Literati 9th Edition - Nine Lives by Cultural Arts and Theater Society

V O L U M E IX

LITERATI N I N E L IV E S

{ Editors } Hue Can, Sarah Cho, Tung Dang, Judy Heflin, Victoria Hines, Ji Young Kim, Sandra Ha Young Kim, Jung Eun Lim, Julia Pak, Damian Park, Jung Won Park, Hongci Shen, Van Tran { Sponsors } Yonsei University Underwood International College Crazy Brown @ Yonsei TMONET Cultural Arts & Theatre Society {Cover Art} Veiled 1 by Sarah Choo

NINE LIVES L I T E R A T I IX

Produced by the Cultural Arts & Theatre Society of Underwood International College

Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Letter For CATS, the 2014 fall semester began with four confused people on a couch. We were waiting for the other members to show up until we realized that we were it. After everything the club had been through since its inception, we had to keep going. Over the last few months I have been so surprised and enthused by the amazing group of students who joined our original four to make up this semesterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s creative and dedicated Cultural Arts & Theatre Society. The culmination of our efforts is displayed in our ninth edition of Literati. Nine Lives, at face value, is a play on our clubâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s name, alluding to the common saying that cats have nine lives, but on another level it is a tribute to our regeneration and a common feat of the arts in general, to take something that has run its course, and make it into something new. We have structured the magazine around this concept, ordering each piece by its content in regards to a cycle of regeneration, and tracing a journey that ends in hope. Many thanks to all who submitted as well as the members of CATS who worked tirelessly to bring everything together. I am proud to have worked on the ninth edition and look forward to reading the tenth.

-Judy Heflin

CONTENTS CHAPTER I Home - John Lim

Urban Princess - Wealth Is of the Mind, Not of the Pocket - Pierre Calvin Zipagan

Visual Poem - Anonymous 11 I’m Sorry - Anonymous 12 Yeouido Romance - Hansol Kim 15

CHAPTER II Smartphone - Nong Xiong

Folie a Deux - Dora Holland 20 Untitled - Soomin Yim 31 Clave - Jung Hyun Yoo 32 Mare’s Face - Kovey Coles 34 Veiled 2 - Sarah Choo 37 The Cherry Blossom - Park Bit Na

Happiness - Pierre Calvin Zipagan 40 May Mai - Van Tran 41 Preservation - Saebin Park 47 Riverrun - Anonymous 48 The Silence Etched Between Two People - Jung Hyun Yoo

Ode to the Elusive Mid July Midnight Organ Fight - Alyse Brower

A Few of My Favorite Things - Eve Chung

CHAPTER III Hollow - Na Yeon Han 55 To My Friend - Pen Weaver 56 Assymetry - Yoon Wesley 57 Penny Boarding - Pierre Calvin Zipagan

The White Button Down and the Black Neatly Folded Noose - Alyse Brower

Kate - Michelle Hyo Geong Kang 60 Untitled - Soomin Yim 62 The Burden - Hedgie Choi

CHAPTER IV How is the Sky - C. Bui 67 Cambodia (Home) - Pierre Calvin Zipagan

Unlikely - Carrie Cattlett 70 Monkeys - Nong Xiong 71 Detroit - Alyse Brower 72 Tribute to Ah Gong - Keith Su 73

CHAPTER V The Rain in Eden - Nam Yoo Yeon 80 Tsuki - Michelle Tudor 81 A Fun Day in Hell - Woof Woof 82 For the Love of God - Eve Chung

Shinchon Romance - Hansol Kim

Willow-ese Day - Na Yeon Han

85 87

CHAPTER I

Home by John Lim Crackle crackle. My ears felt the rhythm of my feet as they marched on an endless field of oyster beds. My two young cousins, Kyunghoon and Eunsoo, were constantly screaming in ecstasy behind my back as they hopped from a rock to another like little ninjas. It was apparent that the little ones had no idea what could arise from their actions. Tossing their noises to a corner of my brain, I moved closer to where the tidal flat touched the water, where the chances of excavating clams would be much higher according to my trustworthy uncle. I gazed towards the sky where everything was crystal clear with its beautiful blue hue and not a cloud was to be seen. It was a truly marvelous, rejuvenating day. Even the wind from the ocean side blew occasionally with particles of evaporated sea water that minted up the inner walls of the bronchioles. Water splashed beneath my feet and I laid down my equipment bucket to start the hunt. “You can’t even eat these little clams!” scolded my grandma as she glanced over my bucket. What she really meant was that these little bites were not worth the work and mud that I had to go through, but I was able to convince her that they were good enough to make some delicious soup for dinner. We shoved the buckets and the picnic mat back into the trunks and revved up our engines back to our pension. Outside the windows of the moving cars, the sky was now painted in a passionate red ink across the horizon of sea water, and islands far off the western shore were seen in dark silhouettes.

Urban Princess Wealth Is of the Mind, Not of the Pocket by Pierre Calvin Zipagan

Visual Poem Boy. Dog. Girl. Dog. Dog. Dog. Boy. Girl. -Anonymous

I’m Sorry -Anonymous You always hid behind that cheesy, innocent grin of yours, filling the gaping holes of our small talk with that low rumble of awkward laughter. Your sweet, creased eyes never gave away anything, your nervous stuttering over words may have been a hint, but I dared to dismiss it as an adorable habit of your childhood. The last time I saw you, we faced each other in that empty room. It had been years since we last talked, I never imagined I would find you there. I did not know what to make of it, you were this strange meshing of chapters and worlds of my far off past and the reality of my present. There you were on the floor, looking so comfortable yet so out of place. I found myself feel startled but at the same time, it was as if you brought with you a nostalgic whiff of green and yellow acacia trees and green lockers from the place we used to call home. So where did things go so terribly wrong? I remember when we first met. Or maybe when we had our first conversation. You said you knew my childhood buddy, the one I never heard from since he moved off to Cape Town. I opened up, we started to talk, we met eyes, our conversations always in short phrases. After school, in the computer lab, long after all the computers were turned off for the day. Then some days, you started to follow after me when I stood up to go home. I was pretty sure I didn’t like that, but when I always looked back behind me, it was never out of fear. If anything, perhaps an annoyance mingled with a cloud of soft curiosity. One day my friend told me that you liked me. I didn’t know if I liked that but what I didn’t like the most was that you never told me yourself. I think that’s when I started to fall away, when I started to make that invisible distance between us. When I started to avoid your searching eyes. 12

And that’s how we talked less and less. That’s how we grew apart. At least, that’s how I remember it. Years passed by, a whir of blurry memories, and we entered the world of high school. I lived my life, you lived yours, in the same space yet hardly overlapping. There may have been some mumbled encounters in the hallways, some swift glances at church. Then there was that day we found ourselves on that field. Sticks in hand, there was head-on collision with my friend, I heard. My friend walked away with a slight bump on a hurting head. You, you lost three years of your life. All those memories, gone, in that mere split second that we will never get back. When you woke up, you didn’t recognize anyone but your parents, you didn’t even remember your language. You didn’t remember so many things. I wondered if you would remember me. Part of me hoped you wouldn’t. Then the awkward distance would disappear and we could start over. As friends. My friend told me he had talked to you. He remembers you, he told me. After a while when I finally saw you, at church, I swallowed my pride to ask you that question myself. “Do you remember me?” “Yes.” You remembered. But only my name. You remembered it so strikingly well, though you remembered nothing else. But it felt good to be remembered. I never thought it would feel so good to be remembered. And that is how I became just a name to you, floating around somewhere in your head, knowing that at some point I may be remembered for more than just my name. I couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like to lose three years of your life in memory--all those images, those moments, lost forever. I settled to make myself more comfortable by thinking of you 13

as the same person that I had always known until I stopped thinking about you altogether. But while most my high school links gradually faded, news of you strangely kept trickling into my ears. You knew some of my new friends. You were in their pictures. I heard that you ran away from home. I heard you had a girlfriend. And for a brief moment I saw you with her at the airport, that first day of the year. But what use of it now, to talk of past things? What use of it now, when you no longer smile that cheesy grin, or stumble over your words? I don’t know what thoughts, what memories may have passed your mind when you found yourself on the middle of that bridge. I really don’t know. Perhaps, just perhaps something I said, something I did in the distant past, perhaps it contributed to your unbearable pain. I just wish that when we had met that one last time, after so many long years, I wish that I had cared enough to ask you how you were. How you really were. I wish I had reached out to save and reshape a friendship that had come such a long, confusing distance. But I didn’t. I’m sorry that I didn’t, I am so terribly sorry.

Yeouido Romance - Hansol Kim

C H A P T E R II

Smart Phone by Nong Xiong Slim, smooth to my warm, tender hands. I fasten you forcibly with my fingers like lust swelling in the hearts of men. Grasp you gently like a newborn soul. Whispering into you my daily events, my daily struggles, my secrets as my most important friend. Project back to me with that smoky, chocolately voice; its vibration settles into harmony. Humming in my ears, always cheek to cheek. I touch you every morning like the cuddling of cozy blankets. Ravish you every night reducing your energy. Sometimes fondle you in the bathroom. You never stray from me. You love the contact of my index finger. Brushing your glossy skin. Rubbing that translucent protection. It has played with you so many times. Sweaty and oily, you are, after I use you. And this is love. Constantly looking for you. I dress you in the most beautiful jewels and robes. In the beginning, you were the most valuable branded treasure. And eventually, the rag I toss and kick around. Nevertheless, in you, I sealed my love, my life, my everything. Above all, I can never leave you like the shadow sewn onto my feet. Because you are useless without me. Dysfunctional without me. Cannot be turned on without me.

