PHOENIX WORD

SINCE 2018

April Lee

KOREA INTERNATIONAL SCHOOL

 Poets
Aiden Lee
Ethan Lee
Hyejoo Min
Jinny Lim
Lucy Hong
Lydia Kim
Riley Brossman

Authors
Chanyoung Oh This is my third and final year as the Creative Writing officer and chief
Daniel Roh editor of the KIS Phoenix Word. As the year and my term comes to an end, I
Jiyoo Nam am overcome with a weird sense of nostalgia and reminiscence.
Juewan Roh My time as a member, officer, and chief editor in the KIS Creative Writ-
Justina Rhee ing club will be unforgettable. With lots of great ideas and writers blocks,
Kay Lee there were many laughters, screams of both joy and stress, friendships, inside
Matthew Yoon jokes, regrets, and others. Stories were written, both on paper and in real life
Presley Blake (although sometimes more in real life than on paper; guys please do your club
Yejin Kee work), and memories have been made.
As I graduate and leave this part of my identity behind, a part of me
worries about starting again in a new environment where I’m sure to be a
Chief Editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Justina (Jeongyoon) Rhee fresh member again of a club like this one. I’m sure I’ll make lots of mistakes
Layout/Graphic Designer . . . . . . Justina (Jeongyoon) Rhee and will be scared to talk to the officers.
Board of editors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ethan (Jaybok) Lee, Jina But this magazine is the proof that it won’t be a complete new slate. My
four years in this club has taught me many things that I can bring with me to
Suhr, Jiyoo Nam, Justina (Jeongyoon) Rhee, Kay (Heeseo) college. While I am leaving this club, I am not apart from it completely.
Lee, Riley Brossman, Lucy (Seowon) Hong I also hope this magazine will become a momento of the past for our
Artists . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . April Lee, Bailey Kim, current underclassmen to look back on. It could be to see their progress in
Chaeyoung (Amy) Hong, Heeseo (Kay) Lee, Jisoo Yu, Jiyoo their writing over the years. It could be just showcase their work. Or just anot-
er accomplishment in their college application. What I hope the most is that
Nam, Marie Suh, Riley Brossman, Soomin Yoo, Yumin Choi it’s used to reminisce back to the year of 2022-2023 and the beautiful mo-
ments we have made together.
Special Thanks To:

We’ll miss you.
We hope you enjoy.
Ms. Aimmie Kellar
Ms. Sarah Beaucham Chief Editor,
Korea International School’s ToonDay Club Justina Rhee

2 3
 Poems:
Overcoming Fear, Finding Beauty by Aiden Lee . . . . . . . . . 7

The Coming by Ethan Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

Spring’s Radiance by Hyejoo Min . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Seeds of Life: What We Took for Granted by Jinny Lim . . 13

Sunburn by Lucy Hong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

A New Home for a Cat by Lydia Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Reflection of The Sea by Riley Brossman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

4 5
 Overcoming Fear, Finding Beauty
Aiden Lee - 9

A mountain with his new white cloche,

welcomes me, friendly, to climb over his head.
So I feel comfortable with his kindness.

And for the first time.

I embark on the lift.
I shoved my feet into the stubborn boots.
And I was high up on the mountain that I can talk with clouds,

Then I realized
The mountain tricked me.
The edge of the round and soft cloche hat seems sharp and icy.
And the ground magically disappeared at every edge.
It made me pull myself down to the lowest ground.

But little did I know,

For the first time
With the sounds of the metal slicing the snow,
I slowly joined them like a turtle that had just hatched.

When I realized that the stubborn boots were keeping me safe.

And the sharp edges made me fly like a free bird.
I understood the beauty of skiing.

That’s how I ended my first time.

Well, the first time is surrounded by darkness and it is on every mountain
in my life.
But I know that I should not be scared.
Because I will eventually find a light in the darkness and experience the beau-
ty of each mountain.v

6 7
 The Coming
Ethan Lee - 12

Wallflowers grow on the fringe

of a crescendo
Shrilling hairs and bleeding elbows
Scattered teeth and lonely shoes
Not much longer can I hold
an urge for a coming.
Scars have written their wills on my body
Sweatshirts have become
my stifling confinement
Thought is rare:
only do as I’m told,
maybe then the thinking will follow.
Strings of jealousy
grasp my neck -
Steel strings of greed
that oozes maroon red.
Ounces turn into tons,
and I am left
crushed with an utter,
hopeless fantasy.

3:03 P.M. in Seoul

8:00 A.M. in Utopia
11:47 P.M. in Seoul
8:00 A.M. in Utopia
2:11 A.M. in Seoul
8:00 A.M. in Utopia
… and the hours pass by.

No one here,
and no one there.

8 9
 Spring’s Radiance
Hyejoo Min - 12

As the warm air thaws the frozen world,

Happy bees begin to swirl,
Flowers begin to wake up and bloom,
Offering the world their natural perfume.

Pink petals float in the warm breeze,

Making some sneeze.
Children are fooling around,
While young sprouts enjoy the sun rays shining on the ground.

Families venture out to the parks,

With baskets full, they embark.
As the gentle breeze rustles the leaves,
They soak up the sun, away from the heaves.

The season where everyone finds a reason to smile,

And cherish each moment, mile by mile,
Spring is the time when happiness fills up every heart.

10 11
 Seeds of Life: What We Took for Granted
Jinny Lim - 11

We plant seeds
Unable to see what’s below
Unknowing of its potential
Of what will grow

We wait for the seed to grow

A tedious process
We water it everyday
Doubting what it may became

But then one day we come back to see

The little seed became a mighty tree
Its roots run deep, its branches spread wide
And we realize we’ve been along for the ride

The tree’s divine beauty

Branches reaching for the sky
To the unforgettable charm
We react with joy and delight

The opportunities we took for granted

The moments we thought nothing of
All those seeds we planted
Are now a garden of memories

So let us cherish each small seed we sow

No matter the wait
For when we look back
We’ll see a life full of beauty, fully grown

12 13
 Sunburn
Lucy Hong - 10

Beneath the tree,

I sit and ponder,
The line that separates
Them and me yonder.
In circles, they gather and play
No chains binding their laughter
In solace, their troubles allay
No strains in their company after
I yearn to cross over
That line of divide
To bask in their mirth
And leave my shadow behind
The sun’s warmth beckons,
As I sit here alone
The laughter of others,
Echos in my ear
But fear grips my heart
And I hold back
For I know that the light
Will only burn and attack
So I sit in the shade
Of the tree that confines
And watch as they play
In the sun that blinds
My darkness remains
A burden I cannot shed
As I sit under the tree
With my dreams left unsaid

14 15
 A New Home for a Cat
Lydia Kim - 9

As I hear her crying, I empathize with her plight

And I vow to make her feel at home, to make things right

As I watch the little cat, I see my own reflection

In her eyes, I see my own fears and rejection
But I also see a determination to survive
To find a way to thrive and revive

The struggle to maintain my identity.

There she is standing by herself

Looking into an endless mirror,
Like a dandelion, seeking.

But later in time, I know I will eventually adjust

In this strange new world that is now my home
So I reach out to the cat with open arms
Offering comfort and security in this time of transition

I will conquer my fears and insecurities

And find my place in this world with tranquillity

16 17
 Reflection of the sea
Riley Brossman - 9

Time is of the essence,

The essence of enjoying life for all it has,
But within time a compelling question arises,

What is wrong and what is right?

The color of the sky looks blue,

But one says, “it is red,”
“I can see it is blue with my own eyes!” I say,
“But you are wrong, it is indeed green,” says another,
Can’t you see my displacement with the way water churns,
Because the sky is but a reflection of the sea.

