Fenestella

poetry fiction

essay

Antonio Fowl Stark (KangSan Kim)Writer of mediocre caliber. The world is filled with gemstones, waiting to be sought by those who deserve their beauty. Learn, Love, and Live. Let the words flow and the emotions come. Spontaneity is the only solution.

Stella KimLiterature and philosophy are often said to be on the opposite ends of a branch. But they can complement. Philosophy sets a base for literature and literature in return tries to reach an answer through imagination, something philosophy can’t do through its logic.

Yungseo LeeHello! My name is Yungseo Lee and I like to sit down and type occasionally in an attempt to find out who I am. I hope that there’ll be a day when my writing makes someone smile. Thank you!

Sharon Sence (Sumin Oh)An archer nocking an arrow towards the ideal and the reality. I’m on my way to figure out which target my final aim should head towards to. Wish me good luck.

Shinyoung “Hailey” NohI hum, I sing, I holler from the mountaintops - and if you join me, the world will have three new voices

Chaewon LimI feel the most comfortable when I am expressing myself through words. I love to find beauty in words and to cherish it. Reaching out and trying to grab the essence of emotions, although often in vain, is what writing is to me.

NaJin “Sarah” YoonA scribbler who wants to be a real writer someday, cat person. Into literature and history, would like to be a lense into the past for the reader. Introverted, approach with care.

Suhwon “Sarah” Chang“A work of literature is a manifestation of life”

Focused on short, contemplative fictions. Writing, no matter how public, is a form of personal expression that differs in depth for all involved in the practice.

Sohee Kim17 years old freshman in Korean Minjok Leadership Academy. Iridescent, Rem-iniscent, and loving

Fenestella: The Crew

Table of Contents

The Spider’s HourglassLife is a Lonesome PathBurdenPromise of the WorldPeter Pan is No LongerCarry Your WorldThe Wolf CeremonyPanEfflorescenceAlong the RoadTo.AliceFlorenceLove GaugeThe ScribblerAlpha BetaMy TeenageMemories of MyselfYes, YouThe Heavenly Loan, I Pay Tonight

Title

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fictionpoemfictionpoemessaypoemfictionpoemfictionpoempoempoempoemfictionfictionpoemessayfictionpoempoem

Genre

ChaewonStark

Sarah ChangSharonStellaHaileySohee

YungseoSarah YoonChaewon

SharonYungseo

StellaSohee

YungseoStark

ChaewonSarah Chang

YungseoStark

Author

The S

pider’

s Ho

urgla

ss

18th W

. Chaewon

Lim

Photo credit Antonio F. Stark

A Black widow spider built her house on the side of a bridge that crosses a lake. She had been very choosy in deciding the spot, so it took three full weeks for her to finally settle down in the cozy

space between two poles of the bridge rail. Her soft tip-toes moving fast around and across the rails in almost one gliding motion, she moved full of life, as if resonating with the sound of a pianist’s fingers brushing against the keys in ever-climbing notes. Elegance, that’s what she was, black from head to tip, her abdomen a little swollen like a small gourd bottle, and with an accent of a red stain in the form of an hourglass at the top of her shiny back.

From the first time we’ve met, you gave me so many things. You gave me hope, life and everything.

She was the center of the world. At quiet nights after a daylong shower of rain, the Spider would sit at the middle of her hexagonal house, gazing. Lights on the bridge rail would linger on her transparent net, and shine the center light at the Spider, the main character of the show today. People pass-ing the bridge, marveling at the six-faceted diamond made by the Spider, would stop their walks for a few seconds to look closer into the creature that built this jewel of night. Spider always gazed back. She never looked away or shied off.

But one morning, upon waking up after a windy night on the usual place at the center of her web, she realized that the world looked different. Rather than brilliant, the sunlight hit dull on her thin legs, and her web, having lost its transparent glow, was weak and drooping without elasticity. Before, whenever she moved, she had so much energy that the web seemed to dance in coordination with the limbs of her legs, but now she seemed to sink away in the midst of a sticky sea of glue. To a human passerby, there was in fact no change, and the Spider was still young at the blooming age of her life. But why? The sun shone bright as ever and the wind had softened into a breeze.

Then the fatal question arose: why am I alone?

“Why? ...... Why?”She tried to be aggressive, but she couldn’t. From the moment her words came out from

her mouth, it just spread to air rather than harming anyone.

“Splash!” Fresh juice flowed into the Spider’s mouth as she angrily punctured the caught fly with her fangs. The juice made her feel alive for a few minutes, but thirst, even stronger than before, soon extinguished all pleasure and the memory of pleasure. Partly because she didn’t want to move her limbs, and partly because of childish defi-ance, the Spider stood erect and still at her spot in the center looking ahead, regardless of wind and rain. For a whole week, she did not even gaze away.

It was more of a ways of protecting herself, not attacking others. She was making bar-riers, not throwing spears.

But it still hurt.Cold and dry winds of winter tried to scratch her with its fangs, but she didn’t move

from the place.

On the eighth day, however, she was tired. It was only more evident now that she was alone. No friend had come, but only preys; were the pleading eyes of countless preys the only souls that she was doomed to look into?

Suddenly the little strength that had remained in her legs gave way in a chill breeze. She lost her balance. Without even realizing what was happening, she was for the first time in her life, falling to the ground. She instinctively closed her eyes shut.

Right before she hit the water, something caught her. Glowing in the sunlight, it was a string of her web, holding on to her right foreleg. She slowly climbed up, holding onto the glistening string. As she sat again in the middle of her web, she realized that the world was more silent than ever.

Silence hurts more than words, for it gives more meanings. ‘Yes, but for it gives more meanings, it’s also more achingly valuable, and,’ with a

start, the Spider quickly added in her head, ‘more beautiful.’ Then the sun shone as bril-liantly as ever on her delightfully vibrating web. She loved her web! The rays of the sun then played on the red hourglass on her back, which had not, at all, dripped a single grain of sand since she was born. A non-changing hourglass: exhausting, but beautiful. Is it not? Finally, the Spider could say, “I am happy.”

“Grandma? Are you okay?”“Oh, no problem, Andy. It’s just a yawn. Did you like the story of Miss Spider? Well,

then, go to bed now. Good night sweetie.”Sarah swiftly rubbed off the tear from her eye. Although a grandmother of four, she

still had a sharp chin curving up to her ears, and the slim, long-sleeved black dress that she had on fitted her nicely. Under well-groomed eyebrows her black eyes shined with a hint of moisture in them. On the hand that brushed off the moisture on the other

sleeve, there was a red ring the shape of an hourglass.When Sarah’s eyes lay upon her ring, the memories of her past passed her head

smoothly without any confusion in their chronological order. They had obviously been played many times already: in fact, every time she told the Spider’s story to her children and grandchildren.”

Anything,” she answered, her eyes twinkling and her lips trembling with anticipation. “I’ll do anything for you.”

