… I hate this. What good is this stupid destiny if I don’t know what I’m supposed to even do? I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I want to just throw away this tag that destiny has given me. I want to escape from this chain that destiny has shackled me with. I want to pull away from its tether. I want to live a life that I can proudly tell my children about; a life in which destiny never rears its hideous head in. But above all, I want… I want to see my parents happy. I want to see them beaming and laughing and relishing their lives. To see them enjoying the virtues and benefits of life. But of course, that can never happen. Because I’m destined. Because I’m destined, my parents threw all of that away. For me. As if I was worth that trade. As fucking if. Sure I was young and naive, but I knew for a fact that my parents were good people. No.They were great people. And to think that a person like me…tha— that I stole their joyous lives away from them. Like some sociopathic murderer, killing without remorse. And yet, they still love and care for me. For someone who took away their futures.

Every day, they would get up before the earliest ray to prepare for their shifts, just to come back right before the nightlife began theirs. All the while spending every minute of their lives suffocating under that plastered theater mask of theirs, constantly smiling. And when I ask to see their hands and unfurl their rugged fingers, all I can see is a coarse palm littered with calluses. It makes sense. Why wouldn’t it? Neither of them have any sort of formal education, much less a diploma. So of course they have to resort to manual labor. What else would they do? It’s a no brainer…so why does it feel so wrong? Why is it that when they say “It’s nothing”, it doesn’t feel like nothing? I’m their destined one after all. I’m the one that is supposed to save them, to pull them out of the hole. I’m the one who should be saying “It’s nothing”. I’m the one that should be saving them. I mean, what’s good is a person who is destined to be great if they can’t even save their own family? And yet— why does it feel unpleasant inside? Why does it feel like my heart is being mangled apart? Why does it feel like… I’m the one who has been sitting in the stands eating popcorn as I watch my own beloved parents kill themselves?

Highway 35 Anonymous

Trees Jasmine Fan

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sunrise over the canyon Kyra Xue

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Untitled Anonymous

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A Body Lives

The Prose Train writers: Sophia Liao, Alyssa Tang, Andrea Esparza, Fiona Li, Emma Kochenderfer, Lindsey Segi, Madelyn Guzmán, Lucy Zhao, Miguel Lopez, Kaitlyn Chen, pasta, Basil Lera, Langston Wu, Eileen Hung, and Irene Tsen You stare at yourself in the mirror one last time before you leave. The glass is cracked, fractured in the shape of a spider web from when your father struck it with his fist all those months ago. Sharp lines run down the glass, juxtaposing those curves that you’ve spent your entire life hating so much. You wish you could do the same as he did—smash, break, and mold yourself until you’re only sharp lines again. Instead, you only pinch and pull at your skin, the dull sting a stringent reminder of all your broken promises to yourself. You swear to yourself that today will be different. Today is the day you will stop lying to yourself and convincing yourself that you are not pretty just because you don’t conform to what society deems as beautiful. Looking at your reflection in the mirror, you contemplate the idea of deleting social media, because of the toxic and hypocritical people hiding behind screens and telling you to lose weight or eat less even though they don’t practice what they preach. It’s all so tiring. Everything is so tiring. It just doesn’t make sense. How could your family, your friends, even yourself think of a living being as something so vile? Bulky hips morphing as you swivel in front of the glass, shapeshifting from one form to another, your mind only buzzes with static and a wearisome thrum of disappointment. A body should be nothing but lines and shadows and angles, a living miracle, really. You’ve never looked at a circle wishing it were a square. These were neutral things, naturally occuring on the same plane. A body owes 105

nothing to anyone besides itself dignity and kindness. But, why, why is it so hard to grant yourself that peace? Is it difficult to receive that peace because of what your friends said that day when you were hanging out with them by the pool? “Oh my gosh! Look at my abs!” Shannon said. “Dang! You look great,” another friend said. Hearing those comments made your gut feel sick. You ran to the bathroom and scrutinized yourself in the bathroom mirror. You outlined those stretch marks on your stomach, looked down at your jiggly pale thighs. Thick tears streamed down your cheeks. “Why me? Why do I have to look like this? Why can’t I have a flat stomach like Shannon?” You only left the pool bathroom when Shannon’s mom came, looking for you after everyone else had left. You stare in the mirror at your reflection again, not quite ready to face reality—your father downstairs or your classmates at school. The skirt comes to your knees and your sleeveless top exposes more of you than you’ve shown since you stopped swimming out of self-consciousness. Before, the voice in your head was submissive, accepting that rounder figures were not shown off the way slender ones were. Now, it protests this unfair treatment. Why shouldn’t I wear clothes that keep me cool in the heat? My body deserves comfort and acceptance, just like everyone else’s. You take a deep breath, and carry your backpack down the stairs to the living room. As you step into the kitchen to grab a granola bar and banana, your father looks up from his newspaper. He stares. “You’re wearing that to school?” Your cheeks grow warm. You think bitterly, Why shouldn’t I? Why do you need justification? but you mumble, “Yes.” 106