So are we all wrong then?

We idolize a book but ban another,

We say follow your heart but take away your rights,
We tell you to look at the sun but show you the
Deep
Black
Hole, that is your life,

Can I not trust myself?

The idealization that a bird can fly is only confirmed by its wings,
But I say,
I can only fly when I choose to soar,
So clip my wings,
Expect me to fall,
But my ability was never in my wings at all,
The ability of my demolished self lies within my heart,

18 19
 So ban my books,
Shove me away,
Because all those material needs didn’t matter to me in the slightest.

The sky may be red for you but it is blue for me,
Watch the bird prefer to walk,
Even if you shall deny,
Push me into a black hole expecting me to fall,

Only to step back and watch me fly.

20 21
 Bailey Kim

Chaeyoung (Amy) Hong

Riley Brossman

22 23
 Short Stories:

The Sky Below by Chanyoung Oh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

Supernova by Daniel Roh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

The Eyeless Shrimp by Jiyoo Nam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37

Scott Street by Justina Rhee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

Story With No End by Kay Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45

A Coffee Cup by Matthew Yoon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53

The Watcher by Presley Blake . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57

Broken Friendship by Yejin Kee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63

24 25
 The Sky Below
Chanyoung Oh - 9

I found the answer.

No one wants to face the problem, especially if it’s as ugly as this abomination.
When you peer through one of the many windows plastered onto this concrete
jungle, boasting its trees of cloud-piercing skyscrapers and branches of inter-
connecting bridges, you don’t dare glance down for another second for fear
that, if you look long enough, you will become part of that mess.

Waste: the by-product of progress. With layers upon layers of swampy mix-
tures filled with the most putrid of substances imaginable, this city bred its
own monstrosity centuries ago. It itself is the landfill, for what better place
than our own backyards to dump our problems too costly to send away? “Else-
where” was deemed too far a distance for our economic endeavors, and thus,
the earth, which once supported this city, is now subject to our refuse pouring
down from above and creeping higher by the day.

To avoid said monstrosity, the city perpetually grows. “Just build it higher,”
they said. “If it can’t reach us, it can’t affect us,” they said.

Despite this growth in the name of progress, some cast their gaze below to the
ones we left behind. The hollow humans stare back with venom-filled eyes.
Ceasing their treasure hunt – the daily scavenging in search of something
edible out of the piles of waste raining down from the city above – they stare
us down, though they’re miles below. With their eyes full of fury, they glare to-
ward the skyscrapers, the sole obstacle blocking their own view of the sky – a
bitter reminder of the days when they, too, glimpsed progress.

When the city was founded, the majority were deemed non-critical to its
growth and cast out of the growing towers. We look at them with pity, grateful
for our differing fates.

26 27
 The city, however, has no patience for such compassion. This attempt yielded a blue fungus. Lacking a brain yet so intelligent, this
marvelous creation knows of nothing but hunger for what others don’t hun-
“In no world shall we stall our glorious progress for some roaches beneath ger for. The boundless waste below is an endless feast for this beauty. Even
us! A great city we have built – the tallest, most vibrant, and most econom- now, I can see the intricate mycelial network running its delicate fibers
ical city in the world! Producing waste is a mere stepping stone for our de- across the glass bottom of the jar in my hand, seeking out our problems as
gree of grandeur! We stare towards the sky, my friends! Glance down – hin- its sustenance.
der our progress – and you’ll find yourself among them very soon.”
It is a work of art, so optimal, efficient, and calculated, putting our concrete
As one of the rare few still remaining afloat, sealed away safe in my tower, I jungle to shame; in its product, those white strands will produce a blue fruit
can still feel their hateful gazes burning a hole in my soul. I can almost hear that will cycle back as food for the many, transforming what we spent our
their hungered cries; their despair echoes in my skull. It serves to remind me centuries running away from to a self-sustaining farm stretching miles upon
what will happen once I’m no longer needed. end.
How is this disparity possible? How is it that I sit in the comfort of my labo-
ratory, while the majority scrounge off the uninhabitable land below? Have Those blue caps will stare me up. Glowing different shades of the sky, from
we seriously created a world so void of space that a third dimension isn’t bright azure to grayish gloom and even the crimson hues of the sunset, the
enough for all of us? fruit this fungus bears is of the sky itself. “Who dares glance down and hin-
der our glorious progress!” I do. I dare to stare below at this violent dark-
I can sometimes spot my own contributions spilling out of the buildings. ness with the anticipation that it will one day be the color of the sky.
Much like the hollow end of a tree branch, several tubes puncture out
through these crystalline towers, each dispensing the consequence of today’s I open the jar and drop it below.
progress. Falling next to me, in front of the clear wall that divides us, I see
my broken lab equipment, discarded files, spent lab coats, and failed experi-
ments; they plummet down to the peak of a growing mountain, inviting the
scavenging horde.

But today will be different. No longer will I simply suffer in my complacen-

cy as I watch the mountain grow. No longer will I look away from the an-
guished eyes of the forgotten – for today, I stand on the edge of my world
with a cure in my hand.

This world pays me to look toward the sky: “The city’s progress relies on
you; no mind can match your ingenuity when it comes to concocting the fin-
est of cures. You deserve the 400th floor.”

Yet behind the mask of a world-class scientist, the symbol of the sky itself, I
gaze back down at the earth, fully aware of the risks: If I were to be discov-
ered, I would soon join the figures below, for spending time and effort on the
destitute and unfortunate serves nothing for the city’s progress.

One month’s worth of my work produced a pill to improve lives above, but
behind the backs of superiors, I made a thousand failed attempts to save the
world below.

28 29
 Supernova
Daniel Roh - 9

Look at what you used to be. What you could’ve been. And look at
you now. You’re disgusting. Why do you keep doing this to your-
self? What do you want so badly?

I- I don’t know.

You’re pathetic. What you did meant something. What you did up
there meant everything to them.


It still does! Or… it would. I can still do it all,
but it only mattered back up there.

Right. And it should’ve stayed that way. That’s where you belong.
Up there. Above them all.

“Excuse me?“
“Huh?”
Startled, Adrian snapped his focus back to the pink blur standing in front of
him. From it, came the voice of a middle-aged woman.
“Hi, sorry. I was just wondering if I could get a picture with you?” the
blur said.
“What? Why me?” Adrian asked the blur, confused.
Eyebrows knit, the blur replied apologetically, “Oh! Um, maybe I got the
wrong person… You’re Adrian Harvey aren’t you?”
“O-oh! Right. Yeah, I am, sorry,.” Adrian replied, now with both feet
back in reality.
The blur lets out an ecstatic squeal, “Ooh! I knew it! I knew it was you!”
Adrian squinted his eyes to get a better look at the indistinct shape, and he
could make out what seemed to be hands clapping together in excitement.
The woman continued talking.

