Pandora's Box Winter 2018 by Pandora's Box Creative Magazine

PA ND OR Aâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; S

Pandoraâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Box Creative Magazine winter 2018

Cover photo: Ice Rink Shannon Lin 2

you’re reading this, the winter 2018 issue of Gunn High School’s Pandora’s Box Creative Magazine has been published.

For this issue, we set some big goals to surpass our work from last year. With more than 80 submissions of memoirs, short stories, personal narratives, poetry, photography, paintings, drawings, and more, this issue is (again) the largest Pandora’s Box issue to date and our first ever online-exclusive issue. I say this on behalf of the entire Pandora’s Box team: we couldn’t be prouder. Our officers and members devoted countless hours and lunchtimes to make this publication a possibility. A few important thank-yous are necessary. Thank you, officers and members, for all your efforts. Senior officers—thank you for dedicating your time and thought to this magazine during your college application seasons. Mr. Dunlap—thank you for all of your unwavering support and guidance. Most importantly, however, we’d be absolutely lost without our cherished contributors and readers. Especially prevalent in this issue are the individual voices and memoirs of the Gunn student body. And as we bundle up for a (Californian) winter, I hope these stories of what it means to be human—stories, tales, and recountings of what matters to you and your peers—warm you. We invite you to immerse yourself in the liveliness evoked from a carousel, the nostalgia elicited from a dusty yellow book, and the wisdom gained from a broken arm. In the next semester, we’ll be preparing to pass on this Pandora’s Box legacy. As you flip through these pages, we hope you’ll consider joining us in 2019. Winter wishes, Kristie Huang Editor-in-Chief

Table of Contents Photography Untitled 8 Justin Lee Mayview Avenue, Palo Alto 14 Jay Li Untitled 1 16 Justin Lee Untitled 2 16 Justin Lee Africa’s Finest_3 18 Aditya Mittal Untitled 19 Emily Su The Metal Sharpener, Mérida 20 Anonymous Fuxing Park, Shanghai 20 Jay Li Untitled 3 28 Justin Lee Untitled 34 Anonymous Untitled 49 Anonymous Untitled 60 Emily Su Juneau and San Francisco 66 Jay Li 2

Untitled 76 Emily Su Her 80 Sofía Sierra-García Him 81 Sofía Sierra-García Moon 82 Sofía Sierra-García Africa’s Finest 90 Aditya Mittal Untitled 98 Justin Lee Forsaken 109 Jonathan Fang Photo 122 Anonymous Dog 124 Anonymous Untitled 125 Anonymous Father and Son 129 Sofia Sierra-Garcia Untitled 135 Justin Lee Passe 136 Jonathan Fang A Spook 140 Meredith Yee

Poetry Cry of the Lone Wolf 17 George Cai Hear 22 HANK Gold 27 Herva Joshi Anonym 33 Anonymous Poem 42 Arman Moslehi Wild World 48 Anika Seshadri Unoccupied (Color) 51 Anonymous Drowning 52 Anonymous Smoke 53 Anonymous Winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Death 54 Anonymous Fools 61 1POWlo It Had to Happen 71 Devan Perkash Pictures of Me 80 Anonymous

Imposter Syndrome 83 Talia Ostacher elegy 99 Liza Kolbasov Silence 100 Emma Sloan The Things I Will Do For You 103 Mishaal Hussain Sable 109 Annetta Ven Creekside 114 Anika Seshadri

Prose The Last Phone Call 10 Trinity Cao Wings 23 Elliot Kau The Move 30 Gavin Orr The Broke Boy 36 Anonymous Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Vicious Side 39 Scott Huang Excerpt: Trash Trip 44 Anonymous The Greatest Feeling in the World 55 Lage Linnarsson

Memoir 62 Anonymous Dog Thoughts 68 Anonymous Chayim Etz 73 Nate Boxer Excerpt: The Master of Destiny 77 Laurelie Excerpt: Project Genecron 84 Keshav Chhawchharia Excerpt: Waiting Room 87 Anika Seshadri Excerpt: The Home Stretch 92 Ranvir Singh Excerpt: Tuesdays 95 Athina Chen My Mind is an Ocean 102 R. Mistry Elementary Chaos 106 Anonymous Youth 110 Amy Cheng Rocking Chair 111 Anika Seshadri Excerpt: Incident on the Mountainside 116

Martin Chaperot-Merino The Daily Grind 120 Anonymous Excerpt: Power of Words Anonymous La ManĂŠge 130 Anonymous Excerpt: The Life of an FBI Agent 133 JM Excerpt: Disconnected Dysphoria 138 Anonymous My First Ending 142 Anonymous

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Artwork Nightfall 43 Anonymous Untitled 58 vlone yinger Untitled 113 Taryn Liu Thanks for the Memories 119 Shannon Lin

Untitled Justin Lee

These are some photos I took over the summer in the South of Spain and Tangier, Morocco.

The Last Phone Call Trinity Cao

“Honey, Daddy’s calling!” My mom yelled from the kitchen. I skipped out from my room, stubbing my pinky toe into another one of my mom’s boyfriend’s heavy, cardboard boxes filling the hallway to the brim and using the one bad word I knew to curse at him. Stupid, STUPID! He totally placed this here so I would get hurt, I thought to myself. Clutching my precious toe and hopping out to my mom, who was waving her brand new iPhone 5 in the air, I snatched it out of her hands and answered the call immediately, breathless. “Daddy! Daddy, hi Daddy!” I shouted in glee, having not seen him in a month. “Heya honey, how’s my baby girl doing?” His calm, raspy voice rang loudly through the speaker, instantly calming me. My mom’s boyfriend (we’ll call him Bob because no one wants to know his real name) glared at me from the living room that was connected to the kitchen, separated by only a countertop and sink. I narrowed my eyes back at him and huffed, twisting around so my back was facing him and turning off the speakerphone. I slapped the phone against my ear, remembering my dad was there. I sighed. “I’m okay, Daddy, I just miss you. I wish you were here,” I muttered sorely, feeling an uncomfortable tightness in my chest and my cheeks growing red in a mixture of anger, sadness, and frustration. “Why can’t you just come here?” “I’ll tell you later, it’s not a good time right now.” He lied. “I’ll tell you later, I’ll tell you next time!”, he’d always swear earnestly. Empty promises. So I didn’t relent this time. “No, Daddy, I want to know. I haven’t seen you in forever.” I wanted him to admit his fault. I already knew 10

where he was and why he couldn’t be here right now, Uncle Mike told me a week ago when I’d texted him in fright, pleading him to take me to my Daddy. He was in Texas, Uncle Mike had told me. With his other family. “Baby, Daddy said no.” “But why? You’re with her, aren’t you?” “Who, honey?” “You know who I’m talking about. (we’ll call her Jenny) Jenny. Her.” “Haha. Darling, you say her name like she’s evil.” ...She is evil, I wanted to say. She’s a horrible lady that’s taking you away from me. She’s a bad guy. But I stopped myself before I said anything I’d regret. “Yeah. Are you?” “Am I what?” “DADDY! You’re just avoiding the question now, I know it.” “Okay, okay, haha.” I could hear his distant laughter through the phone and it only made me miss him more. My heart throbbed, wishing my father was here by my side like any father should be. “Yes, I am with her. Do you want to say hi? And to your younger siblings too?” “They’re not my siblings.” “Oh, honey, don’t say that! Of course you guys are siblings! You don’t have to be related by blood to be siblings. And even if you don’t think you guys are, I expect that you treat them like you are related, so it doesn’t matter. Danni’s barely four, she knows nothing honey, so you need to be her role model,” he chided, acting as if he still were here, able to scold me like any trustworthy, dependable parent. “Well, I’m only seven. That’s only three more years than her.” So there. Ha, I taunted him in my mind. “Almost eight,” he corrected. “Wow! You remember?” I asked sarcastically. He either didn’t catch on or didn’t want to. “Of course! You’re my precious baby, darling!” Liar. 11

If he treasured me so much, why would he abandon me like this? “Really? Because it seems like all you care about now is your other family.” “What do you mean?” “You even left me for them! All the way to Texas! How could you?!” I let out a sob, helplessly attempting to cover my mouth with my palm so he couldn’t hear the misery spilling out of my lips. “What...What do you mean? You’ve known? This entire time?” He stuttered, shocked that he had been caught in a lie. “Yeah. Uncle, Uncle Mike...he told me. Before you. If you were even going to tell, anyway. But I bet you weren’t. You don’t even care anymore. You—” he interrupted me. “Honey, stop it!” But I continued on, only raising my voice and speaking even faster in frustration, my heart aching so badly I couldn’t even pay attention to anything other than my anguish. I desperately wanted to cry, but I couldn’t do it here, in Bob’s dim, oppressive kitchen. I felt like the walls were closing, bearing down on me. The tightness in my chest was only becoming more and more taut, threatening to tear me open and pull me apart. Bob being ten feet away in the living room only made me more stressed and agitated as I was thinking about my pride being crumbled to pieces if he ever saw me cry. The pressure I felt in the moment caused me to rush on, not even thinking about the hurtful words spewing out of my lips or Daddy’s pleas for me to stop. “YOU HATE ME. YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT ME. YOU NEVER DID. You, you...you only care about them,” I quieted down at the end, realizing what I had said. Realizing it had hit closer to heart than I had intended, even though it was somewhat true. Feeling the shame rush through my veins, I wanted so desperately to hang up but also wanted to hear him keep talking. Just a little more. I 12

needed to hear his voice again before he was gone forever. ‘I miss you,’ I wanted to say to interrupt the silence on the other line. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. My voice wouldn’t let me, I just loved him too much, but I knew he didn’t love me the way I wanted him to love me in return. He loved the idea of me, having a daughter to love. He loved the idea of a perfect child that would score at the top of the class in every subject, have perfect manners, looks, and intelligence so he could show her off to other worthless people and boast about his lucky life. He loved the idea of barely having responsibilities and having to care for his kid, never having to reprimand her or hit her. He loved his idea of ‘perfect’. But that wasn’t me. So instead, his real love was reserved for other people, like 25-year-old tramps and their stinky, unappreciative scum called children. His deep, rumbling voice broke through the quiet, admonishing me for the last time. “You don’t understand. So don’t pretend you do. I’ll come to visit once in a while, you have to understand that.” Sure you will, father. “Be a good child for your mom. I love you, goodbye.” I hung up briskly without a word, before he could shut me out completely. If I couldn’t get anything else, a small victory over our last phone call was the one thing I wanted. ‘He won’t win this, he won’t make me cry. I could not give him the power to do that to me,’ I told myself. ‘Be strong, be strong.’ And yet, the tiny seven-year-old body of my smaller self ignored my pleas and began to sob. I rushed to the nearest bathroom, crumbling down to the ground, dropping to my knees, as salty tears began to plunge down my face like a sad, sad, waterfall. I continued to cry alone, knowing my mother was too occupied with her boyfriend’s ceaseless demands to come and comfort me. Rocking back and forth, back and forth, the tears flowing...flowing... flowing... 13

Mayview Avenue, Palo Alto Jay Li

Untitled 1 Justin Lee These are some photos I took over the summer in the South of Spain and Tangier, Morocco.

Untitled 2 Justin Lee These are some photos I took over the summer in the South of Spain and Tangier, Morocco.

Cry of the Lone Wolf George Cai

At Nighttime The Lone Wolf strides Up the mountainside To Reach Before Midnight Standing Upon a Cliff Inches from the edge Looking at the Rift Bravely and swift Winter is near The increasing fear the pack will thrive the lone will die Upon the moon A shouting cry the hunt is soon Will I survive?

Africaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Finest_3 Aditya Mittal

Cheetah and her 3 cubs in the plains of Maasai Mara, Kenya.

Untitled Emily Su

The Metal Sharpener, MÃ©rida Anonymous

Fuxing Park, Shanghai Jay Li

I think I’m fucking screaming but I can barely hear myself inside my own head and everything is muffled and I wonder: is this what drowning is like? or is this chains around my limbs, weighing them down like– I think they’re the weight of the entire world, but it’s hard to tell– personal gravitational fields? I think I’m fucking screaming and I don’t think anyone can hear me because I can barely hear myself and if I can’t hear myself who can hear me? WHO CAN HEAR ME I think I’m fucking screaming but maybe not because if I can’t hear me and no one else can hear me then if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around does it really fall? am I screaming? can you hear me? please hear me 22

