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Editor’s Note When I first became a CAT, frankly, I had no idea what was going on. It was a shift from the Songdo campus to Seoul, and I picked the friendliest looking recruitment poster. Never did I think I would find my niche in such a diverse group of people. Last semester we met each other at a parallel. We comple-mented each other and together we stretched our horizons, melding together the eclectic group of current students, graduates, and exchange students. This semester, we adapted to a down-sized but solid team in Crossings. The small membership allowed an opportu-nity to know each other more intimately, crossing boundaries and enriching our own paths with each other’s visions. Many of the submissions this semester were reflective, as we are when approaching a fork in the road. Whatever our paths, wherever we end up going or how different the dreams we chase, I believe CATS will remain a recess for our members, its contrib-utors and audience, imbued in an idyllic dream—of the days we celebrated the magic of words in a tea infused haze. I am glad for how our lives have crossed paths, and that we never lose the extra tinge of ‘madness’ that brought us together to this magazine.

Editor In Chief, Dohwa Jina Kim

Literati Members Alyse BrowerCana FallonDohwa Jina KimKaiying FuMaple Ip

Contributors Cover Design / Layout DesignJoon Young ByunKaiying FuDohwa Jina Kim

Special Thanks Professor Goodman LorenYonsei University Underwood International College

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CONTENT

1. To Time by Cana Fallon2. To The Flower Shop by Cana Fallon3. To Quebec French by Cana Fallon4. Anonymous by Cláudia Nóbrega5. Olive Jar by Diep Nguyen6. The Story So Far -- Imitation of Joe Brainard

by Erin Burmeister7. Jakarta, 1989 by Hyejoo Lee8. Play Forever by Hyejoo Lee9. Manifesto by Hyejoo Lee10. If Time Is In The Dust by Maple Ip11. Mum by Dohwa Jina Kim12. Incense by Alyse Brower13. Mold by Alyse Brower14. Left Heart by Lea Kim15. Morning by Hue Can16. Recovering Gregor by Kaiying Fu17. Untitled by Vana Xiong18. Goshiwon by Stephen Kagarise19. El Niño by Mariel Alonzo

Art / Photography

Futuristic | Kaiying FuThe Other Side | Dohwa Jina KimSteam | Cana FallonHanok Pond Fish | Hyejoo LeeOut of Time | Cana FallonAnother World | Cana FallonNever Changing Things | Dohwa Jina KimFeelings | Dohwa Jina KimHome | Cana FallonPeople Love Seoul Puns | Hyejoo Lee

Class Excursion | Hyejoo LeeLate Night Bird | Dohwa Jina KimFeed | Kaiying FuStarships | Dohwa Jina KimWatchman's Pause | Kaiying FuSPACE | Lea KimCages | Cana FallonBridges | Kaiying FuGrounded | Kaiying FuFinger Bird | Lea Kim

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Futuristic by Kaiying Fu

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TO TIME

Cana Fallon

I only realized you were hanging around once I reached thirteenYou slowed during debates and Queen’s Quay bike ridesBut became lightning when I spoke with DavidAnd hugged MumAnd during mxy tenth birthday party.Why do you always break when I need you?We raced you to Windsor and wonBreathless— Half hour before Charlie was bornYou flew through Kentucky and Tennessee,And didn’t sleep while Dad droveBut I caught you just getting up oncewhen we were in Ohio.

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The Other Side by Dohwa Jina Kim

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TO THE FLOWER SHOP

Cana Fallon

Why did you move before I came back?It was quite rude, especially since I came visitingAnd wanted to buy your baby’s breathAnd carry them in my armsLike the time I walked downVodden Avenue with yourBlossoms in my hairAnd some strange man stoppedthe traffic to watch.Your owner, how is she? Is she enjoying her grandson?I hope you are both well—Wherever you are and are still bringingSome measure of peace to small girls thatLive in Unit 24 down the street.

