Ver.

Spring 2019

There’s No Escape, Harry - Lily Kim

Christie Choi, Emily Lee, Hannah Jo, Hope Yoon, Janghyun Lee,
Jennifer Kim, Jennifer Minseo Kim, Jeongwoo Lim, Jessica Lim,
Jihyun Lee, John Cha, Joshua Choi, Joy, Julia Choi, Justin Choi,
Lucas Lee, Mae, Michelle Lee, Minseo Kim, Miru Jun, nero viola,
Violet Hyun, Wandering Kosmonaut
Phoenix Word
since 2018

Korea International School

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 Poets Authors
Christie Choi Jennifer Kim
Cindy Ting Sun Joshua Choi
Emily Lee Justin Choi
Hannah Jo Lucas Lee
Hope Yoon Minseo Kim
Janghyun Lee Miru Jun
Jennifer Minseo Kim
Jeongwoo Lim ToonDay Artists
Jessica Lim Jihyun Lee
John Cha Wandering Kosmonaut
Julia Choi Mae
Michelle Lee Joy
Violet Hyun nero viola
Artists
Lily Kim
Agnes Jung
Annelise Lee

Layout/Graphic Designer . . . . . . . . Miru Jun

Calligrapher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sungjai Lee
Chief Editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Miru Jun
Editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Grace Yewon Lee
Special Thanks To . . .
Mr. John Collings Ms. Ammie Kellar
Ms. Meaghan Odell Mr. Daniel Kilback
Ms. Denise Brohm Mr. Mark McElroy
Ms. Samantha Degen Mr. Mark Scharen
Ms. JooKyung Ahn
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 igh
School

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Editor’s Letter
The idea was first offered by my Creative Writing club advisor, Mr.
Collings. Could we possibly put together KIS’s first literary magazine? I
said, “Sure.” So we began. It was our mission through this magazine to
encourage writing, publish a variety of student works, and distribute the
magazine so that other students may become inspired.

Like all untravelled roads, I recall the journey to the first edition of
Phoenix Word as one of chaos and toil. But by the end, we had learned
a great deal and achieved all of our goals. The first edition included
poems, short stories, artworks, and calligraphy from clubs and classes
in high school. The second Phoenix Word now takes it a step further to
include illustrations and works from middle school students. Through
this edition, we strive to represent the whole of KIS.

We as students came together with the singular passion to do what we

love best and teachers patiently helped us to make it happen.

There is much room for improvement, but in the meanwhile, enjoy.

Chief Editor,
Miru Jun

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7
 Wooden Humans - Agnes Jung
Poems
Bookwords Emily Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

The American Dvream Deferred Hannah Jo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

Wick(ed) Hope Yoon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Runaway Jeongwoo Lim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

They lie Jessica Lim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Agony John Cha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14

Fly High Julia Choi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

Ten Wooden Wrinkles Michelle Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

A Plane Crash Killing Everyone on Board Violet Hyun . . . . . . . 18

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 Bookwords

Emily Lee
Emily was born in Minnesota but quickly moved down south to Texas
where she initially gained experience with writing poetry and fictional
stories. She spent most of her life in Texas before leaving for South Korea.
Here, her ardent passion for writing rose even further. Emily not only
invigorated and improved her writing skills while taking creative writing
classes but also made sure to keep her writings honest and distinct. Over-
all, her many poems show diligence and thoroughness.

I appreciate words - I feel no curiosity with words.

particularly those strung tightly Stationary decor.
together They’re simply
like a spider’s handiwork. just there.

Relaxed harmony -
Subtle confusion -
Adoration.
Aversion.

These words These words

forge an unforgettable, are barren
fair world. and blur into the background.

I understand fully
I don’t quite understand -
every profound line and letter.
I’d rather waste time and count syllables.

My favorite part is
I wish there was more undoubtedly: the end.
to the story I hold.
Never again -
Again, I extract these words from my head.
I read these words once more. Who reads for fun?
Repeat and loop.

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 The American Dream Deferred

Hannah Jo
Hannah Jo considers writing to be one of the few ways to appeal to hu-
man emotion and to understand one another. Despite her heavily casual
writing experience and her countless amount of hobbies, reading and
writing have always remained her constants.

generations of lowered eyes and suppressed screams

casted over with the tales of ostensible prosperity

and rosy attainments

while hope only seems to loosen its feeble grasp of the sides of the thundering railroad train

and now its fingers are bruised from the metal grip; the blood oozing between the raw remnants

of skin

painting the hemorrhaging sky dioramas placed above our heads

propelled by the desires of the Homosapien

of financial stability, abundant opportunities and untouched liberty

but still living decades under the guise of the romanticized terms:

democracy, opportunity, and equality

the fine print of the American Dream.

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 Wicked

Hope Yoon
Jisoo Hope Yoon has been writing poetry, prose fiction, and drama on and
off since middle school; it gives her a way to cement those drifty thoughts
that would otherwise be lost forever. She now blogs and publishes her
work online through her website, jisoohopeyoon.com. She also performs
spoken word poetry at a monthly venue in Seoul, Wordsmiths. She is cur-
rently editing her first novel, Shingiru. It’ll most likely never see the light
of day, but it’s been an enjoyable and meaningful project nevertheless.

It seemed a more definite way out.
The clarity of disaster is more satisfy-
ing
Than rambling goodness, and all that
Bureaucracy.
There’s a reason people return to
Poison, and I’d rather be a full
Wreck than a half anything.
I wished for pomegranate flames,
And I got them, faint smile briefly
Illuminated. Hair burns.
Unlike everything that chooses to die
Without ceremonial elegance,
To singe and not combust.
I’ve always loved the burnt parts of
food.
I take an attraction to scraps.
So when I burnt my locks off,
I didn’t think of throwing them out
Or trimming the ends.
The thoughts came
Late: what will people say?
Who will think me insane?
How many will turn their shifting
backs on me?
And I thought, no, no,
I’m leaving that with the ashes.
I’ll leave even you with the ashes.
If people come by to pay their
Stiff respects and jaded sympathies,
To point and say “look, poor girl set
Fire to her own hair,”
I can spit back and say don’t you
know,
I won’t die without a flame. I’d take
this
Over your watered-down blood
And your poor hollow bones.
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 Runaway

Jeongwoo Lim
My name is Jeongwoo Lim and I have a lot of interest in Human Rights
Issues, more specifically refugee rights. I enjoy researching and put-
ting myself into the shoes of those that face struggles in the part of the
world that I will never be able to reach. This poem shows the horrifying
experience of a young boy who is in the middle of a war, all alone and
traumatized.

Wind whooshed through my ears

Clamp, Clamp, my feet unable to stop
With closed eyes, I run where my heart longs to go.

Clamp, Clamp, Crack, the only sounds I hear.

More than anything I know I should stop.
But more than anything I do not want to stop!

“Looking down will make me stop”

“Looking down will make tears drop”
With closed eyes, I run where my heart longs to go.

Run, Run, Run my brain seemed to say

Stop, Stop, Stop my heart seemed to say
Yet again, I listened to my heart.

I tried not to look down

I looked up and around,
My school, my neighborhood, my life all shattered into turmoil

I tried not to look down.

Yet, I did.
My friends, my neighbors, my family all shattered under my bloody, red sneakers.
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 They lie

they live in the land of darkness

and they say they are happy
they say they are satisfied
they say they are free
but do you know
these are lies
they lie because they are unhappy
they lie because they are not satisfied
they lie because they are not free
they lie because lying helps them forget
at least
for a while
about who they are
Jessica Lim
My name is Jessica Lim and I’m a
freshman. I love reading because
every book is different, and every
book I read gives me different kinds of
inspiration. I started to write my own
stories and I think reading helped me
write well because the more I read,
the more thinking I did and I could
use that creativity to write. My poem
is about refugees and I wrote this be-
cause I’m in North Korean Issues club
and I strongly believe that refugees are
something people should really care
about and reach out to help.

help us
save us
we are scared
we need help
please
we want to be free

help us flee
so we are no longer a refugee

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 Agony

As our president drops crocodile tears

from her eyes,
And begs for the peoples’ forgiveness,
We know it wasn’t meant for us.
Something that has not been resolved yet,
Something telling us that it’s not over.
A burst of anger quickly pumps blood,
But we quiver in rage.
A recall of the past, John Cha
The nightmare, causing tremors through- Comfort Women is such an important
out our entire body, and essential issue that has been ne-
With the pain that is unimaginable. glected, belittled, or even embellished
in other nations outside our country.
Such horrific days are gone, This is something that I’ve been
passionate about for the past couple of
But a recall of the past years, and I believe it is very important
Brings us back to those agonizing memo- to spread awareness to care and sup-
ries. port the unfortunate victims.

One day,
We will flap our wings like butterflies and
free ourselves from
The nightmares,
But until then,
We still demand of an apology.
Not death, nor money,
But a simple word that’ll calm our hearts
and minds.
We still breathe,
As a living evidence
Even if you wait every day for each and all
of us victims
to die,
Our names will be spread out
throughout the world.
Spreading so truthfully that your bitter
lies won’t work
anymore.
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 Fly High

It all seemed so far in the past

The last time they were together.
He was lying down with his knees
Propped against her tiny chest as he
Flew her through the air. And he sang:
“You’re up now, soar, little plane
Fly up in the air
But don’t you go too far.
I’ll be here waiting for you
To return home again.”
Ten years later, she’s up on her feet
Dancing with her friends
And her boyfriend’s so sweet.
But when her old man tries to kiss her on
the cheek,
She turns away with a stare that’s bleak.
The days and years blur away too quick
Her friends had left for other goals in mind,
Julia Choi
Yun Jin (Julia) Choi is a sophomore
who believes that the small things in
life are what matter the most, which
shows through in her most recent pub-
lication of “Fly High” in the Phoenix
Word. Though other subjects continue
to draw her attention, literature
remains the sole basis of what her pas-
sions stand for. It is through words that
Julia’s feelings, thoughts, and actions
can be expressed and brought to life.