This time, she was sure of herself, finally. She no longer wished that the hourglass on her ring would trickle down sand and bring some change. Now, she could say, “I am happy,” with her eyes twinkling in anticipation of the next day’s sun.

Is it normal, so?For us to feel sorrow

To grieve for ourselves

Sometimes it happensThat we must endure ourselves

That we must convince ourselvesThat life is a sole path

Many times, what you depended onAre just shadowsSometimes it isThat shadows

Exist to beRipped

Life is a lonesome path

I scream, out loud, care not, I doFor life is a lonesome path. Nobody is hereTo hear me scream. To empathize with me

Life

It is a lonesome path

Is it my fault?That moment, that time

When you are so, deathly aloneThat you cannot find a person to blame

That… that you have no shoulder to cry onWhen there’s only the ground to hold your tears

And the sky to take your gulping gaspAnd the streetlamps to beg on

And yourself to hugThat

Life is a Lonesome Path18th W. Antonio Stark

You are…

So alone…?I am…

So alone…?

Dear my heartPlease beat, for me

Dear my legs,Please stand, for me

Dear my eyesPlease see, for me

Collapse and cry

Shriek until it’s hoarseBut how far you may go

Even if you may crawl and begPlease live onPlease go on

Where you sit now

It’s not for youIt’s not the place

You belongGrit your teeth

Squeeze your eyesBut climb

Let the stars in the pool stay behind you

The dreams, the hurt and the heartLet it all be left in that pool

The stars, the dreamsThat you should

See, areUp

There

GoLook

See

Burden19th W. Sarah Chang

Photo credit 20th W. Soohyun Catherine Chae

Rain was in the air. Even as Laura stared out-side through the

windows, she could feel the raindrops forming. Soon the muddy clouds would start swirling overhead and the dark day would grow darker. ‘I don’t have an um-brella’, she realized, ‘and neither does that thing.’ Silently, she swore under her breathe.

The monotonous buzzing irritating her ears died down as the teacher concluded the preaching. Chairs scraped against the floor, excited chatter broke out, and shouts of ‘good-bye’s and ‘see you tomorrow’s rang across the class. Laura stayed, staring outside the window. She dawdled for another 5 minutes be-fore - with a sigh that marked the end of her peace

- rising and packing her bag. The classroom door slammed open, and the routine cry reached her ears.

“Your brother’s in trouble!”

Again she felt the building rage tug-ging at the back of her head. Laura threw down her books and pencils and ran af-

ter the announcer, who brought to her the same news at the exact same time each day. He led the way through the rou-tine array of corridors and passing doors until they reached the one marked 1-5, where the burden was.

The burden was smiling. As it lay on the ground, bruised from head to toe, with punches still flashing above him, it still was smiling that same dumb smile.

Laura felt that familiar anger; only, the emotion wasn’t all directed towards the bully. But this was Laura’s re-

sponsibility so she lashed at the puncher.

“Lay off him!”

She stood protectively over her smiling obligation. As if recognizing the daily savior (did the thing even know she was its sister?) it reached up at her. The bully recognized her as well. The taunting repetition of ‘retard, retard, Laura’s smiling retard’ died down and the oncoming punches stopped. Still, the bully laughed in triumph as he went.

“Auah… Auah!”, cried the responsibility, reaching upwards towards Laura. She didn’t take the hand. The rage was building again.

“Get up! You’re a guy, aren’t you? Can’t you at least protect yourself?”

The contempt was clear in her voice. When ‘Auah’ was all the reply she got, she looked to the side and scowled. The scowl deepened as it got quieter (the announcer had already disappeared as soon as he had shown her the way - as if she didn’t know!) and the pitter patter of falling rain reached her ears. ‘I don’t have an umbrella’, she recalled, ‘and neither does that thing.’ She kicked at the thing’s direction and turned sharply on her heels and stomped down the corridor.

The pouring had begun during the small interval. The world had gone gray. Without checking to see whether the thing was following or not, she marched on, back to the classroom where she grabbed her bag, then to the front door where she changed her shoes. A shine caught her eyes. A single, bright yellow umbrella lay abandoned by its owner.

“...I don’t have an umbrella.” Laura muttered.

With a soft twang a yellow light pierced through the grayness. Onwards she went, no longer worried about getting wet. Just once she turned back, checked the thing’s silhouette entering the rain, twirled the umbrella once in her hands in the moment of hesitation, then faced the front and raced through the rain. The thing would follow - it always did.

She entered the house. She dropped the dripping umbrella on the floor, watched the raindrops forming a puddle for a while, and went into the bathroom to pick up a tow-el. Laura sat by the window watching the streets. Soon enough, the thing appeared in her view. She went down and opened the door and threw the towel over the drenched obligation. It was still smiling. Laura trembled in rage. She wanted it out of her sight.

Sitting in her room with the doors closed, she thought back to the day the respon-sibility was handed to her. Previously, it had been her mother’s responsibility. But her mother got herself a decent job and had to work to fill the family’s stomachs. Leading the burden by the hand, the mother had called Laura out to the living room. She still remembered that day, the rain falling as it was today, and the smiling burden looking from the mother to the sister.

“Laura, dear, you have to look out for your brother. You have to be kind to him. He may not understand very well, but he can understand what’s happening.” Her mother had said, “From today onwards, he is your responsibility, Laura.” That had been the binding sentence. She stopped grumbling and she started taking care of the burden. She woke it up in the mornings, fed it the bread, took it to school, chased away the bully, and led it back home. The thing had become her responsibility. Her actions were accompanied by the chains that linked her to the responsibility and she couldn’t break free.

“Understand what? All he does is grin that sickening grin.”

There was knocking at the door. It would be the obligation. There was no one else in the house. Laura didn’t rise from her seat.

“What do you want!” “Auah… coohis!”

Her mother had always figured out what the thing was saying. But Laura couldn’t. With another utterance of disgust, she bothered to rise out of the chair. A crack of light lit up the darkened hallway, and there stood the smiling little burden, holding a small bag of crumpled cookies in its hands.

“Coohis!” It lifted the bag up to Laura. She had kicked at it and it was offering her cookies! That familiar rage built up again and she knew what it was. Disgust filled her, but this time it wasn’t only directly towards the burden. She felt disgusted with herself for feeling repellent towards the duty. So she took it, the bag of cookies the burden held up. Ah, but it was smiling! That same dorky smile that just wouldn’t disappear. And the rage built up again and she slammed the door in his face. She sank down by the door, head between her knees, and looked at the crumpled the cookies. How twisted she was, being disgusted at her own brother! She would be kind to him now - she would try. Because he was her responsibility, and they had only each other to lean on.