30 31
 “I loved you in ‘Justice Fighter’ You were such a heartthrob!” Look at you go! Just look at that! That’s my Adrian.
Adrian gave back an awkward chuckle, “Heh. Yeah, good old days, am I
right?” I’m still him.
The woman leaned in with her head next to his shoulder and raised up
an object. The object was hazy, but Adrian deduced it to be a smartphone. Stop kidding yourself. You’re nothing like him.
When he looked up to the selfie camera, for a brief moment, he could see Listen to how that audience reacts whenever he so much as blinks.
clearly. He saw an old man. Lines that weren’t on his face a decade ago now He was a symbol to people. To that mortuary of a town, you came
plagued his complexion, and his hair was thin and grey. The old man looked from.
horrified. But just as soon as it happened, the world went back out of focus as Hell, he was a symbol for the whole damn country! And what are
the camera shutter sounded, and Adrian could no longer see the old man. Sat- you, huh?
isfied with her photo, the woman stuffed her phone back into her purse and Sitting around pretending to be back in your “glory days”. You’re
stepped away from Adrian. nothing like him.
“I look forward to seeing you on the talk show tonight!”
She said before walking off to join a group of more blurs waiting in the dis- “Glory days” That’s hilarious. Come on, “Ju-
tance. The woman gave a modest giggle and waved goodbye. stice Fighter”? What kind of name is that?
What the hell was that?” Adrian thought to himself. Every single word I ever said in that stupid
costume was manufactured in a factory. Every
4:34 PM line of dialogue I uttered made me want to tear
out my tongue! I was miserable!
“It’s over! Your powers can’t hurt anyone anymore!”
“N- no! I don’t accept this! I am the King of all that is dark! I rule the Oh, go cry about it! I loved it! The parties, the paychecks, the wom-
Evil Realm!” en—, all of it was thanks to me.
“It’s no use! I won. And you’re going away for a long time, buster!”
You’re delusional. You’d be nothing if I hadn’t
The audience cheered and clapped. The dialogue from the TV slowly signed the contract all those years ago.
faded into the distance as Adrian sat alone in his apartment, on a couch sprin-
kled with crumbs of unknown origin. He could smell the dishes piled in the Would you stop running your mouth like a little baby?
sink, and he heard the sputter of his dusty fan, but his eyes were focused on We both know, without me, there is no you.
the screen. A video recording of Justice Fighter 3 showing in a theatre played
on repeat. But all Adrian could see were shapeless colors colliding and yell- 9:52 PM
ing clever quips. Justice Fighter, the superhero Adrian had played for fifteen
years. six crossovers, two spinoffs, and four solo films. He could hear the Long after sunset, Adrian didn’t bother to turn on the lights. His white cane
theater audience cheer every time he said another cheesy line. His superhero was propped up in the corner of his bedroom, collecting dust. Eyes closed, he
costume was a blue muscle suit with red accents and a white cape. For fifteen sat on the edge of his unkempt bed, brushing his fingers along the surface of
years, Adrian had worn the same costume, and he knew it by memory. But the sheets, back and forth. He felt the smooth and rough areas, his fingertips
now, all he saw was a combination of colors that might as well be the Ameri- sensing the particles of dust resting alongside him. Once all the bumps and
can flag. dips within his vicinity had been noted, he opened his eyes. As always, all he
Adrian pressed a button on the remote and the TV shuts off, leaving could see around him was darkness. Whether or not it was because the lights
Adrian to stare at the dark reflective glass. Once again, the world shifted into were off didn’t matter to him. He closed his eyes again, but his vision stayed.
focus, and Adrian saw a young man with a full head of hair and a charming- In fact, his vision began to clear up. Keeping his eyes closed, he began to look
ly handsome face with not a wrinkle in sight. Despite his ravishing look, the around at all the details of his room that he had forgotten. He could see every
young man had a look of discontentment. detail of his room just as clearly as if the lights were on. He could observe
every sharp corner, the definition of his closet drawers, and his reflection in

32 33
 in the bedroom mirror. This time, he saw someone else. He saw a man, but he
couldn’t discern his age. He saw himself, sitting on his bed, hands resting on
the surface. He saw a former actor and a retired old man, but just one person.
The reflection began to move. Adrian did not. The reflection stood up and be-
gan walking toward Adrian. Adrian did the same. Soon, they were practically
face to face, with only the mirror dividing the two. The reflection opened its
mouth to speak, but with a brief look of hesitation, it stayed silent.

…

…

34 35
 The Eyeless Shrimp
Jiyoo Nam - 9

“Mommy! I can touch the wind!” A child started running into my stomach,
over and over again. The mother snatched her child and ran off. In the dis-
tance, I could tell that the mother was telling her child off, feeding him lies
that I was a ghost. That if the wind touches you, you need to run away. The
child’s face morphed into an eyeless shrimp. He nodded and ran off, his ear
gleaming green.

I walked into a convenience store. The clerk watched me open the door and
held up his broom.

“We don’t let in people like you! Get out!” The clerk stabbed the door with his
broom as I silently bought some bread behind his back. “Get out!” I watched
him continue to shriek, waving his broom, even after I left the shop. A faint
green light blinked in his ear.

A girl was walking down the sidewalk calling her friend. She bumped into me.
Her face displayed pure horror, scrunching to reveal an eyeless shrimp. “Oh
my god, oh my god! I touched an invisible man!” She ran off on the verge of
tears.
“Girl, run! Fast!” her friend yelled over the phone as the girl sprinted across
the block. A bright green shone through her ear.

An elderly grandmother was sitting in a wheelchair, holding a luminous green

light. She looked up at me. “Excuse me, young man,” she held out the light to
me, “could you help me with this, kind sir?”
“Me, miss?” I was confused. It had been a while since someone had talked to
me–seen me.
“Yes you, sir,” the sweet flamingo gestured at me to come near. She handed
me the green light. “I don’t know how to work this, sir, my grandbabies are in
school and they told me to activate this. I don’t know.”
“I can help you with that,” I smiled. “Do you have a manual?”

36 37
 The grandmother handed me a green booklet.

EDITOR
Be safe from danger forever and ever!
Here’s How!

A green golden retriever mascot smiled at me.

1. Take out your earpiece and click the button on the back.

I flipped the green light over and pressed the even greener button. It started
to flicker.

2. Put it in your ear.

“Miss, could I see your ear for a second?”

“Of course, dear.” I placed the earpiece in her ear, curling the cartilage over it.
As I watched the old flamingo smile, I started to think of greedy thoughts.
“Miss,” I asked, “do you really want to activate this? You can’t take it off.
Ever.”
“Well, my grandbabies told me this is what the ‘Gen Z’ use to keep safe. I’m an
old granny. Forever isn’t much left for me anyways, why not just listen to my
babies?”
“Is that so?” I smiled a bitter smile and looked back at the manual.

3. Hold the button.

I pressed my finger to the earpiece, implanting it deep inside her ear. She
closed her eyes and rested as the trinket rooted itself in its new home.

“So, what’s your name?” she opened her eyes and made a surprised face, “Hel-
lo? Where’d you go, young sir?” She waded her arms in the air, trying to find
remnants of me. She couldn’t see me anymore. I watched her face morph into
an eyeless shrimp.

It’s been a long time since I’ve said my real name. It was always Convict 204.
“My name is Ben.”

I don’t know why I said it. It’s not like she heard me anymore anyway.

38 39
 Scott Street
Justina Rhee - 12

The sky is blue and pink, formed by a soft mixture of clouds that spread
above you like a mural. The crowd’s laughter and cacophony of “goodbye”s
and “let’s take a picture together”s fill the entire field. The air feels cold, al-
most metallic to smell. It’s not only from the slight breeze that tickles the rosy
cheeks of the students but also because of everything. It’s nice. Chilling but
also soothing to the excitement that surrounds us.
Bodies weave between each other, flowing like an elaborate dance
against the nostalgic 2010s music playing on the speakers. It is the hymn and
gospel that has been engraved into our minds since elementary. You haven’t
heard these songs in years; the last time they played it was on the radio on
your way to school when you were little. But you are surprised when you recall
the lyrics, the faded memories resurfacing like an ocean wave.