She’d broken up long ago.

One day she’s standing at the podium
Pomp and Circumstance starts to fade away
But just as she starts to feel alone
A familiar tune begins to play:
“You’re up now, soar, little plane
Fly up in the air
But don’t you go too far.
I’ll be here waiting for you
To return home again.”
Choking back tears, dad and daughter
Hold each other in their arms.
The day never looked so much brighter
Or clearer when they take a ride back
Home.

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 Ten Wooden Wrinkles

Michelle Lee
Michelle is a Freshman at KIS that enjoys all genres of writing. She mostly
writes Poetry and short stories, but occasionally writes Historical fiction,
journalist articles, and more formulaic writing when necessary. She likes
to sleep a lot, but she doesn’t really get around to it.

Take into the unruly lines,

index finger sweating with a one, two, and three,
three—diminishing into half the length of the other,
total of the whole of each other.

Rubbing the vague indents with—

thumb, one—thumb right,
thumb lined,
thinking of she, she, the one with
the grey-toned hair,
sunken, mischievous eyes and—
a feigned, loving smile.

Thinking of the hate,

the taste of hate on tasteless tongue,
fighting against the pain
struggling against the sharp lines, in so dull a heart,
the pride...
—the pride,
how it suffocates you.

See the other who loves the she,

for she is his mother.
Hating the she, but loving the other,
how cruel is this
for the other is your father—
you cry, and scream, for you hate the she so very much,
yet he tells you to love her, as his daughter...
As her granddaughter...

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“Loving” the complicated stranger,
the she
whom you despise, who takes into the ten wrinkles
that form upon your father’s brow as his fingers scramble for
the pills—
you scoff silently,
What good will those pills do?
For the she has the disease
the disease that makes you forget who you are,
that in it’s terrifying simplicity,
makes life all the more complicated
But your father gives her the pills anyway,
sighing as he does so.
Four,
five,
six...
you count them, rubbing them with your ring finger,
seven, eight, nine,
she is so pitiful—cannot control her urine,
buying diapers for her,
wanting not to become like her, for she is so childlike,
disgusting...
If only he hated her too.
Tasting the blood that rises up from your heart,
bearing the scars of pride
on hidden flesh.
Ten...
Ten wooden wrinkles, petrified into your father,
your mother,
grandmother.
The pain that is caused by the she,
the she who bears the brunt
of (the
disease)
that (makes you forget who you are)...
Rub the wrinkles upon their skin,
so sharp and old—draw blood from your thumb.
Taste the hate in silent throes,
suffocate for them,
(and hide...)
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 A Plane Crash Killing Everyone on Board

Violet Hyun
Violet Hyun is a Sophomore studying at Korea International School.
Working as a student reporter of Herald Insight for two years, she has
written about her own life experiences and events. Video editing is one of
her favorite pastimes; though she is an amateur editor, she cherishes un-
forgettable memories by capturing and rendering the highlight moments
of her life into videos. Violet is also a passionate volleyball and viola
player, fully showing her potentials in various fields. She plans to keep
writing for the rest of her high school career about her school life, family,

Overslept, missed my long-awaited flight,

The sunlight’s shadow shades my hope and dream.
Mr. Netflix, why have you come last night?
Regretful day; Misfortune ruined my scheme.

I’m lost in a nearly noxious nightmare,

Hotels, attractions, Broadway flew away,
Thousand hours I’ve awaited gone nowhere.
Believe it or not—what a pleasant day!

Crawling back to bed but something’s not right.

Cell-phone rings loudly, cannot be ignored.
A siren wails, Breaking News on website
—A Plane Crash Killing Everyone on Board!

That’s supposed to be my flight on its way;

Oh, what a terribly regretful day!
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 Table of Contents

City Sunset - Annelise Lee

Short Stories
Black Towel Time Jennifer Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

The Boneheads Justin Choi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

Blotting Out A Star Lucas Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

The School Bus Frequenter Miru Jun . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

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 Black Towel Time

PHOTO

Jennifer Kim
Currently enrolled as a junior at Korea International School, I first joined
the Creative Writing club merely due to my slight interest in writing. In club,
when time was given with no particular prompt, I began to reflect more
upon how certain behaviors, events, or conflicts had changed and shaped
the person I am today. Although not always some science-fiction or comedy
genre, my writing pieces often awaken me—sometimes granting the oppor-
tunity to view an event from a different lens.

“You okay, Jennifer?”

“Uh, yeah...I guess I am.”
The entire world swirls around me—everything is a blur. ​It’s okay,
Jennifer. You’re okay. You’ll be fine, just learn to trust in yourself. ​Hands shiv-
er. Sweat drops twinkle down. The first tear breaks out—the next moment, a
stream of tears rushes down my cheeks. A strange emotion creeps on me—but
no, it wasn’t pain. Sorrow? Discomfort? Fear? Yes, it has to be fear. You know
you’re a strong girl, remember? Daddy always told you so.
Peeking below the gray wall, a line of Adidas and Nike slippers await—
some tapping in impatience, others soaking in sweat. The yellow spotlight
dims on me. ​Knock. Knock, knock. Illusory knocks swing from ear to ear, girls
chuckling. ​They’re not laughing at you, don’t worry.
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 “Ugh, why is she taking forever?”
“Well obviously, she’s taking a dump. Give her the time.”
The pendulum swings to and fro incessantly. T
​ ick. Tock. Tick. Tock. ​All
I have to do is push stronger—with more power. ​Phew. I got this.
Carefully placing my middle finger and thumb on the plastic, I insert
the plastic piece in me. The cotton slips through as my fingers slowly let go. ​
Ow.​My finger delves deeper, wrestling the pain. Blood rushing. Heart racing.
Lips pursed. Eyes rested. ​Relax, and keep pushing. Push, push, push.​​Gulp.​The
wet plastic cover falls on my palm. ​Thud.​A string sways back and forth right
before my two eyes. W
​ hy had I made such a big fuss over this?

Pills? Plastic cups? Cotton? There had to be a solution. Some demand-
ed to swallow pills, asserting I wouldn’t have to deal with the pain. Others
warned me that these small plastic cups—more like funnels—were the best
of all solutions. The more I scrolled down the screen covered with black and
white, the more I was bewildered.
A red spot flickered next to the Facebook page. Someone had messaged me:
Yonje Rhee, the Poseidon of our team.
“Hey! If you need help, I can teach you how to use tampons. Or watch
some YouTube videos, they help sometimes.”
Her voice echoed in my ears. T
​ ampons? They sounded familiar. ​Sweat
drizzled down. Plucking a tissue from a box, I googled “tampons,” and I was
faced with millions of images and videos—in every single one appeared a
round plastic attached to a plastic stick. ​Click.​A woman, seemingly a scientist
standing in a laboratory, pushed the thin stick, unveiling a long ball of cotton.

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 “Ugh, why is she taking forever?”
“Well obviously, she’s taking a dump. Give her the time.”
The pendulum swings to and fro incessantly. ​Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. A
​ ll
I have to do is push stronger—with more power. ​Phew. I got this.
Carefully placing my middle finger and thumb on the plastic, I insert
the plastic piece in me. The cotton slips through as my fingers slowly let go. ​
Ow.​My finger delves deeper, wrestling the pain. Blood rushing. Heart racing.
Lips pursed. Eyes rested. ​Relax, and keep pushing. Push, push, push.​​Gulp.​ The
wet plastic cover falls on my palm. ​Thud.​A string sways back and forth right
before my two eyes. W
​ hy had I made such a big fuss over this?

Pills? Plastic cups? Cotton? There had to be a solution. Some demand-
ed to swallow pills, asserting I wouldn’t have to deal with the pain. Others
warned me that these small plastic cups—more like funnels—were the best
of all solutions. The more I scrolled down the screen covered with black and
white, the more I was bewildered.
A red spot flickered next to the Facebook page. Someone had messaged me:
Yonje Rhee, the Poseidon of our team.
“Hey! If you need help, I can teach you how to use tampons. Or watch
some YouTube videos, they help sometimes.”
Her voice echoed in my ears. ​Tampons? They sounded familiar. ​Sweat
drizzled down. Plucking a tissue from a box, I googled “tampons,” and I was
faced with millions of images and videos—in every single one appeared a
round plastic attached to a plastic stick. ​Click.​A woman, seemingly a scientist
standing in a laboratory, pushed the thin stick, unveiling a long ball of cotton.

22
She then thrusted another plastic into a hole, shoved the stick, and ​ta-da!​ the
cotton was fixed inside with a string dangling on the outside. When she tugged
the short piece, the entire cotton ball smoothly slid out. How simple.

“Mom!”
“Yes darling, what’s the matter?”
“Do you know...how to use a tampon?”
“Tampons? Oh no, they were the worst of my fears.”
Worst of her fears. The idea was insane. The mother of two high
schoolers. The high-ranked business woman. The wife of an investment
company CEO. The owner of buildings. The woman running over all possi-
ble obstacles had called my mission, impossible. There’s always a reason for a
warning. Never. Never would I force the long ball of cotton in me. Mom said
no—no was the answer.