Promise of

the World

19th W. Sharon Sence

A broad, open patch of greennessA beauty beyond words

An Eden that was destined to be foundedLies beyond a single quirk of a doorknob

The sound of a piccolo

Slowly heading down with the flowing watersA beautiful shade of jade flashed on a small pebbleNumerous, gorgeous faces headed towards the sky

Anticipating the small breeze

Too dreamy to be genuineToo picturesque to be a fantasy

Light flashes down when the water turns dark

Down, down, down, with a pair of legsHappily running around in circles,

Welcoming a new faithful bondThat will be secure until the very end

As a boy feels a fire burning in his very heart,

He sees a glimpse of his next destinationA destination, a promise, a destiny,

Something not to be missed, even with the rustiness of time.

When it is truly found,Light, meaningless beauty will turn dark

Frailness will once again become youthful,For one last and eternal time,The valley will last in peace,

Long away from the threats of steel.

And the promise will be kept.

You. You were sleeping, hidden by the flowers. But I was the one who had found you. You stood out quite clearly. Others said you were the color of flowers, therefore no one could find you if you decided to hide amongst them. They clucked their tongue, talking of this, but their love for you behind those words were quite clear. They thought you were happy, lovable. And I didn’t understand because to me, you stood out between the flowers.

Tomorrow. William Shakespeare once said in one of his greatest plays ‘Macbeth’ that it creeps at a petty place, signifying nothing. Never was he more wrong. Never was Macbeth more wrong. To-morrow never creeps. Nor is its pace petty. It swooshes down and strikes one like a lightning bolt. And it always leaves a trace in the soul. It leaves its burn, the carcasses of dead emotions stinking like hell. This must signify something. This foul and awful stench couldn’t just mean nothing.

Flight. Human beings could not fly by themselves. So they made their own wings. They made hope, self-esteem, sweet words… wisps of dreams. They hoped the wings would help them sour up and up, to the realms of god. But they didn’t know something. They had forgotten the fact that the mind knows when it has reached an artificial point, and that an artificial wing will lead an artificial flight. And thus human beings fell. They flew, but they fell. And that was all because their flight was never really true.

20th W. Stella Kim

Graphics credit Antonio F. Stark

Knowledge. The only pure and sweet thing in the world. The scent of books, of ink, of crumbly paper pierces the nose, and the brain wakes up from a long sleep. The brain no longer dreams. It is no longer under the power of fantasies and flying fish, but of hard-core reality and flying mosquitos. Pureness is never honey. Pureness is sweet, but it is only sweetness to the mind that wishes to wake up from a nightmare. And all dreams are nightmares, but human beings never realize that.

Me. I woke up from a dream. You were hidden behind flowers in the dream, and I was the only one who could find you. But to-morrow swooped down to embrace me with its wings. You are no longer hidden between flowers, and I am no longer the only person who can find you. No, not flowers. Never flowers. Such sweetness could never exist here. Where mankind that has failed their flight come down to mingle with knowledge, honey is no longer true. You are hidden behind black chaos, and I am the only one who could not find you, or even see you behind the chaos.

Chaos. You try to find me. But you can never find me. I am chaos, nothingness, everything. Other people seek their dreams inside me, see through me, but you will never see me. Because you are knowledge in your being itself. Wendy, your Pan is no longer. When you dreamt, I was everything that a dream holds to you. But Wendy, you are now knowledge. You cannot dream, and thus I can-not be Pan to you. Wendy, I am chaos.

Wendy, Peter Pan is dead.

I am a deserted country roadbui lt for wooden spokes

metal hoovesevery memory the dust evokesscattered my way, held at bay.

But as this dawn breaks, the sun jokes

“ Who is to be the star of the day?”And it ascends, over my gaze

creating a heathaze

Carry your World19th W. Hailey Noh

Celebrating my v is ionignit ing the landin an endless auburn f i reThe roadside wiregl istens I used to be a deserted country roadbut now I f inal ly seewho is there for me

“Arlen! You better get up now!”

My mom shouted at me while push-ing the button to let in today’s amount of

oxygen. I rubbed my eyes repeatedly, trying hard to wake up. I took a glimpse at the clock beside

me. It was almost nine. Since today was Friday, I had a lesson with Mrs. Carmen. I started to hurry, not wanting to

show my pajamas with smiling clouds on them to my one and only teacher. I ran into the bathroom, washed my face, changed into

my yellow shirt and blue jeans, combed my hair a bit, and then ran out again. I took a seat on my comfy sofa and turned on the TV.

“Hello, Mrs. Carmen!” I said brightly. Mrs. Carmen waved slightly at me. I frowned. Mrs. Carmen usually greeted me with her granny-smile and her granny-voice, but today she looked unnatural, forcing a smile when she saw my frown. I opened my mouth to ask if some-thing was wrong, but she started to speak first.

“Arlen, today we’re going to learn something special.”

I immediately perked up, thinking about the quadratic equations I was supposed to learn today. Then I frowned again, looking at how serious she looked, and somehow older looking than before.

“Today I’ll take you on a slight adventure to the past.”

At those words my frown vanished. When I was about to victory dance and let out a

The Wolf Ceremony20th W. SoHee Kim

whoop, she gave me a look that meant ‘Stay still and listen,’ so I shut my mouth with a snap and didn’t move a muscle.

“It’s not real time travel. I’m just going to let you into a historical event that happened in the past.”

“How could I go into a historical event that happened in the past without time traveling?” I asked, puzzled.

“You’ll learn this more specifically when you get older, but I’ll tell you the basics. It’s like going into a short video that was taken a long time ago. You’ll get to feel the things that happen inside, but when the video ends, you will come back to where you are now.”

I thought about this a moment, and was fascinated.

“Will you come with me? Why am I learning this? What video am I going in?”

As usual, my teacher answered all the questions I said in a rush.

“You will go alone, and the lesson I hope to teach you will be clearly shown in this video. It’s called…The Wolf Ceremony.”

I was totally excited by now, and couldn’t wait to go in this ‘Wolf Ceremony’, whatever it was. Then Mrs. Carmen showed me a pill that looked a bit strange.

“I will send this to your room right now, and when I see you eat it, I will turn on the video.”

“Then the adventure begins?” I asked with sparkling eyes.

She nodded, somehow sadly, and I could almost see something more in her solemn face. There was a light sound that meant the arrival of the pill. I picked up the small oval-shaped pill from my receiving box, and peered at it carefully. Then, exchanging a glance with Mrs. Carmen, I gulped it down.

At first, I didn’t feel anything. But then the video started to swirl in front of my eyes, so I closed my eyes as dizziness swept into my skull. Then, I felt something soft under my knees, so I opened my eyes. I stared in awe at all the grass and woodland that seemed to go on and on…until I saw someone in the middle, who was, to my surprise, staring at me. I got up, still feeling as if in a dream. I had always thought grass was only in pictures, nonexistent. Howev-er, the grass I felt under my feet was so soft, yet somehow alive. I could also hear something. It was like someone singing, although it was very high, and didn’t seem to have any sort of lyrics in the song. I wanted to stay here and experience this new wonderland, but something told me I should go to that person standing in the middle of the field, so I ran to him. When I was close enough to recognize the appearance of this person, he started to speak.