You are desperate to take pictures. Mementos of this moment. You hope
that these photos will be enough to sum up the seven years you spent at this
place. You want these photos to capture this entire moment that you don’t
want to forget or ever let go. But you know that even a video can’t completely
express the emotion you are feeling right now.
You don’t really know what to do. You are laughing but it almost feels
more fitting to cry. You are nostalgic, you are reminiscent. You are happy,
you are sad. You feel empty but also so full that you feel like you are going to
explode at any moment. You want to freeze the frame and take time to stare
at the world around you. You want enough time to memorise all the faces of
everyone. You don’t want to forget anything.

You talk with your best friends, teachers you’ll miss. Group project
friends, advisory mates. You even gather up enough courage to finally talk
with the hallway crushes and your “boy of the month”s. If you are brave
enough, you tell them the truth with laughter,
“You know I used to have a crush on you like a forever ago?”
He’s surprised and speechless, probably because you’ve never revealed a

40 41
 potential of anything beyond common friendship. But before he can say any- between the teachers and students. The bus rides home. The lowerclassmen
thing more, you feel embarrassed again and leave. You’re sure he’ll tell all his you teased saying, “latte is a horse.” The upperclassmen who have long gradu-
friends by tomorrow morning, if not by this evening, until everyone knows. ated. The friends you will never meet again because you aren’t close enough to
But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. stay in touch. The girls you silently judged. The boys who made you mad with
You even feel a bit fake with how you are right now. You are talking with their antics. This place that had become more than just a school without you
people you’ve rarely talked to this entire year. But you are scared of the fact realising.
that after today most of them you’ll probably never see them again. Although Nothing will ever be like this again.
you hated this school at times and some of the people there, you’ll be lying if
you don’t feel sad by this fact. One day we will all grow up. Some of us will become teachers or work in
nine-to-five jobs. Some of us will become parents and have children to send to
The missing assignments, the failed exams, the low grades, the colleg- schools like this. Some will move to a different country and become a totally
es. Ultimately, they don’t matter as much as you thought they did. It’s almost new personality. Some will become a mere notification, living the life you’ve
comical how little they mean to you now. The fear that you missed out hits always desired. Some will be dead.
you hard. You wish you were more brave, more confident and just reached This final moment of your childhood ends as your car leaves the cam-
out. That girl on the bus you’ve never talked to but always thought had a good pus. You almost feel relieved but the ambiguity and the thrill of adulthood
fashion sense. The boy whose Instagram stories you’ve always laughed to. You scares you. You are all on your own now. You will all go somewhere. Some-
never told them any of this and you almost do today. where far away, somewhere apart. No matter where, we are all departing away
But you remember all the years past. The time you played basketball in from this place. You wonder when all this time passed. You can never truly
the lower gym instead of watching the boys’ soccer game. The time you swam put this feeling into words.
in the river during your seventh grade EE trip and basked under the sun af-
terwards to dry. The time you confessed to your crush only to get heartbro- You feel funny. It seems like the end of an era; the end of your teenage
ken. The time you laughed so hard lemonade snorted up your nose in front years as you head towards your roaring 20s and the life of adulthood. You
of someone you had just met. The time you cried in front of your geometry don’t feel ready to let go of the little child inside your adult body.
teacher for accidentally having your phone in your pocket during a test. The You have a sudden urge to forget all these people, these memories. De-
time when you skipped lunch and hung out in your math teacher’s room in- lete them all and have a new fresh start. Probably because this part of your
stead with your friends. The time you twisted your ankle on the bus after a identity no longer is relevant and you aren’t sure who to be anymore. You
sleepover on the way home. The time you confessed your deepest secrets at wonder if you are satisfied with the person you’ve become. You decide you
midnight. are finally going to be patient and understanding at yourself for once. You did
These memories remind you that even though you feel like these seven good. You were only a child. But you did good.
years haven’t been nearly enough, they have filled you with enough stories for You know deep inside that you’ve grown too fond of these people, this
a lifetime. place, these memories. You won’t forget.

It’s almost time to go because the sky is now dark blue and the cars are You want to yell goodbye, waving at the other cars leaving beside you.
slowly heading out. You don’t want to leave. It’s funny. You hated coming You know you will cry once you get home. You want to tell them that you miss
here. It used to drain your energy and you would wait for the weekends to be them. You want to tell them this is not the end. You want to tell them that
able to stay home. But you don’t want to let this piece of you go. You want to no matter what happens, no matter how little close we were, no matter how
keep it, treasure it inside. much we didn’t know each other or spent time in highschool, you want to tell
Inside the car, you softly hum the songs that played at the ceremony. them to not be a stranger.
You will miss all of this.
Playing bass clarinet in band. Playing water polo and rugby in PE. Eat- You don’t tell them any of this. You just have to hope that they all know
ing the disgusting, suspicious broccolis that were always part of our lunch because we all feel this way.
menu for some reason. Walking in the familiar hallways that used to gross you So goodbye. For this moment alone, you are all I’m thinking of. All I
out because of the smell of sweat. The funny inside jokes within each class feel. For this moment, we are infinite and you are still a piece of me.

42 43
 Story With No End
Kay Lee - 11

Cale lies in a warm library room. Tenderness spills from the windows
with sun and wind. The corners of the room are faded with dust, outlined haz-
ily like a shimmering silhouette in California summertime. Next to him is his
older brother Ash, bones relaxed into the hardwood of their house floors. He
is at peace—eyes closed, lashes still.
It is an innocuous day lit by summer sun, intricacies lost with time.
They are young and still-breathing.
They are fated to die one day, as all things do, names carved out in the earth.
But now—now, they are alive. They are laid side by side on the wood, shoul-
ders close enough to touch but not quite. They are telling stories.

“What did they say?” Cale grips his mug in his hand, feeling the heat
waft up between his fingers. His father sits across from him in the hard chair
of the cafe.
“Carbon monoxide poisoning. Closed room, small backup engine. Door
was unlocked.” His father recites the list as if he has practiced it in the mirror
multiple times. His shaking hands give him away, and Cale stares down at the
swirl of milk patterned atop his coffee instead.
Cale shrugs, eyes locked onto his coffee. He thinks of awkward dinners
and strained phone calls. Annual family photographs with forced smiles and
awkward poses. Packing his bags for college and never once looking back.
He thinks about the family he has never learned how to love.
“Sounds like the start of a shitty horror movie,” he says, words thick in
the air. His father stiffens, face going cold.
“Cale,” he reprimands, looking as if he’d rather be miles away from his
only remaining son.
Liar, something within Cale is screaming, over and over like a vengeful
wraith. Liar, liar, liar.