Feet skid across the white square tiles. Girls cuddling as though they
hadn’t met in years when they had met the day before, and the day before that.
Boys hustled to push through the endless line of students, waiting to fill their
trays. Without a single second of hesitance, a sprint to our “designated” gray
table. ​Thump.​The bag helplessly laid on the edge.
“Jennifer! Rachel! Over here!”
Holding hands, we breathlessly followed the voice to arrive at the front
of the line. “Girls, what do we do? We have swimming unit in PE now. Some-
one told me the teachers pressure us into using tampons.”
“Tampons? I heard you could lose your virginity using those plastic

23
things.”
“Yeah, me too. Apparently, your boyfriend will think you had a lot of
sex if you use those.”
“Maybe they’ll think the girl is a player.”
Lose my virginity? Become a prostitute? My eyes raced around the
cafeteria, searching for a place to settle. P
​ lease don’t ask me. Please.
“Isn’t Jennifer a swimmer? What do you do?”
“Right, right. You must’ve been taught about it.”
All I had to say was the single statement I had practiced all along. No
experience. No sexual intercourse with any boy whatsoever. No interest. No
porn. Be honest. A freshman who hoped to remain untainted during her high
school career.
“I don’t know,” I blurted. ​Oops. Sounded stupid again.
“Nothing at all?”
“Nope.”
Could’ve whined. Maybe even should’ve whined. Like the other girls,
blending in the crowd. Another girl—not too special—petrified by a long
round plastic stick.

Dry throat. ​Cough​. Water poured. Another empty bottle. ​Beep.​ Anoth-
er whistle. There was no warm clot constantly dripping. Nothing to bother me,
nothing to stop me. This was the moment to enjoy before the cycle returned
like a haunting nightmare. The swim was worth the fatigue. Feet push off, arms
tight, fingers locked. ​Like a torpedo​. We kicked and flipped, slowly crossing off
every set on the board. The most strenuous exercise, and yet the most appeas-

24
 The Boneheads

PHOTO

Justin Choi
Justin Choi is the writer of a full-length screenplay and the KIS production Liz and
Co. (both miracles), as well as several unfinished ramblings that are the children
of boredom and loneliness. He hopes that one day he can give those pieces proper
closures – or burials. Currently, he’s working on his second screenplay, which will
feature humanoids invading a high school. It’s better than it sounds.

The day The Boneheads were prematurely named the best indie band
of the decade was also their demise. Things worked out at first. Their debut
album, a medley of pop-rock anthems, sold a million copies, spoke to an
“entire generation,” and featured an “intricate use of organic harmonies”– or so
the critics said. Their second album was bleaker, more introspective. For some
reason, however, it was an even bigger success; one in three homes in America
now had a Boneheads record. They seemed unstoppable, and rightfully so.
That is, until the third album rolled around. What happened? Did fame
get to their heads? Was it because their guitarist, Jimmy Savage, allegedly van-
dalized an ice cream truck by spray-painting ‘Santa ain’t real!’ on it? Nobody
knew, nobody including everybody who ​had​ to weigh in on this pressing issue.
By the time the storm ended, ​Idioteque​ sold a mere 23,000 copies.

25
 That’s why when Gary Silverman, the legendary, elusive frontman,
stumbled down 5th Avenue while chugging a bottle of whisky as if every sip
was his last, he was ignored. He wore a limited edition t-shirt of his own band
and a cheap pair of aviators and looked pathetic even from afar.
He eventually staggered into some off-kilter, seedy bar, one that feels
like it’s being renovated for many, many years. His eyes darted back and forth
before they rested on a man who seemed to be appraising his martini glass.
“Hey!” shouted Gary. “Marcus? Is that you?”
The man put down his glass and turned around. His hair was astonish-
ingly auburn and perched only on the back side of his head, slightly elevated,
resembling a bird’s nest. The wool of his giant coat grasped his neck so tightly,
you’d think no words ever come out from it. Nevertheless, he spoke with the
clarity of a news anchor.
“That would be me. And you ar– goodness! Gary?! What are you doing
in this part of town?” Gary swooped in and plopped onto a stool left of Marcus.
“Oh, just part of my Saturday evening routine,” said Gary. “You?”
“... Something’s up, isn’t there?”
“‘Scuse me?”
“C’mon, you’d never come to a crappy place like this.” Gary looked at
the bartender. “No offense.”
“You wouldn’t either. Which is why I asked why you were here, and I
think! My question hasn’t been answered.”
Marcus sighed and handed his empty glass to the bartender. Gary
offered his bottle of whisky. When Marcus refused, Gary shrugged and drank
away.

26
 “You might not even remember this conversation,” remarked Marcus,
“But okay – I’m frustrated, just like you are. That’s why I came to a place that
reminded me of when I was younger, when things weren’t so darn complicat-
ed.”
“You used to hang out in a bar like this?”
“Yes, well, like I said, things were different.”
“I thought you were just a stuck-up critic.”
Marcus gestured for Gary’s whisky, received it, and took a modest sip.
About a quarter of whisky remained in the bottle.
“How about a stuck-up critic with a nostalgia for the cheap and
damned?” Marcus chuckled.
Gary erupted into laughter; Marcus joined in. But not before long, the
sobering realization of Gary’s despair gradually filled him, transforming his
hearty grin into a mouth agape, gasping for fresh air.
“Oh yeah...” Gary hiccuped. “I’ve been wanting you to talk about some-
thing.”
Marcus was still laughing. “Yes?”
“That uh, that article where you mentioned that we were the band of
the decade. I... want you to take it down. As soon as possible, really.”
This fueled Marcus’s stream of laughter. “What? And I thought I was
doing a favor to you and the boys! Surely you don’t want my review of your
third album removed instead?”
“I remember you not liking that album.”
“Oh, well, I didn’t hate it.”
Gary paused for a moment. “For a friend, yeah?”

27
 Marcus chugged that quarter-whisky down, wiped his face, then leaned
towards his friend, who had found air by now, but was still suffocating.
“See, this is why I’ve been frustrated. That third album really jimmied
your insides; for God’s sake everyone can tell and I’m worried. So can you tell
me what’s wrong?”
“Told you. That band-of-the-decade thing. Load of bull. I found out,
recently, that I really have no idea what I’m doing. I just wanted to play music,
maybe grab some chicks. Who knows. But voice of a generation? Pfffffft.”
“You’re a brilliant musician, Gary. You simply need to g–”
“N-n-n-n-no. That’s not the point. Like, I don’t even sing about what I
want to sing.”
“Well, then ​what​do you want to sing about?”
Gary pointed his finger at the incoming moonlight and followed its
oscillations.
“Moonlight. Daylight. Stars. Dandelions? But only during May, when
they turn white and float away, y’know...”
Marcus gave Gary a strong pat on the back.
“Good! Then what’s holding you back?”
“The people won’t like it, they simply won’t... the people...”
Suddenly, Gary got up and threw the bottle of whisky on the floor. The
shattered pieces raced around the room then clattered to the floor, the blood-
like drops of whisky complementing the glass – some inexplicable crime scene
where one’s conscience is the culprit.
“Jesus Christ!” Marcus exclaimed.
Gary stood there, observing the mess with the icy indifference of a

28
cynical detective.
“I gotta go.” Gary said.
Marcus stood up and took out his wallet. “I’ll take you home then.”
“No, it’s fine. A little buzzed, that’s all. I know where to go.”
“Gary...”
“It’s all good.”
Marcus said no more; how could he? There was such ferocity in Gary’s
fickleness that disrupting it might have set the world ablaze.

Of course, Gary didn’t know anything about his inevitable destination;

he kept walking, then waltzing, then tripping up on his own steps until he
found himself in the poorer part of town. Any sensible person would have been
repulsed, but to the Gary, it felt like paradise. Illuminated by crude fluorescent
lights, the barren insides of these homes, lacking both the material and the
spiritual, seemed to beckon him towards a return to unpretentious, humble
beginnings...
Then, out of nowhere, a young boy appeared in front of him with
gleaming eyes, bringing Gary back to reality.
“Huh?” Gary looked down. “Oh. What, want something?”
The boy started hopping up and down. “Ohmygod! You’re Gary Silver-
man. Right, right?”
“Yep, that’s me. Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?”
“I love everything you do!”
“Really?” Gary snickered. “Even my third album?”
“That’s my favorite! Everything’s so different, crazy, and –”
Off this rare compliment, Gary frowned, much to the dismay of the

29
boy.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you didn’t like that one either,” said the boy.
“Yeah, you shouldn’t be amazed by that. But instead –”
“Instead...?”
Gary took off his sunglasses and squatted, matching the boy’s eye level.
“Look around you. The city. Nature. Dandelions. Everything. It’s the
one thing I didn’t do. Some words for you to live by, yeah?”
The boy nodded as if this was some great revelation. He was so enam-
ored by this simple manifesto, in fact, that he didn’t notice his idol walk past
him and enter the darkness beyond.

After that night, the Boneheads’ frontman disappeared – no, evaporat-

ed, as the press described it – from the universe. And again, everybody spec-
ulated. Affairs. Creative differences. Something about Satan. They did get one
thing right though, thanks to a zealous reporter barging into the house of the
young boy who last saw Gary Silverman and extracting his final word: dandeli-
ons. Debates ensued on whether this was some profound philosophical state-
ment about how our beautiful lives eventually get blown away by adversity or
rather the random musing of a drunkard, but in the end, none of it mattered.
People forgot about Gary, then about the Boneheads. Life moved on as usual;
the seedy bar still continued to renovate itself; and the poorer part of town
remained poor.
Only Marcus stayed shut. He once sat down at his home office to write
an article about his encounter with Gary, but he stopped once the whisky dried
up, because what did he know? He ​was​ a stuck-up critic, after all.

30
 Blotting Out A Star

PHOTO

Lucas Lee
Kind of dull.