And just like that, any inkling of self confidence you’d

convinced yourself of is gone, replaced only by shame, self pity, and guilt. You’ve never known why you feel so guilty, but it is there, nagging, infecting your thoughts like a slow poison. You’d feel that familiar twinge of guilt when you took a second serving at dinner, or when those workout ads came across your Instagram feed. Or when you found yourself in the depths of Tumblr, scrolling through images of beautiful, thin women, or when you so much as went out with friends and you each ordered food. You knew that your food was no different than everyone else’s, but you couldn’t help double checking the calories, as if those tiny numbers would erase the pale lines carved into your hips, as if they would change the person you saw in the mirror. You hurry out of the house before your father can say another word. As you approach the school entrance, you feel as if everyone is staring at you. Has walking always felt this unusual? Are those girls laughing at me? Take a deep breath. Calm down. No one’s looking at you. After getting materials from your locker, you rush to the bathroom and stare at the person in the mirror. You stare at your reflection dead in the eye as if in a staring contest with yourself, and quietly say, “Today will be different, today will be different,” while holding back tears you feel wanting to come out. You take a deep breath, swallow your spit, and walk out the door. In your mind you keep repeating, today will be different. As you walk to your first class, you try to not make eye contact with anyone because if you do, you feel like they will just judge you, as unforgivably as if you’d killed someone. But even thinking that, you feel like everyone’s eyes are pointed towards you. You bump into someone and drop everything. You look up at who you just bumped into and begin to blush. Breathe. Just breathe. Of course you had to bump into Amy Sharpe, best friend turned nemesis after she called you a “fugly loser” in seventh grade.

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“Cute outfit,” she says, sneering, as you reach for your things. You know she is making fun of you. You know she’s being sarcastic. Ignore it ignore it ignore it, you tell yourself. But it’s so hard to ignore it. You know what she says is true: you can feel your thighs pressed up against one another; you feel like you take up the whole hallway, brushing by everyone who tries to pass. You tremble a bit, tears forming in your eyes as you try to squint them away, knowing that if you blink they will all come out in big heavy drops. “Awww... is the baby crying?” she says in a pout while her friends high five her and laugh around you. But you can see her eyes smiling, silently laughing at you. In that moment, you somehow feel so big and yet, so small. Plop. Plop. Plop. The tears start to fall one after the other, as you cower against the wall. The asinine smiles and the laughing escalate in your head, amped by the despair of the morning and the constant self loathing that has built up over the days. The cork of emotions and sadness and anger in your mind build up, and then break like a dam with your tears as they fall on the floor. I wish they would just disappear, you think. I wish everyone would disappear. And then, they did.

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Instead of the cold, hard floors and walls being your only supporters, you find yourself in a whole new world, free of everything besides the color black. How long this state lasts is unknown, but it feels as if an eternity goes by before your very eyes. Motionless, the void gives no answer, no movement, no reaction. You are there, waiting for something to pull you back into the reality you had suffered in for far too long. Is this punishment? After all of the pain you have endured for so long, are you now condemned to this lifeless hole of darkness? Then you look down. Your body is gone, yet you can still feel its presence. You flail your arms around. They too have disappeared from sight but you can still feel them. You “stand” up, your legs standing on a plane of pitch

black. You begin a lonely trek. Step after step, mile after mile, you find nothing. Nothing at all. No people to stare at you as you walk down the sidewalk, no classmates to give sneer comments about how you looked, no screen to tell you how you should look, no father to look down upon you, no one to judge the way you look. Not even you can see yourself and despite the fact you are not visible, you have finally found yourself. That’s when you see the mirror. Alone in the void, a mirror that’s all sharp edges and painful reminders stands before you. You stand before it, but you still can’t see yourself. Rather, what you see reflected in that mirror, is your father. The realization strikes you as the mirror shatters, glass shades scattering in the air. The larger ones turn and you see the faces of everybody who has ever sneered at you, everybody who has ever judged you. The mirror... you have been reflecting their judgments onto yourself all of this time. Every person who so much as gave you a side-eye seemed to have permanently left a mark on your psyche. Then the blackness falls away, and you are back in reality. You are crying. Amy Sharpe is laughing. It hurts, but now less so. You pull yourself up, and smile at her. Without saying a word, you turn and head to your first class. The rest of the day passes by blissfully. You can’t remember the last time you felt this comfortable in your body, with who you are. You can’t remember the last time you felt this light, the weight of caring what everyone thinks lifted from your shoulders. Could it really have been that easy? All it took was for you to let go of others’ judgments—it was never you who truly felt this way about your body, but everyone else around you.

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Your dad isn’t home yet when you return from school. You walk up the stairs, each solid footstep a reminder of how your body carries you through life. It’s a sort of magic: your heart pumping blood throughout your body, your muscles flexing and relaxing, your senses creating a vivid picture of reality. When you get to your room, you heft up that broken mirror—a reminder of how your dad projected dissatisfaction with his own life onto you—and head towards the trash can outside. You dump the mirror in and shut the lid. The resounding crash of the lid closing almost seems like a clap for what you’ve done, how far you’ve come. You smile at your ghostly reflection in the window, waiting for your dad to come home. You’re ready to confront him, and everyone else who expected you to fit into their image of perfection and judged you when you refused to.

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sunday Anonymous the piece is based off of lofi music and the concept of taking life slow. after a week’s worth of work, listening to music and sleeping in is sometimes the key to recharging up for the next monday.

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Spring 2021 Staff

Editor-in-Chief: Nimisha Sivaraman Vice President: Langston Wu Layout Officer: Fiona Li Publicity Officers: Abby Kuang Managing Officers: Julia Kang, Fiona Li Club Advisor: Mr. Dunlap Rotational Layout Members: Katie Shih, Eileen Fang, Mei Knutson

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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.

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