“I wanted to give something of my past to my grandson. So I took him into the woods, to a quiet spot. Seated at my feet he listened as I told him of the powers that were given to each creature. He moved not a muscle as I explained how the woods had always provided us with food, homes, comfort, and religion.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, until a thought struck me that he was doing a speech.

“He was awed when I related to him how the wolf became our guardian, and when I told him that I would sing the sacred wolf song over him, he was overjoyed. In my song, I appealed to the wolf to come and preside over us while I would perform the wolf ceremony so that the bond between my grandson and the wolf would be lifelong.”

I had no idea what a ‘wolf’ was, until a strange translucent creature appeared in the air, and at once I knew that was the ‘wolf’ this man was talking about. Although, it seemed that the man in front of me couldn’t see it, since he went on with his speech.

“I sang. In my voice was the hope that clings to every heartbeat. I sang. In my words were the powers I inherited from my forefathers. I sang. In my cupped hands lay a spruce seed- the link to creation. I sang. In my eyes sparkled love. I sang. And the song floated on the sun’s rays from tree to tree.”

While he said these words, I could feel the power in his voice, and the sun’s rays truly seemed to bounce gracefully on the trees, sending its warmth to the whole place I was in.

“When I had ended, it was if the whole world listened with us to hear the wolf’s reply. We waited a long time but none came. Again I sang, humbly but as invitingly as I could, until my throat ached and my voice gave out. All of a sudden I realized why no wolves had heard my sacred song.”

At these words, the world I was in seemed to stop altogether. Then with a tremendous sound came a huge machine, destroying the trees, the grass, anything that was in its path. This time, the machine wasn’t translucent, and the man giving the speech stared at it too, with tightly gripped fists, so that I could see his knuckles turn white. I was scared at the sound of destruction, killing the sound of the grass that had been dancing slowly by the wind, ruthlessly stopping the source of the beautiful song I had heard a moment ago. I closed my eyes tightly, wanting to go back to the world I had woken up this morning, but the sound continued further on, until everything was quiet again. When I opened my eyes, the man was still there, but the wonderful place I had been, was gone. Almost all of the surroundings were rocks, with a few trees growing pitifully among them. Then the man went on, once again.

“There were none left! My heart filled with tears. I could no longer give my grandson faith in the past, our past.”

My heart crumbled as I thought of the green, fresh nature I had felt, moments before, and probably which was the past this man talked about.

“At last I could whisper to him: “It is finished!”

When the man said these words, he had tears in his eyes, and I felt something flowing down my face, leaving a wet trail.

“Can I go home now?” He asked, checking his watch to see if he would still be in time to catch his favorite program on TV. I watched him disappear and wept in silence. All is finished!”

With streaming eyes, the man whipped around, and started to go. Then this world start-ed to shake and crumble, and I fell to my knees, also with tears dropping continuously, feeling the agony I knew this man would feel far more bitterly than I. I felt the world swirl once again, and since I was weeping and my eyes were shut, I waited for this journey to end. And I was back.

I opened my eyes, still whimpering, and Mrs. Carmen was looking at me through the TV with sad eyes, also filled with tears. As I started to talk to her about the green nature I nev-er thought existed, and how I longed to feel that again, I heard a smash of a door breaking. I stared at the TV. Through Mrs. Carmen’s door, people with black suits swarmed in. One of them skillfully hit her head with a club, and she fell to the ground, uttering a cry. I screamed as some men came to lift her up. Then a man, who seemed like the commander, looked at me in the eye, and then pushed a button on his portable device. I was still screaming when I thought I had breathed in something odd, and closed my mouth. A wave of dizziness struck me, and I thought of the green nature for the last time, as I collapsed on the floor, and everything went black.

* The speech used in this short story is ‘The Wolf Ceremony’ by Chief Dan George.* This story takes place in a far future when the earth’s environment is destroyed and when there is less oxygen to breathe. Still, the technology is very developed, and teachers are able to teach the students through their TV at home.

P A N20th W

. YungSeo Lee

I am the worker bee working assiduouslyto scrap together the words scattered in your gardenstack them up like playing cards - a card house,one tap,all gone in a second.I like to call my complex little structures poems,watch them crumple with a smile.And if my eyes shine, no, they don’t shine from tears.So call them stars, will you?Second star to the right, and straight on ’til morning.Where all our dreams will come true;we’ll fly -drop with the winds and brush the blue clouds, feelthe pale breeze on our brows.Like I am free I can fly you can’t touch me just try.But I’m not cruel,I’ll give you a hand.Use the magic word,I’ll lift you on my shoulders,show youwhat it means to live.Because right now,I am as strong as the creator and the destroyer,as the sky, as the sea, as the earth,as strong as hate and as strong aslove.So relax.Feel the whispers on your cheeks and -if a tear meets sunlight,I won’t notice,won’t make fun.It’s okay.You can cry now.

Efflor

esce

nce

20th W. Sarah Yoon

Her house was surrounded with cherry blossom trees. And somehow they always blossomed, and scattered their petals, at the same day. The day the petals fell was the unofficial start of the New Year for her. I had known her for seven years, and I didn’t know her reasons. I waited. I believed that one day, she would open her mind and secrets and tell me why her year couldn’t begin with the strike of the clock and fireworks. I wasn’t going to pry. For the seven years I had known her, I had tried to slowly enter her world. After seven years she allowed me to see the gates, iron-barred and locked. I was going to keep on waiting. I couldn’t afford the risk. I had come this far. I held on. The waiting tickled, then itched, then finally ached. I silently stayed by her side, and cel-ebrated her new year with her. I loved her.

One March came. She was brewing her coffee, or morning rain as she wanted me to call it. Maybe it was because I had grown accustomed to it, but her coffee did taste wet and sharp, with a slight tinge of that buzz you get in your nasals when you step into a wintry morning drizzle. I was sitting beside her, on the wooden chair I always sat on. I sipped on my tea and stared out her window without seeing anything. Her kitchen had the best view. When the trees blossomed, from the kitchen you could watch a beautiful field covered with dazzlingly pale pink snow.

Her voice rang out, softly as usual. She was scolding me about drinking dark heat near the end of the year. I never could understand why she didn’t like me drinking tea. I preferred tea in the mornings and she grudgingly accepted it, but she took all the chances she could to persuade me to drop that habit. Her words awoke my attention, and I finally saw the things outside. There on one tree was a single flower, half blossomed. At first, I didn’t think it was unusual. It was March, and flowers were blooming everywhere. Then I realized I was looking at her cherry blossom trees. I was looking at her cherry blossom trees, and only one had started blossoming.

I must have been quiet for some time. She came besides me and looked out-side. I gazed at her, not knowing what to say. She just stood there. I drank my now cold tea and sat, looking at her pale cheek. Always, when her cherry trees started to blossom she organized everything, sent late happy new years to the people who sent cards, and opened all the windows. That was her life, and mine. Now her life was shaken, and she didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t interfere, so I couldn’t do anything. We both stared at the single flower on the single branch on that single tree. A shadow shrouded our view. She turned around, and sent me out of her house.