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Steam by Cana Fallon

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Hanok Pond Fish by Hyejoo Lee

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TO QUEBEC FRENCH

Cana Fallon

Madame Rickerd hated you,And Charlotte and Robyn arguedOver you in the burger place that one time.One said you were “pure”while one claimed you “outdated” and “unreal”.You yelled at me, in Micah’s voice—“Bien sûr, je suis réel!”Mom traveled to Paris in school, and still dreamsOf hearing your rival and croissants on the Seine.I always wanted to visit you where you live—Deep in Les Laurentides and shores of Rivière-du-LoupWhere nobody leaves their family homeAnd Sir John A. Macdonald was bornBut I forgot that in my presentation with GuillaumeIn third grade when we compared Canada’s Prime Ministers.Trois-Rivières spoke you like German,And I determined I never had enough spit for youAnd resolved in eighth grade that I had enoughOf your fighting and decided to take Spanish.

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Author's Biography

“Cana is an inquisitive young soul from Canada, who finds happi-ness in pretty hairbows and alliteration triplets. She seeks to find something beautiful in every moment of everyday life and share her love of writing and reading. She also has an insatiable curiosity that hasn't gotten her into too much trouble...yet."

Out of Time by Cana Fallon

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Anonymous Cláudia Rebelo Fernandes Nóbrega

At 5 years old, I always came by grandma’s house after pre-school, because mum and dad of-ten worked until late. Grandma and especially, grandpa, were there to listen to all these great stories I had to tell. I lived in a small island, Madeira, which stood for wood. Madeira was formed after many volcanoes bombed the whole sea, so my dad told me. Apparently, not all the rocks were cut out during the explosions and we were left with a bunch of rocks. Rocks, the fresh sea and a small space for our towel.

Madeira was extremely small. Everyone knew who owned the only Ferrari in the entire island and all came to grandma to ask for some of her bolo do caco, a bread made with sweet pota-to that cost grandma a whole day of punching dough. It was a very special day for me be-cause dad was going to appear on TV. Grandpa smiled whenever I mentioned my excitement. What I was really expecting was for dad to say “Hi”. When the program started, I shouted and asked grandma to join me. The presenter introduced my dad with, “We have here, with us, today, an expert in apiculture. Here is the site where he has been growing bees. So, tell us, how does it work? What does it take to get honey?” At that moment, I yelled and waved at dad with all my power and energy, “Dad, dad!!! Dad, I’m here! Can’t you see me? Dad! Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad! Dad is on the TV! He’s my dad! Dad!” Grandpa was standing next to me and all he did was smile. Just like that, 5 minutes vanished and dad was gone. I thought he had not been able to recognise me and cried while watching grandma throw some more slaps at the dough. I asked to make my own bolo do caco and show dad later that I could make some-thing just as good as her. Grandma let me use eggs, flour, sugar and all the best ingredients. Grandma never explained why dad had not said “Hi” or talked about me on TV but she did offer me the sweetest bread with butter that could leave the flavour in my eyes. I told grand-pa, “Dad knew it was me. He will apologise when he comes home, right? I know he saw me. Maybe he thought he had to talk to that man first. What do you think, grandpa?” He didn’t say anything and put on a smile. “Grandpa, why don’t you answer and just smile?” Grandma told me to stop bothering him.

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I told her what I had found at school the other day: “Grandma, I discovered this giant ladybug a few days ago and you know what? It was blue, pink and red. I will draw it for you later and why won’t grandpa answer me whenever I show him my drawings? He just smiles.” But grandma was busy spanking the dough and now the whole village was starting to knock at our door to watch the master of smacks. Grandma was strong and she was proud of her cal-luses. Every time I complained that something was too hot, she told me that I had a long way to live so I could get thick fingers like hers. I knew she was proud of it but her hands weren’t smooth like mum’s. They resembled more dad’s battered hands as if he had to go boxing from time to time. I was waiting for him to come home so I could really ask why he was too ashamed to say “Hi” to his daughterand make me known all over the world.

And all bolos do caco lasted 1 second because as they left the firing oven, someone else would ask to get some for their sons and daughters. I think grandma must have been some sort of superstar since everyone asked for her opinion on the right way of making this or that. Basically, all the good stuff that there was to eat and which took more than an hour to make. Most of the time, it was just me, grandma and grandpa but the rest of the village seemed to smell our kitchen when it was one of the delicacy days.