Folie à deux by Dora Holland The body in the cold freezer resembled Asa Gorey in every single way. From the sprawling freckles that dotted the pale spaces beneath his eyes, to the looping scars that dragged jagged lines around his ankles, it was all him. In a panic, Asa first attempted to blink the sight away but despite the rapid shuttering of his eyelids, the body remained, its skin shiny and almost translucent against the backdrop of the freezer’s ice. It seemed small, almost childlike, but definitely…him. Asa’s mind whirled to explain the image away as lack of sleep, but suddenly he noticed that the body was in fact moving. It seemed to shift and shudder, perhaps beginning to turn toward Asa, its lips curling into a sneer, as if it would open its mouth to whisper an indelible secret. However, before any of this could happen, Asa Gorey dropped the freezer door shut with a loud bang and shrieked, his shrill voice piercing the silence of his father’s workshop. The blood drained from his face, his fingertips went limp, and he fainted, crumpling to the cold basement floor.

When Asa awoke, the freezer sat unplugged, its door resting ajar. Melted ice pooled at the bottom of the box, slowly trickling across the floor to Asa’s legs, where it had soaked the hem of his jeans. His skin prickled and his head throbbed from hitting the floor. As he stood, his hands shook uncontrollably. The wooden stairs groaned with protest underneath his feet as he made his way back up to the living room. The watery light from the flickering of the television bathed the living room in a pale blue glow. Asa watched for a few moments transfixed, as the TV, switching between commercials, washed the animal mounts on the walls in a variety of colors – the buck’s face grew red; the trout’s scales flashed yellow. Mr. Gorey lay passed out on the couch, his glasses dangling precariously off of the bridge of his nose. The beer bottles strewn haphazardly around the foot of the couch reminded Asa of the rattling, yet not unusual, argument that had broken out between his father and Alfie earlier that night, the reason Asa had stolen away into his father’s workshop in the first place. By now the house had settled into a stillness 20

that only amplified the thundering of Asa’s heart in his ears. He held his breath for a moment, but then reached over to shake his father awake. “W-What…what time is it?” Mr. Gorey eyed Asa with confusion and annoyance, his glasses clattering to the floor as he scrubbed at his face. “Dad…are you working on something right now in the shop? A deer or…something else? I know hunting season isn’t for a few months, but…” The silence within the house pressed down on Asa’s voice, threatening to swallow it whole. “…What? What are you mumbling about now?” Mr. Gorey studied his son’s face with a heavy sigh. “Um…never mind…” His voice trailed off into a whisper, a stammering to himself. It’s not me. It’s not me. There’s no way that was… me.

Asa Gorey was not an exceptional person, and had for as long as he could remember envied those of his classmates who were loved throughout the school. He was fond of writing, especially poetry, and dreamed of the day he would produce something that would so deeply affect his schoolmates that his name would be dredged out of the pits of social insignificance and catapulted into recognition. However, the closest he had ever gotten to his ambition to impress his work upon others was an ungraceful shuffle around his English teacher after class. At the last second, Asa had panicked and crumpled the poem into his pocket, slinking away. Now, whenever Asa sat down with his notebook and a pencil, after two or three words, the stress would overwhelm him and he would often accidentally break the lead against the page in frustration. His only completed poem remained a scrap settled inside his notebook underneath his bed. This base desire for acknowledgement shaped his classroom daydreams, which were full of hands shaking congratulations and desirable glances from his peers. Asa let these delusions of grandeur roam freely 21

in and out of his brain, washing over him in a glaze. During these dazes, often a wad of paper would then hit him squarely on the back of the head, startling him out of his reverie. Low, harsh whispers would ripple behind him, quickly followed by laughter, the muted kind that occurs when a person chuckles behind their hand. It always made Asa shiver, with the paranoid image that suddenly millions of eyes were turned unfavorably on him. Asa often wondered if Alfie had ever endured similar occurrences in school. Something about the way his older brother stood, with his slickedback hair and bright eyes told Asa he had not.

One of these daydreams unfolded in Asa’s mind as he walked home from school, taking the shortcut through the park next to his house. The faces of his classmates beaming at him, their mouths curved into smiles as Asa read aloud the poem he’d finally unearthed from the recesses of his heart. We’re so glad that you’ve opened up to us, they say in unison. We’ve always known that you’re so beautiful, Asa. We’re so glad it’s you. Asa’s foot caught a tree branch that was lying across the sidewalk and he stumbled, quickly shaken out of his thoughts. His schoolbooks spilled out of his hands as he crashed to the ground, scraping his knees. As he fell, Asa noticed that farther down the sidewalk and into the park, two of his classmates stood, speaking to a third figure sprawled out on a park bench. He pulled himself onto his feet and limped over to hide behind a tree. His classmates chatted animatedly to this third stranger, whose face Asa could not see. Despite the man’s small, thin frame, he leaned against the bench with ease, legs spread out across the pavement, shoulders broad and relaxed. Asa felt the pangs of jealousy stabbing at the pits of his stomach – despite the fact that he himself was one of the tallest students in his class, he could never command the attention of his peers. But then the stranger stood, causing the group to change position, and as Asa caught sight of the man’s face, he let his books drop once again to the ground with shock. 22

He was a double of Asa Gorey in every single way.

Alfie leaned against the doorway, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Smoke curled from his mouth and his nostrils in a thin, delicate line that snaked back behind his head. It was fitting, as Alfie was a thin, delicate creature himself, from his slender nose to his fragile wrists. His hair was combed back neatly, framing his face into a picture of perfection. If the two stood side by side, Asa appeared more as Alfie’s shadow than anything else. The older brother frowned as Asa walked up the porch steps, a familiar reception. “Hmm…you did go to school,” drawled Alfie. He blew a puff of smoke into Asa’s face, making him cough. “I thought you hadn’t.” “What do you mean?” Asa paused on the porch, hovering a few steps below his brother. Alfie pursed his lips around his cigarette and surveyed his brother quietly, as he always did when he knew that Asa was angry and uncomfortable. His wristwatch glinted sunlight into Asa’s eyes, making him squint and raise his hand to shield his face. Alfie snickered and continued, “The light’s been on in your room all day, and earlier we heard music coming from upstairs.” He blew out another breath of smoke, which Asa didn’t bother to try to dodge. “I figured you skipped, and were hiding in your room.”

“No, that wasn’t me.” He muttered, but Alfie spoke over him.

“Mei Lin’s still inside, she’s leaving some flowers behind for Dad,” said Alfie, relishing in the emotions that Mei Lin’s name dragged across Asa’s face. He looked up at the sky, tilting back his head. “I love this old house. It’s just too bad that everything inside of it is disgusting or deceased.” Asa ducked around his brother, escaping into the house. Alfie chuckled behind him, the sound echoing in Asa’s ears until the front door swung shut. He lurked in the entryway to the old house, watching Mei Lin arrange a bouquet of daffodils on the table in the front room. He stood there long enough to not have a good excuse if he got caught, breathing 23

out of his mouth so as to make as little noise as possible. It was only after he nervously glanced over at her as she tucked her hair behind her ears, smelling and sighing into the daffodils that Asa began to creep over to the staircase. Just as he finally moved to take the first step on the stairs, Mei Lin called out, “Oh, Alfie, is that you? I was wondering later if we could-” Her voice faltered as she came around the corner and spotted Asa, who was frozen in place, a panicked expression in his eyes. “Oh, sorry Asa…I thought you were Alfie.” Mei Lin frowned, resembling the expression of the man standing on the other side of the door. “Ah, no…it’s just me,” said Asa, leaning back in his shoes and attempting to smooth back his hair with his hand. Mei Lin smiled thinly in reply, her eyebrows sharp above her dark eyes. “Are you well, Asa?” She asked, “Alfie and I thought you stayed home for the day. There’s been music coming from your room for a while now…we knocked, but there was no answer and the door seems to be locked.” Asa could in fact hear music trickling down the stairwell. “No…I must have left it on.” He walked a few steps up the stairs, then took a deep breath, turning back to face Mei Lin again, running a hand once again through his hair. “Um, Mei Lin…did you…cut your hair? It…you look… different.” He ended on a flat note, vaguely gesturing at her face.

“…No?” Mei Lin frowned again. “No, nothing has changed.”

“Ah…oh well…I was just trying to say that you’re really…um…” Asa held up his hand to cough into it, and let it linger as a physical barrier between him and Mei Lin, to cover his now furiously blushing face. “Sorry, no, it’s just me. Alfie is outside, he’s-” “Mei Lin, let’s go!” Alfie’s voice boomed from behind the front door, making Asa jump. Mei Lin smiled again, slightly apologetic. Her heels clicked steadily away from Asa, until she was gone and out the door.

Asa hadn’t left his music on earlier, he knew that, and yet the warbling of his record player leaked out from underneath the locked door to his room.

I’ll seek you out, flay you alive.

His room was the scene of utter destruction. His blankets lay in a destroyed heap at the foot of his bed, his closet emptied, shirts and trousers dangling about the room. His books had been swept off of his bookshelf and dumped onto his naked bed, covers bent and pages ripped. Even his desk chair was tipped over onto its side, a chunk of one of the wooden legs missing. Asa looked down at his feet and saw that pages from his personal journal littered the floor.

One more word and you won’t survive.

Only his record player sat unharmed atop his bookshelf, music lazily wafting throughout the room. And I’m not scared of your stolen power, I see right through you any hour. It took him until very late into the night to clean everything up. Once it all had either been tossed out or returned to its original place, Asa was able to determine that the only item from his room missing was the singular poem he had written, about Mei Lin.