I watched her cherry trees. The first one to bloom shone with beauty, but the others just didn’t match that majesty. One particular tree refused to flow-er. It was far from her perfect, still end of the year. It was plain, ordinary, and delightfully captivating March blossoms. I watched her. She didn’t do anything. She didn’t let me in, but she did let me speak to her. I talked about my worries for her, how I wanted to see her happy, and very carefully, how I wanted her to come out to the world. I talked about how I wanted to just look at the flowers with her, side by side, how I wanted to know the exact date of h er birthday and prepare some celebrations, and how I wanted to hold her hand and pat her to sleep. She listened and looked at her cherry trees. The one refusing to bloom was dying. Except for the one first to bloom, the rest of them were readying to shower the world in a soft wave of petals. I asked about her year, about how was is supposed to end. She didn’t answer.

March slowly passed. The dying tree blackened and fell. I had to get help in order to move it. The other trees covered her house in pink. That one tree was still, fully blossomed but not dropping a single petal. She didn’t come out of the house, she didn’t do anything. I talked to her, and swallowed hurt and tears with her morning rain. At the last day of March she told me she had to keep her

promise, and her year wasn’t over until the beautiful tree shed its glory. The tree was still.

I did not see her for two months. The tree refused to end her year, and I couldn’t bear it. I missed her, but I kept still. For some reason I had a con-viction that when she came out and started the year, she would open the gates and let me hold her hand. Maybe she would weep in my arms and tell me why she began her year with the flowers. Maybe I could finally get to know her heart, and wipe away her tears. I stayed away. The tree

was still in full bloom.

It was dawn when I heard the soft knocking. I had been awake the whole night. I opened the door without thinking. She was there. My heart skipped a beat. I couldn’t find the words, so I held out my hand. She went into my arms. Her tears soaked my shirt. I opened my mouth and asked her why she had come out. She shook her head, and told me she was going to tell me why she didn’t like me drinking tea. She told me she was going to tell me her birthday. She was going to tell me why she never spoke about her parents. She was going to tell me all the things she should have told me, every single one of them, tomorrow. Today she just wanted to cry by my side. I nodded once and kissed her fore-head. Through the open door I could see her house. The tree shed one petal, then all the flowers rained upon the floating wind. I blinked for a second and the tree, the flowers, and all the grand beauty had disappeared. I smiled and lead her outside. It was a beautiful day, and the roses were start-ing to bloom.

Photo credit 20th W. Soohyun Catherine Chae

Along the Road18th W. Chaewon Lim

Along the roadI walked alonewhile the wind blew coldin a wary moan I was on my ownbut I wasn’t aloneon that dreary stretch of a roadthat cold winter evening Unknown faces passed bylike winds that never come backUnknown, perhaps, foreverto remain only as nameless shadows I’d thought-I’m old enough for this,old enough not to get hurtby footsteps passing by or grim faces that see not. But, no, it still hurt,and the lonely wind pierced memore achingly than ever.I guess I’m still young. Yet I believe in a day,a blessed day,when the sun is warmand the roads shine bright in gold. I believethat in every shadow coldly walking away,there exists a precious memoryof a sunlit road of one beautiful golden day. The wind blows onin a hollow moan,yet again todaythrough the long winter road.

TO.19

th W

. Sh

aron

Sen

ce

Photo credit Antonio F. Stark

Please don’t be disheartened. Things don’t work as you want them to;Change doesn’t come when you want it to,yet it comes when you don’t want it. You would make a plan, praying that it would work.But you would fail anyway, because of an unwanted change. You would try to look at who you are,Yet the figure in the mirror is not what you wanted to see.It is only slightly different from yesterday,but it seems totally distorted. Trust me.None of it is useless or notorious.One day, you will get to know this as well. So,Please don’t be disheartened.

Alice20

th W. Yungseo Lee

Who, are you?Smoke ringS drifting in the breeze;Silt and the Smell of rotting leaveS, and ii face you. the toadStool bleedS red,the moon bareS her many teeth.inch by inch by inch We move

i don’t like you. Who are you?temper flareS and temper SeetheS;i’m not mySelf, you See.and you don’t See, but

i’ve faced WonderS, and Seen horrorS;i am the pioneer, the conquiStador, the valkyrie, all in one.you don’t Scare me.you can’t Scare me. the ShipS roll into the harbor, and

anchorS fall.muShroom cloudS loom overhead;So Who, are you?

Alice

Florence20th W. Stella Kim

The day that the sky was red,I was no longer young.It was sin that I had committed-Sin that had tinged the sky in blood.You see, my friendI saw beauty that day. Oh,Pulchritudo, Belle, Omorfiá, Schönheit!The petals, rich in color yet devoid of depth!The, oh, so frail stem, held uptightNot with strength, but with pride and dignity!The pure sweetness of scent,The way how the petals delicately stack upon each other!How she stands still in her place, incarceratedBy the love of earthBut makes earth crumble down to its knees in front of her!Oh,My sin, my damnation! She was weeping- my queen, my gorgeous.But not tears,No, never would she shed shame.It was stars that she wept,Glistening in the morning sun.Such innocence the light of the stars held-I couldn’t dare try to sweep off such sacred things.As I helplessly stood still in place, awedI realized the sin of beauty,Of being born into the world as a flower.

Everything was peaceful. The sun was about to set, and the evening’s gentle wind made the sweltering summer’s ire calm down for a moment. I glanced at my broth-er Edwin, who was doing completely nothing at all with his translucent love gauge slightly above his left shoulder, its needle hovering at 0. On the rug was Ray B.T., which was our family beagle ever since I could remember, looking intently at me with his big, round eyes as if he needed something awfully bad.

Knowing what that look meant, I took Edwin’s hand and lead him to the front door. Ray leapt from his seat on the rug, leaving one part of the rug squashed as if to indicate his space to everybody, although Edwin and I are just about the only people living in this house. And the only person that has enough love to give away is, sadly, me. I’ve never seen Edwin’s L-G needle go over 5 of the 100 dense markings on the small machinery, and so is our parents, though we hardly get to see them for longer than a minute.

Love Gauge20th W. SoHee Kim

Thinking about this left me somehow drained, but being aware of the continuous nudge from Ray, I opened the door, letting out his super thrilled legs already sprint-ing here and there. I followed him leisurely, knowing that he would bark greetings to our next house’s dog, and also the one on the right, and the one on the other side, and so on.

“C’mon, Edwin! Don’t just stand there like a lifeless statue!”

Edwin gradually lumbers over to me, and I hold his hand. Even though I constantly in-form myself over and over that Edwin’s lack of love is not his fault, I can’t help letting out a sigh as I glimpse at his unmoving needle. We take a thorough walk around our town, thanks to Ray, and when we finally reach home, even Edwin seems worn-out.