By the time mum came home, I was too upset with everyone avoiding my questions. Grand-ma’s TV was the worse because it only had two channels and I would never be famous. It did feel nice to hold mum’s hand and I was hoping that dad would never come home so I would get to sleep with mum and feel her stroking my hair. But he arrived later and I had no more business mentioning his hypocrisy of not saying “Hi” when he had promised he would.

Author's Biography “Claudia is from Madeira, a tropical island where she could eat all the good stuff. Then she started moving from country to country which always turned out to be more Northwards than the last one and her fla-vourful life became pale with snow.”

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Another World by Cana Fallon

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Never Changing Things by Dohwa Jina Kim

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OLIVE JAR

Diep Nguyen

I’m an olive in mother’s jarCarefully picked from the garden of grandpaWell preserved with vinegar, salt, a bit of lemon juiceUnder the roof of a lovely country home

I’m a petal dreaming in the winter snowBlushing and flourishing in the spring waltzFlying high when the summer wind blowsOr playing and dancing in the autumn rain.

I’m a grain of sand by the oceanWatching the waves carrying my companions awayWondering when it’s finally my turn, one dayWill I want to stay Will I miss the shore?

I’m a star in the great wide universeTiny and perhaps gloomy when looked from afarDie one day all the fuel combustsBut twinkling in somebody’s eyes, I would still always shine.

Author's Biography "Me no grow up. Me want cookies!"

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"Me no grow up. Me want cookies!" Feelings by Dohwa Jina Kim

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The Story So Far – Imitation of Joe Brainard Erin Burmeister

I remember reading aloud in class and getting my words mixed up. They would laugh; I would frown not understanding what I had just said.

I remember every time I had to write ‘b’ I wrote ‘d’, and every time I wrote ‘d’ I wrote ‘b’.

I remember my mom making me repeatedly say “cabin”. I did as she wished but it only made her angrier. (This was because to her I was saying, “cavin”.)

I remember going to a speech therapist. I have mild dyslexia. I didn’t know what that was then, but now I do.

I remember my first memory, visiting my mother in the hospital the day after Peter was born. The baby was wrinkly and ugly.

I remember visiting my Nana in the old age home. I always thought it was her house and everyone else were her servants.

I don’t remember the day she died, but I remember going through her things and Stuart and I stealing the gravy boat. We thought it had genie in it and would be the richest kids. There was no genie.

I remember on the way to school, if I heard a song I liked it meant that I was going to have a good day.

I remember my first Valentine’s. It was to James. He didn’t like it, so he stopped talking to me.

I remember the first day of primary school, how everyone wanted to be my friend. Then the novelty wore off and I wasn’t interesting anymore.

I remember being told not to use “American” English, and then after moving again being told I have to use “American” English.

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I remember thinking my grade 2 teacher was a witch who had cast a spell on all my class-mates that they couldn’t see how evil she was. But I knew. I remember 6 am on the weekends. My brothers and I were the only souls awake in the house as we made pillow forts in the TV room to watch Dragonball Z. 7 am we were back in our beds.

I remember my first love. I lost my sense of self in him. He was destructive, and I was de-structive, and together we were like a magnificent bomb. One that went off and ended everything we had. His name was James.

I remember the first time I was bullied. Three boys grabbed me; one on each arm and the third boy tore my necklace off and threw it in the dirt. I remember the rocks rushing towards my face as I was pushed onto the ground. The boys ran off laughing, I held back my tears and picked up my necklace.

I remember being rushed to the hospital at 2 am because of a pain in my side.

I remember breaking down crying because I thought I had leukemia.

I remember Uncle Mervyn visiting me in the hospital and giving me chocolate. Uncle Mervyn is afraid of hospitals. My brothers didn’t bother coming to see me.

I remember the day he proposed. I was in my pajamas and very tired. But he made me do a stupid scavenger hunt, looking for two Pokeballs. He was lucky I found them in the right order. I then had to make him get down on one knee. It was very sweet. His name is James.

I remember my dad rubbing my back and singing me to sleep because I was too scared to be alone.

I remember my mom kissing me goodnight.

Author's Biography "Erin Burmeister, South African born third culture kid, weaver of tales from Africa to Korea."