Hear HANK

Wings Elliot Kau

Mark looked at the TV, his gaze fixed on the pictures and models shown by the weatherman. Even though the sound was not working, Mark could tell that the weatherman was panicked or even scared, seeing that he was waving his hands all over the place. In the back of the house, Mark heard Friend finishing the construction of the wings. “Is it ready yet? It seems like it will start in around 30 minutes.” Mark called out in his monotonous voice, looking at a simulation that showed a volcano spewing out lava. “I’m done with the first set, give me around 10 to 15 more minutes for mine. Putting some extra touches and priming it.” Mark had been waiting, preparing for this moment. The volcano had been increasing in pressure for the past couple month, but now it was finally erupting. For as long as he remembered being on the planet, Mark had been planning, thinking, studying, preparing; it was time to put his talents and his achievements to the test. Mark and Friend carefully and quickly put their wings on, before the tremors came again. As Mark fastened the straps, he heard others outside shouting and screaming, probably also getting ready for the final boom. As the two of them stepped outside from the tiny shack, they immediately turned their attention to volcano; the top was full of smoke, and it seemed as if it was going to split from all the vibrations. “Well, this is the end game. Time to put these wings to work!” Mark exclaimed, trying to make Friend less nervous about what was to come. Friend did not seem to hear what Mark had to say, but instead was looking around at all the others near them. Everyone else also had their own flight apparatuses, from wings like the ones Friend designed to mini planes, to even hot 23

air balloons. Mark looked at the hot air balloon and scoffed, “Well those guys aren’t going to make it out alive.” “Why not?” Friend asked. “It seems like it can get to a high enough altitude.” “Yes, but the beams that the Sun produces will be much stronger at higher altitudes, and it would just straight up burn a hole through that material. I’ve calculated and even tested it, I’m sure.” Mark said it almost happily, as if he was glad that there would be less people alive after the eruption. The ground rumbled again, but this time, the volcano rumbled along with it. Even though Mark and Friend could only see the volcano in the far distance, they could still see a bright red liquid spewing out. Mark murmured, “It’s time.” Not taking any chances, Mark and Friend took flight immediately. The other people around them on the ground were still getting ready, putting them in danger of being swallowed by the lava. So far, the wings were working perfectly. The wings were light and did not feel uncomfortable at all, as if they were meant for him. They were very responsive, yet very stable. Mark felt as if he was a great bird, and the sky was his dominion. Mark was happy he had Friend as a partner, who had designed and crafted these amazing wings for both of them. Of course, Mark himself had done his share of work, studying and researching about which machine would be the best to fly, and how outside factors (such as the massive amounts of heat from the lava and the sun) would influence that decision. He had also gotten the materials and helped Friend out whenever he needed it. Although Mark had never gotten to know Friend on a personal level (which was why Mark always called him Friend), he felt that the two of them made a great team. They continued flying, rising in altitude in order to not get swallowed alive by the lava. Despite staying far above the 24

molten liquid, it was still getting very hot, and it felt like there were tiny white-hot needles poking him all over his body. “I don’t know if we can go much higher, else the sun beams will be too dangerous,” Friend said. “Then what do you suggest, we stay here?” “I mean, we both know that these wings can only sustain so much before breaking. A couple miles higher and these wings will melt off. I felt mine starting to break down quite some time ago.” Mark was silent, but continued to fly up. Friend trailed behind him, begging him to stop. Mark glanced down again. “How about the lava? It’s clearly still rising.” “It might stop soon, and I’d rather risk staying here than flying too close to the sun.” “Well I’m going up. Stay here if you want to.” As Mark prepared to shoot up higher, he heard a yelp, and then a chilling cry. He turned back and saw his friend reach out to him. One of the rods his right wing had practically melted, causing it to stop working. And Mark knew that one wing would not be able to support Friend. Time seemed to slow down for Mark. He saw Friend trying to flap his broken wings, trying to stay alive. Friend’s face was a mixture of shock, fear, and dismay. He started falling. Slowly at first, but faster and faster. Soon, Friend’s scream could no longer be heard, and he was just a black dot in the far distance, destined for death. And yet, Mark’s wings were completely fine. A couple months before, Friend had heard that there was a new metal, much stronger than the one they were currently using; it was said that that new metal could withstand more heat, so it was only logical to use it for the 8 supporting rods that there were in each set of wings (so a total of 16). However, when Mark went to buy it, he realized they did not have enough money to replace all their rods with the new metal, but only 25

enough for 8. Friend thought that was fine, and put 4 rods into each set of wings. But on that same night, when Friend was sleeping, Mark crept into the room and swapped the new pieces in Friend’s wings to his wings. All of Mark’s rods were made from the new material, and all of Friend’s were not. The metals looked the same, so there was no way Friend would notice. Only Mark remembered. Mark landed on a distant moon, nearly dead from exhaustion. His beautiful wings broke down the moment he landed, and it was apparent that it there was no way to repair it. He looked back at where he had flown from; what had once been a wonderful planet was now swallowed up, engulfed by the ugly, bloodred lava. Mark looked around his surroundings, then tried running. The gravity on this satellite was definitely less strong, yet something in him felt heavier than ever. He thought again about Friend. Seeing him fall into the lava, reaching out to Mark...how Mark hadn’t even bothered to know his name. Now he could never ask Friend. In fact, now he had… Nothing. He cried; for what he kept, he had lost everything else.

An unbreakable bond. Broken at last. Bitter enmity. A lie in a smile. Icy flames. Silent desolation. A gold butterfly, Broken. Silent storm. Gold overshadowed. Cracked souls never heal. Delicate peace, Is but a ghost.

Gold

Hetva Joshi

Untitled 3 Justin Lee

The Move Gavin Orr

FOOM. The creaky back door of the moving truck slides open. There it is… all of our stuff, packed into a tight pile, clear to the front of the big metal container. I wince as my heart sinks at the sight. I mentally resist the move, wanting this situation to be some crazy dream, not reality—I long for my old life. I want that life where I don’t have to feel uncomfortable, puzzled, or disconnected. One where everything I see, smell, touch, hear, taste, and know is familiar. My head droops as I stare at the floor, replaying my personal favorite memories—from salmon fishing, to boating across Lake Washington, to looking for orcas in the San Juan Islands. I imagine how much better life would be without the move. A strong longing for the past grips me. “Where would you like us to put these, Sir?” a burly man with black hair and a mustache faces my father. The man is wearing a grey T-shirt and jeans and leaning on a blue rusty trolley. He points to a bundle of boxes all the width and length of the average person’s 30

shoulders and about the height of a child. The boxes have the word ARTWORK printed on it in a black sharpie. “Just in the garage,” my father replies. With that, the man and his group of five other men, all ranging from large to short, broad to narrow, get to work. Hoisting the boxes onto the trolley, they’re brought to the garage. The trolley squeaks as its rusty axel resists the weight. As the day goes by, a stream of brown boxes and furniture begin to fly from the metal container. I stare dazedly from the inside as the barren rooms of our house turn into an exhibition of colors. A family room with faded wood floors is filled with a couch, an area carpet, and a television. The empty white kitchen is stocked with cups, plates, bowls, bottles, Tupperware, silverware, knives, and machinery. Bedrooms with pale walls are filled with desks, bed frames, rainbow arrays of clothes, dressers, and mismatched trinkets everywhere. Bathrooms are filled with cosmetics, creams, soaps, medicines, and everything in between. Our empty canvas of a house is suddenly turned into an elaborate display of multi-colored items throughout. But the boxes—Oh, the Boxes! They are every which way, a box here, a box there! We might well have built a whole other floor out of boxes! Boxes—short, tall, skinny, wide—sit all over the place. A tsunami of cardboard seems to have invaded our house. Every which way I turn, a box seems to appear. My dad collapses internally under stress as each one comes in. We must’ve used up an entire forest. The stacks upon stacks of boxes rule our hallways and shrink our rooms. The simple house becomes a sophisticated maze. I claw ferociously through the boxes with a small (but quite effective) razor blade, slashing chaotically through the invisible tape, pulling out all items (leaving quite a mess of stuffing), and then swiftly moving onto the next. I feel 31

like a child during Christmas. Every box is a surprise (even though we owned everything previously…) and I dance in joy as items I have been separated from since the move have finally returned to my own hands. Twelve hours later, my family and I finally finish unpacking. A pile of bent and torn cardboard with crumpled white stuffing paper lay outside in the backyard. With sweat beading down their faces and breathing hard, the movers grab their equipment and eventually depart. We are all exhausted. Our minds are sick of the sight of cardboard and our bodies are covered in dust. I laugh as the dog stares at us with sincere confusion as to what just happened. My laughter is shared with family as we sink into our couch. The house rests with everything in place—but stinks of cardboard dust throughout. I think about what lies in the future: new place, new school, new life. The excitement feels enchanting. Questions fill my mind. What will school be like? What is there to do around here? What will my new life look like? I eat dinner with these questions racing through my mind, matching each question with made-up visions in my head. Later, I sit in bed, smiling, and think I don’t know what’s ahead… but I’m sure ready for it.

Anonym Anonymous

The sun now sets in the sky, dipping below gentle rolling hills. From that moment, life stills, And quiets, and goes to sleep. Birds settle in their beds, flying to some distant home, And upon the lake, the sea foam, Shines, brought in by the neap. The wind rocks through the branches, gently shaking the trees, With their leaves dancing in the breeze, Turning darker colors. The sun now disappears entirely, and the moon rules the night, With the stars giving their light. They are their own wonders. Alone a figure stands, on a ledge looking to the world, And quickly, their arms they unfurled, Just like a conductor. There they stay, taking in the music of nature, And though they are a stranger, They are no interrupter. Peace is on their face, and they stay the whole night and day, No words, nothing at all, do they say, For none are needed here. But of course comes the time, when they must leave, And tears are shed, but the person sees, The world, and knows it wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t disappear. *** They will come again to the wild, They are, after all, its child. They would come again. Nothing would change that, in the end.

Untitled Anonymous

The Broke Boy Anonymous

I screamed at the top of my lungs dispite the soreness. That pain felt like nothing in comparison to the one burning in my arm. It pulsed with almost a rhythm, and with every beat, the pain got worse and worse. I wondered where my friend Lance was. With his small stature and short fuse, it was likely that he had picked a fight with a teacher on his way to the office. I needed him to be fast. I don’t think I could stay conscious for much longer. As if an answer to my unspoken plea, he appeared out of the blue. “Took you long enough” I managed to croak. “Sorry we came as fast as we could!” Lance yelled, his face red from the exertion of running. Lance was not a naturally in-shape person. Most of his personality revolved around his need to be popular, unlike me who cared very little of what other people thought of me. Nevertheless, opposites attract and we had became fast friends on the very first days of school. He laughed at my crappy jokes and enjoyed many of the same activities as me. We had an “illegal” Pokémon card trading operation underneath the playground where we scammed kids on their cards. He was the type of person who naturally took responsibility for the good and the bad that happens in his life. That explains why he took responsibility for my little tumble. It was lunch and we had our objective: Get to the library as fast as possible. I had considered maneuvering between the crowds of kids near the playground, but decided that it would take too long. The fastest route was around the outside of the classrooms on the redtop. There was only one problem. There was no running on the redtop. It was alliteration, so it must have been a solid rule. Lucky with my quick thinking I deduced a clever way around this rule. 36

“We’ll skip!” I called out as I found my way through the loophole. “That’s a great idea!” Lance responded. He always agreed with me. But why shouldn’t he? I was always right after all. So with this devious plan in mind, we skipped as fast as we could around the outside of the play area. We had gotten about halfway there when, by sheer bad luck, something snagged my foot and I went falling. I hit the ground, elbow first. It didn’t hurt for a bit, but then it all came rushing in. I managed to mostly keep it together until Mom got me in the car. You notice all the bumps in the road a lot more when everyone feels like it will rip your arm in two. The hospital was the same as I remembered it, with the big white rooms and the big white X-ray machine, which is what I discovered the laser-like machine was called. I somehow ended up in a cast again despite my thorough complaints. I was sent home with one thing stuck in my mind. Never skip again. * * * “Sam come on! What are you doing! Go for the rebound! You can do it in practice, why not here!? Are you deaf?!” “No, Coach.” “Do better! Can you go get that ball!?” Coach’s veins bulge with intensity as he glared at me. How could I go in for that ball. There were so many people. Every time I even thought about it, all I could see was my knee crunching and my arm snapping. There was no way I was going in for that ball, it was a death wish. But coach didn’t care. He said that pain was needed to succeed, a moral that I did not entirely agree with. I steeled myself and replied. “Yes, Coach,” I said, with more determination this time. I could do this. “Good. WILDCATS ON ME WILDCATS ON THREE! ONE, TWO, THREE.” 37

“WILDCATS!” I rushed out onto the basketball court with determination im my eyes and a goal forming in my mind. I would get that ball, no matter the cost. The ball was passed in to me and I swung it to Ivan in the corner for a three. He put up the shot and I could tell immediately that it was going to miss and where it was gonna bounce. I held my breath and jumped. I got it. Then I saw number 8, who had been hyper aggressive all game. He swiped for the ball, but I held on. I hit the ground with the ball still in my hands. I did it. I DID IT. I heard Coach shout from the bench. “THERE WE GO!” I smiled. It had hurt but I had done it. I finally made him happy. The numbness and pain felt good now. I was exhausted. Everything hurt, but it was over. I did it. Then I heard my Coach. “NOW AGAIN!”

Nature’s Vicious Side Scott Huang

I stepped into the water. My feet entered first, followed by the rest of my body. The first thing I noticed was the cold. I was floating, so my head didn’t enter the water, but the water level was a little above my belly button, and it was frigid. My body reacted to the iciness of the water before I could consciously react. My hands shot down to my sides and my feet started kicking downwards frantically. My teeth chattered and I made an incoherent noise resembling “brrr”. Charlie’s reactions weren’t any different. “Hey Scott!” he yelled to get my attention. I turned to face him, only to find a wave of icy water. “Charlie!” It was on. I hit him with volley after another, and he retaliated with a forceful salvo that halted my attacks. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and we had to get back on the raft before long. We started back on our journey, paddling past birds flying overheads with towering mountains in the background. Every stroke of the oar propelled us forward, not quite like a hot knife through butter, but we managed. “You having fun?” my dad asked me. This time, I was sincere. “Yeah!” “Alright, we’re reaching rough waters soon! Make sure you have your helmets on tight!” the instructor yelled from the front of the raft. True to his word, the raft began to jostle, violently moving left, then right as it hit various rocks and obstructions. Screams and laughter, from me especially, erupted after every hit. The river was seething. The water was white as it flowed downstream over rocks of all sizes, from pebbles to boulders and everything in between. “Look out! Big rock ahead!” 39

And then I was overboard. The raft had bounced off the rock, and my inertia had taken me over the side. I landed in shallow water, and the river took me downstream. Somehow, I went faster than the boat, moving downstream, feet first, with an oar still in hand. The current seemed to choose the route that contained the sharpest rocks. Every pebble had a grudge against me— they bit at my legs, swarming like a disturbed bee colony. Each bump, the river laughed at my misery. The river brought me towards a massive rock. I stuck out my right foot and kicked it. The rock didn’t move, but I did, and I narrowly swerved to the right. I wasn’t out of the blue yet, though. I was approaching an area of current that seemed especially harsh, with rocks that looked especially menacing. Of course, all rocks looked menacing from my point of view. “Grab on!” someone shouted. I turned, and saw the raft, with an instructor reaching an oar out to me. I grabbed it and was hauled up. The raft found an area to stop. I was carried onto the solid ground of the riverside, crying. “Are you hurt?” my dad asked me. “My leg,” I weakly pointed out. “I know, I know. It’s bleeding a little. I’ll patch it up when we get back. Anything else hurt?” I shook my head again. “I wanna go home,” I whimpered. I wanted to lie under a warm blanket, listening to the sound of rain drizzling, tapping on the ground outside. I wanted to be sheltered, protected from the battering ram of nature. “I do too. We have to get there first.” “I hate rafting,” I complained. “I know, I’m sorry, but we have to get back.” “How?” I asked, hoping for anything but one answer. My dad gave a light chuckle. “You see anything else?” he said, gesturing to the raft. 40

“I don’t want to paddle.” “You sure? You held on to the paddle the whole time,” he pointed out. For the first time, I realized that I had held onto the oar throughout my time in the river. I gave a small smile at the ridiculousness of it must have looked. I sighed. “Let’s go.” We did return home to safety, but I remain skeptical about the “great outdoors” to this day—when I go out, I always double check that I can get back home.