History will record him to be the next Adolf Hitler, the next Josef
Stalin, the next Pol Pot. History will record him to be the worst slaughterer of
slaughterers, the worst dictator of dictators, the worst madman of madmen.
That is the man he will grow up to be.
That is why I must kill the boy silently sleeping in front of me.
That is why I must kill my son silently sleeping in front of me.
***
[Two hours ago]
The hums of frenzied machines here barely muffle the screams of my
men outside the bunker. The dreaded moment has come. The hunters have
come for their prey.
Today is January 2nd, 2085. The fourth anniversary of t​ he Revolution​.
“Ivan, get it running properly. ​Now. W
​ e have company.”
“Look, boss, I’m trying to configure everything together. Final touches.
Just wait eight minutes, no, nine. Give me nine minutes, boss.”
31
 “Ivan, we​ don’t h​ave the time.​​Opening that gate is our last hope. The
last hope for humanity itself.”
“I know”, he replied.
They’re getting closer. The smell of smoke pervades the air. The stench
of burnt flesh even more. We don’t have the time. ​They​ are right outside the
lone steel door that separates us from fleeting life and imminent death. ​He’s ​
right outside.
Eight minutes.
“Hey pops, care to let your good little son in?”
“Curse you, Sirius. I wouldn’t let myself die at the hands of some Oedi-
pus Rex.”
“Back at you, ​dad.​ ”
Silence.
The silence is disquieting, but one would know what’d happen next.
“Pops, you ​better l​et me in without a fuss. I’d hate to burst through that
door like the big, bad wolf with the pigs. You know, that story you’d always tell
me when I was a kid.”
“Go die.”
“Oh, you wish”, he scoffs.
Seven minutes.
I grab my pistol out of my holster. I turn the safety off. I cock the gun
straight at the door.
​Silence.
Boom.
The door flies several meters back.
We’re out of hope.
32
​ Troops, clad in black kevlar, nightmarish gas masks, and automatic
rifles flood the room.
Clang.
My pistol’s already on the ground, steaming from the plugged magne-
sium. I’d expect no less from my son’s finest lackeys, the Imperial Guard.
My men in the hideout shoot at the Guard, ​whom​fall to the ambush of
blaring machine guns. But it’s to no avail, ​he ​shoots them all.
Six minutes.

The bastard, wearing a devilish grin, struts into our lair, ensnared in
miles of cobweb and covered in a thick fog of dust, looking as if he’s congrat-
ulating himself a job well done for shooting down my men. He’s in his cele-
bratory uniform, adorned in a flashy epaulet and dozens of medals that look
more like a plate of armor than anything else, holding a silver pistol that killed
hundreds if not thousands of innocents. His eyes wander until he found me.
“Your son Sirius has come to visit you, father”, he says as he gives a curt
bow.
“I can’t see any son of mine here”, I retort.
Five minutes.
“You killed your mother, Sirius. There’s no damn way I’d ever consider
you my son again, not for what you’ve done.”
“Mom, Jeanne, ​she,​was an unfortunate casualty. Change requires loss,
and she was just another loss.”
“Sirius, when I go back in time. I’d better teach your younger self some
goddamn manners first.”

33
 “You wouldn’t dare. That rusty old portal? There’s no way it’d work. You
lost, old man.”
He points the pistol at Ivan and presses the trigger.
Bang.
The sound echoes throughout the bunker. Ivan slumps to the ground,
crimson red blood seeping from his wounded torso.
Four minutes.
He drops his pistol down on the cold, hard concrete. He sneers.
“Well, your assistant there’s dead. Guess your last hope’s all but gone
now.”
I stare right at him. The boy that I was so proud of. The boy that was
my son.
The boy that deserves to die.
He and I both raise our fists in unison. We both know what’ll happen
next.
Three minutes.
​ He strikes first, landing a punch right on my abdomen. I groan and
retaliate with a kick right down his spine. He curses in agony as he falls down,
only to get back up. He unleashes a flurry of punches, I vomit. I eye his pistol.
He barrages me with fighting techniques he must’ve used to kill people with,
his father added to the headcount.
Two minutes.
One minute.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. His cold, unfeeling eyes with his piercing
gaze look down at me in scorn.
But I know I’ve won.

34
 “You lose, old man.”
“We’ll see about that.”
I lunge for his pistol and aim it straight for his heart. One bullet in the
chamber, locked and loaded. I hold my finger on the trigger. I try to pull, but
my heart wouldn’t let me.
The portal opened.
I am slowly sucked in. I grin. I couldn’t kill him here, but I’m granted another
chance.
Sirius desperately ​grabs​at the controls for the portal, knowing what would
happen.
“WORK, YOU MACHINE.”
He ​snarls a​ t me, knowing that his fate ​is​all but in my hands. As he curses at me
fading away into the gate, I know what would have to come next.
Your day of reckoning begins now, Sirius. I swear by my life.
***
I wake up to a vaguely familiar setting, yet recognize it at once: my
home. I hoist myself up for the ground where I’ve landed from the gate, I’m
right outside the front lawn of my old ​house,​before it burned down from that
man’s orders. As a precaution, I place his gun under my belt, knowing the task
I’m here to do.
The dimly lit setting reminds me of the past, when fireflies would
fly around our home, when the neighborhood dog would cheerfully prance
around the fence, when Sirius would wait excitedly for the barbeque outside to
finish cooking. It all comes back to me now, and it is a moment I must erase.
I’ve arrived. Ivan really did it. I hoist myself up from the ground where
I’ve landed from the gate. I’ve woken up to a vaguely familiar setting, but I

35
notice it right away: the town I used to live in. The sign that greets all passersby
and residents greets me all the same: “Welcome to the Town of Stars”.
My eyes water. Sirius, his name means “the brightest star”. Tonight, a
star will fall from the sky. Tonight, I will be blotting out a star from my life.
***
“Today” is January 2nd, 2061. Sirius’s fifth birthday. I walk in a daze,
looking at the dimly lit lamp post that used to illuminate the sidewalk next to
my old home. I remember so much that I had lost. I remember so much that I
have to forget.
The past me would not care about the small things in life, but I do. The
old birch tree on the yard smells fresh, the bushes are trimmed neatly. I miss
the past. I look at my watch: 7:47 PM. My old self would be at work right now,
probably thinking about taking a quick power-nap right about now, unbe-
knownst to his boss. The coast is clear, it’s time for me to begin.
As much as I would like to have used the key under the ruffled up
doormat to the front door, to be greeted by my wife Jeanne, to hug her, to give
her one last kiss, I know I cannot let that be. It’d hurt too much, for both her
and for me.
Instead, I silently approach the kitchen’s windowsill and slowly, yet
surely inch open the window. She, Jeanne,​must be sewing clothes for Sirius at
our old neighbor, Linda’s, house. I sigh in despair, knowing that the newly sewn
sweater in her basket that I’ve just stepped on will never be worn by this Sirius.
I cautiously tread further and further onto the steps leading to Sirius’s
room. S​ irius, what changed? ​I eye the piles and piles of papers, ​artwork​of me,
Jeanne, and him, that Sirius took the time to draw in varied colors of crayon

36
and marker. I cringe as I realize the Sirius that I’ll kill isn’t the Sirius I know, the
cold-hearted murderer who killed millions. I press on, shedding another tear
from my eyes. I cannot afford to be sentimental, I’ve made up my mind. A star ​
will​disappear by the end of the night.
***
I’m in front of the door to his room. The old mahogany door seems so
welcoming, yet so harrowing all at once.
I open the door.
Creak.
He’s s​o unaware. Painfully unaware. He slept like a baby, even as a
young boy, I remember as a slight grin forms on my face. I sit on the stool next
to his bed, navy blue like the sky, complementary to the star that he is. ​My star.
I wish. I wish I can spend more time by his side, but my demons won’t let me.
“Kill him.”​A girl in a flower dress implores me. I try to avoid her glare,
but can’t avoid looking at her. Her​, with her red bloodshot eyes. ​Her, with a
bullet​lodged straight into her brain. She was one of the “sacrifices” Sirius de-
scribed.
Sirius, how many more sacrifices do you need? I can’t. I can’t do this
anymore.
Please, Sirius. Tell me everything’s just a bad nightmare. Would you
please?
Y​et the millions of voices plague my head, swirling around in a violent
vortex. ​
Kill him.
Kill him.
Kill him.
37
 The voices chant in unison, begging me to prevent their misery, their
deaths.
​Stop it.
Stop it.
STOP IT.
I​can’t do it. I just can’t. What can I do? Shoot the little boy sleeping in
front of me? Shoot the little boy who hasn’t done anything wrong? Shoot the
little boy who is my star, my son? I can’t do it.
​ Ding—Dong.
​I freeze. I couldn’t have anticipated it. ​Jeanne’s here.
***
I hide in the closet, my eyes peeking from the small slit between its
doors. I could her hear climbing up the stairwell. ​Jeanne,​she looks younger,
she looks happier. She ​steps​into Sirius’s room, looking at him with a motherly
look, infused with warmth and kindness. My heart ​skips ​a beat. ​How could
I even kill my own son? I​gaze on as she plants Sirius a good night kiss onhis
cheek, leaving and shutting the door behind her. I ​find​myself frozen, frozen
from what I’ve seen. I couldn’t bear to kill my blood, my own son, right?
But I struggle only to see the demons, the demons creeping up on my
skin, knowing that him living would erase her smile from the face of the Earth.
“​Sirius will kill her. You must save her.” The voices ​hiss​.
And I r​ emember. I remember​the world of fire that Sirius will create.
The world of fire that would kill my Jeanne when she’d oppose Sirius. He killed
her. He killed her with a shot to the heart, with the pistol in my grasp. He
erased the smile Jeanne had, the smile I cherished, something I’d do anything
to protect, even become a monster that kills his own son. After all, one defeats

38
a monster by becoming one himself.
​I’m sorry, Sirius. But this is necessary.
And to you, Jeanne, I hope you can understand why I’m doing this.
***
I remember a day when both Jeanne and I were at a university seminar.
The topic: “Would you kill Adolf Hitler as a child?”. I remember my words:
“Adolf Hitler as a child did nothing wrong. Spare him, and he could ​change.​”
Oh, the irony.
As I look at my son, the next Adolf Hitler, sleeping in front of me, I
wonder if I can pull the trigger or not. ​I wonder if he could change. ​Maybe, just
maybe, I could have prevented this. Maybe, just maybe, I could have saved
him.
I cock “his” pistol at him. I wince. My finger trembles as I place my in-
dex finger on the trigger. Teardrops cascade down like a roaring waterfall down
my cheeks.
“​What would you do? What would you do if I was the bad man here?
Would you pull the trigger? Would you?” I​plead to Sirius.
​I’m sorry, Jeanne. I’m sorry, Sirius.
​“Pa—?” S​irius’s blue doe eyes flutter open, beaming with innocence.
​ He was smiling, just like Jeanne.
Maybe he could change. Maybe—just maybe—
​“I love you, my star.”
I couldn’t take the chance.
Bang.
***
I have blotted a star from the sky.

