Letters to Pandora

Grade 11 Literary Arts - Chapbooks

Icarus fell from the sky today, and, we&nbsp; saw a blinding light and cried, ‘are&nbsp; those mortal wings?’ It was displayed for all—&nbsp; he was one of the holy angels. The boy next to me turned and said&nbsp; ‘He will not survive the&nbsp; fall. Close your eyes, little&nbsp; Dimitra, for you are only a girl.’ I looked up to Icarus and&nbsp; wondered why he was so peaceful. The&nbsp; ocean opened up to swallow the burning man&nbsp; whole, but he only threw back his head and laughed.&nbsp; Once I looked closely, it appeared that he was not&nbsp; laughing, but was letting out a hideous scream. It was all over in an instant— his freedom ripped from his back, as he&nbsp; plummeted down, and I remembered what the boy had said;&nbsp; ‘If I had looked him in the eye, maybe I could have caught his tears, and not the way he charred,’ said&nbsp; he, gripping the&nbsp; lyre tightly in his hand. ‘Girl,&nbsp;

leave now but&nbsp; do not forget; the wax on his back isn’t&nbsp; the reason for his demise, for it&nbsp; was the sun that made it melt. Wings made Icarus happier,&nbsp; but at what cost? They thawed and dripped with the heat— to&nbsp; achieve freedom, you must think.’&nbsp;&nbsp; At this, I smiled faintly. ‘Apollo, why is that so?’

Atlas shrugged his shoulders&nbsp; Locked in hopeless inertia&nbsp; In a kingdom by the sea&nbsp; He offered me three wishes&nbsp; On a rainy Sunday afternoon&nbsp; I asked for beauty, love, riches Born of roses, fed on dew&nbsp; Beauty is rarely soft or consolatory&nbsp; Half sunk a shattered visage lies&nbsp; Round the decay of that colossal wreck Since feeling is first Every tear, every fear&nbsp; Always get their heart’s desire&nbsp; The fragrant philter which I need&nbsp; Is therefore winged Cupid painted blind&nbsp; Like always, my dreams of you are peripheral&nbsp; Love is a hurricane wrapped inside a chrysalis Someone, somewhere, picks my soul up off these pages&nbsp; The clock resumed its ticking&nbsp; And death I think is no parenthesis&nbsp; A bouquet of flowers that had once flourished&nbsp; Jingle pockets full of gold&nbsp; Like that dark ocean murmur&nbsp; Feeling the gentle, inexorable tug of the moon&nbsp;

Love is more thicker than forget&nbsp; You paint me a saint&nbsp; Somewhere during our correspondence, I deviated—&nbsp; It was only a smile, nothing more&nbsp; What is essential is invisible to the eye&nbsp; Take the magic spell&nbsp; It is a cold and brutal glory&nbsp; Beside the king of Heaven&nbsp; To-night my heart is light&nbsp; If I still want you&nbsp; I’d write to the point of suffocation&nbsp; Pleading for a lover’s fee&nbsp; A Bargain With Atlas is composed of language from Edgar Allan Poe, E.E Cummings, Lang Leav, Keshi, Marie Lu, William Shakespeare, Robert Graves, Cassandra Clare, Ali Payami, Atticus, Louisa May Alcott, Nicole Lyons, Donna Tarrt, Salvatore Quasimodo, Madeleine L’Engle, Marissa Meyer, Benedict Smith, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Khaled Hosseini, Percy Bysshe Shelley

He and I refused to drop our gazes as a quiet ballad murmured through the speakers. The first one to blink was the loser, and neither of us wanted to lose. We couldn’t afford to lose. For a couple of minutes a day, I would look into those bright green eyes, widened with mischief, and remind myself not to close mine—staring until countless kaleidoscopic flecks appeared in the corners of my vision. He would always win, of course, but the next day we’d challenge each other all over again.&nbsp; It became our tradition, a cherished secret between us two.

