Mir Literary Journal T h e
G u i l d
-August/September_2019-
The People. who have made this journal are as follows:
13.
14. Kyeyoung Lee
Jaeyoung Jung Heonsang You Inseo Yeo Jaehyeon Park Sooyeon Jeong
Emily Kim Daeun Kim Seungho Jun Shin Ji Won Yeong Seo Kim
And.
15.
Photos contributed by:
Jungbin Cha Seunghyeon Kim Yeonseo Hur Yunseo Hwang YoonHyuk Lee
Yurim Lee Seenew Park
Dear Reader. Throughout this year, I have been amazed at the variety of styles of our writers in Guild. We started from being tentative to being enthusiastic, sharing our thoughts and ideas and having a friendly, fun atmosphere. Through our discussions, we have discovered that there are certain themes each of us strive to achieve in our writing: for some of us that of exploring the self, for others the expression of imagination. Now, even without our names we can recognize each other’s writing. This goes on to show exactly how diverse and interesting in terms of expression we all are. With our Guild meeting, we have cultivated new ideas and new interpretations. But beneath all the writing, we have also cultivated an appreciation for our differences. So with our creative work, we hope you too can revere in all our disparities. And as always, thank you for reading. -Kyeyoung Lee.
POETRY
SPRING Yeong Seo, Kim The day forgot how to be warm and still stays cold I can't even dare to guess how isolated you are. Watching you futilely waiting for the spring is too rankling for me, let the world concede and bring this year's spring first to your mind. :
Bus Driver Kyeyoung, Lee We know not his name, only his title—bus driver. He drives as far, He drives us near, He gives umbrellas —for us to wear And in the dark when white flowers grow on the side of our seats raining music at the window and heads roll around in an ever-blissful sleep I did see, between Dream’s clutches, how he drove, bathed in the streetlight all electrified gears and mad eye glinting drove us in the dark; drove us to school at 8:30 PM.
Eyes Seunghyeon, Kim In a tiny room just stare at you and you just stare at me when I catch your eyes, my eyes zoom In your eyes Peacefully Every moment with you The moment that makes me especial just try to catch you Through your eyes except devil
Photo by Seenew Park
The Dream Yoon Hyuk, Lee I wish myself to be the white witch I will not withold an old whispering World of creed, Word to bleed Willow shoots follow sounds, flowing clouds Below lutes grow sprouts, following Oreades Ground of creed, Seed of solid Choose the truth, trust of truth Man eaten by Witch Witch eaten by Tiger Water fox jumped over moon fox
Photo by Yurim Lee
Eye of Life Yunseo Hwang A very tiny, tender eye runs. The quietest, but the fluctuatest. Not having a little movement, but shaken by a small collision. The eye of the typhoon carries two friends. The wind and the rain. A little girl rushes. Her breath is shaking, sweat is pouring. We are on a scamper of life. As we get used to life, we get used to it. It fluctuates even in a small. And finds the eye of life again. most serene
Photo by Seenew Park
Stay Emily, Kim I don't know what to say it seems like everything has floated away feeling like a fool maybe I was just a tool you laugh out loud my mind is a foggy cloud can you just go away keep out of my life and stay that way I don't want to lose you but I think I have to bid you adieu I may be selfish Your company I have cherished I love you too much to stay I shall be going further away
PROSE
Currents Jungbin Cha Currents run through a forest. It’s in the air, invisible - but it’s absolutely there. After the rain has receded and the sun is once again turning the green leaves into gold, the currents are even more sharply present. It’s something that you have to feel with your heart, not your senses. The twittering birds, the minty air, rustling leaves, the earthy smell from the ground still wet from the shower - they all come together to form this mythical flow cascading through the forest like thick, golden honey. It’s then that the ringing and static in your ears disappear, the pinpricks in your brain vanish, and your lungs become rested. After twirling around slowly, the brown, green, gold hues reflected against the clear surface of your eyes, you let your hands fall down to the soil. It’s soft, cushiony; it’s like a freshly molded dough made by nature. You sink into the soil, the grains tickling the back of your neck. The moisture in the soil seeps into your body, making you one with the current. The scent of leaves and soil and life tickles your noise after lying down. The golden ray warms the face, tinting your eyelids red, while your feet which are immersed in the shadow of the trees, stay cool as if dunked in water. The blue of the sky can be seen through the bushes of green and brown branches above; it feels like a giant chamber of nature, keeping you safe and rested inside its cavity. Can you feel the current, the song of the birds and chatters of the squirrels? Have you allowed your arms and legs and stomach to be impaled by the crystal clear, minty fresh breath of the trees? If you have really, and you are not lying; the butterflies will have settled down where you had laid. Where the soil has sunk following the trace of your body, the butterflies will follow the current of the forest.