Poem

Arman Moslehi I used to see change as a grenade One that goes off and does its damage and doesn’t care And you’re left to pick up the pieces and say “This is what I have left I guess.” But just now, just recently I pulled the pin of the grenade and out came an explosion of colors and smiles of love and sorrow a creative explosion the dust setvtles and I have grown wings and I want to fly with them and challenge Icarus because my wings are not wax they are steel and they will deflect the bright light they are light and make me lighter and lighten my load they are magic and are mine and make me smile I smile It’s a new game but I’m the same character And I just leveled up

Nightfall Anonymous 43

Excerpt: Trash Trip Anonymous

“The cruise leaves at 4:30, you guys are fine,” pointed out the baggage carrier as I waited for the the other Uber car which had the rest of my family. I looked around at the Port Canaveral building and the flat landscape.

“I was feeling really uncomfortable, and I’ve barely even embarked on the journey yet.”

The car finally arrived and we proceeded to go through security and check-in. I hurried down the corner of a block, desperate to get inside the refreshing, air-conditioned building. A huge wave of cold air enveloped me as I swung open the glass door. The hairs on my skin stood up, I shivered. A little too cold. I stopped at the top of the stairs to the second floor. I waited, like I always did, because of how slow my family walked. They walked like they were in a shopping mall when in reality, we were in a hurry to make it on time before the cruise left. ... Considering the fact that we were on a cruise, I didn’t 44

expect our room to be big. It actually wasn’t that bad. We walked in and to our right was a vertical step leading to the toilet. Next to it was the sink along with the shower and a mirror. On the left, there were cabinets that had a shelf on top with contained four life vests and some clothes hangers. I walk further into the room and notice a queen sized bed and a blue fabric sofa. I turn my head slightly to the left, and slowly walk towards the stunning view of the limitless horizon of the Atlantic Ocean. I open the sliding door and step out onto the balcony. I look back on the island and watch the palm trees sway in the wind, parallel to the rhythm of the wind. I forgot about the climate and embrace the view instead. Absolutely phenomenal. ... After an exhausting day and a luxurious dinner, I laid in my bed, ready to sleep. The blanket was rough and thin. It didn’t help the fact that it was difficult to fall asleep, despite being exhausted as ever. I skipped dinner the next morning to have a good night’s sleep. I looked outside and realize that we weren’t moving anymore. We had arrived at the Bahamas. From all the things I’ve heard about the Bahamas, I was expecting a pretty good day ahead of us. We leave the ship and walked onto the dock. Taking pictures were my family. I’m a firm believer in living the moment so I don’t endorse in taking pictures. Despite it, I put on a fake smile just for the camera. We walked a bit further and I began to sweat so I urge my family to walk faster a bit, but they wanted to take another picture again. Wow. At this point I felt the anger rise within me. We haven’t even gotten to

the main island yet and I was already uncomfortable. Beads of sweat rolled down my face as the rest of my body was itchy as hell. The heat was really getting on my nerves. It was so depressing to see others keep walking by and passing us while we stood there and kept taking pictures, causing traffic. “No more pictures, let’s go.” We continued walking towards the main entrance of the island and I noticed the buildings and structures were in very poor condition. The walls had cracks in them and they were painted in plain and simple colors with no decorations on them. It was almost as if the buildings were left to crumble. Like an abandoned child alone on the street. We finally arrive at the main entrance where we were bombarded by salesmen, all eager to sell their vacation packages. Each of them held a little binder that displayed pictures of the journey, but they all looked like they just made up their own business just by taking pictures and only offered transportation to get there. I was under the impression that the Bahamas was a great tourist site where people went sightseeing at the beaches and had the opportunity to have fun in resorts, but it appears that I was wrong. My mom had took so much time and effort to book this trip but ultimately didn’t know what we were going to do. “What are we gonna do?” “I don’t know, let’s just keep walking.” “Did you seriously board this cruise not knowing what we were going to do when we got off?” “Yes, I thought we should decide when we got here. Go up to the front desk to see what you want to do then.” I shuffled my feet over to the desk. A plain blue wall with no pictures and decorations. Bland and boring. Used brochures stood up on the desk. I wasn’t interested in doing anything. 46

I knew that every one of my requests would’ve been denied, only because they had some stupid excuses to say why not. I tried anyway. “Fine. Let’s do this,” gesturing towards the brochure with a picture of a jet ski on it. She didn’t reply. She didn’t even ask the rest of the family to see what they wanted. I aggressively snatch the brochure back from her. “You ask me what I want to do but it doesn’t seem like you even care. You always say no but you don’t make suggestions yourself. How do you expect us to decide what we wanna do when all of you guys are so passive and sitting on the I’m-fine-with-everything-train?” Let’s just keep walking. Wow. I was literally about to punch those buildings and make them crumble for good. Let’s actually DO something and not walk for once. We continued walking for the infinite time in a row. Step by step. Foot by foot. We reached the city, still surrounded by tattered buildings. It was so hot we decided to sit down in a courtyard on a bench. All of us were gassed but we only were only at the beginning. The beginning of one hell of a journey.

One that lasts an eternity. 47

Wild World Anika Seshadri

Sweeping soaring mountains. Foaming waterfalls. Sandy beaches crashed by waves; swelling mighty tall. Colossal tumbling boulders, Coral beds bloomed through the seas. Fiery, seething, volcanoes. Monstrous, leafy green canopies. Vibrant sunsets embellish the sky, flocks of birds soar with the breeze. Glowing grasses of the serengeti. Vast green oceans of trees. Wide leaves billow with the wind. Off ceaseless cliffs; rocks tumble. Breathtaking landforms, seen through a screen, From my insipid concrete jungle.

Untitled Anonymous

The following few pages consist of a singular poetry collection.

FADING Anonymous

Poetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s note: Dedicated to Aaron: A young life lost too early. Fading is a collection of poems about various things that lie somewhere deep within everybody. These poems seem sad, but eventually, they turn into something beautiful.

Unoccupied (Color) Anonymous

A blank canvas where all rainbows land Not a shade Not a color Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own creation The clouds in the sky The feathers in a pillow The light you see at the end of a tunnel The crackling of a radio stuck between channels The song that fills the air As the girl walks down the aisle The dress and veil Shielding her eyes from the horror of the outside world An empty

page waiting to be filled

The feeling of nothingness Or a truly new start The brightness that approaches you when all has come to an end This Is White 51

Drowning

Anonymous Seeing orange fade into the sea As the sun set and darkness fell over me We were on the bow of the boat as he gave me that look I saw he caught a fish on the tip of his hook We climbed inside the boat to play a card game Every night, we end it the same Suddenly I felt my brothers cold fingers To this day his touch still lingers He lead me outside promising a surprise But I could see the the mischief twinkling in his eyes We stood on the railing watching over the sea And the next thing I knew he had pushed me I plunged into darkness, the cold covering my skin Thinking of all the things I would do to him If I could just get out

Smoke Anonymous

It’s held between my fingers It could kill me But I won’t let it I pose for this picture Messy hair Dress in tatters When people see it Maybe I will be accepted Maybe they will be my friend But for now It’s just us My sister and I The world is against us And the smoke of cigarettes covers everyone’s conscience, Blurring their perspectives I won’t light it I hold death in my hand But it has no power over me.

Winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Death Anonymous

Nothing was the same now that it was winter The cold closing in As the nights become longer And the days become darker The season of leafless trees And frost on your car window As snow starts to fall And the fire gets warmer When love starts to die And you go back to living life lonely As thoughts play on repeat And a wall builds around your heart But soon enough winter melts into Spring And flowers start to bloom As the world bursts with color Girls dance in their beautiful dresses As boys start to fall in line And love is new again.

The Greatest Feeling in the World Lage Linnarsson

Hours of work. Finally getting there. It would all be decided within the next few minutes. I had to focus, had to make sure everything was perfect. A warm scent of soy and vinegar had filled the room. It had all come down to this. I was all alone, and the family would be home in just ten minutes. Food had to be ready, I desperately wanted to make them proud. Four minutes left for the meat. The rice would be perfect in two. As I put the next batch of mushrooms in the pan, I struggled to keep all the numbers in my head. Meat four, rice two, eggs one, cucumber three. I carefully watched as the mushrooms turned golden, waiting until the perfect moment. There! I poured out the mushrooms and covered the bowl. Without as much as a pause I threw in the spinach. Then, I panicked. The eggs! I pulled the pot off the stove and almost ran to the tap, covering the eggs in cold water. They looked perfect. I put them aside and turned to the rice. The smell of the meat in the oven was almost overpowering by this point. A delicate balance between the fatty scent of pork, and the lighter fragrance of the marinade. All I could hear was the frying of 55

the spinach and the workings of the oven. At that moment, the world consisted exclusively of me, my kitchen and the food. I had to get this right, I just had to. A timer went off. Two minutes. Taking the rice in one hand and the spinach in the other, I quickly relocated both to their respective bowls. Just a few more steps now. As I poured the roasted sesame seeds over the spinach, I could hear the car pulling up outside. My tension and concentration were almost tangible. One minute. As I heard my family entering the house and taking their shoes off, I put the finishing touches on the chili-pickled cucumber. I yelled a greeting and frantically put all the bowls out on the dinner table, neatly organizing them to look a inviting as possible. Again, my phone started beeping, a sign of the final battle. Zero minutes. I ran back into the kitchen, and pulled the pork out of the oven. I said a quick prayer to all the gods I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe in and removed the aluminium foil. The delicious smell released was almost paralyzing in its mouth-watering complexity. Perfection. I breathed a sigh of relief and started slicing up the meat. It was so tender I could have cut it with a cheese slicer. After four hours bathing in the oven, the meat had truly reached the most tenderness it could ever handle without falling apart. I quickly lined up the sliced pork on the wooden platter, carefully making sure to get the perfect visual impact. Now, for the final step. It was almost over. I heard the others taking their seats in the dining room. I took out the handheld gas burner and lit the flame. As the roaring flame pierced my vision, the meat slowly caramelized and turned golden-brown. A laugh from the dining room momentarily disrupted my attention. I froze. That was too close. The surface char had to be completely perfect, and even across all slices. This moment came after hours of excruciating work and weeks of planning. Finally, the meat had reached perfection. Seizing the moment I put aside my tools and carried the platter out to the family and their eager anticipation. 56

As father lifted his chopsticks to try the meat, I stopped breathing without even noticing because of all the thoughts filling up my head. Would he like it? Had I finally made something to impress the chef and man I looked up to the most? As he bit into the meat I felt both energized and exhausted, desperately longing for his approval. And then, he said it. â&#x20AC;&#x153;This is good. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m impressedâ&#x20AC;?. And with that I could finally breathe. Sitting down calm at last, I thought back and almost laughed at how much those five words could mean to me. He had always been an inspiration to me, in the kitchen as well as in life. From the very first time I made my family dinner to the time I served ramen to a party of nine, he had always been there encouraging me and pushing me further. And that, I suppose, is the purpose of fathers. To push further, to offer praise only when it is truly deserved. And above all, fathers can provide that feeling of raw unfiltered joy with little more than a smile for a job well done. That feeling is why I cook. There is no greater feeling than approval from the person you admire most.

vlone yinger

I WAS BROUGHT UP DIFFERENT, SO MY VISION DIFFERENT.

Fools 1POWlo

I acknowledge that the only certainty that I will ever have of tomorrow is the rising of the sun. Fortune tellers read palms or use cards to prophesy one’s destiny. Forecasters have their scientific methods and —nometers to predict the progression of a storm. But the fact of the matter is that humanity can only attempt to foretell; we can fool ourselves with our science and our math, but Nature will always have uncanny ways to surprise us with much different outcomes. And so, as I watch the tall and sturdy tree shaken by the incessant blowing of the wind, I am reminded that I am nothing but a vulnerable spec of dirt, drifting through the unknown. I am weak. I will never have the power to decide where my path will take me. I ought to live according to what’s present, what I can see, and what I have proof of. It could be God; it could be nature. It could be science; it could be anything that humanity deems as superior: we all entrust our uncertainties to a principle or a religion. And that just makes all of us fools. Beautiful, emotional, curious, and vulnerable fools.