I won’t soothe your pain, I won’t ease your strain.

Asa awoke that night with the unshakable sensation that someone was standing over him, pressing down on his chest. Night terror, he thought to himself, and he refused to open his eyes. He lay still for what seemed like hours, unable to lose the heavy hand on his heart. When finally Asa did try to open his eyes, he found that he could not. The hand began to push down harder and harder, nails digging into his skin. He couldn’t even open his mouth to cry out in pain, and the hand did not relent, clenching down on his chest. I’m dreaming. I’m having a night terror. There was ragged breathing on his face. It’s not me. It’s not me.

Eventually, Asa’s eyes snapped open and he gasped for air as he 25

came back to life. His room was empty, the stark silence emphasizing how it felt like it hadn’t been only moments before.

You’ll be waiting in vain. I got nothing for you to gain.

The double returned as a new student in Asa Gorey’s class. No one mentioned, or even seemed to notice, that this new boy was identical to Asa in every single way. Except on him, Samsa, Asa’s eyes were wider and brighter, his teeth grinning and shoulders broad. Samsa spoke in a soft, melodic voice that Asa could never hope to imitate. Samsa demanded the attention of Asa’s classmates in a way that he only ever dreamed of. Yet, he seemed small and modest as he stood at the front of the classroom, where he looked out on Asa’s peers with a bashful gaze. It was as though Samsa was throwing rocks at the glass imaginary house Asa had constructed around himself. It’s me, it’s me, Asa thought desperately. Why doesn’t anyone realize it’s me? Samsa was asked to introduce himself, and during this introduction it was revealed that Samsa was fond of writing. Asa sat in the corner of the classroom, rage licking at the corners of his vision. No one batted an eyelash in his direction. Share some of your writing! They all cried out. You must have something magnificent to share! Samsa cleared his throat lightly, and where Asa would’ve stuttered and stammered, Samsa’s voice dripped honey out of his mouth. “Well, I have just a little something…” He pulled a crumpled slip of paper out of his pocket. “It’s not much, but…” Samsa shrugged, but his shoulders remained confident. It only took three words into the poem before Asa’s stomach plummeted and he wanted to scream, but his voice was glued to the inside of his throat. After the first stanza his hands shook and he stood, trying to scrape his chair as loudly across the floor as possible, but while Samsa spoke, Asa was invisible. 26

Look at me, he thought. I’m me. Look at me. Don’t look at him. It’s me. It’s so beautiful! The class exclaimed when Samsa finished speaking. You’re so beautiful, Samsa. Asa wondered how his own words, which had seemed frail, tenuous, and incomplete on the page when he had written them, were so exquisite when spoken from Samsa’s mouth. Mei Lin came alive in that classroom, whereas Asa had felt as though he was barely describing her ghost. Throughout the remainder of the day, Samsa was everywhere, a mirror chasing circles around Asa, driving him further and further into despair. He felt invisible, but Asa couldn’t lose the feeling that despite Samsa never turning to look at him, his eyes followed him wherever he walked.

Look at me. It’s me.

Asa heard the clinking of glass through the front door before he opened it. At first he doubled back to make sure he wasn’t about to enter the wrong home, but it was the old house indeed. He pulled open the front door and was promptly greeted by an overwhelming mass of welltailored suits and bright party dresses. The connection had to be Alfie, for neither Asa nor his father was sociable enough to warrant this kind of a gathering. The partygoers’ laughter reverberated throughout the normally empty and desolate house. Asa stood in the doorway for a few minutes, his stomach twisting into knots. Eventually, he entered. The smell of fine wine and hazelnuts drifted around the living room. More daffodils had been placed on various tabletops, now joined by other kinds of flowers as well. The animal mounts had been removed from the walls, and Mr. Gorey himself was slumped in a chair in the corner of the living room, nursing a beer and peering down at his hands, which lay in his lap.

Amidst the mass of strangers, Asa searched for, and found, Mei 27

Lin. She leaned against the mantle of the fireplace, a thin-necked glass of red wine held delicately in her fingers. She smiled openly, tipping her head back to laugh, her red lips matching the shade of her dress. Asa moved closer instinctively, and then saw with a jolt of surprise that she was talking to none other than Samsa. Asa looked on as Mei Lin leaned over him to set her glass down on a table, her shoulder brushing the lapels of Samsa’s jacket. He resembled Alfie more now, or maybe what Asa would look like if he were attempting to mimic his older brother. He held Mei Lin’s arm lightly, steadying her, regarding her with a warm gaze. Her cheeks flushed a rose pink, and Asa’s hands felt clammy and dead at his sides. Asa watched as Samsa and Mei Lin gradually leaned closer together, continuously laughing with bright, glittering smiles that matched the way the house lights reflected off of their drinks. Samsa spoke softly and steadily, and Asa could clearly see that Mei Lin was entranced. Samsa once again pulled the paper from his pocket and began to read. It occurred to Asa that Samsa appeared taller than Mei Lin, even though she was wearing heels – Asa, tall as he was, had never matched Mei Lin in height, who Alfie often compared to the supermodels who graced fashion magazines. But before he could process this information, she leaned over to kiss Samsa’s cheek. It should’ve been Asa’s cheek, for they were the one and the same. Samsa snaked his arm around her waist with Asa’s hand, and suddenly, he felt the inescapable need to hide, to throw up, or to bury himself somewhere far, far away from everything – far away from Samsa and his thin fingers and delicate, pealing laughter. him?

If Samsa really were Asa Gorey, why would he never turn to look at

It’s not me.

Asa had a vague recollection of locking himself in the upstairs bathroom drunk, and woke up sprawled out on the floor, his vision blurry and head aching. A quick glance outside told him that it was early 28

morning. He wrenched himself up onto his feet to looked in the mirror. His shirt was covered in a thick, red stain, like a gash across his stomach. Panicked, he clutched at himself, but it was not his blood. His body went slack and Asa stumbled, foot kicking something across the floor with a clatter. He managed to grab ahold of this the sink before he vomited. Once he could stand, Asa picked the item up, before throwing it once again across the room with a small, startled scream. It was one of his father’s taxidermy knives, also covered in blood. Loud shouting could be heard from downstairs. Alfie stood at the base of the stairs in the entryway, shrieking and waving his arms about. As Asa crept down the stairs in a daze, the older man sharply turned his gaze upon him. His mouth moved slowly and he pointed at Asa. It took Asa a few moments before he could shake off the ringing in his ears, the dizziness in his eyes, and realize what his older brother was saying.

“It was him.” Alfie continued to point, his hand shaking.

“Who is that?” A man came out of the living room, holding a notepad, eyes squinting as Asa gaped in confusion at his brother. Asa could now hear whispering throughout the house. He’s covered in blood… Alfie’s face contorted into a cruel snarl. “I don’t know him, but I saw him lurking around last night. I thought he was a friend of my brother’s. It has to be him. He kept stealing disgusting glances at my fiancée.” Alfie made as though to launch himself at Asa, but instead bellowed, “WELL WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? ARREST THIS MAN! HE KILLED MEI LIN!” Horror-stricken, Asa stuttered out, “W-what? Alfie! I’m your brother. It’s me…Asa! What are you talking about? I don’t even know what’s going on! Why would I kill Mei Lin? I love her! It’s me, Asa!! I’m Asa…” We found this knife upstairs in the bathroom that was locked earlier…

“YOU’RE NOT MY BROTHER!” Screamed Alfie. “THAT’S MY 29

BROTHER!” He stabbed his finger toward the adjoining room, where Samsa leaned against the mantle of the fireplace, twirling a daffodil in his hand, staring out of the window thoughtfully. “I’ve never seen you before in my life,” continued Alfie, his voice choking. “Not since last night.” “No…” Asa whispered, his hands beginning to shake. His voice cracked. “No no no, this is a misunderstanding. I didn’t kill anyone. I-” Suddenly, he zeroed in on Samsa, and for the first time in his life, Asa screamed. “HE’S LYING! I’M ASA GOREY, NOT HIM!” Asa rushed over to Samsa, who continued to stare through the window, not meeting Asa’s frantic gaze. Asa struggled to grip the front of Samsa’s shirt. He began to cry. “IT’S NOT ME! IT’S NOT ME! Hands pulled Asa away from Samsa, toward the front door of the house. Another scream tore from Asa’s mouth, unlike anything he had ever uttered. “WHY WON’T YOU LOOK AT ME?” Just before he was about to be pulled through the front door, Samsa stood before him. As if to answer his final plea, the double bore down on him and stared him resolutely in the face, his eyes locking onto Asa’s. The color was much brighter than Asa remembered, and he was so much larger now, tall and thin, with a wide, white smile. Then Samsa began to laugh, the sound rumbling through Asa’s bones. With a swift motion, he clenched his hand down on Asa’s chest, nails digging raw into his skin, and with a push that almost seemed light and loving, shoved him out of the door.

Untitled - Soomin Yim

Clave by Jung Hyun Yoo

Like littering on an unsullied tree For this disfiguring visage of mine; Placing into, an unbalanced eye.

An awkward glance sideward To unfounded peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s link; Blaming green walls of mazes, Of a little beating pink.

An old, tired memory boils Like a nicotine drink Clutching onto, so desperately. Trailing transience Like grieving galling gruel. Only poison can replenish That foolish fighting fuel.

Bitter as sugared pine Feed me till my tongue feels numb With that little beating pink.

Looking down upon the ground, Swirls and swirls are turning; Bathed and bathed in reddish shame, Swirls and swirls uncurling.

