Pandora's Ink Digital Magazine

Written by Shinbi Lee from Orange County School of the Arts in California, YS It always rains when we visit the columbarium of our grandparents’ ashes. The structure is a walk down from a clean-paved road surrounded by evergreen forest; our car looks like it shouldn’t be parked in the middle of this empty road. But I guess it doesn’t really matter because no one is here but us and the ashes, ashes, ashes. We’ve only been here twice, once when we were much younger, when no

Written by Xiangxuan Wang from the International Department of Chengdu Shude High School, China The world remembers people in quiet, strange ways. Some by photographs pressed between old books. Some by voices sealed in forgotten recordings. I remember my mother by a scent that lingered long after she left the room. It clung to sun-warmed cotton swaying on the line, lavender and old soap still holding the warmth of her hands. Every evening she washed away more than dust. The k

Written by Wenhui (Cathy) Qing from SDSZ International Department in Beijing, China I came to a house that is wide and still, where a woman resides, calm and chill. She feeds me soft, brushes my coat that smells of sun and rain’s light note. But her posture is stiff, hands slow to reach. At the bell that clinks, she holds to breathe. Her eyes hold a ghost, a small white light, that haunts her through the silent night. I sniff the truth, but don’t make a sound, I fill a spac

Written by Sen Ming Hu from Eaglebrook School, Massachusetts, USA The timid daylight slowly crept through the hut as Miro awoke. He slouched his way into dressing and leaving his hut. The humid air around him buzzed with commotion. Today was a moving day. Rowers and steerers marched towards the sea, and families gathered their belongings; Miro joined in, though he possessed little: a small canoe, a spear, and a handful of rough marbles. As the tribe departed, Miro paddled a

Written by Nina Behl from North Shore Country Day, Chicago, USA I. The Question I take a deep breath. Incense mixes with the smell of frying spices as Nani, my grandmother, sets a plate before me. It is heaped with piping hot dahl and steaming naan. Heat bites my fingertips as I grab the bread. The first bite hits the back of my throat, and my face goes red. Nani grins as I pant. She watches me desperately push my own breath onto the offending naan. Her gold bangles chime ag

Written by Ivy Lu from Fairmont Preparatory Academy, California, USA OFFICIAL REPORT The Journal of Vera Hale Bridgekeeper, 1992–1995 Recovered October 2023, Marrowridge, AZ, under the floorboards of Old Post Route 7 Excerpt 1: Most people cross bridges to get somewhere. I cross mine to speak to the dead. The first time I walked it, I was seventeen. I remember how the mist hugged my ankles like a warning. Now, it barely touches me. It knows I belong. My name is Vera Hale.