39
 I have murdered my son.
​ He looked just like the little girl as he ​died,​when his deep blue irises
filled with dark red blood. There were no last words. He died within the blink
of an eye.
I fade away within moments after I had killed my son, Sirius. Without
even seeing it, I realize that Jeanne’s smile had disappeared forever as well.
​ I’m sorry, Jeanne. It was for the best.
​ I feel a pang of regret. My heart aches.
​I couldn’t protect my own son’s life. I couldn’t protect my own wife’s smile.
​But maybe—just maybe—I could start now.
​ For a better future, and for a better life.
***
[The Present]
What changed?
I wake up to a world of fire. A blazing inferno. A living hell.
I look around at the burning skyscrapers, the burning people, the
burning world all around me.
The horizon is chalked with smoke and fiery flames from Tartarus.
​ What changed?
I look at my surroundings.
I see Jeanne.
It was futile.
A bullet has been lodged in her heart, her blue doe eyes shedding but
a tear right next to him. The smile I so cherished, the smile I fought so hard to
protect, is all but gone.

40
 Running wild in agony, I spot it. I spot a rampaged skyscraper draped
in a propaganda poster. A man’s face is plastered over the poster, described as
the new ​saviour​of the world.
It’s me.
​At first, I couldn’t even feel it, but I finally see ​his,​ no, ​my p​istol
clenched in my right hand.
​I killed Sirius. I killed Jeanne. I killed humanity.
I murdered my son only to become him.
What have I done?
I find a lone bullet on the ground. It’s silver, yet caked in blood. I flip
open the six-shot chamber to my pistol. I don’t need six bullets. I​ only need one.

History would have recorded him to be the next Adolf Hitler, the next
Josef Stalin, the next Pol Pot. History would have recorded him to have been
the worst slaughterer of slaughterers, the worst dictator of dictators, the worst
madmen of madmen. That is the man he would have grown up to be, the man I
had killed.
I am his murderer. I am the man that took his place to become the next
Adolf Hitler, the next Josef Stalin, the next Pol Pot by killing him. I blotted out
a star, such is my punishment. ​Such is my fate.
​ I raise the gun to my temple.
​ I’m sorry Sirius. I’m sorry Jeanne. ​
I’m so sorry.
I press the trigger—
​Bang.

41
 The School Bus Frequenter

PHOTO

Miru Jun
A collector of paraphernalia, I enjoy trying new things and going on ad-
ventures, and literature is part of this. Reading sends me to new lands, and
writing is uncharted territory that I hope to fully travel one day.

He was a school bus frequenter. No one knows where he came

from, or when, but everyone loved him. Every day, without fail, he was
there, in the bus corridor, with piled children lining the bus seats. Like
a conductor, he would raise his thin arms, and the children’s eyes would
widen and their mouths would close. Even the bus driver would time
a stop light for that momentary hush before the bus guy began a fan-
tastical tale. His eyes sparkled under a haystack of hay-colored fuzzy
hair, and his freckles and pimples seemed to draw constellations in the
children’s eyes.
But this fascination wasn’t just the children. The older kids, the
middle schoolers, the high schoolers all knew him. Under embarrassed
black and gray hoods, they played noiseless songs and eavesdropped
on his stories. And for a perfect 30 minutes every morning, the bus guy
held everyone’s hearts in his scraggly fingers and dusty palms. Many a
42
chubby-cheeked child prayed or wrote to Santa, asking for the bus guy to
be there on the ride home. But like the morning birds, he appeared, and
like the setting sun, he was conspicuously absent in the afternoon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where does he even get on the bus?” the little boy whispered,
clambering into his seat.
“I heard he lives here,” an even smaller girl proudly declared,
pointedly staring at the figure.
“Here??” he said incredulously.
“Yeah, I heard he sleeps on the seats in the winter and on the
roof in the summer.”
“But what about food?”
“Oh he has his ways,” the girl said, smirking confidentially.
“Well? Tell me!”
“Hmm…”
She squinted at the boy as if weighing his worthiness to get in on
the secret.
Finally, she said, “You know those stories of people eating their
leather boots when they don’t have food?”
“Oh, like survival stories?”
“Yeah. And you know know that there are some leather seats
here and there?”
“Are you saying he eats the leather seats?”

43
 “Obviously.”
“Ew! That’s gross!”
“That’s why he’s always so thin!”
“But wouldn’t he run out someday?”
“Apparently, not for a while.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you think most of the seats are plastic now?”
“No way.”
“Yes, way. So if I do the math…” the girl stuck out her pudgy
fingers in front of her face and curtly did nonsensical calculations. “Four
plus seven plus two minus three would four hundred fifty-nine!”
“Days?”
“Years, you doofus.”
“Years?!” the boy exclaimed. But after several moments’ ponder-
ing, he faced the girl again with an indignant pout. “He can’t possibly be
four hundred years old. The oldest person in the world is my granny and
she’s only fifty or something.”
The girl solemnly held the boy’s face in her hands. “It’s true. How
else do you think he tells those stories? He obviously had to have been to
all those places!”
The boy’s expression turned a little more crumpled, but before
either of them could fantasize anymore, a collective squeal of excitement
a little nearer to the front cut their conversation short.
“It’s starting!” the girl squealed with equal excitement, and
crawled across the astonished boy’s lap, then dashed up the aisle to add
another head to the pile of children surrounding the four-hundred-fifty-
44
nine-year-old man.
The bus groaned to a stop, and as if to soothe its pain, the man
patted the dusty ground. He cleared his throat, then looked up to the
anticipating children. The sunshine glinted far past into his pupils and
seemed to illuminate him from the inside. The children stared, fasci-
nated and entranced by the incomprehensible wisdom shining within.
Surrounding his eyes, like the perfect frame of a masterpiece, were
hardly perfect freckles and pimples. But the way they shifted with every
smile, they formed constellations, and like a steady candle, the soothing
warmth glowed outwards through the reddish imperfections.
The man began suddenly, and the children jumped into the
world with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Rice Life

A home, a gargantuan device of the devise of a man, whose

description may vary, depending on who you ask, rolled in the desert.
Now, if I may explain the brilliance or idiotic chaos of this home, this
home was, in fact, a great, big, metallic, rice-shaped, egg-shaped, orb.
Inside, was water storage which also served as cushioning for the more
habitable and slightly smaller sphere inside. The rice rolled in the desert,
pushed by sandstorms and desert winds, rolling down by the work of
tiny sand particle hands and gravity of sand dunes. The rice rolled, the

45
water churned, and inner rice was jostled but intact.
Now, whether or not to give the inventor credit is another point
of contention. The rolling of the rice was perfect, so perfect that it be-
came known as rice dynamics. But the living environment? It was cold
and miserable.
The water seeped through what people condemned as purpose-
ful holes in the design of the inner rice. In fact, an exclusive, and per-
haps fictitious interview with the man himself told of unholy cackling
with the mention of the waterproofing conditions. Many a prided and
honored engineered had sought out to fix the holes, and returned with
similar minuscule cracks in pride.
But like life in the rice, the rice rolled on in the perpetual desert,
generating electricity and effectively juicing any cacti that happened to
be in the way of the rolling rice. The outer metal shell stood solid against
every tumble and crashing sandstorm, and the rice people grumbled
about the permanent leakage.
But among these grumbling rice people were people with a
different purpose. The stitchers of the rice, they were called. The rice
glue. They traveled every inch and foot of the rice home with their fancy
equipment, jars of coagulant, and jars of unknown testing substances.
They were the saviors of people, but also the harbingers of disaster. They
were crazed and reckless with their new substances, and their equipment
was prone to explosions, big and small. But nonetheless, they managed
to fix uniform leaks along the slick walls and brought peace to the peo-
ple, however temporarily.