After taking a refreshing bath, I feel relieved as I see Edwin’s needle shift slightly clockwise, while Ray flops down on his seat on the rug and immediately starts dozing. I take a seat on the sofa, drawing Edwin next to me, and switch on the TV. Of course, I already know what I will see on TV, but it is a helpful tool to me by making Edwin concentrate on something.

As the TV comes to life, I see the familiar faces of the high-ranking officials helping the poor, providing them food and water, their L-G needles at the end of the mark-ings. The so-called ‘TV show’ goes on for about an hour, while I give up, as usual, on trying to see at least one of the official’s needle budge from 100. The program gradually comes to an end as the cheerful laughter of the officials and the poor fade away. Big, red letters fill up the screen that reminds us every day, sticking on our brains like a gum stuck on a shoe, to ‘LOVE ALWAYS.’

Despite the fact that looking at all the gratifying volunteer work the officials appear to do so frequently has become just a part of my daily life, I couldn’t help questioning myself, “How could the L-G needles of the officials so firmly reaain on 100?” I didn’t realize I had let my thoughts emerge from my lips until I saw Edwin nodding, surpris-ingly looking thoughtful at the moment. On the other hand, Ray just wags his tail left to right, staring at me with a hint of curiousness in his round eyes. “I wonder if the love gauges could be fabricated…” I let my quiet murmur spread out and dissolve into the pitch dark night air.

I awake with a start. Not knowing what had interrupted my sleep, I look around and find Edwin curled up on the sofa next to me, sleeping soundly. As I stumble onto my feet, trying to get a blanket for him, I could catch a faint jingling sound of keys together at the front door. My brain functioned hard to clear my muddled thoughts of sleep, and I was aware of all the blood in my face evaporating as my face went pale.

“Edwin? Edwin, wake up!”

I try my best to lower my voice as I shake Edwin in desperate moves to wake him up, but I could now hear hushed voices of men, which made my voice quaver in fear. Edwin opened his eyes slowly, rubbing sleep out of his eyelids.

“Edwin, there are people at the front door, and I think they also have the right keys to it. I don’t know why, but don’t be scared and let’s just-”

There was a slight ‘click’ sound of a well-matched lock and key, permitting a second of absolute silence. And they were inside the house, about four or five of them, burst-ing through the front door. They looked like cops with their faces concealed inside dark police helmets, but there was an inhumane aura around them, their love gauges strangely darkened, and the needles in it were unmoving, solidly on 0.

Startlingly, there was Ray next to them, and I become afraid that he might be wound-ed by the dark men, now standing in front of me and Edwin. Ray barks at me and Edwin, and I let out a piercing scream as the men start moving toward us. As I scream in terror and panic, one man heads for me with his arms out.

All of a sudden, Edwin is in front of me, biting and kicking the man who was deter-mined to catch me, and I stare, still screaming, at the bewildering sight of my brother so desperate. Suddenly, he whips around, looks at me straight in the eye, and shouts.

“EDEL, RUN!!”

While I stop screaming in shock at hearing my name from him, images of Edwin and me flutter around in my panicking brain, and all the pain I felt because of his absence for love conquers my body. In an instant, I dart out the nearest window, tumbling on the thickets growing next to our house, their sharp branches scraping my arms and legs, allowing them to bleed freely. I feel adrenaline pumping through my veins everywhere, and I think, frantically, on where to take cover.

HOUSE! Somewhere in my brain cried out. I panicked. ‘House? Am I going crazy?’ Then again, I hear an agonizing cry of pain and men’s rushed footsteps from inside the house,. An image flash by my mind, and I sprint for my life, to the back of the house, where a small entry awaits undisturbed. I think for a slight second of how I’d used to enter this door when I was very young, trying to have fun with Edwin by playing hide-and-seek, though he never attempted to seek me at all, which always left me crying in resentment.

Now I dash through that door, closing the exit as softly as I can, with the sound of my heart pounding loudly in my ears. I catch my breath with my hands thrown over my mouth with my shoulders going up and down, trying hard to not let any sound given away. As my breathing return to normal, I look around the cramped space where sticks, seeming like brooms and mops, lay sprawled on the floor.

Memories from my childhood try to rule my head once again, but the sound of a door being roughly banged open brings me back to reality. I think of Edwin, of how he wasn’t even completely awake when the men turned up, of how he shouted at me with his eyes wide to run, and…

I bury my head in my knees as tears flow down my face uncontrollably, my head filled with the vivid scene when Edwin had told me to run. Edwin’s love gauge from that moment widens in my head, and I’m able to see his needle that always remained on the left side, now unbelievably on the right side, near the end of the markings. Hatred for myself engulfs me in fierce waves, and I sob at my selfishness and guilti-ness for Edwin’s sacrifice.

At that time, a familiar sniffing sound at the door interrupts my suffering. I raise my head to let in Ray, relieved that he sounded unharmed, when two sounds immobilizes my body altogether.A throaty laugh passes through the thick mask and speaks,“Good boy, Ray. Good boy.”And a sound of a dog barking dutifully is heard right after.

The sun arose tranquilly the next day, and everything was peaceful.

The Scribbler

20th W. Yungseo Lee

The radio was old, broken down and put together again a thousand times, the front tarnished blue and its antenna sagging. Nonetheless it worked, which was why the owner of the tavern hadn’t replaced it - well, that and the fact that the Blue Moon inn and tavern was located in the greatest desert in all of Fabunta, and so got barely enough customers to stay in business.

The innkeeper, a short man with a full red beard and very little hair, rarely moved from his post behind the tavern bar. His name was Evan and he’d set up shop thir-teen years ago, when the hugely successful merchant had suddenly up and left with his son at the acme of his wealth. For a while the whole country had been ablaze; now Evan Hargreaves was remembered only by old newspapers.

It was in the middle of November when the first customer in two weeks stumbled into the Blue Moon, tall and gray-cloaked. For the last few weeks the radio had been repeating the same message.

“Citizens around the Roon Desert, remember to take caution as the serial killer known as Theodore Lawson Jr. has been spotted in the vicinity. Theodore Lawson Jr., also dubbed ‘The Scribbler’ has murdered four people, destroyed much property including the Headquarters of the National League of Alchemists and the royal pal-ace, and sabotaged two trains heading - ”

It was then that the traveler burst in, his tattered cloak flying behind him and his great big cane banging the door open so forcefully that both Evan and his son, Lionel, jumped. Instinctively, Evan reached for a glass. “Water or coconut juice, sir?”

“No!” The man roared, yanking off his tattered hood. He was swarthy and scarred, forehead crinkled with an abundance of wrinkles that made him look maybe fifty, sixty years old. “You have no time for this! Take the child and leave! He is coming!”