Mare’s Face by Kovey Coles Mare Thomas was born unbearably attractive, and this chance of fate resulted in a lifetime of disappointment. From birth, Mare had been the subject of unending and unwelcome attention. Strangers would become mystified by his flawless face, often losing track of time as they were caught fixated on his angelic features. Sidewalk passersby would rubber-neck, or sometimes, imagining they had encountered a celebrity, attempt to take photographs. Common friends, too, would lose concentration midway through conversations with Mare, and would pretend not to notice their sudden lack of attentiveness, or how their eyes wandered from side to side of his face. Suppressing his annoyance, hiding his displeasure, he would persist through maintaining the conversation, hoping the listener would soon regain control of their eyes. But there was no dignity in any of it, really. Years before Mare understood what it meant to be attractive, crowds of kids would surround him on the playground and demand that he be the leader of their games, fighting over which team would win Mare. It wasn’t long before he caught on. In elementary, too many curious classmates had tried to sneak up and touch his face during nap time. At family gatherings during his preteen years, too many female cousins had tried to convince him that they weren’t really close relatives. Though he matured, Mare realized that people didn’t really change in their ingenuous interest in him. Everyone, even adults, seemed to enjoy his company, and enjoy even more introducing him to their own friends, as if he were a puppy brought to show and tell. In his teenage years, Mare only grew more desperate to blend in like a normal high school student – which by all means he was – and to disappear. His methodology: to grow spontaneous patches of facial hair, to dress in the least assuming and dull colored clothing, to hide his sparkling hazel irises behind plain colored contacts. He purchased big folding scarfs, drooping hooded jackets, and grew hair that fell in long, concealing curls. Anything that could reduce the superficiality in his personal relationships.But it rarely worked. Each morning he was dejected to find that his jawline and dimpled chin only grew more contoured, smoother yet than a Greek sculpture. Above his 34

shapely lips and around structured cheeks, there maintained a perfect absence of stubble. The needless contacts he wore only irritated his eyes. His fashion sense, which he tried so zealously to desensitize, instead earned him the label of hipster – and others in his school began to imitate it. Even his teachers were susceptible to Mare’s attractiveness, a fact that he met with utter repulsion. On his report for American history, which he’d forgotten to prepare for and somehow barely completed on the morning it was due, he still received an A- for what the teacher marked (with a smiley face), “not much historical accuracy, but beautiful insight.” Beautiful. It was a word that Mare had come to hate by this point in his life. He preferred to ignore its existence, or, instead consider it only in a different light, in the way that his favorite childhood movies had taught. Disney films like The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Beauty and the Beast remained his favorites, though his friends would not understand why he still enjoyed such naïve cartoons. Yet to Mare it was impossibly interes ing, a marvel of a concept to hide a ‘beautiful’ being hidden behind an ugly visage. How clever of nature! How lucky were Quasimodo and the Beast to be given an opportunity to prove their beauty! Of all those who frustrated him, Mare’s drama teachers were likely the worst. He remembered in sixth grade when Mrs. Kim, the school’s new theatre teacher, had stopped him in the hallway as he rushed to class. He knew he was going to be late, but seeking to demonstrate his courtesy, he stood patiently against the locker as Mrs. Kim looked him over, up and down, and finally asked, “My boy, have you ever tried a hand at acting?” Since that day, all the theatre teachers had practically worshipped him, adopted him and ascended him to the thespian throne. “Not only is he gorgeous,” Mrs. Kim would excitedly, hungrily confide in the other teachers, “but as if that weren’t enough, the boy also seems to carry a determination to actually learn the art of theatre.” Indeed, every day since sixth grade Mare travelled down to the theatre room in the school basement and devoted himself to the art. He continued to come, day after day, not for the benefit of his teachers, but because he found such enjoyment in theatre. He was infatuated with it all – with the actors, with the fantasy. But it was not the memorization of scripture that he was drawn to, not the chance to kiss girls in scenes of Shakespeare, and especially not Ms. Kim’s production posters which always used his face for promotion. The aspect Mare loved the most about theatre 35

was the transformation. It was something about the modest, the ugly, the grotesque, even, that tugged at Mareâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind. He would spend hours applying dusty wigs, discolored makeup, thick glasses, and itchy facial hair. Fake warts, stained teeth, and cataracted eyes. He reveled in it all, laughing with himself at each glance into the mirror, entranced by the diminishing power of each new addition. He wanted not roles of Romeo but of Rumplestiltskin, not of Frankenstein but of his monster; Mare denied his lifelong role as Beauty and now became the Beast himself! When the curtains opened, Mare would emerge to face his audience without any of the reserve he had grown accustomed to using. On stage, in front of his family and his classmates, his teachers and his town, all of whom knew him, Mare would go proudly in disguise. He would perform the role perfectly, hide himself perfectly, and grow overjoyed to find â&#x20AC;&#x201C; yes â&#x20AC;&#x201C; that the audience could not recognize him. For once, instead, it would not matter what Mare looked like, or who Mare was. For once, Mare and his audience would not be separated or distanced by the face. For once, until the curtain closed, they would only sit there, and listen, and enjoy the story.

Veiled 2 by Sarah Choo

The Cherry Blossom by Bit Na Park Miakiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s favorite flower was the cherry blossom. It had always been her favorite. She loved everything about it. She loved its mixed color of pink and white petals. She felt peaceful whenever she breathed in its sweet scent. She loved the way it quickly withers after temporarily displaying its enchanting beauty. She loved the flying petals of cherry blossoms dancing with the gentle spring breeze, softly touching her skin. Miaki had been wandering for hours in a park near her small mansion. It was six in the morning and there was almost no one in the park. The park was so calm and silent, which made Miaki satisfied as she hated walking in crowded places, where she would be forced to see too many happy faces. She did not know why, but she always felt upset and depressed whenever she saw people laughing so brightly in front of her, whether intentionally or unintentionally. They acted as if they were the happiest people in the world. Maybe it was just jealousy. Nonetheless, Miaki felt lucky to be alone in this enchanting world of trees and cherry blossoms. Surrounded by her favorite flowers in her favorite season of the year, she was freed from any discomfort and uneasiness. Suddenly, one petal of cherry blossoms sat on her white, smooth cheek. Miaki couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell why she suddenly wanted to cry when she grasped this one petal of cherry blossoms blown by the wind. Why was she feeling this heart-aching sorrow touching her favorite flowers? Where did all this sudden stroke of emptiness come from? Swayed by these unknown emotions, soon, the soft texture of the petal reminded her of the expensive Chinese silk one-piece her mother had bought her for the first and the last time of her life when she was seven. The one-piece was bright red and decorated with patches of pink and red cherry blossoms sewn. The silk was so soft and smooth that whenever she wore the dress, she felt like going to sleep. Miaki did not have much memory about her mother. But she knew that was one of the happiest moments in her life; to have such a cute, 38

luxurious one-piece that all the girls in her neighborhood envied. Now her mother was gone, and Miaki was left all by herself. Miaki was surprised how a mere touch could bring her such a sudden stroke of emotional waves and nostalgia. It was just one touch, but the brush of the cherry blossom petal on her finger tips so sharply penetrated the deeply hidden part of her heart, which she had never revealed. The memories of her motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gentle smile, the faint perfume of her clothes, and the soft touch of her hands, all vividly came to Miaki as if she was seven again. Miaki could not walk anymore, but just speechlessly standing there. She never knew the park was as big as it was now. She felt so lonely, all of a sudden. And as if nothing had happened, Miaki turned around and headed towards home. She saw the line of grayish mansions all cramped together in front of her. It was already eight in the morning and people were passing by her, probably wondering why a lovely girl like her had such a sad face with swollen and reddish eyes.

Happiness - Pierre Calvin Zipagan

May Mai by Van Tran Mullae Station. The girl steps out of exit 7, walking towards the bench under the tree and sitting down. The sun is shining warmly but hiding in the gentle shadow, so she does not really feel any heat. Today is just an early summer day like any other early summer days: She is here, but later on she will go to class, and will do her jobs as usual. The girl sits down, then stands up, walks around, and then she sits down again. There are not many people in the street. The workers in the steel shops nearby look at her with some astonishment in their eyes. She has not seen that many middle-aged people for so long, as her neighborhood is full of young kids who look energetic, fast, and fashionable. There is something at these working uncles that make her feel comfortable. Countless steel bars are marked with colorful paint, neatly arranged in the shops waiting for customers. She wonders when she is rich enough to build her own house, who she will ask for help for this technical stuff. Some weeks ago, Mai applied for a part-time job since she has more free time this semester and pocket money is never enough for a 20-year-old girl. Buried deeply under the heap of information about tutoring jobs, she found a short notice regarding “subway helper” recruitment. She got hired immediately after contacting the agency and was asked to come to this station, exit 7, before 9:30AM. It is too adventurous and careless to find a job in such a random way, but for Mai, thinking too much does not solve anything. She decided to go and see what would happen. Maybe something interesting will help her get out of a very repetitive daily life: Go to class, eat, study, sleep, see some people. Ten minutes have already passed by. The steel shop staff no longer looks at the girl. She shifts her focus to another old man on the pavement, who is putting carrots, eggplants, potatoes, and tomatoes into small red basins and arranging them in lines. Another businessman, she thinks; she does not know anything about business either. Mai still enjoys her waiting time. “Subway helpers” suggest a lot of good things; perhaps she will be encouraged to do good for others. If she could compensate for what she failed to do long ago, it is worth wait41