Untitled Emily Su

Memoir Anonymous

OLIVIA I stare out my window, unable to focus on my book, and drowning myself in worries, just because I’m different. I can’t hold it in anymore, I just want to scream my thoughts out loud, but I can’t. I’d just be judged and torn apart because of who I am. The walls of my room used to keep me safe inside, but now all I want to do is run out of this hell. I shut my eyes, hoping for better times, but as I open them, I realize my room is still a mess and I am still my helpless self. I grab my phone. I message my best friend, Lisa, my hands shaking the entire time, wannameet-up?I hesitate before pressing the send button but I know I really need to do this. I let out a heavy sigh and wait for a response. LISA Olivia was always the perfect one. She aced every test and quiz, her skin was clear, and the tawny locks that naturally flowed from her head were always smooth and wavy. She seemed to not try at all and still succeed in everything. She wasn’t afraid to talk to strangers and we always had something to do when we hung out. I expected nothing less as I pedaled up to Kite Hill. The warm summer air flew past my face, making my messy blond hair swirl around me, and as the smell of dead grass grew stronger and stronger, I wanted nothing else other than a never-ending summer. I could be as free as the crows that hung around town, flying above the land without a care in the world. Because that’s what we all want: for life 62

to be like the fairytale we all grew up reading, but every year my dream would end and I would leave behind my summer memories behind to move onto another year of school. All I wanted in that moment was to talk with Olivia for hours on end like we always would. I would talk about swimming, or how my brother was annoying me, and she would talk about diving, or some baking creation she recently made. These conversations, and our common interest in adventuring on our bikes, was what made us the best of friends. She was the person I told all my thoughts to, and I had a trust in her that was practically indestructible. I neared the top of the hill seeing that Olivia had already arrived at our meeting place, a worn wooden bench. That bench held many of my happy memories, and I felt as if the smooth imprints from the hundreds of people that had sat there gave it significance to not only my life, but other people’s as well. Olivia’s purple and gray road bike was propped up against an oak tree which shaded the bench throughout the day, but now that it was beginning to darken, it only made the view more scenic. You could see the city below and the blanket of fog in the back that covered the mountains created a scene that seemed to be taken out of a movie. “Hey Liv,” I greeted, “How’s your day been?” “Uh you know, same old,” she muttered. It was so unlike Olivia to not start ranting about something, but I carelessly ignored it and continued on, “Today was so boring. I’ve literally done nothing except lie in my bed all day.” “Yeah,” she whispered. I turned to look at her and saw a single tear slowly trailing down her her freckled face. What was going on, is it something that I did?I worried to myself, “Liv, what happened, are you okay?” 63

Olivia was always smiling, so seeing her crying broke something inside of me. Everyone always says the happiest people have the darkest thoughts and use their smile to cover up their pain. Sure, I had faked many smiles to avoid talking about my day or just getting out of awkward situations, but I always overlooked this: people can’t be that good at pretending they are something they are not. You should be able to tell how someone feels through their eyes or movements: like in the countless books I have read. I knew Olivia so well I should be able to tell how she’s feeling even if she is hiding a fake smile like she had for months without anybody noticing. But I didn’t even know how my best friend was truly feeling. “Lisa, you’re gonna hate me,” Olivia cried, “Everyone’s gonna hate me.” She was sobbing now and looked like a totally different person than she usually was: her eyes were red and puffy from crying and her face was wet from wiping her tears away. Her hair was up in a bun but strands of it were plastered against her skin from the sweat and tears that covered her face. Her lip was trembling as if trying to hold back the sobs which could escape her mouth at any moment. I wrapped my arms around her, “Why would you ever think that? I would never hate you.” I could feel the tears slowly seeping out of my eyes, “Liv you are my best friend, I won’t ever want to hurt you.” “Lisa, I’m gay,” she spoke, a heavy cover seemed to have been lifted off of her, “I’ve been like this for so long now and I feel like the whole world is against me, I can’t do this anymore... if you hate me now that’s fine, I would hate myself too if I couldn’t speak the truth. I do hate myself, I have for too long, why can’t I be like all the other people. Everyone always tells me to be myself, they’ll like me more, 64

I’ll be a better person, but ohhh no, they would just hate me. Everyone at school will know, it will spread until everyone will know and plot against me. My parents are going to be disappointed in me, my entire family will hide from their daughter who can’t fit in. I’ve tried to hide it, push it down, but it won’t go away, it won’t go away!”She screamed the last part and then returned back to a furious storm of tears. I was shocked. Her speech had hit me deep in my gut, but I hugged her even closer, “Liv, I could never hate you, you know that, I will be your best friend no matter what.” My voice cracked. The thought of not having my best friend made my voice shake even harder. “You mean so much to me, don’t you ever think otherwise.” Olivia pulled away, “Really?” Her face was covered in dried tears and her hair stuck to her red face, but her smile shone through, “You really don’t hate me?” I thought back to the days she wore pants with me during the summer after I burned my leg and always had to cover it. It was above ninety degrees but she wanted to make me feel less left out. The one time last year when we had a summer camp last year because she decided to sign up with me just to provide company. When she helped me with my math homework since I was not getting good scores on my tests. The days I got sick or injured and she would be there to comfort me. So now it was my turn. “Never.”

Juneau and San Francisco

Jay Li

Dog Thoughts Anonymous

Curious about the box, I tore the box apart. Inside was a mask that was half glass and half metal with a note saying “think of what you want to be and whisper the word ‘transformation.’” I chuckled as I thought of who might have sent me this gift. A relative? A friend? A colleague? Or maybe some crazy who just got the wrong address; who knows? In that instant, I remembered, how could such a small box make such make such a thunderous sound? Then again, I don’t like to question things. So jokingly, I thought of a dog and whispered, “transformation.” In an instant, a puff of smoke clouded the room and when I could see again, I noticed something weird about my body; I felt like I had an extra body part close to the rear of my body. As I tried to reach with my hand to touch it, I noticed I couldn’t. Looking down I saw two paws that had replaced my hands. I looked at the mask on the ground and to my horror, I saw in the reflection the face of an orange-colored chihuahua with green eyes. “Oh god,” I said, but instead of hearing what I thought I said, I heard a faint whimper. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW! HOW DID I END UP AS A CHIHUAHUA? I WASN’T EVEN THINKING ABOUT A CHIHUAHUA,” I tried to yell but, it was replaced by a loud bark. “How am I supposed to get to work 68

today?” I groaned. “Come on, there has to be something about these transformations,” I said frantically as I scanned the small note. I looked on the back and it stated, “If you are reading this, you probably transformed yourself into a creature that wouldn’t have been part of your choosing if you knew what the note said was true. Well, good luck, idiot on trying to find the cure to reverse the effects.” “Idiot?” I growled, “So people who don’t take things seriously are now associated with stupidity?¨ All of a sudden, I heard a phone ring. I rushed over to the nearest phone and the display name was my boss. Well, there’s no point in trying to do something about this if I can’t even touch my back with my paw. Besides, one late day can’t hurt that much right? So, I decided, why not just ignore it and everything else; I have better things to do. Right now all I could think about was how hungry I was. I opened the fridge with my mouth only to realize all of the food had been placed on a plate the previous night before. “Okay just grab one of the plates with your teeth and pull it out,” I thought to myself. My paws shook uncontrollably on part of the shelf as I reached over to the nearest one and pulled it out as slowly as I could. As soon as the white ceramic was off the shelf of the fridge, it immediately shattered on the ground. Luckily, I had moved away at the last second, but now the parts of the shattered plate now covered the ground in front of the fridge. “CRAP! Now I have to clean up this mess somehow,” I barked. I laid my head down in disbelief of how terribly this day had become. I wondered if I was going to be forever stuck as a dog for the rest of life or if some miracle was going to occur. Thinking about all of this made me extremely drowsy. In a matter of minutes, I was asleep. 69

I woke to a loud CLANG. “What now?” I grumbled. A yellow note gently floated through the broken window and onto my nose. I examined the note and it said, “To remove this transformation, you must promise to send both of the notes and the mirror you received earlier to an address of your choosing.” The first and second note must be sent at different times. “Is this some kind of a joke?” I thought to myself. WHY would I even try that? As I thought about it more, I realized unlike the other note, this one had no chance of bad consequences. In my head, I promised the words, “I will send this note to someone dumb enough to listen to the note that could potentially have bad consequences. Suddenly, a large amount of smoke covered the room and poof I was back to being a man. I looked down at myself again and felt happier than ever to see my hands rather than those orange furry paws. I swiftly grabbed my keys and rushed out of the door, only to realize the entire front side of my house had been covered in chihuahua stickers. “Jeez, who has the time to even do this?” I scoffed as I drove out of my driveway still wondering who could potentially be the next victim of the note. I drove through a small neighborhood in a mail car delivering packages, each and every package I had. It’s been 5 years since that incident occurred and I’ve been coming to this neighborhood for 4 years. After all these years, I have finally acquired the perfect target.

It Had to Happen Devan Perkash

As I was driven Down the streets of Stanford, I marveled at The beauty I saw. Despite being on a road With stoplights and Asphalt, there was nature All around me. And when we pulled up to the light, I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe what I saw. A deer, with its Back legs broken. It tried to hop, and tried again, But it could not move. A police was on his phone and leaning against His car, blocking the deer from another road. It felt like the longest light That I had ever waited in, Yet it all lasted No longer than half a minute. The police nodded, then put His phone back in his pocket. Then, he reached back 71

To the side of his hip, where his gun sat. He pulled it out, And fired at the deer, And one shot was All it took. The light turned green, And as we pulled away, I became extremely frustrated. How could a man kill such a helpless deer? I eat meat at meals every day, But this did not seem right. The deer could not even run! Yet, the police had shot him. Then, I thought about the police. He was simply following orders, And what about the deer? There was no alternative fate for the deer. The police must have felt Even more horrible than I did. And the more and more I thought about it, I realized that the deer had to die. It had to happen.

‫ – םייח ץע‬Etz Chayim Nate Boxer

If I were to name a traumatic, yet formatively important period in my life, fifth grade lights up like a bulb in my brain. This period was pockmarked with self-doubt and self-consciousness, just like the skin on my face. In my prepubescent, introspectively immature mind, admitting that my body was changing faster than my classmates would condemn me to a life of shame and timidness, as I would become an outsider in a group of younger children. I was an ever-growing tree, my bark containing ugly scars. In the mind of a fifth grader, a tumorous growth. This one school of thought led to an emotionally exhausting final year of elementary school. You could see it in my haircut, my vain attempts to cover up my confusing and off-colored forehead with the curtain of my bangs. The first time my own biggest insecurity became apparent to me was in class, joking around with my friends. The important thing about 5th graders is they are not very empathetic. It’s hard to be when your own experience of the world is just narrowed to what that you feel. Making it all the worse is the unintentional nature of the insult, showing the unfortunate receiver that those stinging words are their honest opinion. They are the shores of an ocean, sometimes calm and smooth, other times raging with high waves of stinging saltwater and bad feelings, but they are always honest. There was no check to their honesty, to the point where it became a flaw. Grown-ups would only tell us how we should act, how we should feel. Joking around with a group of friends, we reached the peak of our laughter, delighted shrieks arising from funny comments, weird faces, or other shameless, goofy activities. Pulling back my hair and resting my teeth over my bottom 73

lip proved to be my fatal mistake. Suddenly, in all their glory were a few small, red pimples dotting the surface of my forehead like little hills on a plain, exposed for my entire table group to see, to stare, and to talk about. Cries of laughter erupted from their smaller, unchanged vocal box, the same one they were born with. “Dude, you have a rash or something,” one said, giggling in delight, his pointer finger raised in a salute to my embarrassment. The hot steam of shame rose up through my chest and into my mouth, matching my red forehead with red cheeks. Timidly, I sat back in my chair, mumbling something along the lines of, “oh really? Wow,” my embarrassment painfully obvious to anyone over the age of 10. Unfortunately, this particular group of 5th graders had not passed that essential benchmark of maturity. They pressed the issue at hand, flushing out my self esteem like a toilet. Thoroughly embarrassed, I slouched low, my good mood defeated. Having watched one simple puberty video, anyone could expect a sensitive fifth grader to know everything about acne, right? Apparently not, my confusion and frustration apparent to no one, not even me. I’m a sensitive person on the inside, but in fifth grade my outer skin was still as soft as a baby’s. The bark on my tree was nonexistent, exposing the vulnerable wood to the elements, One of my biggest sources of frustration came from the fact that I would simply get overwhelmed for no reason when talking in front of a group of people. Some broken emotional trigger caused salty tears to well up in my eyelids, blurring my vision, and threatening to fall down my face if I kept the situation going. This annoyance, this deficiency was a huge gap in my armor, in my bark. When it was unintentionally struck with a passing comment about my appearance, not sap or even blood oozed out but instead, anger, sadness, confusion, and frustration gushed out, as much as a little fifth grader sapling could muster. In short, I would 74

be devastated over a small tease or joke. For the rest of the school year, I became a little more thoughtful, a little more insightful, and a little more sensitive and wise with my interactions towards other people. In short, this little tree was maturing fast, especially his bark. As that summer was coming to an end, the impending threat of school became imminent. On orientation, the day before 6th grade started, I walked down the long, tan, bleak hallways, extremely self-conscious. I shuffled forward, looking down at the cracked, worn pavement and slowly inched towards the long line to turn in paperwork. My hands were slightly clammy, the butterflies wanting to burst out of my stomach and be free. I felt like the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s clumsiest ballerina with a spotlight trained on me, broadcasting my every move for the whole world to see. I could see all my peers from elementary school were far smaller than I remembered them. I was extremely self-conscious, a giraffe in a field of horses with my strangely spotted skin and my long, tall body. I relied on my strong roots and tougher bark to keep me emotionally grounded.

Untitled Emily Su 76

Excerpt: The Master of Destiny Laurelie

“Listen, I’m going to tell you a story,” she decided. “I was a careless, innocent girl, living my life to its fullest. I displayed little concern in anyone else’s lives— including my own mother’s. I had an infatuation, just like everyone else here, with black magic and phantasms. The amulet changed me. The effects of it on different people vary, as I later learned. I had an intoxication with the past. I failed to notice anything happening around me. I was merciless, greedy and self- absorbed. I spent weeks in the past, pondering over how things could have been. And while I was in a deep void of disregard, my mother’s condition grew worse. I came here eventually, because I wanted one last escape. I... lost my mother that day. She was my only pillar of strength and I shattered her.” Her voice broke on the last word. “I didn’t just lose my way here, I lost myself. I don’t know who I am anymore. We spent so long living in another time, that we deserved to live in neither realm of life. We deserved to live here.” It was then I realized that some things could never be fixed. Of course they didn’t deserve the lives they were doomed to. Of course 77

they didn’t want the emotional fractures that came with a mere object. But their fortunes were splintered by fascination. The harsh truth of what could have been, for all of us, was too bleak to handle. It was over. Taylor had lost her vitality forever. Just like I had lost mine. By then, a crowd was gathering, a group of souls linked together by their inability to live their lives. Another voice spoke up. “We’ve waited aeons for someone to bring the amulet with them to let us return home, but we realized that we would be no less selfish than we were before. It’s too late. We can no longer be saved.” My heart sank as I took in the news. I’d never be able to see my affectionate parents again, or apologize to Winter, or solve the problems I caused. “But you can.” My head shot up. A sliver of hope worked its way into my body, invigorating it. Taylor stepped forward and sighed. “You need to destroy it,” she confirmed, gesturing to the string dangling from my clenched fist. “You need to give up your dreams that rely on the supernatural forever, because it’s going to make time travel impossible, ever again. It’s also going to… kill all of us.” My eyes snapped open. “What?” I gasped. “It’s going to kill us,” Taylor repeated. “Destroying the amulet closes the time warp forever, dissolving the people inside with it.” “No! Absolutely not! I refuse to do it.” I shook my head in disbelief. “Please, Destiny. We don’t think anyone should be entitled to a fate like this. Put someone else in this situation.” I tried to imagine bold, headstrong, but delicate little Winter 78

in a gruesome place like this. I shuddered. “Please… don’t make me do this,” I whispered. Taylor walked up to me and gripped my shoulders. “We know you can change this. Don’t go back to your old ways. Don’t let this sacrifice die, fruitless. And don’t you dare fail us by being selfish.” Shocked, I looked up. A fierce determination filled her melancholy eyes. My resolve hardened. I nodded. I had failed too many people in my life before. It wouldn’t happen this time. “Thank you,” I announced to the clan. But it was for so much more than their consent. It was for changing me; teaching me how to live. It was for the sacrifice. Dropping the locket to the floor, I crushed the brittle substance beneath my foot, along with all my hopes and dreams. But they didn’t matter anymore. I didn’t need them. They did nothing to fill the hollow sadness inside my heart. It was only one day, but it had affected me. I couldn’t live in the future anymore, nor could I live in the past. If I had any hope of living, it would have to be in the present. Failure is not an option, and it never was. People had died for me. There were some things that were permanently damaged, but some that could always be repaired. And I had to repair friendships and bonds with people I loved. I couldn’t take life for granted— it was too precious, and too many had been lost. Sacrifices are made, but so are people. And that is the most important present of all.