44 45
 “What,” He says with scorn. “We both know what really happened an- He leans in closer, reaching out with sticky, desperate fingers to try to hold
yways.” His father closes his eyes, lights casting shadows across his bones. the memory together. The edges of the room curl inward like an old film and
When he next speaks, his words are desperate and tired. cut rivets into the floors. The walls lose grip on each other and fall outward—a
“Let’s not do this today, Cale.” collapsing dollhouse.
Cale is silent for a moment. The cheerful music in the cafe echoes in the Tell me the rest of the story, Cale, twenty years old, thinks. He is tired.
empty seats next to them. What a lovely family we are, he thinks, the pound- Someone clears his throat above his head. It is the child he used to be,
ing of his heart shoved against his ribs. eyes too large for his head and ears still growing out. When Cale sits up to
The next hour is filled with silence, and the sound of his father pressing look at him, the child’s gaze is sharp and accusatory, softened only slightly by
his tears back into his eyes. pity. Something acidic and bitter stings at the back of his throat.
The world falls apart around them, fading to dull nothingness. It is just
— them now.
“You don’t belong here,” the child says. It is not a suggestion. “You need
to let go.”
Cale is back in the library, lying on his back and staring up at a ceiling
lathered in moon. There are piles of books around him, stacked so high that —
he cannot see around them. Cale tries to read some of the spines, but finds
that the font is too small and the letters too blurry. Cale opens his eyes to a stream of cascading sun. He drifts across a bed-
Ash is lying next to him. His mouth is open, but his voice comes as if room strewn with trinkets—papers that he has never written, posters that he
through a horrible phone reception. Water muffles Cale’s ears until all he can has never hung. Books that he has never read.
hear are the sounds his mind makes up for him. It does not sound right. Cale He finds Ash standing by the window, shoved between a too-large AC
is not good with stories. unit and a pile of books, some left half open. The sun sears into the sky, out-
“Speak louder, Ashie,” Cale whispers, and his voice rings into the re- lining Ash’s form with gold, bursting with something that Cale does not have
sounding silence. Ash does not seem to hear him, face tilted towards the shud- words for. When Ash turns his head to look at him, the curve of his nose is
dering flames by the mantle, skin dyed with streaks of amber. Soft, curved blurry, like a smudge in an otherwise beautiful charcoal painting.
lines coat his face in joy, painted colors strewn across his cheekbones like He takes a step back, stiff. Ash just smiles at him.
wishes. “Oh Cale, you’re here.”
“Ash,” Cale says louder, voice echoing through space. The word comes Cale’s eyes linger on Ash’s face. It unfocuses before his eyes—a trick
out smashed against his tongue, pressed too hard against his teeth. The sound photograph. A museum exhibit that changes with every angle. He memorizes
it makes when it touches the air is a hiss, a sizzle. A crack. the moment nonetheless.
Ash does not hear him, worn body at peace in the tranquility of the empty I hate you, he doesn’t say. Instead, there is something hollowed in his
room. Cale opens his mouth— throat, hungry for misery.
“What happened next?” The voice is not his. And yet, it is. Cale turns “Why’d you do it?” He asks instead, hoarse. Ash just turns back to look
his head to see a kid, twelve years old and far too old to be called a child, lying at the sun burning a hazy outline into the clouds as it rises. Higher and higher
in a pile of gangly limbs behind him. The child’s name is Cale. His cheeks are it goes, dripping droplets of gold to the earth, where they swallow the horizon.
still round from baby fat, curly hair just a tad too long sticking out over his There is no answer.
ears.
Ash smiles until the corners of his eyes crinkle. Who knows? Cale reads —
on his lips, amusement stark on his tongue. This Ash is lighter, in a way that
he cannot describe. He is more alive. Ash continues speaking, but his lips blur Ash is standing on the other side of the room. There is an expression
until he can no longer make out the words. Something within him aches. that Cale has never seen before on his face. It is ugly. It is hateful, and spite-
“Tell me the rest of the story,” Cale, twelve years old and naive to his ful—everything that Ash is not and should never be. Cale knows that this is a
roots, says. Cale stares at Ash, whose face smears in running watercolor. He is dream because everything is built out of books. Out of stories—that have been
there but he is not, slipping in and out—a paradoxical being. told, that are being told, and that Cale will never hear again.

46 47
 Cale knows that this is a dream because Ash Hart would never have —
looked at him this way when he was alive.
“You’re a horrible brother,” Ash spits at him, voice unfamiliar in its The next time he opens his eyes to a familiar ceiling, the library is be-
rage. There is something twisted jutting through his voice, hissing through his ginning to fade into muted dullness. The edges of the memory curl, dispersing
teeth like poison. “You need to stop asking questions that have no answers. ever so slowly. Still, Ash lies at peace on the tiles, cheek pressed against the
Stop asking me things you wouldn’t understand.” wood as he looks at him, eyes so green, green, green. Green, and knowing.
“What questions?” Cale asks. The floor of the library cracks where he “Was it because of me?” Cale asks, voice coming as if from far away. It
stands, jagged edges spilling out where the tips of his toes touch the wood. no longer sounds like his voice. Ash’s smile is just as calm and gentle with
The question seems to anger Ash even more. He reaches out to grasp Cale’s warmth as it has always been. His eyes gleam in the firelight.
most precious stories and flings them across the floor, where they collide “Maybe.”
against each other and bleed crimson onto the ground. “I’m sorry.”
He stares down at the way the words have twisted into something beast- Ash just stares back, expression unchanging. “Don’t be.”
ly. Something within him aches so deeply that it is difficult to breathe. “Could I have prevented it?” There is something terribly fragile in his
“You know,” Ash snarls at him, eyes wide. Green, green, green. The voice then. Terribly fragile in the air. It will kill him to know this, and perhaps
color is starting to blur, and Cale hates it. He can hear his own heart beating Ash knows this as well, as he always does. It is sometimes scary how well his
in his throat, caught like a dying star about to explode into clouds of gas. older brother knows him. Ash hums and does not answer.
“Then just answer me,” He says. It doesn’t come out sounding as de- “Why did you—?” Cale tries to ask again, but the words catch in his
manding as he wants it to. throat. He finds that he can no longer say them. His eyes burn very warm and
“Answer what,” Ash says, and now he just sounds tired. He deflates, very wet. Something clogs in his throat until his vision smears with color.
like someone has pulled all the air out of the room. Cale stares at the smeared There is never an answer.
outline of his brother—a kaleidoscope dream. The shoulders that had looked
so wide to him growing up look so thin now. He wonders if his big brother had —
truly been so small.
“Why.” The library is almost unrecognizable when Cale opens his eyes again.
“Why what.” The fire has died, leaving only soot and embers glowing dimly in the darkness.
“Why did you — ———.” His brother is nearly invisible, one with the shadows caressing the room. Cale
Ash stops. Everything stops. And then everything collapses around has run out of time.
them. “Do you hate me?” he asks, voice so quiet in the stillness. Life leeches
The world blurs with such intensity and speed that Cale’s breath spills out of the room with every moment, stories erasing themselves from existence
out of his lungs, and then he finds that when he inhales there is no air left in and the hardwood floor going blurry with memory. Cale is afraid. He is afraid
the room to breathe. Through the gasping of his lungs, fiery in his throat, he of the silence that will come after his words, the hesitance that will be tangible
can no longer bear to remember what it was that he wanted to ask. in the air.
Instead, what Cale knows is this: his brother is standing in front of him. Instead, Ash’s answer is immediate. His voice is light with amusement.
His face is blurred beyond recognition. The floors, the walls, and his hands— “There is not a single universe, not a single moment in time when I will
all of it is red, red, red. Cale is drowning in the red. He falls— not love you, baby brother.” Ash says it like it is a fact. Like Cale’s question
—and he is staring up at the ceiling. There are twisting towers of stories was so unfathomable that it must have been a joke—something only imagined
around them. He cannot read them. He does not know them. Sunlight wan- to be laughed at. Cale’s ribs tremble. He feels brittle down to his bones.
ders in through the window, cascading warmth over the floors. “That’s not—but you don’t,” Cale answers. His throat is dry. “You didn’t,
Next to him, Ash is at peace, telling a story that Cale does not remem- sometimes.”
ber. Ash looks over at him, smile as gentle as the summer sun, eyes the clear- “When have I ever not loved you, Cale?” Ash asks, tranquil.
est emerald green. “Lots of times.”
“Cale,” he says, voice soft. “Cale.” Ash hums. “Really?” he answers, and the words linger in the faint light
of the room, flickering. “Did I really?”