ing for and hoping for. Drifting along her chain of random thoughts, the girl does not realize a very young boy is walking towards her. He is not so tall, wearing a yellow and grey striped T-shirt and a worn brown khaki pair of shorts. The girl does not dress properly for a job-related meeting either: she wears a flowery long dress, white short sleeve shirt, and her favorite flip flop. He approaches the girl, and just a second before she can say hi, he already raises his voice: - Sorry for making you wait, Mai. She gazes at him while he is sitting down next to her, with the excitement she has when exchanging looks with the steel shop uncles. This guy has a very gentle face that seems to be always happy and smiling, and a style which is not very stylish, and his voice just now is another charm. - As you have read in the mail, you are the latest person that we choose. I am assigned to be your team leader. Here is the map that always needs to be with you. The guy passes the subway map to Mai. It looks like any maps that one can find at a tourist information center, with legends written in both English and Korean, but printed in black and white. Mai reaches out to the sunshine to see it more clearly, by then the map turns into colors: Only line 2 is still visible in green, other subway lines all disappear. Red dots show up in some stations on the map, “Dangsan, Daerim,…” and quickly dissolve. She swings the map to see it from different angles, under strong light, dim light, and no light. This seems like a high-tech toy that youngsters always like. The job assigned to Mai is to reach out to as many people as possible and give them a hand if she thinks they are in trouble. She is told not to think of anything too big. “Because your care will mean a lot to people in need, so please try. You know, there are lots of regretful events these days.” The guy tells her other things about wages and supports, but when Mai gets home, these words are the only thing that remains in her mind. Mai is at Euljiro-1-ga station. Even though it is just 8:30 and some meters deep into the ground, the heat from the people packed around her makes Mai tired as if she is standing with bare head and bare feet under the 12 o‘clock sun. Dressing in elegant suits, everyone still looks suffered as if they haven’t bathed for a whole week (what a bad comparison). This 42

is just the start of a new long day, starting from 9AM or so, until the sun goes down and people no longer feel the heat. Mai finds every time the train stops and the doors open letting the cool air out such a heavenly moment. She cannot understand why someone could even choose such a site to do something crazy. â&#x20AC;&#x153;This weather is crazy enough!â&#x20AC;? cried our girl. She takes out her subway map and carefully tapping on the spot indicating Euljiro-1-ga. There are many red dots surrounding this station early this morning, so Mai is told to be here, particularly, along with some other subway helpers. She does not get on any trains, but staying in the boarding area, walking slowly among people, sometimes stepping towards them whenever she senses or smells anything strange. She makes efforts to approach three people: One old uncle who looks quite angry dragging his bag along the track, and he gets explicitly angry when Mai says good morning to him, before getting out of the station; one young lass who is with her classmates on the way to school, but then stays behind while her friends are still on board, and it turns out she just has some digesting problem; and the last one who is a handsome office worker, suddenly gets off the train and silently, secretly cries in front of the vending machine. He tries to buy some snack but cannot finish pushing the desired button. Mai offers to help him and the poor guy keeps her for more than twenty minutes to tell how his girlfriend has dumped him. Mai tries to help out the people but all red dots on her map do not vanish, which worries her. If life is like how it was before she was given the map, Mai would just look at people and maybe enjoyed being looked back, but now she has the duty to actually reach out and assist them as much as her can. It is a big responsibility, showing care to people, to make them know they are needed and they are not alone, and now she is not doing it very well. Right when Mai wants to take a seat for a while, a pale-looking young woman appears just some meters away. At the first glance, she is a very beautiful lady, with her long hair straightly falling on her shoulder, white skin, and slender arms and fingers. Nevertheless, when Mai goes more closely to her, she can sense something really cold from this figure. Mai shivers for a second, then quickly grasps her breath and looks directly at the strange person. The woman does not bother to look at Mai, even though she slightly turns her head towards Maiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s place. Her gaze stops at somewhere far away, much beyond Mai, and nothing can be read from her smoky grey eyes. Mai looks at her subway map again and the red dot at 43

Euljiro-1-ga is gradually expanding. One’s blood is heating up, something dangerous will happen, some invisible hand is trying to push Mai to do something, but she does not know. The woman standing in front of her does not seem to be having a hard time. Does she need any help? Does she feel tired? Does she need any medication? The train comes in and leaves at once. When Mai looks up again, the woman is not there anymore. The red dot on her map gets smaller and smaller before it totally disappears. And it is still crazily hot. Looking at the shrinking red dot on her map, Mai still cannot breathe easily. She runs around the track, hastily, hastily, the heat she feels now is even more unbearable than half an hour ago. - What are all these red things? Like people are calling me and I need to come? – asked Mai, sitting next to the guy in the yellow-striped shirt, under the shadow of the tree near exit 7 of Mullae station. - Oh no, I’m sorry, but we are not that high-tech yet. You choose a station and people with extremely high body heat will show up as red dots. People feel hot internally because they are dealing with difficulties or even dead-end. - Then how can I find them to give a hand? - Please try to help out as many as possible. Just that. Mai did not receive any further guidance. Whenever the red dots become smaller, it either means someone is relieved, or someone – still feeling unwell – has left the station where Mai stays. And there is another possibility. From the station’s radio, the voice of an old man uttered, sounding like a dry cry, slightly fluctuated: “Trains on line 2 From Euljiro-3-ga To Ah-hyeon Will be delayed Because A passenger Has fallen On The subway track” Mai does not really know what to feel about this very moment. She 44

does not even know how to move. She is here because she wants her life to be colored, she wants some pocket money, and gradually she wants to help people. But now, a dim light has just slipped through her hands. She should have called that woman. She should have done something. It is her responsibility. It WAS hers, wasn’t it? Many other red dots are still gathering in Euljiro-1ga. After such a long time not feeling too sad or too happy since her mother’s suicide fifteen years ago, for the very first time, today, at this station, the girl wipes her tears without knowing it. The other possibility, Mai never wants to think of it for the rest of her life, is that one’s heart needs not to beat anymore. Then no heat, no extremely high body temperature. The woman did not hop on the train. She jumped in front of the train when it was approaching the boarding area. The mother had been disappearing for a few days. The father was asking around, contacting police, and even posting on newspapers, but everything they got back was a scary silence. The girl did not say anything about her mom’s absence. The day when she last saw her mother, before getting to school, our girl accidentally dropped some of the hard-boiled egg on her shirt. Being afraid that mother would scold at her, she did not tell anyone but held it until school to wipe it off. The yellow color of the yolk stayed on the shirt, in spite of all her effort to rinse it with water, with soap, with hand washing liquid. Before sunset, after many hours playing hard at school, she realized the yolk was still there, but it the shape of a heart, right next to the printed bear. It was such a miracle. She told her father, but he did not have time to carefully think about that big matter. “It’s okay,” she thought, “When mom comes back I will tell her right away.” But her mother never came back. Even until now Mai still thinks about that day. What would have happened if the little kid had decided to tell her mom about the dirt? Mom would have been unhappy and the girl would have changed to another shirt to go to school. The heart-shaped yolk would not have come into being. But another miracle might have had happened. What if…What if… What if Mai had called that pale-looking woman, to tell her that please don’t do it? What if Mai had been brave enough to approach her, to remind her that there is someone who is in need of her appearance, such as a kid who is confused with the dirt on the shirt? Tears are still shedding on 45

her cheeks. At first she does not know it, but now the horrible temperature brings her back to reality. Her blood is being heated. On someone’s map, she may be showing up as a red dot, expanding, shaking. A phone call is coming. Mai takes out her phone and sees the familiar contact. He asks if Mai is fine, he urges Mai to work harder, because many others are waiting for help. He says this and that, and Mai says “Yeah” and “Right.” At a glance, Mai looks at her map again, where a red dot lights up. She ends the call, and immerses herself into the crowd. “Mister, do you need help?”

Preservation - Saebin Park

Riverrun - Anonymous

The Silence Etched Between Two People by Jung Hyun Yoo A sharp spiking shiver slowly runs from the middle of my back , up towards the spine, spreading on the skin of my neck and shoulders. The rhythmic pump in my chest is too noisy. I can hear the air being sucked into her mouth and the moist vapor smoothly coming out, like a slow warm river of mist. My pupils are fixed onto hers; Its dark brown with the most perfect roundness. The fine white hairs on her face, her perfectly shaped unnatural eyebrows, and her skin of smooth soft marble, is all without a blur. The silence is what my flesh conforms into like a powered dough fits inside a conical shell, it rests in untold peace. Between her and I is the black white universe, as shades of waveless thought lays down with its two hands in prayer, Naked, warm, silent.

Ode to the Elusive Mid July Midnight Organ Fight by Alyse Brower Oh, July, before 9pm your days are child’s play, dripping with melted popsicles and attempts at adult understanding. You are delectable, you are watermelons stains, mildewing swimsuits and grass-dyed sneakers your memories are indelible.

July, when did I grow older? When did I begin setting my alarm for 10pm? Was it before or after her? Before or after the flick of my first cigarette? What about the Jack? When I began fucking and not feeling? Did you look at me and weep? Did you pity your nights, spent serving as my playground? The lust and humidity heavying in your air, before collecting on your grass with the morning’s dew. The night’s youth drunk and drowned in you. Did you resent your burning dark?