Pictures of Me Anonymous

Take pictures of me When I’m sleeping, when I’m not Tonight, be like Sorrenti

Left: Her Sofía Sierra-García Right: Him Sofía Sierra-García

Moon Sofía Sierra-García

Imposter Syndrome Talia Ostacher

Inside your gilded cage of lies You fabricate your sly disguise Which reflects back a brand new face That is your steroid in this race To gain an undeserved prize. Your face is of someone who tries Not one who desperately ties Their faults up in a shrouded place Inside your gilded cage. At every moment you hear cries Of someone who has gotten wise To your deception and disgrace Of which you hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t left a trace They disappear, and leave your lies Inside your gilded cage.

Excerpt: Project Genecron Keshav Chhawchharia

Staring back at him was a bronzed face, eyes diminutive and grey, nose broad, lips thin. A face that looked too young, too naive, too inexperienced. He pushed back his unruly curls, took one final look at the mirror and entered the conference room. The faces of ancient men and women whose ambition had all but withered away met him. They were the perfect Board members. For the most part. He took his seat at the head of the table as his assistant Madelyn began to speak. “Good morning. As you all know, today is a momentous day for Flynt Enterprises. Dr. Flynt has been working with Dr. Damian and his genetics team at Damian Labs to develop a revolutionary technology that will lift Flynt Enterprises from the number ten to the number one spot in the Fortune 500. To the number one company in the world.” “What is this project called?” asked one of the Board members. “I have a lunch date to get to.” “Yes, I am getting to that. This project is called Genecron. It involves genetic manipulation and engineering. This technology literally gives us the ability to change a human’s DNA- to make them more beautiful, smarter- whatever they want. We can change a person’s height, their skin color, their muscles. The catch is this process can only be done when the subject is still in the embryo. A parent can choose exactly how they want their child to be, and we can alter them. We can choose their gender, their intelligence. There will be no more 50/50. If the parents want a black haired blue eyed boy- that’s exactly what they’ll get.” 84

“Is this even remotely legal? You’ve invested our billions into this?” cackled the same Board member. “Silence!” exclaimed Enzo. “I understand the value you have for your morals and money, Mr. Callaway. Rest assured, you’ll be earning hundreds of billions in a few months. Take a minute to calm yourself. Madelyn, please bring in Mr. and Mrs. Kazai.” A brilliantly dressed couple entered the room, smiling like the parents in baby diaper commercials. The woman, Mrs. Kazai said, “Hello, I am Alyssa. My husband, Marcus and I decided to utilize Genecron. Marcus’ family and mine have all suffered from a variety of cancers and genetic disorders for generations. Marcus and I did not to wish to carry these genes into our baby- we wanted him to live a happy life. After months of looking, we found Genecron. They were able to change Ezra so he is not a carrier of any disease. Along the way, they gave him intelligence, looks, giving Ezra a happy life. And they did this all free of charge. Flynt Enterprises is a great company, and Dr. Flynt even greater. My sincerest thanks go to you all for your part in making my baby’s life perfect.” ♕♕♕♕♕♕ What had once been a baking sol was now a dull orb hanging in the charred sky, rays recherché for all but the ultra wealthy. They claimed it was because of pollution. They presumed it was because of fossil fuels. Because of greenhouse gases, or whatever fancy term the scientists could come up with. The nearly extinct monks of East Asia, the sparse Catholic priests scattered around the globe, the so called insane Islamic imams- they all insisted that the dying of the planet was because the rules of God had been broken. 85

He might have agreed- if it was not for the fact that genetic engineering was what let him remain healthy all these years. His mother had long ago left the world; breast cancer, just like both of his grandmothers. Even now, despite the numerous medical breakthroughs and technologies, hundreds who had inherited the wrong genes suffered. His father was still battling his cystic fibrosis, but he was alive. His mother always told him, Dr. Flynt had saved the Kazai family. And so, Ezra worshipped the man. ♕♕♕♕♕♕ Phlegm filled up his throat, and as he opened his mouth, viscous, dark blood streamed out. His once golden skin had lost all of its color, dissolving into a sickly ivory. His eyes were filled with spider like veins, pupils a milky white. His fingers and toes had long been gone, eaten away by the cancerous cells flooding his body. The doctors called it Infernum plagueis, known as the Hell virus to the rest of the world. More than forty percent of the population had been affected. They said it was just another sickness, like the flu of the olden ages. It would go away. But then studies by rebellious medical figures started popping up like a rash-showing incredibly simple yet revolutionary data. Barely anyone in East Asia or North Africa had been afflicted by the virus. Yet these areas are what harvested fruits and primate life that gave headway to diseases of Ebola and AIDS. What gave these areas immunity? As more and more research piled up, and more and more propaganda, a group of students discovered the unspoken truth. These seemingly immune areas had barely any genetically enhanced humans.

Excerpt: Waiting Room Anika Seshadri

Silence enveloped us into the warm blanket of our imagination, concealing us from the ugly truth of what happened, and what just might happen again. The drive to the hospital left my mom and me speechless--like the air was sucked from our lungs. Usually, the car was filled with laughter and banter; today I just twirled my thumbs, watching my mom grip the steering wheel so tight I thought the veins in her arms would burst. The knot in my stomach entwined and clenched as every car blurred by, as we got closer and closer to our dreaded final destination. …. My aunt was going to have a baby, and to the outside world that seemed like a beautiful and fairly simple task. It was not. The stress practically swallowed us alive as my mom’s brows furrowed every few seconds. Leaving me to use her lifeless expressions to decode if this was going to end exactly like the last time. All I remember was the cacophony of sounds, the distant ambulance, nurses barking, orders, the shuffling of worried feet, and my aunts quiet, agonized, sobs. I remember the tears the most. The smell of rubbing alcohol burned my nose as it wafted in. The bright overhanging lights flashed in my eyes and I squinted as I tried to follow my parents. They abruptly stopped. “Anika, you guys should go to the waiting room. It’s just past those doors, mom and dad may not come out for a while but its 87

ok,” my parents gently explained. Their lips curling tighter with every confused look I shot them. Finally, I replied, “Don’t worry, I am 7 years old… and three quarters. I can take care of us.” I haughty lifted my head up and dragged my brother through the doors, just pausing long enough for the smile to slip off my face as I saw nurses wheel my aunt down the hall. “Anika, what’s happening?” my brother whispered as I pulled him to a couch. But how could I satisfy his curiosity, when I didn’t know myself? We patiently waited, passing the time with rounds of rock-paper-scissors and double-up seven. I piled children’s books in his lap to keep him busy. Burying him in Clifford, Curious George, and The Berenstain Bears. I knew I was supposed to distract my brother, but I couldn’t help but wonder: wasn’t this supposed to be a special day? Weren’t babies a gift, not a burden? It was only until my parents walked back out that door distraught and on the verge of tears that I realized: the only burden is when you don’t get to bring them home. “Anika? Anika!” my eyes suddenly focused on the nurse, her hair high in a ponytail and dressed in pink scrubs, who motioned to my mom with her well-manicured hand to walk in. I slowly got up and stretched from the half hour of stillness my legs endured. … I didn’t know what to expect. My jaw ached from tensing the muscles of my face; my eyes glazed across the freshly painted hallways, anticipating the worst of the situation. My hands were so tightly coiled into fists that they made deep imprints on my palms. I silently strolled, wondering what would be the deathly fate of this baby. I could hear the conversations of all the families echoing from their rooms. My mind concocted hundreds of different scenarios, yet my eyes never veered from the big white door at the end of the hall. I sped up my pace and hastily scurried to the room; abruptly stopping as a face popped out from the doorway. Her smile widened as she saw a new guest and yanked me into the 88

room with a strong handshake. “Hi! I’m her doctor. So nice to meet you!” she blurted, gripping my hand. “She just got out of surgery so I have to warn you, you might be a little scared.” I gave a weak smile, nodded and brushed past her. I walked up to my mom and she gently laid her hands on my shoulder while the doctor pulled back the green-and-blue marble curtain to reveal my aunt. She had deep blue bags under her eyes and had tentacles of machines pouring IV fluids into her. Bandages cocooned her stomach and her hair was tightly knotted in a bun. My aunt slowly stirred awake and a grin stretched across her face, “Hi bubs,” she weakly mumbled, knowing I would laugh because she hasn’t called me this since I was 6. “Hi” I whispered as I went to give her a hug. My aunt softly winced and I loosened my grip, yet she still had a wide smile plastered across her face. I turned to my mom who was jubilant; a complete contrast of the last four hours. Her eyes motioned for me to look around the corner and my heart swelled with joy. I could feel the ecstasy in the room melt away all my worries and frustrations, drowning my body in excitement. By her side was a newborn swaddled in blankets; a gift.

Cheetah and her 3 cubs in the plains of Maasai Mara, Kenya.

The Cradle of Mankind, or Olduvai Gorge, Tanzania provides remains of more than continuous record of human evolution for the past 2 million years in a single archaeolo

Amboseli’s National Park, Kenya’s trails, surrounded by nothing but marsh.

60 hominins, the most ogical site.

Africa’s Finest Aditya Mittal 91

Excerpt: The Home Stretch Ranvir Singh

Beads of sweat rolled down my face, dripping off my chin. My heart pounded in my chest, my legs aching harder than I could bear. My vision blurry, I looked up to see a steep hill looming in front of me. Why am I doing this to myself? I thought, slowly creeping up the slope as my bikeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chain creaked away, but I knew exactly why. For my first ride, I was fully decked out in riding gear, and felt more physically uncomfortable than I had ever been. From the tight biking shorts to the thin jersey to the constricting cleats, I knew I looked ridiculous. Screw it. I need this, I thought, clipping my cleats into my bike pedals and beginning to move. My first ride brought the challenge of a searing pain plaguing my legs as I slowly creeped up hills and through poorly paved roads. Nevertheless, I kept on following my dad through paths which I had never seen and made it home in just above two hours, happier than anything that I had just biked twenty whole miles and could brag to the rest of my family about it. Within a few hours of finishing the ride, I also had my first encounter with legs so sore that I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even feel like walking, making me useless for the rest of the day. Two months into my training, in April 2017 with the ride approaching in July, I was doing more physical activity 92

than I ever had in my life. Once a week and twice on weekends I would ride with my dad, pushing my limits with each trip on the bike. I became familiar with my own road bike and the roads on which I trained. I was improving so quickly that every ride just made me more excited for being better during the next one. It was around this time that I realized a perfect philosophy of biking, and used it to get myself through tough times on my bike. As long as I keep pedaling, eventually Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll make it to wherever I want to go, I would repeat to myself as I rode on the last of my energy, huffing and puffing while my father cruised along much faster than I did. Once it came time for the big ride, I could hardly believe how quickly the time had passed. We had shipped our bikes off to the company running the event and flown to Seattle. While there, all the free time we thought we had to clear our minds whizzed past in the blink of an eye. There I was, awake at five in the morning checking if I had enough air in my tires to go bike two hundred miles. I was supposed to hop onto a mess of aluminum tubing and gear wiring and chains and rubber and ride it from the heart of Washington right into Portland. One would think that someone would have to be crazy to do that, but it seems that myself and ten thousand other riders had signed up for the same challenge. Suddenly, someone had fired a blank from a tiny gun and it had begun. I looked at all the other riders around me, then at my own father, making sure that I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t just dreaming, then clipped my cleats into my pedals. For hours upon hours my legs, had gone around and around in circles, pushing me toward my goal. I could feel the bitterly cold air fill my lungs as each pedal stroke became its own challenge. From five in the morning to four in the afternoon, I kept going, only stopping for food every two hours, eating as much as I could to keep myself going, but burning through the energy by the next stop. Once we reached our final stop and began to rest, my dad and I looked at each other and started laughing. 93

“That was just one hundred?” I said through my laughter. “The second hundred is a lot easier,” my Dad said, settling down. By this time tomorrow, you’re going to be a champion. Two hundred miles will be over and done.” I hit the road the next day even harder than I had done the day before, pushing myself to my absolute limit knowing that after so much training, giving up would be unacceptable. At noon, as the sun burned directly above me, I was slowing down. Beads of sweat rolled down my face, dripping off my chin. My heart pounded in my chest, my legs aching harder than I could bear. My vision blurry, I looked up to see a steep hill looming in front of me. Why am I doing this to myself? I thought, slowly creeping up the slope as my bike’s chain creaked away, but I knew exactly why. This was no longer me whining that I wanted to lose weight. This was going to be my own victory, my first true example of just how much power I had. As long as I keep pedaling, as long as I keep pedaling… I kept repeating to myself. Note: This essay was written in an attempt to replicate the style of Jeannette Walls as she writes in The Glass Castle.