 The boy ceased to eat or sleep, and soon his body was covered with tendrils and vines. But still, he did not move from his looking glass.&nbsp;

She knew very well from the beginning that an affair of the heart was never as it seemed. After all, a happy ending was only something that appears in one’s delusions. It was just a pity that her infatuation towards him ran deep.&nbsp;

I want to tell you a story. A story about a girl who was in&nbsp;love with a boy, and a boy who was madly in love with his own reflection.&nbsp;

It doesn’t take much, does it, for love to find a target? It sneaks up from behind you and pounces when you least expect it—clinging onto your mind and sinking its claws into your heart like quicksand. It leaves you breathless, aching for a whisper, a fragrance, a single glance. You’re willing to do anything to quench the insatiable thirst that claws its way slowly from your chest and into your consciousness. Love is a gaping wound filled with maggots that tarnish your soul. It is a feeling that leaves you broken, yet whole.&nbsp; Day and night, the boy begged the girl to unite him with the man in the reflection, but each time, she would refuse.&nbsp; One day, he told her that he hated her.&nbsp;

The girl admired him from afar, for he was so painfully beautiful that she was afraid to disturb the delicate surface of his melancholy. Every day, he would cross the forest to sit by the pool and gaze upon his own reflection. His eyes would lower in sorrow, not unlike the ones of those spellbound by unrequited romance.

And so she pushed him into the pool, and there—he drowned.&nbsp;

Annaliese Dubras Emma Williams John Yates

To Wesley and Heidi, for your lovely feedback and edits

And to Ella and Emma, for having faith in my stories

And finally to Ms. Dobson and the Literary Arts class, for this anthology would not be complete without you all

Williams, Jay. The World of Titian. New York: Time-Life Books, 1968. Print.&nbsp; Lorent, Manuel. The Prado Madrid Volume I. London: Olbourn Press, 1965. Print

They say that love is blind. They say that you have a better chance of gouging out your eyes and feeding them to the crows than to see clearly. They say he’ll rip your heart to shreds and strike a branding iron to your chest. Your flesh will char and melt, but your mind will continue to be muddled with nectar and roses.&nbsp; If love is so cruel, then I must say I prefer death.&nbsp;

Hermes on His Way to Deliver a Billet-Doux

“A penny for your thoughts?” the girl asked the boy.&nbsp; “No,” he answered, “but perhaps for a dime.” She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, wringing her dainty hands behind her back until they turned pink as a cherub. “May I ask why?” He laughed and responded, “My thoughts are more costly than that of an average fellow. If you wish to see, then you must be willing to pay the price.” Tipping his cap towards the girl, he winked in her direction. “If that is all, then I must say good day to you, missus.”&nbsp; Walking briskly across the cobblestone streets, he hummed a cheery tune under his breath; his fingertips fluttering lightly against the picturesque shops that lined the alley. She watched curiously, as he whisked out an ivory envelope from the inside of his jacket, dusted it off, and continued along his merry way.&nbsp;

The aquarium was a quaint little building off Lancaster Avenue. Tourists bustled in and out during the scorching heat of July and August, but the exhibit remained vacant during the long days of winter. Glass ornaments dangled precariously from the ceiling, held afloat by thin pieces of wire. Their reflections flitted up and down the walls, dancing just out of sight. The roof creaked in unison along to the wind outside—a fragile melody playing in the otherwise silent building. Quiet footsteps echoed throughout the narrow passageways, and the occasional blast of wind from the frozen scenery outside would find its way in through the cracks.&nbsp; The winter air was crisp and painfully cold to breathe in, each exhale leaving a plume of white steam behind. Chipped, ivory-painted walls glowed faintly in the dim lighting, and the tanks cast wispy shadows that danced across the room. Two paces away from the entrance were empty pools of water, a reminder that there were once lively-coloured coral reefs within the basin.&nbsp; On the other side of the glass, rows upon rows of neon lights illuminated the jellyfish floating about the tanks, billowing out like wedding dresses. They drifted ever so slightly, as if their delicate tendrils could tear off in the slightest change of current. Across the cold marble tiles were stingrays, swimming idly in the shallow waters, unbothered by the cool air. They glid softly over the sandy floor, leaving no traces behind. A lone starfish sat at the bottom of the pool, its original vibrant red fading to a tired amber.&nbsp; That was when she said to him, “I wish we could stay here forever.”