Evan swallowed. “E-excuse me, sir? Are you talking about - ”

“The Scribbler, that’s who I’m talking about! The godforsaken aberration that haunts this desert!” The man’s eyes were wild, the pupils dilated by fear. “That damned thing does not have mercy, innkeeper! They say all he knows to do is to col-lect stories, and to get them, he will do anything! To see all the sights in the world someone has sold his soul to the devil!”

In the next minute, several things happened at once; the radio crackled, died, then came back full volume; Lionel gave a start and tripped over a chair; then the door of the tavern, which had swung shut behind the cloaked traveler, slowly squeaked open.

What stepped into the tavern then was, in Evan’s opinion, a bit sad. It was an artist’s mannequin, perhaps six feet tall and built from honey-colored wood that had

once been beautiful but was now cracked and scratched. Its twisted fingers clutched a fat black pen, and an unimaginably long roll of parchment held in the other. There was a terrible screeching and rasping every time the mannequin’s limbs twitched. One of its legs felt for the ground awkwardly, twisted forward at an unnatural an-gle.

The sound of the radio, muffled by static, went on and on. “The National League of Alchemists has decided that this killer mannequin is a by-product of the unau-thorized experiment that took place twenty-one years ago. The incident, commonly dubbed as ‘the Judgement’, produced eleven point seven million casualties and al-most a million dead.”

The mannequin’s head jerked and turned to face the traveler. The hand twitched. Once, twice, then the mannequin’s arm creaked and bent in towards the body, the shoulders slowly pivoting so that the pen tip rested gently on the parchment. For a while there was only the steady sound of writing. And the tension - it was heavy, a tangible presence demanding a seat in the pub.

Fingers trembling violently, Evan bent over slightly and retrieved his trusty rifle from under the bar counter. Carefully, he took aim. The cloaked traveler noticed it at the last moment, his howl exploding out in the silence.

“No! If he notices you, there is no escape!”

Still shuddering from the impact of the bullets, the mannequin continued record-ing. As the bullets rolled away, Theodore Lawson Jr. shuffled forward, taking one step then another towards Evan.

The innkeeper glanced at Lionel, met the agitated gaze of the traveler with sur-prisingly steady eyes. “Can you take my son to safety?”

The traveler seemed taken aback, but quickly nodded. “I wish you luck, innkeeper. He will never stop following you now.” A shudder ran through his body as he turned away, gesturing for Lionel to follow. “My name is Joshua T. Robles. If you survive, find me at the main headquarters of the Gray Dusk mercenary guild.”

The young boy looked back at his father, hesitant but knowing better than to pro-test. He’d always been a rational boy, Evan thought. Much like himself, much like the young man who fought himself to the top until he realized there wasn’t a lot up there, aside from the stars millions of light-years away.

“Father?”

The innkeeper smiled grimly. “Thank you, Mr. Robles.”

The Scribbler paid no attention to the two slipping out of the back door of the

tavern; instead, he shuffled forward a few more inches towards Evan, only to be knocked back by another volley of bullets.

“Aberration,” muttered the dwarfish innkeeper, reloading his rifle as he watched the creature intently for any signs of hostility. Its hand was still moving mechani-cally, scribbling, and the rolls were coming loose, settling in curls all about the man-nequin. From where he stood, Evan was able to read the words written just a few minutes ago.

“The radio was old, broken down and put together again a thousand times, the front tarnished blue and its antenna sagging,” Evan read, and glanced at the radio beside him. He looked at the mannequin’s face, and swore that the blank face crum-pled for a moment, gave him a grotesque smile.

The man let out a sigh.

“I regret dabbling in alchemy,” Evan Hargreaves said. “I regret everything I did in my youth. Except of course, Alicia. And Lionel. You - you are near the end of your parchment, the parchment that was meant to record my crimes. Are you writing one last story, a story where the repentant villain cannot escape his sins?”

The Scribbler did not - could not - speak. It shuffled a little closer, and again its face twisted.

It scribbled;

one last time.

Photo credit Antonio F. Stark

Alpha Beta18th W. Antonio Stark

§§§§ §§§§

what are you doing?

Dissipated deep, devoid of depth, devoured by devils, have thee, my queen, wept?

an incarcerated insignia, irreverent ideas, insofar as i identify interrogation

imposed inside your intensity...

reflection of raving rage recaptured, reeling in thee the reaper

innocuous innocence integrated

within our entwining souls...

He hoists from hull, hell like hills,

In Again! he hollers,

futile fate, I falter...

bereft by belligerence, bestow, I my blood!

vigilance is inverted! vendetta my vice!

voracious my hunger! wallowing in unstoppable pain!

Go Grieve! Great Gorgeous!

OUR TIME HAS COME! 13 11 7 5 3 2

lustful labor, lucid language let live... lone loiterer left where....?....

love?

My Teenage18th W. Chaewon Lim

It’s been a month since my teenage had ended. I am now 20 in Korean age. Al-though I sometimes argue that I am still 19 in American age, one year difference is in fact insignificant to me (at least until now), and it is often tiresome to have to say twice how old I am. Any how I am now done with “the good times”, as most adults refer to teenage. I can’t sing along the verses of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” with as much expec-tance as I had before, as the lyrics go “young and sweet, only seventeen!”, and I am no longer seventeen. It surprised me greatly when I realized I had already out-aged Liesl and Rolf in the movie “The Sound of Music” with their song “Sixteen going on Seventeen”. However, putting aside these sporadic light shocks and melancholiness, it is a sense of relief and pride that I had become a more mature person that is the most profound when I think back on my teenage. The greatest threat against a successful teenage came when I was a freshman in KMLA. I had been running hard, doing my best in everything, but suddenly I had lost my goal. “What am I doing all this for? Why do I have to work so hard?” These thoughts settled like a dense night fog in my mind, blocking out all the passion and justifying laziness and indolence. Later on when I looked back at this period, I concluded that the loss of zeal had been the result of being worn out(or stressed out) and having lost direction. Like a small flower petal helplessly floating and falling to the ground, pushed by wind the pulled by gravity, I felt like I was losing grip on my own life. I was doing all that I was supposed to do, diligently, in an effort to hide any signs of hardship from friends and teachers as my pride won’t let me be seen as a failure, but my head was often conquered by the lure of this one word, “escape”. I wished to es-cape from school, escape from the person who I was then. After much consideration and procrastination, I did escape; I took a gap year. I returned to school after a year’s rest, replenished with energy and confidence, and I am yet on my way to graduation. What I learned through my disquieting years of teenage was not just the fact that one needs rest every now and then. I had learned that life is not easy, that I must face obstacles and hardships to move on in life. But most importantly, I learned to be patient with myself. There is a song that goes “We are all amateurs in life, as we all face it for the first time.” I can’t be perfect everytime; it’s only natural that I make mistakes. Thus my goal should be to fruitfully use the time and opportunity that I have to overcome the mistakes, not to push myself to be flawless in every way. Time goes on, and I will age. A lot more than teenage awaits me. But like a rose from a cut stem that blooms more beautifully than before, I’ll be waiting for my-self through all hardships to finally hold a blossom of fruitfulness.