Excerpt: Tuesdays Athina Chen

I glanced at the clock one last time. 7:45. I sighed, packed up my violin, and put my books in order: scales, etudes, Bach, and Tchaikovsky. My mom always told me I had talent, but I didn’t believe it, and I didn’t like to practice. Praying for a good lesson, I went to the car and nervously hopped in. “Ready?” my mom asked. “Yeah…” I replied unenthusiastically. “(You mei you lian ma?) Didn’t practice again?” my mom asked. I didn’t answer. The car ride was like a slow gradual ride of torture. I knew what was about to come: another lesson where I would be told to practice more. I even made silly conclusions on whether it would be a good lesson by what shirt my teacher was wearing, or if my friend had a good piano lesson on Saturday. Most of the time it would be a bad lesson anyways because I didn’t practice, but if I had a good lesson I would come home with a slight smile on my face and a satisfying feeling in my heart, knowing that there was hope that next week’s lesson wouldn’t be so bad. I stepped out of the car and walked through the doors of the music building. The slight air conditioning gave me chills the way it did every week. I walked down the bare, gray floor of the hallway. Silently, with slow, unsteady breaths, I braced myself for what was to come. I reached the room where I would have my class and the door squeaked open as the previous student came out. “Hey, Athina!” “Hi,” I replied, trying not to look too disappointed. I walked into the room and went through the routine of getting out my violin and books. I quickly glanced at the 95

shirt he was wearing to see if it would be a good lesson. A gray button-up with vertical stripes. Unidentified. Once I was ready, the teacher played an “A,” and I listened to the chords of my open strings, trying to hide my nervousness. Then it came. First, scales. I opened to the right page, flattening out the book. I put my violin on my shoulder, and my bow on the strings. Trying to find the right spot, I tapped the “G” string with my second finger, hoping it would be in tune. And...go. I started playing the first few notes. The supposedly ringing tones sounded shaky and a bit out of tune, as expected, from my nervousness and lack of preparation. I played up the scale and down with unpleasant tones. What lasted about thirty seconds felt like an eternity. When it came to an end, he stopped me. “Are you sure those were all in tune?” he asked. I had only played one scale, and the criticism had already begun. No, I thought internally. The lesson continued, moving to double-stops, my worst enemy. Then onto etudes, and soon after, Bach. I lifted my bow and started the deep chord...with a crunch. Embarrassed, I started over quickly, this time, without the crunch. A small victory. My vibrato was looser on the upper strings of the chord, and a chord finally sung during my lesson. Giving me a confidence boost, I flowed through the next run of notes and settled onto the next pillar, the next chord—perfectly in tune. My fingers warmed up and the notes decided to sing on their own. My mind pushed out all the worries from before and I just played. I didn’t practice, I played. I flew through the notes freely, and before I knew it, I was playing the last chord. My bow came off the strings and the last “G” rang musically. At that moment, I didn’t care what he thought. I had done the best I could. My ears were ringing with the music I had just played. A slight bubble formed around me, shielding me away from reality. But all of a sudden, my violin teacher popped the 96

bubble with a sharp dagger. He asked the question no one ever wants to hear. “How much did you practice this piece?” Trying not to expose myself, I lied, “I don’t know.” Making an unreadable expression, he glanced at the clock and said, “We’re out of time. We’ll have to continue next week.” I put my violin down with relief and loosened my bow. It was finally over. A whole ’nother week till doom. Coming home, I remember the moment the chords were ringing. The happiness. The confidence. Just me and the music, nothing else. I lost the thought of a tragic Tuesday. And I smiled on the way back home in the car, knowing that there was a glimpse of hope. Something positive for me to cling on. Although I had dreaded the day for a whole week, I realized that I had found the motivation to practice. Perhaps next Tuesday wouldn’t be so bad after all.

elegy Liza Kolbasov

Untitled Justin Lee 98

as a child, I remember the hum of the sea as you sang for me from the pages of the old dictionary, beaten blue cover on the definitions of your long-dead youth; stories swimming with spirits. I listened as you slipped sand through the creases of your soul. I remember how you made corpses waltz in grey satin dresses across my sky. you told me to listen to the old man playing fiddle from the foam of the sea and the trumpet calls ripped from the gullsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; frosted throats. you defined love as a ghost who holds your hand and wanders the beaches, blowing sand out of seashells and holding them, too. you told me loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face floats in the corners of your soul, translucent and kind. as I lay with my head in your silken lap, you told me you loved me. I still believe you. I remember the day we wandered the graveyard and blew out the flames of dandelions, because you told me a wish is planted in every person you help find their wings. that day, I knew what you meant when you told me to keep making the dead smile and sing. 99

Silence

Emma Sloan

None dare to look None deign to spea Neither do I.

I am married to the Silence. He is a burly man As big as A brick wall, Looming over a prison yard. Standing tall, He taunts me While I daydream About life without him there. I tried to climb over once, To make my grand getaway. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even make it to the top Before my shoe slipped and I shattered my skull on the concrete. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no use, He is too strong. Too broad. He takes up too much space, He squeezes himself into every room, Through every doorway, Into every nook and Cranny. There is no escaping him. Even, In a crowded room Everybody fawns over my husband. He dazzles the women Making them swoon under his spell. The men let their jaws drop as they Secretly ogle his sculpted features.

Although, I cannot complain. He is nothing if no I wake up And there he is. His humongous lim Hogging my side o Kicking me in his s I look up And there he is. Across from me at Those piercing eye The color of cocoa Staring right throu Like the glass wind I look down And there, He is inside of me. Back and forth Back and forth. He flattens me Like a rolling pin, Back and forth Back and forth, Stretching me thin Like a rubber band Until I snap. Until the dough spli

100

him in the eye. ak a word to him.

. ot faithful.

mbs of the bed, sleep.

the dinner table. es a beans, ugh me dow of a department store.

Until I crack. Until I am nothing But a hollow egg shell Robbed of its insides, Deserted in the pit of the trash bin. Until I am nothing But a piece of paper That folds beneath his weight and Bends to his will. My diaphragm crumples With each caress I am crushed. Choked by every kiss. His tongue Encircles my own Tying it into the knot That clogs my throat. His lips Suck the words from my mouth. Sandwich my lips together Between his own. Sealed like a Ziploc bag, Nothing goes in. Nothing goes out. I am nothing. I am silenced.

its.

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My Mind is an Ocean R Mistry

My mind is an ocean. And I’m looking at a clear sky, but I’m standi the edge of a cliff.

If I looked down, I would see an ocean of my thoughts, churning an breaking against the waves. They compel me to jump in and get los the darkness, but I’m afraid of being smashed up against the rocks. W if I get stuck again? My windsurfer board stuck in the kelp, knotted no avail, and me, barely keeping footing. I don’t want to tumble int riptide, I don’t want to feel the cold, salty waves against my chest an my mouth and burning my lungs and staining my eyes while I gras rocks with moss clinging to them as desperately as I am. I don’t wan be at the mercy of the sea.

I could also go further into the water. Sink slowly into the oblivion, below the rocky waves, and watch the last rays of ginger and unfeel light disappear as I fall close to the bottom-dwellers. I can’t swim. M shoes would weigh me down. At the mercy of the sea. It’s been a w since I went in, and the ocean calls to me.

I look back. There’s a party happening on the grassy field that I stan the precipice of. Don’t I want to join them? Eat some cake, talk to t world, laugh and cry and feel? I do, oh so bad, until it aches my hea But the ocean waves crash in my ears and the call of the deep pound in my head. The call of the void. No, I must meet my family and m friends and both to be and laugh and cry and feel! I cast a net. Nets nets and nets until I cannot see the ocean anymore. I go and prepare become one with the world, but there is no ocean salt which burns into feeling. I eat the cake. I look around. Where are their cliffs? 102

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The Things I Will Do For You Mishaal Hussain

One, I will listen, Listen as you vent, Listen as you scream Listen as you complain I will listen. Two, I will assure, Assure you that you can survive, Assure you that you deserve to, Assure you in every way that I know I will assure. Three, I will stay up, Stay up as you tell me your problems, Stay up as I make them mine, Stay up to find a solution so you can sleep, I will stay up. Four, I will ensure, Ensure you eat, Ensure you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t starve, Ensure you know that you are everything you think you cannot be, I will ensure. Five, I will check,

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Check to confirm you’re home safe, Check to confirm you don’t feel overwhelmed, Check to confirm you that on rainy days you still smile, I will check. Six, I will whisper, Whisper when the walls feel as if they’re closing in, Whisper when your lungs feel as if the air no longer contains oxygen, Whisper to be your anchor between what is real and what never was, I will whisper. Seven, I will smile, Smile for you to ease any worries, Smile for you even when crying is easier, Smile for you just to see you smile back, I will smile. Eight, I won’t move, I won’t move when you yell, I won’t move when all you can do is move, I won’t move when you need me still, I won’t move. Last, I won’t allow you to reciprocate. I won’t allow you to listen to my rants, I’ll ask if I’m annoying you and stop anyways, Because I believe you’re lying when you say no. I won’t allow you to assure me, I’ll tell you I’m fine and that will be the end of it. 104

I won’t allow you to stay up for me, You better be asleep before I am, You need it that much more. I won’t tell you if I ate when you try to ensure, Whether or not I do will be decided by something other than you. I won’t tell you if I’m safe, that I’ve smiled, that I’m okay, Even if I’m not home, I’m crying, and anything but. I won’t have you whispering for me, You will not see when I can’t breathe. I won’t allow you to have pasted smiles, I will brush it off before you have a chance to put it on, You don’t have to fake it for me. I won’t allow you to stay still, When you don’t move, I’ll move for you. I’ll move you away from the danger, even if the danger is you. These are the things I will do for you.

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Elementary Chaos Anonymous

The day before 10th grade started, I walked across the lush, green grass, spotting numerous kids playing together on tall structures in the park. On the corner, I saw a young kid getting bullied by a bunch of people my age and my size. I used to be like the bullied kid, younger, frailer, and an easier target. And yet, today, I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find the need to help that kid. At that moment, I was as bad as the bullies. It was winter, mid-2nd grade. Some kids would be sad to leave their friends in a different school. Some kids would be hopeful to the new school and join in with a smile. Luckily for me, I fit nicely in the second category, always smiling. I entered the school campus, my new elementary school, with a huge grin on my face. There were two colorful and small playgrounds in the middle, a medium sized grass field, multiple tetherball and wall ball courts, and a large tree near a fence. I would soon to love that spot, my only safe recluse from the hard times ahead. Flashback to a month before changing schools. At my 106

old elementary school, bullies were rare and I never got any encounters. This was the case because the students were too academically loaded to think about hurting anyone at the school. In the whole three years I was at the school, I only saw a trace of bullying once, and the bullies were caught and punished. Winter break just ended. The rush of students to get into school just started. There was only a narrow, onelane road to get into the school that took 30 minutes to go through. I escaped the pack of students by coming early, excited to meet my new classmates and to have fun with them in school. Undoubtedly, when the students came, I knew this was not like my old school. Nobody was as talkative as I was. The only reason I had the opportunity to attend my new school was because a classmate transferred out of the school. A week after my arrival, my new classmates openly told me that they preferred the classmate that transferred out instead of me. Those kinds of statements really didn’t matter to me at the time, and it was only later that I realized how hurtful those statements are to tell to anybody. When I found out, I was heartbroken. After school, I performed various activities such as going to a chess class in the gym after school. In that class, because I would usually checkmate the people who teased me, the teasers would try to put me down while playing, to distract my focus and try to force me to lose. I was told to “suck it up” and didn’t fight for freedom against them. I attended our school’s Kids Club in the meantime from 2:30 PM, the end of school, to 6 PM. That place suffered with bad staff that either never knew how to quell bullies, or were just lazy and didn’t do their job very well. Starting in third grade, the students stopped trying to make me feel unwelcome in class time. They all understood that I was immobilized from my spot in the school’s roster, and they had found no method to get me to leave. From that 107

moment, the real teasing started. At Kids Club, I was called names and was sworn at. People would call by the name â&#x20AC;&#x153;Acuâ&#x20AC;?, which as a weak 3rd grader, was incredibly hurtful. At the blacktop, I was excluded from most friend groups. In my fourth grade, I got the best gift a victim of bullying could get. I found my new friend group of three people who talked around the big tree near the fence. Those people were the first ones to really understand my pain and comforted me when I was repeatedly teased. This was the first time in two years at Hoover where I had nice, comforting friends who could help each other. With their support, I found the courage to stand up, shield myself, and push back. In the first semester of fifth grade, I was no longer considered an easy target. In the second semester of fifth grade, I was no longer considered a target. I had done it. I had won against the bullies, against my fears. But I was lucky. Not every victim gets friends that they can depend on. I used my pain with bullies as my tool to break free from my past, to help the bullied kid in the present. I learned that day that I was not the only person to go through that pain and bullies are a menace that should be stopped. I learned not to be a bystander and to help the victim from getting picked on. Five minutes after seeing the bullies pick on the kid, I went over to him and comforted his painful experiences with stories of mine. The next time the bullies came that day, there was one more person to help. Emulating: Andrew Pham (Catfish and Mandala)

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Sable

Annetta Ven A fantasy A mere imagining Thoughts swirling into shadows From the dust that covers locked up places So many anxious faces That turn to monsters in the dark Oh I dream that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve gone far But my dreams are merely whispers And they fade, thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all they are The green plains, the sensuous hills With dull grayness it all fills As your dreams are locked away In a box, not on display All so fruitful, but few stay As the blackness breeds decay In our sterling minds of youth Lies usurp the throne of truth

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Youth

Amy Cheng My little brother knows more about aliens than I do. “This chair belongs to the queen of the great aliens of Mercury,” he yells while enthusiastically waving in front of my face a particularly deformed metal fork he had dug up earlier, “Of all the backyards to land in –– WOW! How did this chair end up in ours?” “Well,” I begin, “Maybe the aliens crashed here by accident. Did you also find parts of a spaceship? Debris?” “No. But I think they can teleport through the dimensions. Maybe they can even time travel –– that must be it!” His gestures became more confident and his voice rose several octaves as he explained his theory. “I bet they teleported here with a chair by accident, and then they tried to go back in time to fix their mistake, but the chair was stuck because of Earth’s gravitational pull, and they weren’t strong enough to overcome it!” he exclaimed with all of the certainty only a second grader could have. Jumping up and down with a grin wider than his face, he shoved into my hands a flimsy picture of a sickly green blob. Its thirty evil eyes seemed to follow me no matter the angle at which I tilted the paper. A small wilt of his smile revealed the first sign of doubt when he soberly asked, “Do you think my teacher will like this scientific sketch? I took into account the telltale signs on the chair.” Suppressing a smile, I glanced at the so-called chair, which still looked like a rusty but recognizable fork to me. Knowing my opinion mattered to him, I glanced back at the drawing with furrowed eyebrows. As soon as I uttered the magical words “I am sure your teacher will love it,” he snatched the paper from my fingers and, wielding his deformed fork like a flag of victory, charged out the door with a holler: “Let’s dig some more after school! Maybe we’ll find a dinosaur today, too!”

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Rocking Chair Anika Seshadri

The grey rocking chair and my great-grandma went hand in hand. She scrawled stories with the same pen that held her grey hairs in a loose bun. Her shaky fingers would knit for hours and she would passionately ramble about the struggles of her generation. The words used to slide right through my mind, now I wish I hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let them slip away between my outstretched fingers. That was the summer I moved back to California, the last summer I would ever spend with her. The rickety chair lies empty now as a skeleton of an individual. A painful memory.