Sharpness of Reality Yeonseo Hur I’m standing inside an old run-down building. It looks like it may have been a house, with a triangular roof and well-worn porch. Except that the porch had multiple broken planks, the paint is peeling, and the dust has settled on everything gave it the impression of being caught in a thin film of fog. I can tell it had once been well-worn, and that a had sat on it and gazed at the night sky, but it has collapsed softly into a heap of broken wood chips. Cigarette smoke, and also a strong stench of beer lingers in my nostrils. I wrinkle my nose and, without thinking, walk towards a distant clinking sound of glass. When the sound is right next to me in an open room, I carefully peer in, hidden in the shadows. There is a woman with a half-smoked cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She doesn’t look tough or beaten, but thin and lanky like my brother. Her brown hair hangs limply down to her hips, her seemingly deathly pale face hidden by its curtain. Her jeans are ripped and bloody. Whose blood it is, I don’t know. Maybe it’s paint. Or mud. Who am I kidding? Of course it’s blood. Next to her a man slurps from a bottle. He’s not muscular or tattooed like those street folk, either, just a normal guy who looks like he’s having a seriously bad hair day. His eyes are literally black holes in his head, and they lose focus whenever he reaches for the green bottle with his bony, almost translucent hand. A broken bottle lies on his lap. The serrated edges are dripping with red wine. The I hear whimpering from behind me. I turn but find myself facing a bleak, cracked, gray wall. When I look back to the woman and the man, they are both looking straight at me. I freeze in horror, but they stay in their positions, not a muscle in their faces moving. The woman raises her hand and points to a crack in the wall behind me. Her mouth stretches into a hideous grin, her teeth mostly rotten or tinged with green. The man’s lips distort into something that resembles something like a snicker. Their eyes twirl in their sockets and their laughter spins inside my ears. Nearly stumbling over the bumpy floor, I turn and run because I think I saw her stand up after me. The familiar ringing returns to my head. I press two fingers into each temple. Calm down. Calm down. If you sprint too fast you won’t have enough energy to escape on the last chapters) My body starts to move on its own, shying away from the noise. It moves through the crack, leading me to a narrow room. The walls are cracked splattered with red paint, and splotched rags from clothing litter the floor. When I look more closely at the red paint, I realize it’s blood. The rags are dotted with blood too. Then I hear the whimper again. I look towards a shadowy corner of the room, and see a skeletal boy lying on his side. I walk closer to him and his huge, alien eyes stare up at me. He’s wearing a once-used-to-be-green checkered shirt. By the looks of the dark spots on the fabric, the shirt hasn’t done a good job of protecting him. The skin on his arms is exposed through ripped forearm protectors. Both of his arms are scratched and bloody. His skinny legs are in the same condition. He’s barefooted, and there’s a large cut on the big toe that’s leaking thick blood. Then I see his face. It seems oddly familiar—the outlines surrounding his head, something about his eyes and mouth seem to be just in that right place. His face is much thinner than before, and covered with bruises. There’s an infected sore in his mouth that’s trickling a thin stream of blood down his chin. But the worst part is his eyes. Instead of the lightning-bolt scar, in its place is a fresh wound. The flesh under his right eye is ripped open like a bloodhound tore out a part of his face. So the bottle wasn’t dripping with red wine, after all. There’s a bit of green glass still stuck in the gory mess. Blood is pooling in the hollow made from the missing skin. There’s another clean, deep slash above the same eye that lines his forehead.
His eyes seem to focus on me for a second, then he closes them like even keeping his eyelids require energy. He extends one of his arms that are less bloody towards me. His dry lips form a single syllable. I lean closer to try to hear him . HONK The car horn woke me up with a start. For a second I thought I’d crashed again. The rain had stopped, and the trees looked all soft and mushy without my glasses. I put them on and wiped my mouth. Welcome back to the sharpness of reality
fin.