48 49
 — drawn up from the very roots of his body.
“Sorry,” Ash says, finally hanging up his phone. There is a sheepish,
Cale is in the library once more. It is soaked in moonlight, cascading young smile on his face. “I have to go.”
in through the window to drip onto the furniture and the thick edges of each “But you haven’t finished the story,” he hears himself say. Ash’s smile
book. Silver casts strange shadows across the wall and smears gray-hued paint goes soft at the corners.
across the floors and the ceilings. Ash is lying next to him, limbs sprawled “That’s okay,” he says. “You’re smart. You can finish the rest of it. I don’t
widely in rest, eyes closed with each individual eyelash outlined in white. A mind.”
smile draws his face in lovely shine, lips opening without sound. Cale remembers this moment, from an average day, from a time long
Cale rolls over on his side to look at his brother. He outlines the sloping past. He does not know how the story ends.
curves of his skin and the soft line of his cheeks. He memorizes the way his “Okay,” Cale says, and his smile comes out so strained on his cheeks
hair sweeps over his eyes. that he nearly cannot bear it. “I’ll do it for you.” Ash beams. Cale watches as
Tell me the rest of the story, he wants to say, heart aching, aching. Cale he blurs like a pinwheel of color, bringing the room with him. Colors stitch to-
tries to smile, and he doesn’t think it comes out right. He has forgotten how. gether into pools of light, smearing across Cale’s vision until it is undeciphera-
Ash continues to speak, words lost with the unrelenting passage of time. Cale ble where one thing begins and another ends.
wants to freeze this moment. He is waiting, with something lonely stuck on Still, Cale can see Ash leave, a faint outline of a man, walking away from
his tongue. him. The quiet sound of a door creaking open, then closing.
The sharp sound of a ringing phone pierces the peaceful atmosphere. Then, there is silence.
Ash opens his eyes, as soft a green as they have always been. He leans over, Then, there is nothing.
pats the floor a few times, and comes up with a phone, bringing it to his ear Cale turns his head. There is a child lying just next to him. His name is
with a swift movement. Cale. He is twelve years old. He still has a brother.
“Hi,” he says, cheerful. “Ash Hart speaking.” “You don’t belong here,” the child says again as the world melts around
Cale wants to reach out and steal the phone from his grasp. He wants to them. His eyes are shadowed with pity. “It is time for you to go.”
break it in his hands, he wants to incinerate it in the whitest of flames until it I envy you, he thinks. You are still happy.
is nothing but dust. He wants to beg into the receiver, wretched as whatever I miss my brother, Cale thinks, suddenly and with an intensity foreign
shattered thing lies in his gut. to him. The world blurs one final time. I miss him, I miss him, I miss him.
Don’t take him, he wants to say, eyes wet. If you have to take something, And then Cale is weeping. The library fades around him, firelight dancing over
take me instead. his eyes one final time. He catches tears on his palms before they can fall and
Take me instead. ruin this last, lovely memory.
Instead, he lies still, limbs stiff on the floor and eyes pooling with tears. The child is right. There is nothing left for him here.
He rubs a thumb over the soft carpet at the edge of his arm’s reach. It is crim-
son. It is coarse. He listens to the sound of his brother’s voice, gentle and —
unintelligible, and knows like a burning pyre that this is the end.
He looks up at his brother for the last time. He is haloed in moon- And here is something:
light, each individual line of flesh highlighted silver as if made from the dust Cale does not know the ending of the story his brother had told him that
dropped to the Earth by stars. His hair is wild and messy, thrown over the day. He does not know what words his brother had spoken and what words he
nape of his neck and over the fuzzy edges where the tips of his forehead meet would have spoken. He does not know from where his brother had found the
his hair, inky with shadowed blackness. There are one-two-three wrinkles at story or if he had made it himself. Cale will never know these things.
each corner of his eyes, which are as green as the emerald seas off the coast of Ash Hart is dead. This is a story that should never have been written.
a far-off shore. This is a story that has long since gone stale. And yet, the story continues—
One cannot help but love Ash Hart, with all of his flaws and all of his endless. Endless.
perfections. Cale is no exception. And here is something else:
Maybe Ash had known. Cale hopes that he had. He hopes that his broth- His brother is dead. That is all.
er had known just how deep the well of hopeless love went inside of him, That is all.

50 51
 A Coffee Cup
Matthew Yoon - 9

For the first time in six years, I stepped onto the soil of America, full
of expectations, daydreaming of what a perfect place it could be. My phone
buzzed with notifications, signaling my arrival. As I stared at the “Welcome
to JFK Airport” sign: the fanciful billboards in Times Square and the sound
of the blue jays chirping peacefully in Central Park and even the signboard of
Joe’s Pizza flashed through my mind, though I had never tried.
Walking through the streets of New York was a sensory delight: trium-
phant cheers heard in the distance, people smiling and laughing on the street
corner, holding cups of coffee with everyday joy—it reminded me of a heaven-
ly sanctum. The flashing lights of Times Square threw me into a state of hap-
piness.
After a few blocks, however, the sky turned grey, and the sound of
cheers died in the distance. The area was aligned with lonely, bleached brick
buildings though they were red. People clad in ragged coats in the freezing air
begged for their lives on a hollow road, where only a few cars passed through.
A woman from across the street trudged towards our car, carrying a
baby on her back and clutching a coffee cup filled with a few pennies, just
enough to cover the floor of the cup. My heart shattered into pieces as her
mournful eyes implored us for help, with a look of desperation etched into her
features.
“Excuse me, sir. Can you spare some change?” she asked, heavily shiver-
ing. “I’m trying to get something to eat for my baby.”
As I took a closer look. Her shoes were frayed, and her baby was bun-
dled up tightly in a blanket. I could see the child’s cheeks were red and
chapped from the relentless winter.
“Of course,” I replied, reaching into my pocket and pulling out some
cash. “Here, let me give you something more substantial.”
“Thank you so much,” she says. “You don’t know how much this means
to us.” The woman’s eyes widen with gratitude as you place the money in her
hand.
Although our family gave her a few dollars, it was a shame to be in a

52 53
 warm cozy car while the winter breeze struck her from all directions.

The coffee cups from the two places had the same shape; however, one
showed extravagance while the other showed hunger. From this, I realized
that even in the most innovative city in the world, people were segregated by
their economic conditions, unable to escape from the cycle of poverty.

Yet, I will, one day, fill those empty cups with the coffee of equity and justice.

54 55
 The Watcher
Presley Blake - 12

There is someone watching you at almost all times. Unidentifiable, in-

visible, mute at all times, but still there. It’s a sense; the feeling you get when
you know you aren’t alone, when you look around and know someone else has
to be nearby, has to be waiting. The sense creeps up on you, starting at your
toes and crawling up to your thighs, stomach, shoulders, eyes, until you can
see the sense too. It bothers you, of course, but it’s also strangely comforting–
whoever is nearby, after all, isn’t doing anything but watching, and you don’t
mind the silent company.
At first, you were convinced it was an animal; something so silent, unde-
tectable, discreet could only be inhuman, but you discover quickly that it has
human characteristics, and you change your mind. Human characteristics,
after all, never apply to things that are not human.
Every day, the walls in your house groan against the silent watcher’s
weight, barely holding up to its greedy gaze. Secretly, you hope the walls will
fall, exposing your obscure watcher in the woods, but they never do, though
you notice little cracks that have been put back together with tape and glue.
You laugh at the terrible job the watcher did of patching up the wall and the
pain the wall feels, and silently praise the human being watching you from
behind them. A sense of pride fills you, even though a child could have done
better. Even though it is still watching.
At night, it climbs up to the second floor with you and watches through
the window, pressed up against the glass. You wouldn’t have noticed had it
not been for the way the glass yelled at you to clean the condensation on it,
the condensation left behind by whatever was watching you. You don’t clean
the glass, leaving it dirty and smudged, and at times you notice fingertips
pressed on it, fingerprints, a whole hand, a face. You liked the face the most. It
gave you the most clue to what your mysterious undetectable could be, though
the sketches you render of it are nothing short of awful and cannot compare
with the real thing.
You think the watcher likes the sketches, because after you hang them
up, you notice other little drawings on small yellow sticky notes, scattered