Forsaken Jonathan Fang

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Untitled Taryn Liu

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Creekside Anika Seshadri

As I sat in my shiny new rocking chair, my tiny toes wiggling with the swing of my leg. I excitedly looked outside to the creek, all the other children were there. Frolicking among the lapping streams, swaying grasses tickled their fingertips. Frogs bouncing between water and land, shocking us with every unexpected splash. We scooped up the slippery murk in our hands, blindly flinging drops, laughing, soaked in joy. But it slipped through the crevices in our rough, optimistic fingers. Much like the memories around us, sliding through cupped palms. Now that rocking chair is old and cracked.

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But our beloved creek is brand new. Concrete barriers holding in the sun-baked, cracked mud. So different from the streams, rippling as one jumped in with a splash. When we look at it now, all we see is: unnatural, impure, tainted. Perhaps we should have fought harder? Begged the omnipresent conflicts to leave our home alone, refuse to take no for an answer. Reflecting, we are nothing but ruefull. Disappointed that we took this land for granted, never thinking it would silently slip away. We still should have taken action upon this dreadful realization, should have strived to preserve the past. Blindly, we chose to nudge this matter aside. But now our creek is different, now the memories are lost, now we are too late. 115

Excerpt: Incident on the Mountainside Martin Chaperot-Merino

January 1st, 2018 was my first time. I was already a proficient skier and I loved it. I loved the cold wind slapping my face with every turn. I loved that indescribable feeling I got every time I finish a run and stopped in one quick motion. But I sought another challenge. Snowboarding. I already knew how to skateboard and told myself, It can’t be that difficult, I am so good at everything I touch, right? I was extremely wrong. My first mistake was not taking a lesson with a trained professional or being coached by a proficient snowboarder friend. My know-it-all personality convinced my parents to let me attempt to learn all by myself. Even though I was self-taught, after a few hours I was beginning to see improvement. I could board a chairlift, I could steer, stop, and strap myself in relatively quickly. I was really beginning to get the hang of it. It felt almost like skiing, apart from the fact that I actually had to be deeply focused. After two hours of having a blast, I checked the time and, much to my disappointment, saw it was time for me to head back home. As I was approaching the majestic and snow-covered hotel building, my meeting point with my parents, I realized I was coming in way too fast. My brain must have temporarily switched into skiing mode because normally, I can brake with only 100 meters ahead of me. But, this was not skiing and all the times I had tried to break quickly, I had slammed my rear on the cold, icy snow. Additionally, the run I was going down was nearly flat which might have been part of the problem as it was making it very unstable and hard to steer. I need to slow down fast!I thought to myself. I quickly scanned my surroundings. On either side 116

of the small run there were small, but green trees swaying in the icy evening wind. On the run in front of me, I saw what appeared to be nothing but snow. No rocks, no empty spots, no ice. Even though I had never tried this, I turned brusquely to brake. This is a basic technique in skiing and I thought that it would apply here. I. Was. Wrong... Even to this day, I do not know what happened exactly. As soon as I was perpendicular to the run, which is the normal braking position, I flipped. Literally. The next second I was laying on my back, in the snow, strapped into my board feeling a huge pain in my chest. For the second time in the past minute, I analyzed my surroundings. In front of me, I saw the sky and the swaying trees. Without my extreme pain, I could have maybe enjoyed this moment. I looked forward and I saw a small group of people beginning to cross the run. This was a group of four or five. They were not on skis, so I assumed they were hotel guests. I immediately unbuckled myself and committed my second mistake. I stood up. At first, I thought I was fine. Then, I realized I couldn’t move my left arm. It was stuck in a semi-natural ninety-degree bend. A few moments after this realization, I collapsed on the floor. My head was spinning. I was in extreme pain. Finding this rather unusual for a casual fall, I reexamined my body, specifically my arm. My upper arm was a little bit blue and I told myself: O h, it’s just a bruise. But, my arm was still stuck across my chest. If I tried to move it, a searing pain traveled up and down my arm. I stood up again and called the small group of people who surprisingly, were still there as if waiting for my begging. In this group, there was an older couple, a younger couple and a few kids of varying ages. The adults shooed the kids away and asked me what my problem was. I told them an extremely shortened version of my story and asked them to call my parents. Kindly, they answered my pleas and called my mom. “Martin! Martin! Est-ce que tout va bien?! Is everything all 117

right?!” Mom examined me from top to bottom. Seeing my pale face, she laid me down in the cold snow and covered me in her ski coat. “ Maman, tout va bien! Juste je ne pense pas que je pourrais descendre en snow ou ski. Mom, I’m ok! I just think I won’t be able to come back down on snow or ski,” I replied, slightly brushing her off. She then called the Ski Patrol. Surprisingly, the emergency responders took fifteen long minutes to arrive and when they did, they briefly looked me over and said, “He’ll be fine. It’s probably just a muscle problem.” Once I got down to the bottom, the doctors examined my arm and they too deduced it was a muscle problem. But, due to my extreme pain, they gave me an X-Ray anyway. Thirty minutes later, the doctor came back in. “So, I have some good news and bad news. I’ll start with the bad news.” “Uh, okay...” I replied “You have a hairline fracture on the upper part of your humerus, but don’t worry, the good news is that it’s not displaced!” “And how is that good news exactly?” I questioned. My day was just getting better and better. “Well, it means that with the right care, you won’t need to go through surgery!” “Well that’s just great,” I said with enough sarcasm to win an award. I also realized at this moment that I would not have a perfectly functional body. While people live without one every day, it was the first time for me. On a daily basis, being able to walk, carry things around, play sports... was something I had previously taken for granted. Months later, after my arm was repaired, I realized that losing this ability, made me realize the value of it and a reason why I need on a daily basis to take very good care of this body that enables me to accomplish so much so easily. 118

Thanks for the Memories Shannon Lin 119

The Daily Grind Anonymous

My feet felt like lead after ten hours of standing and running around. I looked down to survey the damage as my sharp eyes caught sight of my sock poking out of the little hole in my well-worn shoes. I figured if I wore double socks this winter, I could make these shoes last a few more months. It was a terrible job, long hours for little money, but the tips were good, so I picked up extra shifts every chance I got. The owner, Chip, didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have a problem breaking the rules, even the ones that said students were only allowed to work part-time. Growing up on a farm, my life had never been easy. There were always more things to do than hours to do them in. While the work was hard and never ending, I always found time to read and did pretty well at school. It was my English teacher who first saw me as a writer. She said my short-stories had promise and encouraged me to study writing in the Big City, a dream my parents never supported. There would be no money to put towards my studies as the last of our family fortune was spent on buying a used tractor to help with the harvest now that I was leaving. My parents explained that the best education was one you pay for with your own hard work. They came from hardy stock, just like the wheat we grew. With my limited skills and experience, I read the classifieds on the bus and found three jobs that paid right but then, window washer dangling ten stories off the ground and janitor at the aquarium, were strangely difficult and so I settled on job three, waiting tables during the night shift at a corner diner, where the most dangerous thing was the tuna melt. 120

I scraped together enough to get by and pay my bills, yet, every dollar was a hard fought treasure. I spent what every free time I had in the public library, where the stories I read filled my empty belly. There were books on philosophy and history of the deep struggles of humans. That was my comfort. After ten hours a day in the café, my clothes smelled of grease and sugar and every dog in the neighborhood followed close by hoping for a nibble. Today was no exception, I was waiting to clear the last table in my section as the two-people sipped their coffee. In my experience, these customers were the worst as they took up valuable table space and sat around sipping, talking, sipping, talking and then walking away without leaving a tip. I often tried to drop a hint, walking up to them and asking, “Will there be anything else?” or “Can I get you folks something to eat?” eagerly holding the menus with enticing pictures of sky-high pancakes and synthetic-looking strawberries but they always turned me down. In three minutes, I would need to clock out and someone else would get the tip, leaving me with nothing. I hung my shaggy-head down as I headed to the back room to grab my bag when I heard the bell on the door. 50/50, someone either came in or left. Turning fast on my heels, I looked at the glossy window table and like a magic-act, they were gone. A few crumpled dollar bills left in their place. I would be able to pay my rent after all! Or so I thought. It turned out, despite the appearance of a dollar bill, it was not. As I unrolled the bills to check how much they were, they were blank white, with text saying, “There are things more important than money!” and an address for a church. I crumpled the “bills”, and threw it on the floor in frustration. 121

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Dog Anonymous

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Excerpt: Power of Words Anonymous

It was a cloudy winter day when I strolled into Jane Lathrop Stanford Junior High School, my books in a worn school bag over my shoulder, with plenty of time to spare. The birds were singing, the leaves were rustling, and the squeaky sound of sneakers on mopped tile marked the sound of hundreds of students rushing to their first period classes. The students and staff of our junior high made themselves ready for yet another tedious day. On that particular day, I walked into the half-empty Algebra I class, and prepared myself for the imminent forty-five-minute long lesson. After sitting down at my desk, I noticed that the kid to my left was wearing a bright red baseball cap, on top of it embroidered the following four simple words: MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. I thought to myself, this could not be happening... here... in the Bay Area, one of the most liberal geographical areas of the United States, in Palo Alto, the hub of innovation and technology, where immigrants from all over the world work together and live the American dream. I sat next to him, cautiously avoiding eye contact, and keeping the conversation to a minimum. I felt like asking my classmate by yelling, “Do you know what he stands for? Do you know that I’m a Muslim?” I wanted to ask him why he backed such a racist, bigoted, misogynist, senseless man, and express how utterly dumbfounded I was at his support of anyone with an agenda of creating barriers and walls instead 126

of bridges. But instead, I kept my calm. I told myself that this class would only last forty-five minutes, at the end of which I would be free. But then I asked myself, “why am I being silent?” After all, this kid was probably misinformed and was seeking an opportunity to engage. Afterall, his position was clear as day, he might be willing to defend his views or at least talk about them. I felt extremely powerful, as though the 250,000 Muslim residents of the Bay Area, who shared my beliefs and teachings, were relying on me to be their mouthpiece in their struggle against ignorance. I mustered up the courage to talk to him, turned to him, and said, “I see you like Trump,” trying my best to remain casual. “Yes,” he responded, “he will turn the country around for sure,” matter of factly. I questioned, “But how can you be so sure of that?” “Cause he’s better than Hillary okay?” he snapped dismissively. “Don’t ask me why, he just is.” Seeing that he was becoming frustrated, I decided not to appear as if I were aggressively questioning him and decided to tone down my approach. “Have you seen what he is saying about Muslims?” I asked coolly. “Yes,” he replied. “They are coming here to take our heads off and bomb us. They are all terrorists and we’re not safe until something is done.” “That’s an interesting word,” I commented. “What is?” he asked. “Terrorist. You said that they are all terrorists,” I pointed out. “Yeah, so?” he questioned. 127

“I’m guessing that your definition of ‘terrorist’ is a person or a group of people who violently inflicts harm and suffering upon innocent civilians, correct?” I asked, laying my foundation that I learned at Stanford National Forensics Institute Debate Camp the summer before. “Okay. sure,” he affirmed. “Good,” I said, after locking him into a position. I continued, “To the innocent Japanese schoolboy who survived the destruction of the atom bomb, but witnessed the destruction of his city and the death of his family and many of his friends and neighbors, would not our government be a terrorist?” I pressed, “To the Japanese American school kid, like you and me, who was taken from his neighborhood and school and was forced to live in a detention camp, was this also not an act of terrorism?” I went in for the jugular, “According to the definition which we both have, is our government not terrorists themselves?” “Are you seriously describing all our troops and our entire government as terrorists because of the acts or decisions of a select few!?” he asked, shocked. “My grandfather fought in Iwo Jima. Is he a terrorist because of the decisions of a select handful of people?” he demanded. “You do know that many Americans did not agree with the dropping of the atom bomb or the internment of Japanese Americans, don’t you?” he asked, raising his voice, his face darkening in anger. “That is exactly my point,” I retorted. “Nearly one hundred percent of American Muslims don’t agree with groups like Al-Qaeda or ISIS. Keeping in mind what you just said of how not all Americans agree with the actions taken by the government, how can you say that all Muslims vouch for this kind of intolerable behavior?” 128

Father and Son Sofia Sierra-Garcia

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Le ManĂŠge Anonymous

The steam rose up, dancing and playing, through the smoke tinted air, farther and farther up, until it reached my nose. A smile plastered itself on my face. I looked down, my hands grasping the hot mug from which the steam was escaping. The wispy heart drawn in the foam of my cappuccino began to disappear. As it mixed with the coffee below, it began to turn the ugly brown liquid into a beautiful creamy caramel colour. At that moment, some movement outside the large window to the right caught my eye. It was a manĂ¨ge, a carousel. Moving slowly round and round in circles, the large flashing lights appearing gaudy in the center of the square. Place de la Mairie, it was called, the center of Rennes, France. The large buildings were scattered around the square gracefully, each carved with an expert hand and a signature style. My mind began to drift, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until it rested upon one item: my work. I had been sent to France for a month, alone, with two simple tasks: one, make presentations each week to share my life in America; and two, to experience life in France; to fully immerse myself in the language, the culture, and the handsome architecture. One task, however, seemed to 130

always overpower the other. No matter where I went, what I did, or what was going on around me, my mind always found some way to fly back to the presentation that I had barely started. What aspect of my life back in America would the students here find most interesting to learn about? What theme did I use in my last presentation? I wonder if a certain font will get my point across faster? How long must the presentation be? My thoughts began to cloud my vision, until all I could see was the presentation, the title slide, the photographs I had laid out all over my bed that morning, crumbled sheets of paper near the trash can, and old pens littered around my desk. The fog of ideas and responsibilities began to consume me; and, for the next three weeks, I would eat, sleep, and breath these assignments. Each day, like a tape set on repeat, unable to divorce its old routines, I would sit in the rightmost seat in the same cafĂŠ holding the same drink, staring out of the window at the same object, the carousel. Every time I sat there, staring at the carousel going round and round, all I saw was that, the movement. The same continuous movement, like the thoughts swirling in my mind. The horse sculptures were going up and down in tune with the simple music, the lights flashing on and off, on and off, and the parents standing there, all alike, snapping away with their cameras. Then, one day, my third week of consistently staring at the carousel, I began to hear a new sound rising above the clicks of the cameras, the squeaks of the metal constantly turning, and the slight popping sounds the lights made as they flickered. I heard screams of joy, laughter, and chitchat. For the first time, I saw the children actually on the carousel; I saw the joy in their little faces, not creased with age and worry like those of the adults watching. No, I saw the innocence and the pleasure. To my surprise, as I turned back into the room, I began to once again notice the small, intricate designs along the walls, the bustle of the wait staff in and out, the cute little courtyard outside in which couples 131

were sitting, sipping tea or coffee, looking into each other’s eyes. The TV screen mounted on the ceiling, was showing a recap of that day’s soccer games. For the first time since that initial day in the café nearly four weeks ago, I began to see the beauty in it once again. I saw the opportunity, the love and the pure bliss that resided in the atmosphere here. The second objective of this entire trip had been lost along the way. I hadn’t allowed myself to fully experience the culture or the architecture, nor had I hadn’t immersed myself in the language. By focusing solely on the task at hand, and the work ahead, I had let the entire wonder of the trip slip out from under my fingers. Before I knew what I was doing, I paid and left the café, my cappuccino half-finished and bought a ticket for the carousel. Sitting on a white horse with a long mane and a red saddle, I bobbed up and down with the movement of the springs, and spun around faster and faster watching the square revolve around me. I put my arms out, felt the wind against my face, and before I knew it a smile was once again dancing its way back onto my lips and back into my life.