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Home by Cana Fallon

People Love Seoul Puns by Hyejoo Lee

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Jakarta, 1989

Hyejoo Lee

Remember when your dadwas Jesus? In the car he’d explainwhy leaves change color, whytrue love only takes a month. You seven and mum, his true loveand he takes you to a placewhere leaves never change color.He threw a remote at the mirror. Maybe it was the humidity. At leastthe leaves were big. Undersidesscratchy, like hunters’ coatson invisible does in heat You cried over spilt glassand batteries. Picked them upfrom the sticky vinyl floor likeberries with zinc skin, vowed

to go somewhere colder.Forgot about Jesus and leaves.You wear vests, now, orange-redlike that girl’s freckles

you think you like. And the otherslightly balding one, insecure abouther life. You’re always with girlsyou think you like. And they never let you touch them.Your curse: that youforget about mum, and damn yourselfby going home too soon.

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Play Forever

Naked beneath a windowis your erect horizon.You are alive, I knowas suns dwellin your eyelids.I like to touchthose red thin skins overthose gentle spheresand though I’d wake youthose sunsare hard bones,and you never will.I circle the riseof your carpus, hopingto stir quiet whirlpoolswithin your marrow.I’ll curl my bodynext to yours, waitfor yours to slideand crescent my head.A mooned arm is all I ask forthough ideally

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Hyejoo Lee

I’d liftall of you up—giant, make youwalk with me,even if I crushunder celestialweight. For now, formaybe ever Iwill lie hereand delicatethe ridges of your sternum.If only I could bea rib, pry openyour cartilage and notch,I’d come right into a warm, lucent darkand close the skin behind me.

Class Excursion by Hyejoo Lee

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Late Night Bird by Dohwa Jina Kim

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Manifesto

I haven’t shaved in a while.My parents visit with homemadeinstructions to not cut my hair, coffeeand seaweed soup. Mom’s gutsmiles under her blouse, happy to see me.Then dad asks me to wear long pants because it’s cold I like this. I like these narrow days. I like motel memo-ries,my first words “Wednesday night, 8 PM” and “tempo-rary”and apartments, and riding bikes with the Hispanic boys, and disqualifyingSanta (the apartment chimney was too narrow).

Someone once told me about Philly.In the 80’s white people left, by graduationhis classmates all black or immigrant.He was the first Asianlifeguard at Thornden Pool, and his mother grew ghettotomatoes in their cement lawn. When the sun went downthe red drops hung flaccid like off-seasonChristmas lights, and people stole them from off the street.

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I envied him—red cities, red cement, tomatoesfor what do I havenow but a transient beingmomentous, but in moments,and momentsbut in transience?THESE ARE DAYS: a nearby riverreminds me of timid, blue-green sand dunes. Homeis nowhere but here and I cannot lovejust enough. And I don’t knowif it’s enough Envy me.My passwords are old addresses.Luxury is a decisionto hate. I am haunted by people,red moment people, peoplewho look like people that left. And I don’t know if that river even has a month.Or a sea.

Hyejoo Lee

Author's Biography "Hyejoo is what some call a TCK, finds it interesting that she is a student in Seoul, and wants to spend less money on coffee.”

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Feed by Kaiying Fu

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Riley made his biggest blunder when he was five. His mother would bring out the urn contain-ing his father’s ashes, set it on the kitchen table, and talk to it. Riley had tottered into a table leg, yellow socks slippery on cold tiles. The urn fell onto its side and rolled, missing him by scant inches. It broke like his mother did, the remains of her husband collapsed into ceramic shards and erratic dust. Some flying pieces had cut Riley’s face, and blood leaked down a wound on his temple. Startled, Riley cried and reached for his mother. She saw only the fine grey settled in the swirl of his hair and his grubby fingers grasping at the mess around him, leaving smears of red. And then she stopped looking at him altogether.

Or, Riley wished it happened like that.

It was impressive, Riley decided, that however inconsistent of a parent she was, no one could doubt his mother’s quiet worship of her man, dead for almost a decade. She greeted and end-ed her day with the urn, allocating it all her words. Like the man who never quite left her life, the urn had its own place of permanence in the living room. The highest shelf of the cabinet was padded with foam, so the urn could rest comfortably. As a child he would drag a chair over and stand on it so that he could meet the urn eye to eye. Once he tried to touch it, had managed to open the glass paneling when his mother came into the room. The welt from the cane never quite faded from behind his knees.