56 57
 throughout the house. They’re sketches of you, just like you sketched them, the watcher. It was the watcher. It made a noise.
and they are just as awful as yours. Some of them are just stick figures with You thought the watcher was perfect, but you are wrong. You scold the
scraggly waves of hair, others are full blown close ups of your face, drawn in watcher that night, for making a noise. You find a sticky note the next morn-
terrifyingly wonderful detail. You praise the eyes watching you again, but this ing, but it’s enclosing a small gift–a bloody fingernail. A promise to not make
time you can feel their own pride, mixed and tangled with yours. another noise. You appreciate the punishment, the acceptance of when one is
You have come to an agreement, you and your watcher. It watches you, wrong, and so you forgive the watcher. That’s when you decide it is human.
for reasons unknown to you, and you pretend not to notice. You do notice, of Only humans make mistakes like that.
course, but it is clear the watcher wants to make it seem as if you don’t know, It makes more mistakes after that, but it always sends something over as
so you play along. You enjoy the little games, the little sticky notes, the tape punishment,. You get a few more fingernails, a few teeth, a few pieces of skin
and glue on the wall. It makes you feel more alive, the butterflies dancing in ripped off from hands or legs, and you keep them in a drawer, relishing in the
your stomach moving to your spine and your brain, bouncing restlessly, al- power you have over the watcher.
ways, always, always. Even when you sleep, and the watcher doesn’t, the but- For a while, it cleans up its act. It goes back to being undetectable, and
terflies bounce and you toss and the watcher watches. you praise it just as often as you did before. For a while, that is. That’s when
Nobody else notices the undetectable presence but you, but that’s al- you discover that promises mean nothing, because the watcher starts making
right, because the watcher doesn’t want anyone else to know anyway. Some- more mistakes.
times you find sketches of your friends on the sticky notes, but those are Once, you catch a glimpse of the watcher’s hair through the window.
always drawn in crude, ugly ways, emphasizing the parts of your friends the That’s when you know that the watcher has dark brown hair. Then you hear
watcher truly sees, their greed, their hatred, their disdain for you. It makes more noises, but they keep going. Constant, steady noises. The watcher stops
it easier to cut them off, because you only want to be friends with those who sending things over as punishment. You yell at it, but it stops listening, like a
truly care about you. teenager in puberty.
The watcher isn’t your friend. You’re quite sure of that. Its job is to Slowly, you see more. The watcher has short hair, cut just below their
watch, not to comfort, and you don’t expect them to. Still, its presence is sim- chin. Pretty eyes, though you hate seeing them because you never wanted
ilar to a friend, except this friend watches and never talks and never, ever to see them. Gray colored, slate colored, pavement colored. Steady and still,
leaves. though you notice a brief shock when you make eye contact. It’s as if the
You don’t want the watcher to leave anyway. If the watcher left, how watcher never saw your eyes before either, even though it stared at you all day
would you go on? How could you, when it’s got your toes and legs and stom- long, because the way you stare at each other is like someone seeing someone
ach and shoulders and eyes locked in a standoff with it, when you think of it else for the first time.
day and night and day and night. The watcher lets you see its whole face, the face you couldn’t sketch
before. You can now, but you don’t because you hate knowing what that un-
You think the watcher is perfect, but you’re wrong. It makes a mistake, a detectable face looks like, what the detectable face has become. It was better,
simple mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. you think, when the watcher could have been anybody. When the watcher was
It makes a sound. invisible.
Then you start seeing the watcher’s shoulders, the clothes it wears. Nor-
A small, small, sound, one that would normally be unheard and unseen, mally dark, though you notice when it one day wears a neon yellow shirt. You
but you have gotten used to living in complete silence, basking in the sound of yell immediately, because yellow is far too easy to spot and far too easy for
the watcher staring at you. others to spot, and the watcher is supposed to watch you, not get carted off to
It starts on a hot day. You are sitting on the couch, staring at the blank jail. From then on it wears neon shirts in every color of the rainbow, and you
television, when you hear a small peck on the windowsill, like the sound of a clench your teeth each time the watcher waves at you through your window.
fingernail hitting the glass. Your head cracks as it turns, faster than a gunshot, The watcher smiles too, a big, happy grin every time you make eye con-
but there is no one in the windowsill. No one is watching. It lets go of your tact. It’s gotten used to your eyes, your yelling, and now it gleefully smiles
eyes, and you look away again. when it meets your gaze. You see it in almost every reflection around the
You know what you heard, and you know it was from the watcher. You house, from the windows to the microwave door. You frown in return, and
live secluded, in a small community, and no other sounds were present. It was the watcher mimes turning your frown upside down. The joke does not land

58 59
 well.
Smiles and waves. Smiles and waves. Smiles and waves. Maybe the
watcher isn’t human. These aren’t human characteristics at all, and you detest
the way it’s acting. These aren’t mistakes, these are outright violations. A good
human would ought to know when to stop, but the watcher doesn’t. Maybe
it’s a bad human. You reflect on this for a few days, before deciding that if the
watcher is a human, it is the lowest of the low.
When you open the door to get groceries the next day, the watcher is
standing on the porch, watching and waving. You ignore it, knowing now
that yelling just makes it smile more, and it comes with you in the car and
to the supermarket, where it smiles and waves at practically everyone there.
No words, just smiles, and a few people smile back. You suppress the urge to
shove those people aside, your blood boiling.
When you get back and carry the groceries inside, the watcher decides
to come with you, shutting the door behind the two of you. You stare, for a
moment, but the watcher just smiles and takes a bag, walking off to the kitch-
en, its neon green shirt blaring.
You scold it that night as it stands in the living room. It never sits down.
Maybe it’s incapable of doing so. When you go to sleep that night, it stands in
the bedroom with you, waving you goodnight.
It doesn’t seem to eat,. It doesn’t sit down either, standing near the walls
at all times. Once you catch it attempting to lay down on the couch, but you
yell so loudly one of your neighbors from almost a mile away comes knocking,
asking if you are okay, and the watcher refrains from trying again.
It’s not really the watcher now, you reflect. It’s more like the house
guest, though that has none of the cool anxiety you felt thinking of the watch-
er. Bitterness seeps through you, and you want to go back to how it was be-
fore–when you only had a sense of the watcher, and knew nothing about it.
Now that you know everything–its face, its habits, its mannerisms–the watch-
er has lost any surprise or happiness you got from it before.
It’s boring.
One day a feeling washes over you, a determined feeling that you don’t
really understand or recognise. You head outside, scaling the tall tree in your
lawn. From the window, you can see the house guest, her neon purple shirt
standing out against the bland walls of the house. You watch her for a while,
watch her look around for you. You watch, crouched away from her eye level,
hidden along the shadows. And when she goes to bed that night, you climb up
to the second floor and press your fingers against the window, leaving finger-
prints behind.
It watches, and watches and watches. And while the woman inside the
house knows it is watching, it pretends like she doesn’t, and so does she.
It is watching.