46
 But one day, there was a leak that they couldn’t fix. This was no
big surprise to the rice people, for no one in history, known and un-
known, was able to fix a leak. The only problem was that this was a large
leak. The water gushed from between the creaking panels, and screws
and pins and metal shrapnel intermittently shot out to any unsuspecting
rice glue. The people cowered in fear as the water rose to first wet their
doormats, then their carpets, then the mahogany legs of their tables,
then all the way up to give freedom to the goldfish George. They clam-
bered upwards, to the dusty attic, then their shingled roofs, then their
sooted chimneys. But there was no end.
“The husks! The husks! And bring test case JZ09!” a red-haired
rice glue exclaimed.
The boats were brought and in them, four jars of greenish liquid.
The people constricted their fearful faces and pranced in the
water, trying to escape the slithering streams of the greenish liquid, now
seeping through the water as the rice glue attempted to administer it to
the tear. It was a scene worthy of at least some sort of dance music, but
the expressions, excluding the rice glue, were much too dire.
Days must have passed, perhaps even weeks, but the rice people
had no way of knowing, now that their clocks were submerged in the
seaweed-hued water. They shouted at the rice glue, whose faces were
now falling, but both were helpless in their rice husk boats, only able to
stare up at the approaching metal sky. Was this the end?
Their lights died out, one by one, glass cracking and electricity
fizzing out. The rice glue’s contorted equipment sunk with one accident
or another and was lost in the gloom. Soon, only a single light remained
47
within arm’s reach.
A child reached out her hand to cup that flickering hope. But her
elbow brushed against a sharp edge and she cried out as blood trickled
out. The people could only sit in silence, heads bobbing in the turbulent
water. They had nothing. No food, no medical supplies. Water? Aplenty,
but tinged with a green no one wanted to try.
In inexplicable frustration, the mother slammed at the panels
with a wrinkled hand. Then the rice people were engulfed in a screech-
ing curtain of white.
The child screamed in surprise and shielded her eyes from the
beating light.
What is this? What is this burning?
The rice people had discovered the sun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bus reluctantly eased to a rambling speed and meandered

down a sloping hill. Meanwhile, the children struggled to slip out of
their trance.
“So?” the indignant girl asked.
The man slightly smiled and replied, “So what?”
“What happened next?”
“That’s up to you.”
The girl hesitated and her tongue rolled around her mouth, tast-
ing the meaning of his words.
But before she could open her mouth, the boy shouted, fire in his
48
cheeks, “But you can’t! You’re the storyteller, aren’t you?”
The man sealed his lips and patted the boy’s head. Understanding
dawned on the children, and they retreated back into their seats.
The bus cranked to a stop, and the man shifted to let the children
scramble off the bus and into the school.
The boy was the last to leave. He stood in the aisle and looked
around at all the plastic and leather seats. The man looked through the
windows and hummed to himself.
The boy bit his lip, and blurted out, “You are coming back tomor-
row, aren’t you?”
The man turned around.
“Of course.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Come the next morning, and the kids made their usual precari-
ous haystack around the man. The bus engine opportunely jittered to a
stop, he cleared his throat and began once more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Manifest Destiny

Deer were once just a myth that grandmothers told their scrawny
children. It was the same as any other story, like stories about the times
when food was plentiful when man thrived in the forests. And like those
49
stories, it was nothing but fantasy.
Not even the village elders were able to remember a time when
the forests were thinner and yet somehow more lush, far from the sheer
growths that now shot out from the parched ground and into the cloud-
less skies.
But the time eventually came when civilization grew and the
people prospered without the help of forests. They overcame all the
scorching trials that nature hurled at them and emerged, triumphant. So
it was time for a new era, and the trailblazers of the nation declared it to
be the era of the forest once more.
With the ringing of horns and sprays of confetti, the first frontier
entered the thick dark forests with fire in their hearts and water in their
eyes. How long it has been since their kind has stepped foot here!
All sound was scattered and lost amidst the wooden pillars so
they proceeded in open-mouthed awe. They looked up to observe the
top of the trees, but not a single ray of the pounding sunlight had per-
meated the canopy. The wind was eerily still, despite the hurling gales
back in their cities. Only mist and dew from the forest grounds permeat-
ed the thick air.
What was once hatred and terror gave way to respect, and not
wishing to disturb the sacred quiet, they stepped off their horses and
held up their barren torches to carefully tread the moss spread over the
loamy soil.
But hearts were stifled the instant the glow from their torches
flinted off of the gold-tipped leaves. Could it be? Could it be that the
fairy tales were true?
50
 Horse hooves thundered and echoed through the forest. Exhil-
aration and adrenaline pumped through the trailblazers and their eyes
were now lit up in golden hues. Fairy tales told of fantastical deer that
turned leaves gold with just a single brush of their fur.
The sound was deafening for the sacred creatures, and the fire
was blinding. Ears and eyes accustomed to the deadened silence in the
moonlit darkness from beneath the knitted boughs and thistled branch-
es, the deer were rendered merciless at the hands of the fire-wielding
people.
It was truly the era of the forest, only this time, more lucrative.
More and more people came for the gold and the forests were hewn
down with buzzing chainsaws and tractors and sharp-edged machinery.
The people declared that God had taken their side by granting
them the ultimate power of light. Some called it, taken from an old,
dusty history book, manifest destiny.
Now, the deer, being worth much money kept alive than being
slaughtered, were preserved, but only barely. The deer were captured,
tracked down like so many chickens in a wired chicken yard, unable to
flee to anywhere else, since they knew no more. And like chickens in a
yard, they were herded into artificial forests designed to scratch at their
hides so that they may lay out entire golden forests for hunters to harvest
and sell on the market. And of course, it was all government funded.
The green fortress whittled down and crumbled under exposure
to the outside conditions. The trees thundered down and branches were
snipped and clipped like wings of a bird. And the wind and rain seeped
into the widening cracks, and thousands of years of insect husks, and
51
dead leaves, and bones, and fruits rained down to the forest floor. They
scraped against dried out barks, and shrieks of ghostly forest lives rever-
berated across the parched land. It reached the ears of unnerved people
and the perked ears of deported inhabitants trapped between strings of
chicken wire as they stood in tribute.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His work on the school bus was done for the day, but the man
lingered a little while longer to watch the children stream into the door
of their school. A fond smile danced around his lips while his forehead
very nearly pressed against an already-smudged window.
“They’re good kids,” the bus driver agreed, similar watching the
children.
The man nodded.
“They are.”
The two men lapsed into taciturn contemplation for a while.
Then suddenly, the man leaped to his feet.
“I must go now.”
The bus driver simply jerked his head in recognition as the man
sauntered out of the bus and down across the sidewalk, into some barren
fields. He stopped only once to shake some sand and dirt out of his
boots before strolling away.

52
 Table of Contents

ToonDay Artworks

Luck Jihyun Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54

Fortune Teller Joy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55

Bye to Fortune Mae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56

If a crow-tit tries to walk like a stork, the crow-tit will break his
legs nero viola . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57

Wealth Accumulation Wandering Kosmonaut . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58

53
 Luck
Jihyun Lee
Since this month’s theme is “fortune,” I chose “luck” as my main theme. My work
for March was inspired by a quote from Hunter S. Thompson: “Luck is a very thin
wire between survival and disaster, and not many people can keep their balance
on it.” I illustrated a man on a tightrope, seemingly balancing everything with no
trouble. To relate to my quote, I made the bottom half of the background blue and
red to hint at the dark and long descent into disaster one might find themselves in
when relying on luck.

54
 Fortune Teller
Joy
My work is a fortune teller folded out of paper.

55
 Bye to Fortune
Mae
Although money is prominent
in our lives, making a fortune
may not be the best fortune...
What do you consider as your
fortune?

56
 If a crow-tit tries to walk like a
stork, the crow-tit will break his legs
nero viola
Fortune can mean bring of luck, but it
can also mean money and property. In
that sense for this month, I decided to
illustrate another archetype of a young,
rich, and almost imposing individual
with a stork beside it, seemingly mock-
ing the rest of us. There is a Korean
proverb saying: “If a crow-tit tries to
walk like a stork, the crow-tit will break
his legs.” Storks mean the gold spoons,
the ones who had it easy, while crow-
tits (a type of Korean birds) are the sil-
ver spoons or the try-hards. Storks usu-
ally have a lot of fortune within their
reach—it does not really matter wheth-
er it is the luck or the money—and have
it easy, just like the gold spoons in any
countries (or seems to have it easy from
silver spoons’ perspective). And if silver
spoons try to keep up with gold spoons,
everyone seems to discourage them
with a they-simply-cannot; it is out of
the crow-tits’ reach.

57
 Wealth Accumulation
Wandering Kosmonaut
Fortune. You can spend it or cultivate it, based on your current needs. But don’t forget
that it can consume you, and can devastatingly impair your perception of society.

58
 iddle
School

59
 Piano - Yoonha Choi

Poems
Waiting for you Cindy Ting Sun . . . . . . . . . . . 61

He and she Christie Choi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62

Dear Poetry Janghyun Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63

Protagonist Jennifer Minseo Kim . . . . . . . . . . 64

60
 Waiting for you
Cindy Ting Sun
Cindy is an 8th grade student who enjoys listening to boy bands in her
free time. However, she does not want to live her school life in only the
world of boy bands. She likes doing lots of activities such as eating choco-
late, sleeping, and hanging out with her friends.

You don’t know Be a doctor,

who I am, yet. be a lawyer,
be a someone.
So let me introduce myself, A someone that
to you. matters, that belongs.
I’m a girl,
a hopeful girl, No, I don’t want this.
trying to plan her future. I don’t want to
live up to expectations.
Future full of you, I don’t want to
full of laughter be successful in
and joy. the minds of the adults.
A girl, Dear happiness,
striving to achieve how do I reach you?
all her dreams. I have all these
Dreams of living obstacles,
a happy life. pulling me back,
A life with every time I get closer
the people she loves. to you.

But is it really You didn’t know my name.

her dreams? You didn’t know my life.
Now you know,
Do I really want this? I’m the hopeful girl,
Are these the dreams searching everywhere for you.
created by the wave,
pushing me to the edge? Sincerely,
Are these the dreams Your next destination
created by expectations
of adults?

61
 He and she

You should dress up and look pretty,

act calm and walk with your back straight,
and always be concerned,
about what others think of you.

Because you are—

a girl. Christie Choi
Christie is an average 8th grader
who enjoys scrolling down Facebook
Yes I am, during free time, rather than writing
essays. She wrote this poem because
I am a girl that can’t do anything she has a passion for women’s rights,
and she believes that there should be
a boy should do. more people supporting these rights.
After writing this poem, she found
the charm of poetry and other English
writings.
I should dress up, act calm,
and consider what people think of me.