A Few of My Favorite Things - Eve Chung

C H A P T E R III

Hollow by Na Yeon Han He is smoking when a pigeon comes up to him. He breaks his cigarette in half and gives the butt part to the bird. The pigeon pecks at it and walks away with it. He thinks this is the funniest thing he’s ever seen. He has a cup full of cigarettes on the table. He placed the cup on the concrete and pushed it over with his foot so the pigeon could walk away with a few more cigarette butts. He asks me to take a photo of it. § I brush my teeth about 5 times a day. I used to brush my teeth only once a day, in the evenings. But then I started brushing it twice a day. Then I started to brush my teeth 3 times a day, once after each meal. Later, I started to brush my teeth 4 times a day. I didn’t eat 4 times a day, but I squeezed in another brushing in between my early afternoon and late afternoon class. When I went to see my dentist, I thought he was going to give me a new toothbrush but instead he took out a pad and wrote onto it, “Never brush your fucking teeth ever again.” § I remember when they first opened all these cafes, there were no people here; it was so quiet, so nice. Corners lead to other corners lined with brick-stone cafes. I wanted to walk tonight. There were clinking of bottles and drunken cheeks, the ensuing talk of “when I was young.” I turned into an alley to see a crowd had formed to make a line to enter the neon night. The streets were paved with slippery fliers detailing this lurid night. I circled around a cloistered street to find a tree, and then became aware that I was sweating and out of breath. § There’s a hammer that just sits at the edge of my desk. It bores me, but I never move it. It just sits there. It bores me like it could bore a hole into one of my walls. And I walk into my room and there the hammer precariously rests its head at the edge of my desk. The hammer is just there on the table; the hammer just lies there with the handle untouched. I reached for the hammer to bore a hole right through the wall.

To My Friend by Pen Weaver Dark will have you on your fours, dog, now bark Squeal, as I laugh and listen through my meal Mark my words, for you Noah has no Ark Zeal of your actions shall not lift his seal Shut remains the door. Away from it, mutt! Back, I say! Or I’ll have you in a sack! Jut that lip, you dare? I’ll have it ripped cut! Black-tongued rogue, you’d better hope every jack I bought under your wing keeps my mood high Or else you’ll feel the tusks of my pet boar! Try harder to please me, poor little guy Soar past my vision, busy with your chore! Dispose my master whip, have I hereby chose, Those violent actions, I finally close.

Assymetry by Wesley Yoon

Penny Boarding - Pierre Calvin Zipagan

The White Button Down and the Black Neatly Folded Noose by Alyse Brower I come home, hang up my cape and dust the rubble off of my shoulder. I sit down in a broken Lazyboy. The foreclosure notices litter the floor. Apparently, superherorism doesn’t pay too well anymore. Today, I retire. Assume my alter-ego full-time. All the responsibility, the demand for integrity, gone. I will start a new career. Make real money, a 9-5 and then come home. Maybe I will be a banker, I have saved people from wrong side of bank heists before, I could do that. I could use my superbrain to match paint colors at ACE hardware, my superspeed to mix it. I employ my x-ray vision to cook burgers at the McDonald’s down the road. Fly to go orders to busy office buildings, full of pretty girls... editing articles about the superhero that disappeared. I am not shirking my responsibility, I will tell them in my exit interview. I really don’t mind rescuing heavily skirted women, tied to train tracks, spoiling the plans of nefariously mustached, black-and-white clad villains. I just can’t afford it anymore. Down at the street the busses arrive. Screaming to halts. Absentmindedly, I will pull a child away, who is leaning too close to a bus and his hair is brushed across his face by the urban tank’s side mirror. I sigh, but keep my white shirt on.

Kate by Michelle Hyo Geong Kang Her eyelids struck open at 6:59 am to see the alarm clock go off as it turned 7:00. Stretching her right arm, she hit the button on her digital alarm clock. She had a banana while she checked herself in the mirror. Satisfied, she turned on her TV for her quick daily morning yoga. After a hot shower and moisturizing with baby lotion, she chose her outfit for the day: white silk blouse and her favourite black skirt. She was in her car by 8:15 and in the hospital car park by 8:43 am; perfectly on time as always. “Kate Baker”, she said as she shook his hand, “32. A surgeon.” She scanned him and concluded that this was yet another one of those dates who she would later have to block the number. He had a beard and he was wearing jeans. He wasn’t the sort that was good enough for Kate. “Ooh, okay. Er, a surgeon I see. Well, Ted Jones, I’m 34 and a combat photographer.” “Really?” she said, “That’s interesting.” Her reply was soulless and her eyes were fixed on the clock, which was hitting 4 o’clock. A long day just got longer for Kate. This was a blind date that her mother had set up, and Kate never understood why her mother was so fond of adventurous men. To her, they seemed boring. She was a surgeon and really didn’t see the value in listening to this man, talking about witnessing horrific deaths in action. All the blood, the screams and wounds, he said. Kate lost interest after about a minute and a half into the conversation. She looked at her watch and it showed 4:04. She was simply not in the mood. The man seemed confident to keep her entertained enough with all his talking. Who is he kidding? She sees blood every day. She cuts and opens up people every day. She witnesses blood rushing out, hearts stopping and family members screaming. It was a part of her every day routine. Kate specializes in heart surgeries and a combat photographer was talking to her about how bloody his career was. She didn’t really care. She had fired an intern and had lost an elderly patient that morning but either of them wasn’t the reason why she was so unhappy. Or unenthusiastic. Or unpleasant. Or uninterested. In the morning, Kate had walked into her office to see that her Starbucks Americano wasn’t there. Alexandra, the hospital’s intern who always picked up her coffee ever since Sara had moved up to residency, had for60

gotten the Americano. “Sorry miss. I was late for the bus and I completely forgot. I’ll get them during my lunch break if that’s okay,” she said. It was a first, and Kate was obsessive when it came to her daily routines. The absence of her coffee had ruined her morning and she was certain it would be the same for the rest of her day. So before things got worse, Kate fired Alexandra. For Kate, it was because she didn’t have her every day morning coffee that she lost her patience. It was because she didn’t have her daily morning Starbucks Americano that she was having a bad date. After all, no other coffees can replace morning coffees. Morning coffees are completely different from lunch coffees, Kate thought.

Untitled - Soomin Yim

The Burden by Hedgie Choi I took up some menial labor because I had decided to be a writer. I needed some stories, not just any stories, but stories with grit, subtle heartbreakers from lower class America. The job was to serve coffee at a small coffee shop. I wanted to do worse but it was the closest one to home, and I thought probably, I could hear stories about prostitutes and construction workers by proxy. But it was day three and my co-worker hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t said anything during all the smoking breaks weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d had together. I felt that it was time to be proactive, go out in search for inspiration, not wait around for it to come dancing up my nose. So I said hey fellow, tell me a yarn. What? he said. I tried to go for something concrete. What do you think of when it rains? Family back home? Is there a story behind that scar on your elbow? He frowned, muttered something, and smudged out his cigarette. I saw the glowing tip sizzle and fade. Hey wait, I said, grabbing his shirt as he tried to go back inside. He shook me off violently. Leave me alone, he said. Come on, I said, give me one story! Jesus, he muttered as he dodged me and slipped behind the door. I tried to follow him, but then I saw the lock turn. Goddammit, I screamed, I took up smoking for this! I rattled the doorknob. I am trying to give you voice!

C H A P T E R IV

HOW IS THE SKY by C. Bui Between you and me was a relationship incomparable Dominoes, cards, ping pong, sugar and all things terrible Priorities scrambled, we’d always gamble Education and eating, who cares why not sleeping? When fun was put on hold, your gestures came out bold By having me ditch school, because you know... that was cool Scolded and yelled at, always you and me It was us against the world, or maybe just Bà Quỷ* We’d age together That’s what I always thought But time would soon split us apart A concept unfathomable, but it would soon start Primary, elementary, and throughout senior high You were my laughter, my inspiration, my morning goodbyes About ‘round 3:30, you always sat waiting for me TV and couch, we’d pop in Friends to watch an episode or three But as the sands of time fell little by little That memory of yours began to dwindle and dwindle A forgotten name or face here or there A forgotten event slipping into thin air Reality became fuzzy, while hunger seeped away I believed I could be there, one step and spoonful each day Soap and suds made you unstable But bathing was another task I was easily able 67

Reality might have been suggesting that your time was soon But instead I looked to pictures and singing a different tune We might have looked silly, maybe even loons While taking photos of us with mustaches, props, and cars, from November ‘til June Life became complicated and childhood seemed so far gone No more was it about Rice Krispies, WWF, or us laughing all night long We couldn’t be together, that’s what they said To other homes you went, and sometimes I cried in bed But I could still see you, we’d go out and play Whether it was movies, lunches, or outings I didn’t mind to pay Just thrice or once a week, I wanted to go the distance But now time’s run out and you seem like a reminiscence The last I saw of you was feeding you during Memorial Day A BBQ with family where you were still healthy and smiling You told me how tall and pretty I looked as I brought out your tray Then waved goodbye to me as I promised our next meeting, not knowing I’d be soon crying It was Friday when I got the call Admitted to the hospital, my most precious one of all I sat and prayed every day while visiting But health was “not as bad as yesterday’s,” I knew the nurses to be filtering Time caught up too soon, and D-day was all that was on my mind Thursday, June 5, a call of a passing at 4:49 I missed you by 41 minutes, was all I could think She’s left me forever, a river of tears I repeatedly blink

Now I lay sleepless, remembering our stories You’d want me to be smiling, thinking best wishes; you’ve reached the Kingdom of Glory So I make a new promise to you Bà Nội** – I’ll stop saying goodbye Instead each morning, I’ll say good morning and how is the sky *“Bà Quỷ”: Devil Woman **“Bà Nội”: Grandma

Cambodia (Home) - Pierre Calvin Zipagan

Unlikely by Carrie Cattlett Two people hold each other with pure bliss. The woman’s face containing two dimples as she grins. The blond man’s face looking as if he just returned to his loved ones after a war. His face is red, and his eyes reflects a deep sorrow along with relief. Their arms and hands gripping each other as if their lives depended on the other. Navy blue shirts and blue jeans, that is what they both wear purely by coincidence. Neither character is dressed to impress the other; her caramel locks dishevel, and his five o’clock shadow. The steel fence behind them is the only hint of metal... His left hand contains no ring; the woman’s is hidden behind her friend’s. Bright flowers and insects behind them could not dim the love they feel for each other, but their age could. The wrinkles on their faces show that they are reaching an age where marriage is unlikely, and all that is left are missed opportunities. That sorrow in the man’s eyes is not that of a war; it is of what could have been years ago.