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 Broken Friendship
Yejin Kee - 9

Loud chattering fills the atmosphere almost immediately as the stu-

dents enter the lunch room, their stomachs growling as they laugh with their
friends. All the lunch tables get crowded by people like herds of cattle in the
fields, and lunch boxes are laid out on the tables. Smiles are plastered on the
students’ faces and cheerful energy is emitted from them all except for one.
Grace smushes another blueberry in her mouth as she watches her best
friend Allie laugh obnoxiously with the new girl, Marla, across the lunch table.
It had been two weeks since the newbie had come to this school—two weeks of
Grace feeling something she has never felt before; something new and unset-
tling and uncomfortable. She couldn’t stand this feeling.
“Grace!” A high voice exclaimed.
Grace looked up and felt a sense of relief when she saw Allie’s eyes on
her. “Yeah?” She asked, a little too excitedly.
The relief washed away almost immediately when she saw Allie wrap
an arm around the new kid’s shoulders. “Do you remember the time we went
skiing over winter break?” She said. Her face turned into a ripe tomato from
laughing too hard. The new kid looked over to Grace with more hesitant eyes,
as if she knew she was doing something wrong.
Grace laughed nervously. “Ahaha… yeah, I do.. Why?” She muttered,
unable to take her eyes off of her best friend’s arm around the new outsider.
She never did that to me, she thought solemnly.
“Wasn’t it so nice? Like the weather was only like 40 degrees Celsius,
right??” Allie asked. Grace nodded, and Allie turned back to the new kid, who
was rolling her eyes and laughing. “Okay, okay, I’ll ask my mom if I’m avail-
able,” the girl said, making Allie giggle and turn her back to Grace to face her
new friend.
Grace looked down at her food, a sense of uneasiness washing over her.
Skiing was always her and Allie’s thing—something that Allie didn’t even do
with her other friends. Her appetite faded as more and more time passed and
more laughter echoed against the ceiling. Eventually, she got up to go to the
bathroom, but she couldn’t help but feel she was on a runway, and everyone

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 in the room was silently judging her. changed schools recently, and I thought it was you.” The brunette bit her lip
and knocked the side of her head with her fist, probably thinking she had
“Alright, students, please open your textbooks to page 378..” Mr. Al- messed up. Which she almost did.
bert’s voice was drowned out by the sound of Allie and Marla’s quiet laughter. Grace stared at her for a good five seconds before a small giggle escaped
Grace sighed, tapping her pencil on the surface of her desk. The three of them her lips. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get you nervous. I was just taken aback be-
had gone to class together after lunch, and Grace was third-wheeling the en- cause you must have thought I was too lonely to not be new,” Grace lamented,
tire time. No matter how much she tried to butt into their conversation, or which made Angela’s eyes get wider. “Oh, of course not! I was just wondering..
how much she tried to laugh along with their silly inside jokes, it was like she sorry for the misunderstanding.” She said quickly.
was invisible to them. Eventually, she had given up and just listened to their Grace sighed. “No, it’s true. My best friend found a replacement for me,
stories. so I’m basically third-wheeling. She’s talking to a new girl too,” Grace said,
“Allie and Marla, please focus on your work,” Mr. Albert said for the embarrassed she was telling all of this to a stranger, but also relieved she had
fifth time today, glancing at my own work with an approving nod. While her someone to talk to.
best friend and her best friend-stealer had jabbered on instead of working, Angela frowned. “That sucks of her,” she said. “I hate when that hap-
Grace had been completing all of her homework out of boredom. She sighed, pens. But don’t worry, I can be your best friend’s replacement for you.” She
hitting her head on the side of the desk. winked at the last part, making Grace laugh.
“Oh—Grace are you okay?” Allie asked. Grace rolled her eyes in her “Wow, I’m so honored,” Grace giggled. “Oh, my name is Grace, by the
head. Her friend was finally looking at her, but with a concerned look in her way. I just realized I haven’t told you.”
eyes. Marla was staring at her curiously as well. Angela laughed. “No, it’s okay. I’m glad to meet you, Grace.”
“Uh, yeah, I’m fine,” Grace laughed off, stuttering because of the sud- And with that, Grace had almost forgotten about her problems entire-
denness of the conversation. “Why, do I look that done with life?” ly—which she wasn’t sure was a bad thing.
Marla giggled. “Yeah, you looked like you were gonna faint,” she said,
to which Grace chuckled softly to disrupt the awkward tension. Allie smiled The bell rang. Students piled out like a stampede, chattering about their daily
awkwardly before turning back to her new friend. “So anyways..” she said, her lives as they got onto the school buses. Grace was outside, the sun streaming
voice brightening. on her face as she stood on the sidewalk, waiting for someone.
The same wave of uneasiness and anxiety washed over Grace as she “Grace!”
watched the two of them bantering. She chewed on her fingernails, ripping Grace turned, startled by her name being called out. It was Allie, her
them off as she watched Allie’s back shudder with laughter whenever Marla hair flying around her face as she ran towards her. She stopped, sweating and
told a joke. They aren’t even funny, Grace thought to herself. I can make bet- heaving while smiling. “Wow, I can’t believe you left without me,” she joked,
ter ones. waiting for Grace to laugh. She didn’t.
The bitterness of her thoughts overpowered her mentality and her heart Allie smiled uncertainly. “Hey, so I was gonna go on a camping trip with
began to beat faster as she kept visualizing the jokes she would’ve made, or Marla next weekend, but she canceled so I was wondering if you wanted to go
the drama she could’ve gossiped about. What’s so special about this new girl instead?” She said. “We can make smores and tell campfire stories all night
anyway? long like we used to!”
“You might wanna slow down there,” a voice popping up, disrupting the Grace perked up. It has been a long time since she went on a camping
flow of thoughts in Grace’s head. trip with Allie. She remembered it had been so much fun—it was the best day
She looked up to see a pretty brunette about her age, smiling at her. “Hi. of her whole life.
I’m Angela, and I’m new to this school,” she said, friendly. “Are you new too?” But… she only asked because Marla canceled.
Grace turned beet red at her question. She must’ve looked so lonely that Grace hesitated for a moment. She had wanted to be approached like
even a stranger thought she didn’t have friends. “N-no,” she stuttered, sud- this all day, and she was tempted like she has never been before. Then, she
denly angry that the girl had even asked this question. “Why? Do I seem like heard a voice behind her.
it?” She asked. “Grace! Aren’t you coming?” Angela yelled. She was waving her hands
Angela widened her eyes. “Oh, no, that’s not what I—that’s not what around, smiling toothily.
I meant. I was just wondering because you look like this friend I had who Grace snapped out of her thoughts. “I’m sorry,” she said, turning to

64 65
 Allie. “But I have to go.”
She ran, leaving a bewildered Allie behind the rustling crowd. Her heart
thumped like a drum—beating nonstop as she kept running. She couldn’t be-
lieve what she had done, and a part of her filled with regret. Maybe it wasn’t
a good idea to let go of her— she was my long-term best friend. Thoughts
rushed through her mind like a car on a racing track. Why did I do this?
“You good?” A bright voice entered Grace’s mind, blocking out all of
those thoughts momentarily. She looked up to see a hand outreached in front
of her.
Grace stared at it for a moment, before taking it. Maybe, she thought as
they left the suffocating herd of students, maybe this isn’t such a bad thing at
all.

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 Kay Lee Jisoo Yu

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 “Laziness” by Yumin Choi (11)

Jiyoo Nam

Marie Suh

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 Soomin Yoo

Yumin Choi

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74 75