But who are you?

Who are you to judge a gender,
and its rights and identity?

What is the difference between he and she,

and why does that matter?

We are not the ones who are wrong.

It’s you, who lacks common sense.

62
 Dear Poetry

Dear Poetry,

How mysterious you are

When you try to sound smart
You come off extremely vague
When you try to sound fancy
You come off extremely cringey

When you use simile

You sound like an impersonator trying to be someone else
When you use hyperbole
You sound so unrealistic that even unicorns start laughing
And abundant alliteration automatically
Asks for additional attention Janghyun Lee
Morning quote reader. Michael Jack-
When you add a little rhyme son and Freddie Mercury. CEO of JSL
It can be beautiful from time to time Entertainment. Janghyun Lee is known
for many things, but few know him
But some poets make me scream as a passionate poet. He has written a
When they take rhyming to the extreme wide range of poetry in his academic
They spam rhymes career, spanning from free verse to
Shakespearean sonnets. In his letter
As if they’re cramming jam poem “Dear Poetry,” he sarcastically
Into clams and hams confesses his feelings for one of his
And ramming trams against dams favorite hobbies.
Then, BAAM!
You no longer make any sense

When Dr. Seuss writes you

You start rhyming every sentence
When Shakespeare writes you
Thou start twisting thy words
When I write you
You sound pretty smart

With all Love, I’m a true poet and I know it

63
 Protagonist

Dear My Hero,

I miss you a lot.

Why did you leave me?
You’ve always saved me from despair amigo.
But now you’re gone smiling with glee,

I have no choice but to retain myself

Jennifer Minseo Kim
from the desire to at least see you.
Jennifer is an eighth grader in
The room of where our memories are filled, KIS. She usually likes to play
stands countless recollections of our times together. video games rather than writing
essays and reading books.
Sharing more memories would fulfill my gratification Jennifer usually likes to sleep and
but you left, to be free. she also likes to draw during her
free time. She likes almost every
Wherever you are, please remember, food except for vegetables. She
that I’ll always love you forever. lived in Singapore for several
years and had moved to Korea
when she was in second grade or
so. She then went into TCIS and
Hi Grandpa, you are my hero, my amigo
stayed there for two years. Jenni-
And now, I’ll finally let you go. fer moved to KIS in fifth grade.
You are released from the suffering, you are free to go.
I regret having less time spent together.
But now it’s too late, bye and hello.

I hope you will rest in peace.

I’ll slowly catch up and when I am finally ready to meet you,
I will greet you like I always do with, please
Thank you and I love you.

Love,
Jennifer Kim

64
 Chicago Bean - Chloe Choi

Memoirs
Small Is A Big Word Joshua Choi . . . . . . . . . . 66

Just Like Fire Minseo Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73

65
 Small Is A Big Word

PHOTO

Joshua Choi
Joshua Choi is an 8th grader at KIS Middle School. He generally enjoys
school life. He likes writing for fun and for academic purposes. He has no
specific hobby, since he prefers to finish his school work before moving on
to one, but when time allows, he reads. Josh likes to read news articles more
than books, but he still enjoys reading books. He is in Mrs. Odell’s English
class, where he actively participates in conversations. Not just in class, but
even outside, Joshua likes to talk with people about all sorts of topics. He
has interests in many different areas of academics, music, and many other
co-curricular activities. He hopes to work in a job of finance, business, or
management someday. In writing, he has passion for narratives and essays
with research required. The piece of writing you will read today from Joshua
is a personal memoir.

My existence is small. Small because I am this new Asian kid from

a country that most Australians couldn’t find on a globe. Small because my
athletic skills don’t fulfill the Aussie kids’ wishes. Maybe this was my destiny.
Maybe it wasn’t. But hopefully, this wouldn’t last.

Soccer was my go-to sport before coming to Australia, but I couldn’t

improve due to the pressure from sun-baes, a Korean term for students older
than you. By the time I moved across the world, my soccer skills had

66
deteriorated. But I wasn’t afraid to try soccer again. I wasn’t sure if the other
students would want to spend recess on the field, but everyone had their feet
tapping under their desks until the bell.
As soon as recess began, the whole grade rushed to the field in small
groups. The scent of fresh grass gave me motivation. None of my classmates
were exploring the pitch, too busy with today’s team tactics. Apparently who-
ever owned the soccer ball was the captain for the day, dividing all the stu-
dents into teams he thought were fair. A familiar boy from my class, Jack, took
charge.
“Oi! Gather up!” he shouted.
Jack wasn’t the type of leader you would expect in Korean culture.
Shorter than me, with perfectly brownish eyes and black, scruffy hair. He had
excellent voice projection, useful on the soccer pitch for sure. He had a small,
skinny body, automatically making his head look proportionally larger than
any other feature. Whether the physical appearance matched his role or not, a
leader was a still a leader. I had to follow him.
Soon after, a lean boy wearing the newest football boots dropped the
ball between everyone and dribbled the ball down the field. I was astonished
by their technique, but their playstyles left me blank, instead of dashing for the
ball like the others. Why was the game so unorganized? Didn’t we at least need
a referee?
Over time, my new, fully Aussie-blooded friend group began finding
out about my poor athletic skills. A gang I joined due to my teachers’ recom-
mendations now was my family. But the truth was the truth: did I belong here?
I felt dishonest, but they still hung out with me. Our talks were casual, and one

67
day, some boys guessed my race. From my previous months in Australia, I
already knew kids had no clue where Korea was located.
Jack pondered, “Can you teach me Korean?”
I responded, “Ahn-young is how you say hello. Now you guys try.”
Jack and his mate, Ryan, smirked, saying, “Really? What country says
hello with the word ‘onion’? Nice joke there, buddy.”
Nobody understood my complexities. My teachers rarely asked me any
questions related to these common cultural struggles. They would often throw
in, “Are the routines fine at school? Are you settling in well?” but I didn’t know
how to respond.
I wanted to tell them the truth which was that I was struggling, but I
was afraid my mother would find out. One word popped up in my head. “Fine.”
But what did ‘fine’ mean to me these days? This remained a mystery, but I knew
time would be taken until my response of ‘fine’ became a clear ‘great’.
My translation wasn’t fluent enough to create a positive story, but the
cultural stress was piling up. I expected time to work the way out of the issue.
Incorrect.
Three or four other Aussies pondered, “Are all Asians or Koreans un-
athletic like you?”
Was I horrible enough for a third grader to believe this? What if they
thought this was true? Not only is Korea, but Asia is the densest continent for
population, and there are famous athletes. I felt ashamed because I am one of
the few Asian students in the school, but if I don’t create a great impression,
what will happen to me?
I merely told him, “No, some Asians are extremely talented.”

68
 They all glared at me funny, but I didn’t bother. I never wished to
revisit that topic. I wanted to show them how we perform in the international
competitions such as the Olympics, but I believed the primary purpose of at-
tending school every day was to learn, so I allowed my internal pain to remain.
This event placed me on the brink of my fragile mind.
Even though I struggled with those conversations on the soccer field,
my English was improving daily, and native jokes began sticking in my head
now. During the first couple of weeks, the teachers did introduce me to some
popular kids, but I struggled to follow their interests. Playing soccer during
recess solved my boredom, but when it came to participating in a conversation
or telling jokes, my mouth barely twitched. English gave me headaches when it
came to puns, I even had to borrow a book from the library titled, The Top 50
Aussie Jokes for Kids.

Winter struck, but the snow was nowhere to be seen. I have never seen
a country with temperatures consistently above 0 degrees Celsius. Due to this,
not a single student wore thick wool jumpers in the morning, and even some
students were still wearing shorts.
As soon as those guys observed me with multiple layers, they asked,
“Aren’t you hot?”
I knew it was warmer than Korea, but I honestly didn’t expect this
response when it came to clothing. Korean parents dread having their children
sick, so they force their kids to keep the best body temperature possible.
Even in this cold, my friend group, including Jack, were now excited
to hear the announcement about our school’s fifth Annual Disco. I couldn’t

69
believe paying for a party where I wasn’t certain I’d have a good time, but
I needed these friends. After all of these incidents, I realized what I hadn’t
before: this was my lifeline. I couldn’t let go. Even if those guys didn’t feel the
same way I did.

After making the boldest decision of my life, my mind kept stirring

with positive and negative thoughts until the night. I didn’t say a word even
when Jack brought up the topic. I was delighted to get my mind prepared for
what might be an adventurous twist, at my house since we lived close to the
school. But the night approached too fast.
Before the disco, I put my fluorescent neon wristband on. The sky was
gloomy, but the lights were sparkling from the hall. Some friends I observed
were wearing denim, with some shiny shoes covering their ankles. Then there
was me, standing rigidly in my brown cotton shorts and a loose t-shirt. But I
felt unprepared.
Lights, lasers, music. Time to shine. The hall was packed with people
wearing bright clothing everywhere. There was no flashy disco ball, but misty
smokes and colorful laser beams from the stage felt enough for the night.
Luckily, my group barely moved from a chosen corner of the hall, so finding
them wasn’t a big deal. Once some EDM (Electronic Dance Music) began play-
ing, everyone was on the floor doing their best shuffle moves, but I was only
bobbing along to the beat. After a few songs, the mood heated up. Whether you
liked the music or dancing, you were in for a treat.
The hours strangely felt like minutes. People weren’t exhausted, they
were screaming their heads off. If you didn’t know about this event, you could

70
say many Elementary students had tons of stress. I learned a few other dance
moves, including YMCA, and the Macarena. I could only clap to most of the
songs, but there was one exception.
A familiar beat sunk into my ears, and everyone began cheering.
“Yo, Joshua! You know this song right? You’re Korean!”
Just the song itself gave me energy. I wondered if others of my age
would listen to a song released the previous year. How was a Korean music
video reaching 1 billion views? The popularity of “Gangnam Style” was evident
here as well. It seemed like the crowd enjoyed the song, and began to copy
my moves. I never knew I was such a prominent figure until now. For the one
song, I felt special. All those racist comments seemed to blur away, because I
was dancing along to a song produced in Korea, in a place where the country
was unknown. The most mind-blowing four minutes of my life had to be this.
Other people from the crowd noticed why my group was standing in front of
the stage. Even teachers were surprised.
The cowboy dance moves filled the atmosphere. Everyone had their
groove going. I already knew the song was upbeat, but the response from the
school blew my mind away. Sweat had soaked my clothes and bushy hair,
dripping heavily when dancing. But my gears were heated up again, spinning
rapidly until I heard a deep, booming voice.
“Students, I am glad you all had a fantastic night. Come to school with
this energy tomorrow.”
Moans came from all corners of the hall, and soon enough, I joined. I
finally experienced a school moment I could proudly share with my parents.
I didn’t care about having the best moves in the school, tonight was all about

71
fitting in. Being a school student despite my race.
But I can not feel better again due to one event. Eight months worth of
struggle won’t be fixed by one and half hours of dancing with my friends. I still
managed find one speck of gold in Australia. It was more valuable than gold.
Not because it cost money, but because it cost tears of gloom or smiles of joy.
This was hope.