Monkeys - Nong Xiong

Detroit by Alyse Brower My grandfather’s name is Gerald Patrick. He is an American Irishman, If you do not know him, he is quiet, his lips form Celtic knots, his exterior is hard like his patron saint’s shield. You will not see his center, His sweet-and-soft-as-his-peanut-butter-pie soul. You will not see the man, who makes his way to Mass every Sunday around 9 am and never takes off his scapular. But, befriend him in a bar just off of 6 Mile, pint in hand, and he will tell you where he was when Detroit tried to burn itself to the ground. When people rose up and set fire to the decorated walls of the fallen American Paris. He will tell you how he and his wife scooped up their patchwork of young children and ran, settling in a small house just outside of city limits. He will tell you how he stayed, how he watched Detroit survive, how he watches it live on, only sometimes with sadness. In the wake of the riots, Detroit was plagued by White Flight, the city’s populous fleeing for suburban havens. He tells us when the cancer is back and I wonder where his white cells are fleeing to. He does not say that he knows it is terminal, does not whisper its blood lust or vengeance. By his omission, he tries to scoop us up his patchworked progeny, fleeing the flames alight on the walls of his lungs. My grandfather’s name is Gerald Patrick. Because of him, I am an American Irishwoman with only sometimes with a hard exterior. But, befriend me in a bar just off of 6 Mile, pint in hand, and I will tell you where I was when my Grandfather’s cancer tried to ignite the walls of the only man I will ever let call me Darlin’. I will tell you how he stays, how he survives and how he lives on.

Tribute to Ah Gong by Keith Su My grandfather passed away peacefully on 25/3/14, Tuesday afternoon. I was in the office, ready to work OT when I received the stupefying news. His passing disconcerted me, though not as much as the fact that I have been left in the dark as his health was worsening. My parents, who had full knowledge of this chose not to utter a word to me or either of my brothers. Whenever I think of this, I feel a rage surge through my entire being because I never got to see him before he lay on his deathbed. Cause of Death: Acute Leukaemia. The taxi ride to my grandparentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; seemed incredibly long and endless. I thought about the last time when I had spoken to him. It was during Chinese New Year, and it was also the last time when I felt his warm feeble hands. Maybe his deteriorating eyesight hampered him from discerning my features, but I hope that the impression of me remains crystal clear in his memories. Throughout the journey, I fumbled about reaching for all the distant memories of my grandfather in the far corners of my mind. This too, seemed to take an incredibly long time. Though I am still regretfully desirous of his last words to me, I am thankful for all the soft shadows and faint footprints he left behind throughout the journey we spent together. And while the reminiscence remains fresh and poignant in my mind, I wish to narrate them before they get shrouded once again by my egoistic conscience. Each recollection will be a guidepost to my heart and my grandfatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. Here is a tribute I pay to my dear Ah Gong. I remember when I was in nursery school, I always dashed out of the classroom after dismissal to where my mother would be waiting to pick me up. One day, I saw Ah Gong beaming amiably and showing his toothless grin as he waited patiently beside my mother. As far as my memory can tell, that was the first and only time when he had come to fetch me from school. His appearance did not change much from the first impression that I have of him. He is tall and lanky, always appearing much thinner under his loose clothes. His bald head glows and holds loose strands of short white hair. His hands are wrinkly, almost papery to the touch. When our hands are put together, his are always bigger than mine. 73

I couldn’t contain my ecstasy when I saw Ah Gong at school; it’s such a pleasant surprise! Curious to what had led him to see me that day, I kept asking, “阿公,你怎麼今天來? (Ah Gong, why did you come today?)” He did not say a word to this, but only continued to study my elation, maintaining his genial smile. That day was an exception: Instead of holding my mother’s hand, I held Ah Gong’s while we walked home. Perhaps I was too innocent and naïve back then to understand why Ah Gong never answered my question but simply returned with a smile. But one thing that I’m certain of now is that he had come to see me because he just wanted to see me. Ah Gong would often treat me with a box of SUN-MAID raisins. I would flip the lid open with my thumb just as how the grown-ups would with their cigarette packs and gleefully pop one raisin after another in my mouth, emptying the box in a jiffy. Ah Gong also stocked a corner of the refrigerator with cartons of Peel Fresh orange juice. I would help myself guiltlessly to numerous servings of it as I knew he would replenish the supply whenever it ran low. One afternoon when I had lunch at his place with my family, I struggled to finish the food left in my bowl. Ah Gong who was then seating coolly in his blue wooden chair noticed this and said: “快點丟掉, 不要給你媽媽看到. (Quick, throw it away before your mother sees it.)” Those precious words assured me to take the leap of faith and saved me from another beating. 阿公萬歲! (Long live Ah Gong!) Ah Gong has a habit of smoking Marlboro Reds. He likes to smoke while resting on his wooden chair at the back of kitchen, dressed simply in a white singlet and striped boxers. He always appears with a profound expression as he immerses himself in deep thought whilst savouring every puff until his ashtray (a BRAND’s chicken essence bottle half-filled with water) is finally crammed full of cigarette butts. If I realised back then how destructive smoking is to the body, I’m sure he would have been moved by my innocent pleading and quit smoking. I will also long to know whatever that was on his mind – such as his personal experience of the Japanese Occupation and his insights of life. These are all precious tales that I have yet heard of but will never get to hear him talk about anymore. With nothing but time in his hands, he spent the bulk of his day playing DVDs of Buddhist teachings or listening to them on his FM radio set. It stumps me how anybody could sit through a tape that plays hours on end, watching a monk sitting behind a microphone, reading off a script 74

in the most humdrum voice without dozing off. Whenever Ah Gong got engrossed in the DVD, I would pray reverently that he would fall asleep so I could switch the channel to watch my cartoons. There was, however, a meaningful quote that I recall the monk saying which now remains etched in my memory: “Receive a handful of rose petals, and bliss is within your grasp. Give your rose petals up to another, but what lingers is a pleasant fragrance in the palm of your hand.” When I finally arrived at my grandparents’, Ah Gong had already drawn his last breath. In the room laid his unmoving body, his pale face and sallow skin. Looking at the lifeless shell of my dear grandpa was a terribly bitter pill to swallow. Though he did not look different from being sound asleep, the blatant truth that the shadow of death has blotted out his existence made it even more difficult to look at what was once before my living, breathing grandfather. As I matured into adolescence, the younger and impetuous me was only absorbed in fulfilling his teenage hood – going to school, getting in trouble, hanging around with friends, and returning home only to sleep. I thought I was a dutiful son for going to school as I was satisfying every parent’s wishful thinking for their children. However, I have only wallowed myself in self-centredness and conceit, bearing the subconscious motivation that being an educated man makes me better than my own kin; I failed to understand filial piety and gratitude. As much as I would like to explain this to Ah Gong and ask for his forgiveness, he already ascended to the higher world. Despite spending much of my childhood days at my grandparents’ (we only live one storey apart), I never had the chance to exchange a proper heartfelt conversation with Ah Gong. What a shame now that I’m bemoaning over how little I did for him. Instead of revelling in bliss in company of his grandsons, being regularly kneaded in the parts of his body that felt sore, my grandpa spent his golden years in solitude. I felt his body and held his hand for a final time before the undertakers sealed the coffin. His body was still soft, though it lacked the vigour it had once contained. His hand was clammy, but felt exactly the same as it had when he walked me home from nursery school. His long slender fingers still fit between mine. His hand, though not alive, was in that enchanting state where further life is to be known at hand. And while much is given to the sight and touch, more yet remained for me to reflect. 75

Whenever I struggle to accept the absence of my grandpa, I close my eyes and remember the touch of his hand and every sensation that came with it. The reality prevails to prove that death and life are one. Birth is deathâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beginning, and death has always stuck with us. It just never seems apparent because it has been woven seamlessly since the beginning of our lives. Ah Gongâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s passing has taught me how to live. I have plentiful to lament over the demise of my grandpa, but I felt that it has also transpired a bridge where I can still keep in touch with his spirit. It will be a place where I can be alone with him. He remains as a greater figure for me to hold onto to be in peace with my mortality and the provision for hope and endurance to trudge through lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s complications. I now love him in a way that I have never done to anyone else, and he continues to stand tall and lofty as a pristine figure I respect affectionately.

Taken on 8/4/1963 when my grandfather was 27 years old.

Now I know where I got my attached ear lobes from.

My grandparents ran a stall selling chicken and fishball noodles. From left: Ah Gong, my father, and my grandma. 77

CHAPTER V

The Rain in Eden by Nam Yoo Yeon

Tsuki by Michelle Tudor I can hear the plucked strings of your sanshin. a folk song for my youth. the rising and falling of your chest like the waxing and waning of the moon our celestial bodies traverse the distance between us and the night sky we writhe in the illuminated undergrowth like increscent beings and through broken branches I can see your delicate harvest. the virid forest haunts my dreams.

A Fun Day in Hell by Woof Woof

Let there be Us. Let there be God. Let Us be God.