Photo credit Antonio F. Stark

Memories of Myself19th W. Sarah Chang

I had been cleaning out the basement. The sleeves got snagged on a loose wire and ripped; I yelped half in sur-prise and half in irritation as I felt the wire digging into my skin. A thin, string-like red line appeared. Taking a step back to loosen the sleeve, I had bumped into the shelf, unbalancing a precariously piled stack of books. A book fell out and slammed onto the floor where just before by head had been. Grumbling about the absolutely wonderful luck I was starting the morning with, I bent to pick the book up – only to be greeted with a face I knew well. A picture of me, laughing, and my head caught in a tight headlock by an equally cheerful boy. I had thought the album had been lost during the recent move. Delight lightened my features as I gingerly touched the photos capturing those years.

He and I attended the same school. Both of us were infamous in our own ways; he as the playboy who had gone through just about every girl there was in the grade and I as the tom-boy who was just about the only girl who hadn’t dated him. Slight exaggeration, but that was us: two notorious figures whose everyday joy was in being chased by angry teachers screaming at our pranks. If the guys wanted a distraction to skip class, we were the ones they turned to.Considering all we’ve done, it’s funny how on recollec-

tion most the staff teachers didn’t hate us. Rather, there’s a few faces I could proudly claim would state we were their favorite students. A little studying certainly didn’t hurt. Ah- how young we were then! The daily chores were to be breezed through in a couple hours. The rest of the day was spent outside in each others’ company. We had been together since we were literally babies and we knew the other as much as we knew ourselves. It was the kind of relationship where the others wondered whether we weren’t secretly twins. We had each others’ backs, sharing joys, heartbreaks, sorrows, and secrets.

I turned the page, entertained by once-forgotten memo-ries. There was me, an impish grin adorning my features as I showed off a gigantic worm I was in the process of stuffing into the boy’s bag – he hated worms, you see. Right after-wards was a picture of him smearing mud on my hair while I

unknowingly slept – I hated having my hair messed with. Then was a short period where I wouldn’t acknowledge his exis-tence and vice versa. We finally made up the good, old-fash-ioned way: a fistfight. I chuckled at the memory, forgetting the stinging itch of the string wire cut.

Then the war had come.Father and brother had been dragged to the front lines.

So had the boy’s father. He and his mother came to live with me and my mother. We hadn’t completely grasped what it meant to ‘be in war’. When the radio cackled that our army had ‘engaged the enemy’, our mothers gasped – we were bored and shuffled out of the house and raced to the creek. Later we both cried as we got spanked for worrying our mothers for disappearing like that. All I could think then was ‘But we’ve disappeared loads of times before’. It was all unfair at the time.

My fingers traced the outer lines of the last photo; one of all four of us huddled together. None of us were smil-ing anymore. Around this time, I had my first real encounter with that horrible existence called ‘Death’. Just days be-fore, a telegram had come, announcing the “noble death” of my brother. He had rushed out to drag a fellow soldier out of the enemy’s range and had died. The fellow soldier had died as well.His body had come home moments before we took the commem-

orating photo of our last childhood naivety. My eyes stung even then as I remembered the stilled breath of the corpse. I had still been young then, but even at that age I realized that the stopped could not start again. Oh, how mother had cried that day. How I had cried!After that day, we never took another photo together. The

boy’s father came back crippled and touched on his head. The entire family moved out. The days that followed were of con-stant terror. Mother grew increasingly weary; she gradually ceased her routines and spent the days sitting in front of the radio, biting her nails both in anticipation of and in horror for any telegram that might enlighten her with news of her husband. Her cheeks hollowed, and though she would feign strength when in my presence, oftentimes she did not

notice my being in the room altogether. I think she fright-ened me more than any “war” did – it felt like the ‘Death’ that had taken brother was taking her away, too. It fright-ened me when Mother’s blank eyes bored into the lit fire, as if she would be sucked in, a perturbing sight that disturbed my own dreams.

Even though years had passed since those disheartening years, I could not help but shiver. In the end, that war had indeed taken everything. News of father’s death came. Almost immediately mother fell ill. Weeks afterwards, I had become one of the many war orphans.Gone were the days when I could strut amidst groups of

friends and holler out random insults into the air. Gone were the days when I could frolic in the meadows after an imaginary horse. Gone were the days when I and the boy could grin at each other and dream out plans so intricate they were immediately put into play. The short films stored in the album brought back memories – thoughts of whom I had been and who I was presently; thoughts of how my life had shaped me; thoughts of the pains and the joys, the meetings and the separations. All those bygones stored inside this tiny, brittle frame.

The ringing jerked me from the pondering. Gingerly clos-ing the aged leather cover, I placed the memories on the dust-ridden tabletop before bounding up the stairs. As I opened the doors, I looked back once. There lay my child-hood, a piece of myself, under a halo of light. Ancient. Welcoming.The phone rang again.

“Coming!”

Yes, You19th W. Yungseo Lee

Photo credit DongHyeok Shin

I know you’re busy, I know;I know that you’re chased with visions of fire,

flames licking at your toes and ice,ice cupping its hands over your mouth.

I know you’re busy, I know;

I know you, the little girl curled up in her bed,who once dreamed of flight until -“You can’t, baby. You just can’t.”

I know you’re busy, I know;

You’re trying to breathe, lungs blue and green,bruises painting your fingers and wrists…

Let me warm them with mine.

I know you’re busy, I know;So I’ll keep this short -

& sweet, because I know you like sugar.Everything is fine, and if it isn’t, it will be soon.

The Heavenly Loan, I Pay Tonight18th W. Antonio Stark

let the virtues sought for eonsAnd the sons granted by twos

Give rise in their spectacular formsTo imginations bound by no laws

For only the heavenly leaves his creations

To the hands of wretched cursed

And still our yearnings preservesThrough these endless wrath

Of all the heavened loans I met

ah you stay with me nowSo fervernt and volatile will your stay be, I know

But right now you are here making the leave worth the pain

A lover’s swoon, the devils laughBut ‘tis a friendship’s bound, no love’s deed

Interlocking gears, our souls let beWe fit together, only for our our mutual liberty

Care not to be, who you are not

Fare and bid well, to fate whose ruth is noneLet it be, in our friendship’s vows

That we be souls, free to converse as we are to part

Give yourself up, to the inner you beneath!Let the hollows roar, and the repressed released

To the stars they’ll soarAnd forever we will be

Lest they’ll be, a shackle to remain...

FenestellaFenestella means a “small window “. We will always strive to keep the small window in our hearts open, to let in the sunlight, the raindrops, the breeze and scent, and to let out to the world our laughters, sighs, tears, and wishes.Fenestella is an English literature club in Kore-an Minjok Leadership Academy. Every month, members produce one piece of writing and post it on the Fenestella website to share thoughts with others. In Fenestella, we connect through writing and find consolation in it.

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