72
 Just Like Fire

PHOTO

Minseo Kim
There are often times when you wish to bring your thoughts to life, through
mediums like art or music. I do exactly that using words, and did so since
a very young age. My name is Minseo Kim, an 8th grader who aspires to
become an innovative visionary, and I greatly enjoy STEM-related topics like
AI and the Simulation Theory, as well as writing poems during leisure times.
This specific memoir revolves around a song called Just Like Fire which
reflects my own life in various aspects; the story itself encompasses a period
of struggles I had experienced before.

Just like fire, burning up the way. If I can light the world up for just one day.
Watch this madness, colorful charade. No one can be just like me anyway~

These words rang through my ears as I lay in bed, staring up at the

ceiling mottled with a mixture of colors and light. My mind shaped the casted
shadows into dancing people, flowing like flames and wavering on the walls
of my small bedroom. They pranced in circles, twinkling and whispering with
voices like bells chiming softly. They were running in a realm of their own,
in an unreachable paradise hiding behind the beige walls surrounding me,
pressing me. My eyes followed their movements, and my mind began pictur-
ing myself as part of their spirit: free, determined, with a clear sense identity.
73
Everything that I wished for.

Since third grade, I have always felt askew. All my friends had a path in
front of them, shining bright and clear. My childhood friend, Sallie, and I spent
many days together, relishing in the acme of our youth. We often visited the
neighborhood pool, cannonballing into the glistening water and splashing with
rapture under the California sun. I always admired her prowess at swimming
and called her “Sallie the Dolphin.”

“You could easily be as fast as one, you know,” I would say. Nonethe-
less, we always spent the next days massaging our stiff arms and legs from all
the races we did.

One day, she looked at me with a determined gaze and declared: “One
day, I’m going to become an Olympic swimmer.”

I was awed by her: she radiated pure confidence and grandeur. A

tingling sensation ran through me, as if the power of an Olympian really was
hiding inside her heart. Then, my eyes opened wide with greater amazement,
as I could see the fire in her, glowing stronger and stronger yet. The golden
flames flickered, almost madly, brightening her sapphire eyes.

But my swell of amazement was followed by a pang of jealousy, a little

prick like the poke of a needle. How does she already know herself so well? What
I would give to become someone like her. Her path was straight and clear.

74
 And me? I was surrounded by thousands of paths, weaving around in
a frenzy like tangled weeds as each one beckoned me to come. But how could I
ever choose?

“Hey, don’t worry! You’ll find your own quirk soon enough,” Sallie
reassured me.
I laughed and replied, “I hope so.”

A nagging made me ponder how true those words would become. I

really did hope. But sometimes, hope can be quite a misleading daydream.

“Minseo, it’s your turn!” It was 5th grade, and my mind was bursting
with excitement. It was almost summer break! The windows around the class-
room were all wide open, and a warm summer breeze swept in, caressing my
cheeks and filling me with pleasantness all over. My parents waved at me from
their table and grinned.

Everyone was bubbling with anticipation, and the restless energy

settled inside me as I stood up and walked to the front of the classroom. Our
teacher had an end-of-the-year tradition where she presented each person with
a song that reflected them inside. Mrs. Curtiss stood at one end, smiling with
proud shining eyes, and she handed me a certificate with gleaming, golden
letters spelling out Minseo Kim: Just Like Fire. I looked at the title of my song,
sneaking a curious glance at my teacher.

75
 “You’ll see once you listen to the lyrics,” she whispered, winking at me.
That day, summer officially started, and the moment I stepped into my
house I fished out the earbuds hidden inside my drawer, took out my phone,
and listened to the song for what felt like hours. I was completely indulged in
the rhythms and beat, but most of all, the lyrics echoed inside my mind. I rode
on their waves, slowly discovering my own self inside the tune.

What I didn’t know then was that it would only be a couple of years
before I lost sight of the tune, along with my ardor.

... And I’m walking on a wire, trying to go higher.

Feels like I’m surrounded by clowns and liars ...

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.. I stared at the musty old clock on the
wall, its hands moving in circles endlessly. I lay still and listlessly on the bed,
the earbuds lying limply at my side. They were the very same ones in my ears
three years ago, when I had listened to the song for the very first time.

I covered my face with my hands, trying to let go of a sudden chok-

ing sensation inside. But alas, it didn’t leave, and instead, two trails of wetness
streaked down my cheeks, dropping onto my clothes and blanket. I felt utterly
lost, as if all the lights had just clicked off and a void was wrapping around me.

“Why!” I cried, “Just why can’t I decide on one future like my friends?”
I was as burnt as a pile of ashes; I was a fireplace with no spark.

76
 I had no fire.

I pounded the pillows, wanting to hit something – anything – to shake

off the binding feelings of despair. It gnawed at me like a pest, whispering You
will never find your path. Never find a path.. A path..

At that moment, a whirl of memories entered me, and I was standing

on a vast stage, the same one I stood on in 7th grade. I could feel my blood
rush through my head as I tightly gripped the mike, sweat forming on the
palms of my hand. The other candidates for Student Council President watched
encouragingly from the curtains, and I took a deep, raspy breath. My own
heartbeat seemed to grow louder and louder, thumping against my chest. It
was overwhelming. The heat. The lights. The crowd of unblinking, silent eyes.
But strings and fragments from a familiar song pushed me on, and with a new
spark of confidence, I took a deep breath.

Before I could make out any of the confusion, I was quickly jerked into
a room with several students and teachers. A blue banner hung on one of the
walls, titled “Software and Design Competition: World for Creative Minds.”
This was a day during my 7th grade summer when my inventive mind was
sparked. I jumped at the sound of my own voice, and it took a second to realize
that it was actually my own lips moving with the speech.

“I decided to call our team Just Like Fire, since we’re gonna be pas-
sionate like fire as we build this Mind Lightening Pen for people all around the

77
world...”

Soon, the room also faded, and a rapid succession of thoughts flew
by me like arrows. Colors and havoc exploded everywhere, until everything
blurred into a kind of murkiness. My head was spinning; my arms and legs
were useless as they flailed around, reaching out for a ledge or an object to
grasp. Voices called out, “Who are you? Minseo, what will you be?” The
words echoed as if they were bouncing throughout canyons, piercing me like
knives. But one last voice called out. It was Sallie.

“Don’t worry, you’ll find your quirk someday. Believe in yourself..,” and
her firm hands pressed into my shoulders; her gaze held mine for a second, and
the next she dissolved into the blackness. Everything sped away, and my heart
lurched as I fell down down down, dropping into nothingness. I screamed.

“Ouch! What the..” I muttered, having hit my head on the white frame
of my bed. Fizzles of pain rattled my skull, and I rubbed the small, reddening
bruise, awake but a bit dazed. Thin sparks of light were still bouncing across my
vision as I stood up, trying to grasp everything that had just swept through me.
The soft blankets cushioning me rustled as I carefully stepped out and strolled
to the window. It was twilight. The sun was peeking from the horizon, and the
last of its beams lit up the white apartment buildings. The first few stars began
to dot the honey-colored sky like small diamonds, twinkling in the orchestra of
stars in an unbounded sky.

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 I took a deep breath and let it out, along with all the turmoil and tem-
pest that had once claimed me. After the serenity came over me, I opened my
eyes with the realization: I was the one who had put out my own fire. But I still
had time, all that I needed.

One step. Two steps. Three steps. It was time to try a path, and wherev-
er I go there will always be forks leading to new dreams, new inspiring routes,
and even fresh starts. I stared at the swaying trees, moving by the flow of the
cool breeze, and thousands of little green leaves waved back at me. A new surge
of energy flowed throughout me; I leaned out of the window, hauling myself up
onto the ledge and shouted for the whole world to hear, “I know who I am!”

As I sprawled back onto my bed, the shadow dancers twirled on the

ceiling above, for it was not the sense of true identity that fueled their fluid
movements. The figures always stretched and swayed, picturing many forms,
and yet those tangles of shapes made out one dancer. I didn’t have to be like
everyone else. I grinned at how oblivious I had been – I just had to be myself.

Was it just me, or did one of the flickering dancers wink at me? Who
knows, and maybe it was merely an illusion. However, I was sure of one thing: I
had a long journey to go on – at my own pace – and nothing was going to stop
me from becoming the adventurer I am.

Watch this madness, colorful charade. No one can be just like me anyway~

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80
Phoenix Word

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