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Excerpt: The Life of an FBI Agent JM

“U.S.! U.S.! U.S.” shouted millions of people from the streets of Los Angeles. It was July 4th, 2085. The world has changed drastically in the past few decades, especially the population. 30 years ago, on the same day, the U.S. declared war on Europe and started the Continental War. At first, the war was very stagnant and no major damage had been inflicted. The European had a lot more soldiers, but the U.S. had advanced technology. However, the U.S. only had enough monetary reserve to create new weapons for five more years, so the government passed a law that required each family to have at least five offspring and at least four of them join the military. When the offspring became adults, the war quickly turned to America’s favor. The deluge of men and advanced technology razed European cities and America quickly conquered the Europeans. However, the European lands were so dilapidated that it became barren. Due to this and the mandatory offspring law, there was overpopulation in the U.S. and laws were passed to make sure everybody had a place to live. In Law 15.a.e, it stated, “Each house has to be standardized and needs to be 800 square feet, with exactly 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms”. Law 15 a.f stated, “15 people - whether related or not - must live in each standardized house”. Staley, who abhorred this rule, regularly took advantage of his roommates and did the same on Independence Day morning; he made his four other roommates share half a bed and took the other half by himself. During the night, one of Staley’s roommates, Jordan, tried with all his power to shove him off the bed, but he was so burly and heavy that he could 133

not budge him. He did not sleep at all during the night because he could barely breathe. When the early morning “U.S.” chants were heard, Jordan was wide awake. Even though Jordan felt very tired, he didn’t have to wait for the bathroom because he was the first person awake. He took roughly two minutes to find his toothbrush, toothpaste, and towel. Then, he brushed his teeth, washed his face and realized that he needed to gather his clothes from the laundry. Finding clothes was exhausting for him because everyone in the house used the same washing machine and dryer, so he had to sort through everybody’s clothes to find his own. This took him at least 30 minutes. After that, he folded all his clothes and dressed for work. He worked as an undercover FBI agent on weekends and holidays and worked as an accountant for Google AI on weekdays. As he was about to walk out the door, Staley woke up, so Jordan decided to teach him a lesson before going to work. “You fat boy, sleep on the floor next time. We should have a vote. Who votes that Staley should sleep in his own room tonight?” asked Jordan. “Be quiet! Do you want me to choke slam you like I did to Colin? I don’t think you do, now shut up!” yelled Staley. “I’m coming for you,” said Jordan quietly as he walked out of the room. “When dreams don’t come true,” Staley responded while smirking. Jordan walked two blocks down his house to the FBI Office. The pungent air filled Jordan’s nose as he walked into the secret office located in the basement of the Los Angeles Trapper. The trapper had 25 electrified invisible shields that sent shivers throughout the body if one touched it. This was the only trapper in the world, so it was unknown to the public and it kept the most dangerous criminals in the U.S. in check. “What’s up, man?” asked Jordan. 134

“I’m good. What are you up to today?” responded Kobe, one of his colleagues. “Nothing really, waiting for something to investigate,” lied Jordan. “Good luck finding one, I’m going to San Diego today to look at a murder scene,” said Kobe. Kobe walked out of the room and it was time for Jordan to execute his plan. He grabbed NEO-205, one of the most powerful guns on Earth that shot freeorch bullets. These bullets torture victims by sending minuscule, sharp triangles that constantly stings and prickles their skin. It also freezes the voice and limbs and controls the blood circulation of the victim, so the triangles can destroy the heart after a few hours. Then, he entered into the online FBI database and changed his address to a random house in Santa Cruz. Lastly, he put on his invisibility cloak and heads back to his house. was so burly and heavy that he could not budge him.

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Top left: Untitled Justin Lee These are some photos I took over the summer in the South of Spain and Tangier, Morocco.

Bottom right: Passe Jonathan Fang

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Excerpt: Disconnected Dysphoria Anonymous

It’s a Friday afternoon and all I can focus on is the rhythm of my feet against the school’s paved hallway. Well, really, it’s the only thing I want to think about. My head has been spinning since the morning, my palms are clammy, I’m shaking slightly—all symptoms of anxiety that hit me throughout each school day, and continuously grow worse as it progresses. I beg my mind to let me sink into the background as I make my way up to my friends. Someone mentions plans for tonight, the others nod and I follow. I then scan across the quad; the school is a gray world. The sky, the buildings, the steps, the sad looking chalk art, everything is gray washed. However, out of the corner of my eye, I spot color: a maroon jacket, a navy backpack, a pair of mustard sneakers. I spot you hunched over your phone. And I remember that you still haven’t texted me back. And I remember our fight, how it was over something pointless again. And I remember that you’ve been ignoring me all week. And I remember that I miss you, even though I’m not supposed to. And my anxious school feeling grows worse. That evening, I find myself seated around a fire pit with my friends, but tune out the superficial conversation being thrown around. All I can think about is you. My eyes focus on the flame. Its roaring, its crackling, 138

its intensity, its rage—it all somehow reminds me of you and me. I sink further back into the mesh of my seat, knowing that I’m not crossing your mind. “Do you ever think about what other people’s lives would be like if you didn’t exist?” I interrupt the current conversation, heart racing, thoughts spiralling, eyes intently staring down the fire. Everyone turns to look at me worriedly, and I remember that I’ve been quiet all evening. I also remember how I told them about our fight, and how they told me that we’ll move past it because we always do. I am then reminded that I’ve broken my main rule of not mentioning sadness at parties, because sadness is what ruins them. “Nevermind. I didn’t mean it,” I sigh. “You have to learn to think positively.” I nod, but these familiar words just send me deeper into my head. My friends seem to constantly remind me that if I wanted to be happy, I would be. So I tell myself to laugh. Laugh. Laugh. We’re all laughing. Things aren’t as serious as I’m making them out to be. I need to stop ruining this by being sad. I thrust my back straight up against my seat. I need to stop fidgeting. “Okay, speak up. Something is obviously wrong.” The words echo in my head, and I shrug. “It’s about him, isn’t it? About the fight?” Again, I shrug. “Why does he think he can act like that?” They’re making this about you because I’ve made it about you time and time again. I’ve excused your actions. I’ve told people you are misunderstood, and that you need me to understand yourself because I get you. I’ve always 139

gotten you. But in this moment I realize that you don’t get me. Do I even get me, though? I expect people to take my feelings seriously, but I constantly make them about you. I walk the halls, in search of your eyes. I go home and write another piece that starts and ends with your name. And this is the point of the night where I realize I know you better than I know myself. And this is the point of the night where I realize that I’m tired of it. I’ve always made this your story. I’ve always been there to remind myself and everyone else of what you did to me. Never do I tell the story of how I have a life outside of you. I’m tired of telling your story. I’m tired of being a supporting character in the story of your life. This is my life, and you are just a supporting character in mine. So, in this moment, I decide that I’m done telling people you’re toxic out of anger. I’m done being your warning label and pretending there was never a good reason why I stood by you. This isn’t a story about how you’re the villain—it’s a story about how you turned me into a hero. This is my story. So instead of, “Why does he think he can act like that?” I ask myself, “What can I do to ensure that I’m not bothered?” I’m done blaming myself because you never apologize. I’m going to let you live your life however you want to, because your actions shouldn’t affect mine. You’re not my responsibility, my own feelings are. Because in every version of this story, my story, I should come out stronger, and you should come out smaller.

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A Spook Meredith Yee

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My First Ending Anonymous

My fua/uncle was a gentle and a warm-hearted man. His smile could brighten up anyone’s day, and his eyes even with wrinkles looked young like he had dreams to conquer and stories to end. His gray hair suited him more than peanut butter suits jelly. Anyone in the same room as him could feel his presence. His tall stature made him impossible to miss. Outside, he looked like any other jolly old man. Inside though he was in a battle, a battle that we knew he was going to lose. His lungs were not pretty or forgiving. His lungs were ugly, crude things. His lungs were monsters—he deserved better. Room 204. He wasn’t gone yet for some reason; it just felt like he was. The second I walked into the hospital, it felt as if a spell was cast upon me: a spell that made me feel disconnected from my body. I didn’t feel as if I was there; I felt invisible and scared. A dark presence was around me. Unknown to me, I kept walking down the eerie hallway. Peeking into hospital rooms one by one until 204 came up. The rooms all had elderly patients and all of them looked scared and uncertain. My tummy flipped. I was hoping that wasn’t going to be the same look I saw in room 204. There it was, the look I was so afraid of. I didn’t want him to change. I didn’t want to see the fear in his eyes. For a full second, I was sure we stepped into the wrong room. Seeing him was like meeting a stranger for the first time; he was someone I couldn’t recognize anymore. He was just a body now... no soul... no warmth... no smile. Everything that made him was gone. I can’t blame him. I can’t tell him to put on a brave face—it was my turn to do that. His hair was completely buzzed off, just little white remnants of what was once there. His stature was compromised too, he now had a round-shouldered slouch that made him look even more uncertain and stressed. The more I watched him the more I noticed. His eyes... now looked aged by 100 years. There was a glaze over them that wasn’t there before. I realized then, that he was never going to be142 the same.

I walked in hesitantly, smiling, trying to hide the fact that I noticed how much he changed. His greeting isn’t as warm as it used to be, I thought to myself. The room was luminous because of the sun. A blue horizontal stripe of paint covered all the walls. The bed was packed with complicated machines that helped him do something as simple as breathe. A painting of a sun setting on a river, while an old man was fishing was hung right above his bed. I found it quite ironic how the room was so bright while; everything in the room was its antithesis. I found my way to the blue couch, which had body prints on it because it was slept on for too long. I knew instantly that the dent on the couch was by Neela auntie. She walked into the room, carrying a cup of water to give to my Fua. Her smile was comforting. She looked different though. Her eyes looked tired. They were covered with a red film that made it look like she was crying for days.Though Neela was strong, inside I could tell she was just as scared as my Fua. Neela auntie had gone through all of this heartache before. Three years ago, her husband got lung disease and didn’t make it. I couldn’t comprehend how a person can be so strong. That day her eyes looked tired just like three years ago. Somehow she still managed to look strong. I wanted to be like her; however, there I was asking my mom where the bathroom was just so I could leave the room. The room was supposed to be where I had the most intense emotions but that wasn’t the case. For some reason, my body seemed to numb me to my emotions. My time in that room is a blur. I might have been too indulged in my questions that I couldn’t fully observe the things and people around me. A hazy memory. I felt sturdy and unsteady. I was confused. 143

I remember slowly becoming numb to feelings and realities. I kept thinking of questions that led me to one answer. What’s the point of all of this if we all just end up dying? What’s the point to connect with people when all of them are going to leave you at some point? Why am I alive if my death is inevitable. I offer nothing to the world... so why am I here. In the cosmic sense, my life does not matter. Neither does yours. All of this is... pointless. I can’t repeat the concluding thought that was in my head that day. It should never be written or said out loud. The answer to those questions is something I don’t want to repeat. All I knew is death is an ending, and that I was petrified of endings. I know my mom could tell I wasn’t myself the second I walked into the room. I could tell I wasn’t the same. She could read how dark my thoughts were getting. We needed to leave the hospital for two reasons that day. One being Fua needed all the rest he could get. Two being I needed all the air I could get. I held my breath a lot in that hospital. I wish I knew why. I knew that day was never going to be erased from my memory. This day began a chain of endings. That day was further defining what I already knew about death. A part of me wanted to stay in that room and let all my thoughts seep in. I felt deprived of happiness in that building. I couldn’t handle it. I walked to my dad, his shirt crumpled into my hands while I hugged him as tight as I could, in the corridor of the hospital. There they were, all the tears I held back for so long. My dad held me as tight as possible, as well, and whispered, “It’s okay, let’s go.” I wiped my tears on his sleeves so I wouldn’t make it obvious. I walked back into the room and looked Fua in the eyes with the fakest smile I could make and said goodbye. He returned the smile and I walked towards the door and through the eerie hallway holding my dad’s as tight as I could. When I reached the exit to the hospital the last thought to enter my mind was:

“I hope I see him again.” 144

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Pandora’s Box Creative Magazine has been a part of Henry M. Gunn High School’s student community for over 20 years. We are a student-run literary & 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. pandorasboxmag.weebly.com fb.com/pandorasboxmag

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Winter 2018 Staff & Contributors Editor-in-Chief: Kristie Huang Vice President: Julia Cheunkarndee Head Layout Officers: Sandra Chiu, Rida Khawaja Layout Officer: Charles Swaney Managing Officers: Hannah Kim, Liza Kolbasov, Kristen Yee Fundraising Officers: Carly Feng, Justin Lee Publicity Officers: Rachel Cai, Hailey Leclerc, Rajat Khare Club Advisor: Mr. Dunlap Rotational Layout Members: Aarohi Gupta, Lillian Fong Key Contributors: Aarohi Gupta, Emily Sheng, Jay Li, Kailee Kee, Katherine Killion, Lillian Fong, Mishaal Hussain, Nora Dee, Shana Ebrahimnejad, Talia Ostacher

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Pandora's Box Winter 2018

Articles inside

Letter from the Editor