dreamed of dreaming—something she quietly wished to experience herself. The town that was once so vivacious was now deserted, leaving her with only the wind and the clouds to accompany her thoughts.&nbsp; It was a shame that dawn was brief, for darkness would once again settle in after daylight ran its course. The little girl was afraid of the dark; the moon and the constellations were her only solace. During these times, she would recite to herself the only story she knew—the one the boy who had come from far away had told her.&nbsp; He had lost his way in the forest and stumbled upon her village by chance. He couldn’t afford to pay an inn fee, so he told her a tale in exchange for a roof over his head.&nbsp; One day while they sat underneath the stars, the little girl posed a question to the story he had told her. “Up high are Altair and Vega, their love separated by the Milky Way. Only on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month are they allowed to reconcile for a fleeting moment. But why is this so?”&nbsp; To which the boy responded, “The heavens coveted their love like they coveted our dreams. Not all stories are tragic, but all must always come to an end.” At this, she nodded thoughtfully and struck her harp once more. Its euphony tugged at the boy’s heartstrings, and he lifted his flute to his lips to blow a singular note. At that instant, the realms of Dawn and Dusk tempered and merged into one—thus creating twilight. The clouds bled into oranges and pinks, their dyes mixing like watercolours on the indigo canvas that made up the sky.&nbsp; And so the little boy and the little girl clasped their hands together and vowed to never part, for he needed her nightmares and she needed his dreams.&nbsp;

His features were sculpted with fragile charcoal and ivory. It was a vision I had only seen once, for he was veiled in a shroud of smoke for the rest of our time together. A fine layer of dust cloaked his body—one that would dissipate with the wind—flickering in and out of sight under the dim lighting. Every now and then, I’d notice a paper lantern clutched stiffly in his fist; its wand wrought with iron and steel.&nbsp; He lived in a lonesome castle placed precariously on the edge of a cliff, its stone walls crumbling as the ocean air howled and ripped through the fractured pillars. An occasional raven would find its way through the ruins, but all was silent in the otherwise abandoned tower. What was once adorned with chandeliers and alabaster was now a place of ash and debris.&nbsp; I had stumbled upon his chȃteau by chance, and he reluctantly welcomed me to his hearth. He informed me that I was dead, and I was curious to learn that I was indeed a ghost. I asked him if there was anyone else living with him but he only shook his head softly.&nbsp; Unsure of how to respond, I drifted to the nearest room to my left. Inside was a secret garden brimming with poplar and various shades of chrysanthemums, and I was immediately charmed by the lone owl that stared solemnly at me from the cypress tree. Thereafter, I dozed off under the cloudless evening sky.&nbsp;&nbsp; It was half-past midnight when he called me up to the lounge on top of the garden. He motioned for me to sit on a sofa beneath the canopy of argent silk. I happily obliged. To my surprise, he handed me a coin and requested that I tuck it underneath my tongue.

"For you—a fare to Charon in the afterlife,” he explained quietly, amused at the bewildered expression on my face.&nbsp; “Will I see you again?”&nbsp; “Perhaps, or perhaps not. The Underworld is a vast place, and I am a busy man.” Grinning, he produced a wilting rose from the inside of his cloak and gently wrapped my fingers around its stem. In that instant, my eyelids began to droop, as a chilling frost slowly enveloped my body. “Now, off you go.” And with a wave of his arm, he ignited the lantern at his side, leaving the kingdom abandoned once more.&nbsp;

Here Lies Aphrodite and Ares

The Otherwise Unknown Tale of Astraeus and Eos&nbsp;

He and her remain; As consorts of the chamber Bathed in a whispered melody That lingers quietly in the lonesome air She in the center stands tall,&nbsp; Her ethereal visage embellished&nbsp; With chilly marble and vanity The twin angels of Fear and Fury Crumble beneath her feet, For beauty is cruel&nbsp; But the Goddess herself is crueler&nbsp; Beside her is the God of War, Whose sword bleeds ichor&nbsp; And heart rots with flesh and decay&nbsp; He thirsts for death For battle, for chaos&nbsp; For arrows to strike true But most of all, for pain He, a wicked boy She, a heartless girl&nbsp;&nbsp; Their sins intertwine and make them whole Leaving them with everything but virtue