Let Us say- many things, but only one thing at a time. For example, this aesthetic criss-cross of buildings, which reminds Us of property tokens on monopoly, and Us putting them in mundane, but relatively finger-fun formations by pinching up rows of them at the ends. Just as the great gamblers do with mahjong tiles. Board games bore Us. Thirty-two rounds of mahjong till daybreak bore us. We prefer the geometry of arranging houses, like these. We put a diagonal row of bigger green houses here, and a vertical row there, and form a square in front with the small red ones. Their windows, dark and vacant like sockets without Eyes. Wrong, more like Eyes with only a mess of pupils, and no white at all, the horror of having to see everything you could possibly see. And then, let Us dolly closer into one of these windows, slowly, slowly, until its corners disappear off the frame, and We see an absolute, anti-white darkness, like an Eye without the socket, the face, the body and until the universe becomes a stare. We hear many men laughing and a girl screaming. Or many women laughing, and a boy screaming. We make things go very wrong sometimes, ho. We can call for light, but that would be an overkill. Let Us keep things in the dark for now. Let Us play. Let Us play many things. Let Us pan further to the east, then north, further up until the path smudges, then slow down. After the avenue of manicured shrubs, the three buildings abutting the street corner. Now stop. Except for the platinum-plated wheelbarrow in front, these are not monopoly tokens, but nano-blocks pressed down together, with three custom pieces used for the pyramid glass domes. Let Us peer down slowly and see, ah, the delight. A salmon scooped up from the north ocean, its tail still beating when they dumped it in the ribboned tank here. The swordsman scoops it up again, whams its head gently with a steel hammer, shaves the meat like beard and dumps it back into the ribboned tank. Why do We keep mentioning the ribboned tank? 82

Ah, but for the jeweler, who accidentally poured molten platinum on his hand and plated it in the process. Now We see a pair of starred shouldersthe general- who gets the first piece of salmon, hum mum mum, the ocean incarnate on his tongue. The second course is mud crabs from the south. “I came here especially to eat her eggs,” a wavy head- his wife- says, her finger wagging rudely at the pod. Let Us change their places, as the day becomes night, and night day. What We meant was, change their fate. Or destiny. Or as they say, turn our lives upside-down- their lives, We meant. Those whom We keep in small houses- like huts, tents or sleeping bags- and anything smaller than monopoly tokens, We intend to bulldoze. Bulldozing is a delicate art, the delicacy of which We consider. Kins, We decide, know best where it is most delicate. In the Wee hours of the night, the bulldozer’s engine goes off, like hum mum mum. The soldiers escort the swordsman into the bulldozer, guiding his fingers at the joystick so his house might be flipped judiciously - that means to say, without squashing his poor wife and two babies. The swordsman runs into the house- after all the flipping, bawling and wailing and crying. Thereafter the soldiers escort the jeweler into the bulldozer, guiding his platinum hand to joystick so he might flip the house up again- in case a careless move has squashed the wife and babies. Then they take the jeweller back to his shop, an old establishment, and dips him in a pot of molten platinum. Yes, yes, like a strawberry in fondue. As for the treacherous pair, the general and his wife, whose house at the corner is too big to bulldoze, they are hanged from the ceiling like bats dewinged. Gravity sucks the seafood out from the labyrinths of their guts. We swear in Our Own name, this shall be all to Our plan. Yet for reasons unknown, the soldiers begin to shave the general’s meat like beard off the chin. “We came here especially to eat her eggs,” one of them says. They pin up the wife’s blouse, poking and prodding to find her ovaries. Then We throw all of them- the soldiers, the general and his wife- all into the Eye, which is all-seeing, and which nobody can see. To Ourselves We have oathed to destroy nothing, to make boredom interesting. Snakes and ladders bore Us, even upside-down. We have humbled exalted men, and exalted humble men. Humble men, since exalted, need be humbled again. This We have done for thirty-seven thousand seven hundred and thirty times. And indeed We have exalted the humble, oh indeed We have. With a mighty hand We now break open the windows of 83

the Eye, and the people climb out. Those on higher storeys fall like chicken eggs on stone. Those who do not limp towards a chartered bus. It drives eastwards, then north, further up until the path smudges, then slow down. After the avenue of manicured shrubs, the three buildings abutting the street corner. Now it stops. Many varieties of people alight- the crippled, the nuclearly-deformed, the castrated, the half-castrated, and women who have had unspeakable deeds done to them. Unspeakable, because no tongue rests in their mouths. And they all run, oh do they run, because We have set them free. The driver gets down from his seat, helping the last boy hobble on the way. There are butterflies and flowers, and birds chirping. A bee comes over and stings the driver, so he falls over and dies. Meanwhile the doors burst open- the delight awaits them no more. There is meat, lots of meat for each stomach that has been clutching itself for food. What else is there for Us to say? The people chew. And chew. And chew. A weird old lady, who stores meat in her cheeks like a chipmunk, pinches out a metal button from her mouth. She stares at it, and put it back in again. And she chews. And she swallows, and gulps, ah. Ah. Only the tongueless shall swallow- the men climb a ladder, spitting the chew out into a giant platinum-plated spittoon. The watchers stand and watch, to find the surge of an adamâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s apple. Sometimes there is, so the watchers pluck it out from the relevant throat. And so the people chew the generalâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s meat as if it were betel nut, and We hire a new driver, and drive them all back to the Eye. This We have done for three thousand seven hundred and seventy-three times. In a book We keep the tally for Ourselves, and no one else. But let Us pan elsewhere, before boredom accumulates here further. Because in Our earthly lives We never worked, and now We play forever. This is Our third year. There shall be more tiles to shuffle, more scores to keep, more dice to throw. More words to scrabble, till high-rise stacks are built. More words to layer, like the lichen on old bread. We live in abundance, the games are aplenty. Our imagination is abundunt, and its peoples are many. So are things. Our higher, marvelous ways. We have repented, and ceased the tiring pretense of love. Now We are plural, and We create. Let Us be God.

For the Love of God by Eve Chung 85

Shinchon Romance - Hansol Kim

Willow-ese Day by Na Yeon Han on a mirror overhead â&#x20AC;&#x201C; sudden morning flowers a pistachioed blanket cloaked over an urn sustained by distinct energies two sides of a just opened shell the pulse of life simply

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Alyse Brower is a sometimes poet, sometimes writer from Michigan or Korea, depending on how she tells the story. She is frequently and viciously in love with her family, with her surroundings and people, regardless of their being real or their personal feeling on the matter and she adores risible people. I am Carrie Cattlett, and I live on the east coast of the United States. I have two sisters, one being my twin, and the other two years older. My hobbies include writing, singing, and playing piano. Hedgie Choi: 20 years old, TechnoArt Division Information Interaction Design sophomore student. My favorite color is sex, my favorite animal is the English teacher, and my favorite place to live is wherever I was five years ago. I dreamed last night of a pure vegetable kingdom. Hi. It’s has been a while since Sarah Choo has picked up a paintbrush but still sketches every now and then. Having come to UIC, she has long left her days in the art room and is instead pursuing a whole new major. However, her high school art still has a place in her heart and speaks of her former days. I’m Na Yeon Han My major is International Studies at UIC in Yonsei University. I studied in Vancouver for 5 years. I like traveling, painting, and writing in my journal. My background in writing is mainly reading. I like to write stories and poems for fun. Dora Holland might be a robot sent from the distant stars of outer space to explore Earth. She’s not sure, but when she looks up at the night sky, it feels like home. Lately, she’s been interested in doppelgänger stories, after noticing that the stranger in the mirror sometimes winks back. Although Hansol Kim is a busy junior at Underwood International College, in between his studies he somehow manages to find time for writing fiction, drawing, and playing the piano. Usually his stories and paintings lie unfinished, because he gets new ideas halfway through. He hopes to one day work for the film industry. 89

Nam Yoo Yeon thinks the most important things in the world are art, music and people. She cannot remember when she started to draw and paint, but it is evident that she is born to love art of all kinds, not only drawing. Most of her works are talking about the things that cannot stay, but have to remain. Saebin Park: “Preservation” is a part of a triptych I created during my junior year of high school (autumn 2010). At the time, I was contemplating my college career- whether to continue studying abroad or return to Korea and experience the “home” I had missed while growing up. The painting is a metaphor for restoring, adding, and completing an understanding of myself. The apple in the piece is incomplete, a work in progress, just like my constantly evolving identity. This painting will encourage me to evaluate myself time and time again. Keith Su is a 19-year old tertiary student from Singapore. A writing aficionado, Keith spends the bulk of his time writing stories on his Tumblr blog, The Little Candle. “Tribute to Ah Gong” was the kick-start to his writing obsession, as well as the ignition to his passion as an aspiring novelist. Michelle Tudor is a writer from England. She is an English Literature and Creative Writing graduate whose work has been published both online and in print. She is currently working on her first novel. You can find more of her writing at her blog www.michelletudor.com.

SPONSORS The Cultural Arts & Theatre Society would like to express its gratitude for the support and funds donated from

@ Yonsei

& Soon Jong Kim

Special thanks to {Design Team} Judy Heflin*, Victoria Hines {Editorial Team} Hue Can*, Tung Dang, Ji Young Kim, Damian Park, Van Tran {Event Team} Jung Eun Lim*, Julia Pak, Damian Park, Van Tran {Public Relations Team} Sarah Cho, Victoria Hines, Sandra Ha Young Kim*, Julia Pak, Damian Park, Jung Won Park, Hongci Shen * team leader

Produced by the Cultural Arts & Theatre Society of Underwood International College