In a faraway kingdom, somewhere high above the clouds, lived a little boy who could make dreams come true. Every night after dusk, he’d stand on the edge of the heavens with his fingers wrapped around his flute, and with a silvery whistle, the fields would light up with fireflies. They intertwined and danced above meadows—buzzing with his magic.&nbsp; Fragments of vibrant candies decorated the night sky, while clouds of sheep drifted from house to house. Bubble-breathing dragons came alive, and soon, the land was filled with these fantastical dreams that illuminated the night sky.&nbsp; The secret to his gift was his instrument, for he could only conjure these dreams with its poignant melodies.&nbsp; But despite his powers, he was lonely. You see, though the children in the kingdom admired him, their parents were afraid of his abilities. It was true that nightmares and dreams were closely intertwined, and they feared that one day, he would lose control of his enchantments.&nbsp; Before long, the overwhelming fear of the villagers drove him towards exile, and so the little boy was forced to set off and explore the unknown. He packed up his bags in the middle of the night and departed from the kingdom—vanishing eternally from sight. There once was a little girl who could make dreams disappear. With a flick of her wrist, she’d strike her enchanted harp, causing all fantasies to flicker away into oblivion. Every day at dawn, she played a sombre melody. The sun watched curiously, as her fingers flew across its golden strings.&nbsp; She lived in an abandoned village near the mountains and

It is a Curious Thing, to be Loved by Eros 

Some days, I am a hollowed-out piece of wood—a marionette with its strings wrung high, dancing at the whim of my puppeteer. There is a sense of tranquillity that cannot be replaced, as I go through the everyday motions. I laugh and smile and skip; I pirouette through conversations and sing until I can no longer breathe. I write and write about love, but words cannot replicate a feeling. I have never experienced it, so I wait patiently for mine to come.&nbsp; I can only speculate that when it happens, your mind is filled with ecstasy. There are wings that unfurl from your back, and you become an earth-bound angel. Your eyes fill with tears that roll slowly down your cheeks, blurring the realities between joy and grief.&nbsp; Perhaps that is not love, but suffering. I imagine love to be an orchid flourishing through the cracks of a rusting train track—its petals scalding in the heat and wilting with the frost. He hands me a singular blossom, and we walk together through the narrow alleyways in comfortable silence. I imagine that it is unconditional and pure. Something that is both simple and layered with comfort.&nbsp; I have been told that love hurts, but if it brings so much pain, why do so many willingly hurl into its depths—drowning and drowning again? Your lungs fill and expand with murky seawater. It implodes your body and engulfs your brain. Your throat is dry and saturated with salt—you are choking on coal and soot. Their heart harmonizes with yours as though there is a metronome wedged within your souls, and it ticks away until you can no longer differentiate between yours and his.&nbsp;

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the most woeful of them all? Into your reflection that I see, it is no other than Fate and he. She had long since forgotten this curious folklore, but was vexed to find that it was still an everlasting tale. Years have passed and the authenticity of the fable inevitably altered with the seasons, but still, a broken clock is right twice a day. Pacing up and down the corridor, she could not help but smile at the absurdity of the pristine marble, the clean-cut staircase, the looming walls adorned with an array of clocks—their hour and minute hands halted with either advance or delay. An hourglass displayed in the center tips slowly towards the walls—a mountain of sand caving gently into the otherwise purified floor. What was once filled with crumbling slate and lively bodies was now a place devoid of any signs of vitality. Only Fate herself existed, and she was content with remaining so, although it was not always this way.&nbsp; Blinking slowly, her feet glid across the floor to stand before the opaque mirror hanging from above the ceiling. Without reflection, it was nothing more than a cloudy pool, but still, she stared inside, longingly, with sorrow. A second, minute, or perhaps eternity passed, but the mirror remained as it was, unyielding to her privy pleas. With her skirts billowing out from beneath her, she raised an arm to touch the rippling surface—eyes widening when her fingertips broke through the looking glass.&nbsp; A soft sigh escaped from between her lips, and she caved to the unknown as the milky ichor swallowed her whole.

Long ago, there was a boy who was foolishly in love with a girl. He loved her so much that he vowed that they would never separate, even in death, and he swore to follow her through Tartarus and Elysium.&nbsp; She was a prisoner in a house of reflections you see, and the boy was determined to battle their fate. Her sisters once told her to never let anyone in, for the mirror was damned with black magic. But the sweethearts were blinded by infatuation, and in a forlorn turn of events, the boy finally persuaded her to let them meet.&nbsp; She reached into the reflection to grasp his hand, and that’s when he let out a bloodcurdling scream. Soon the looking glass devoured her lover—and so she cursed the boy for not being able to keep his promise to her, and cursed the reflection for forsaking her love.&nbsp; It is a tale that ends in tragedy, a woeful tale for Fate and he.&nbsp;

“I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind. And this is one: I'm going to tell it - but take care not to smile at any part of it.” ― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

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