The thing was, Riley remembered having a father. Just the faint impression of bristles on his forehead, a firm hand carding through his hair. He can see some resemblance from the photo-graphs hung around the house, like the rounded tip of the nose, the squared hairline. Maybe his mother saw it too, and didn’t like the reminder. Or maybe he looked too much like her in the set of his eyes and mouth, drawn tight and down.

“Your father chose me,” she had told him one afternoon, rocking him on her lap. The urn was out of the cabinet for once, a cleaning cloth next to it on the table. “Brightest boy in the neighbourhood, and he married the girl who tripped in the cafeteria and sent food flying all over him.”

It was the first and last time they spoke so closely. She rubbed her thumb around the skin of his eyes and said, “Pity you don’t look so much like him.”

If Time Is In The Dust Maple Ip

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Up close, her right eye had a mole amongst the bottom lashes. He didn’t think to look, but there were probably no creases around the corners of her eyes. Riley tried not to move his own pair too much, held them open when he had to smile, in an attempt to keep something shared between them.

A few years ago, he fell off a tree, broke his leg. His mother came to pick him up from the school infirmary. In his elation, he didn’t notice her measured steps, and how her grip on his hand was loose, when they were at the hospital getting a cast put on.

“Mom, mom,” he said when they got home, and she had tucked him into bed. “Do you want to sign my cast?”

She had put her hand, warm and heavy on his chest. “Oh, Howard,” she chided. “Why are you so clumsy? What if your son turns out like you?” her mouth trembled. “Such a fool, you...”

Riley freed a hand from his covers and put it over hers. “Mom,” he called again. “It’s Riley.” More frantically, because she was pulling away. “My leg hurts!”

Her eyes moved on to his face. He held his breath. Her brows furrowed and then she was patting him on the head, “I’ll go get you some painkillers—”

“No!” He grabbed her shirt. “Can you—can you stay?” She had to go through the living room to get to the kitchen. He didn’t want her in the living room.

His mother stared at him for a few seconds, and then her lips lifted. “Yes, of course, sweetheart.” She moved them so that she was sitting with her back against the headboard and his head was in her lap, and his leg didn’t hurt anymore, because she was stroking his head and calling his name, “Riley, shush, go sleep. Mom is here.”

He closed his eyes and turned his face into the cottony scent of her pants, trying to stay awake for as long as he could. Her fingers drew cool circles on his exposed temple. It was a strange comfort.When he woke up hours later, mother wasn’t there anymore. With one ear turned down against the pillow, he could hear the distant but gentle tone of her voice from down the hall, even if he couldn’t hear her words. He threw his pillow across the room. Never there, she was never there. Was he not enough? A burning rush climbed from his leg, up his torso, to his ears.

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In between waiting for his mother, Riley tried to remember more of his father. If the man was a little more real than ink on paper, past the bare knowledge that he had existed, maybe Riley could join his mother on her knees, and not feel the crick in the neck after look-ing up at the urn for so long. His hand found the photo frame on his desk. Riley was on his father’s back, and they held hands. He was barely five in that photo. His mother probably took the shot. Riley threw that too.

He should have held on tighter then, not fallen asleep. Dinner last night was proof of that.

“Where were you?” He asked, when they were both seated. “I was waiting for you.”

Waited until the last parent had come and gone, the teacher’s concern a swirl of shame. Riley avoided eye contact and pretended to receive a message—sorry Mr. Allen but mom can’t leave work after all—and Mr. Allen pretended like Riley hadn’t just sat outside the classroom for three hours.

His mother hummed, spearing another broccoli. “What, honey?”“The parent-teacher conference.”

She put down her fork at that. “Oh,” she said, followed by familiar words, “I’m sorry, Riley. I—was that today?”

He came close to ripping down the urn from the cabinet, and throwing it down in front of her; to shout, “You haven’t moved since ten years ago. Keeping his shoes polished, cooking his favourite foods. The struggles of a single mom,” and to hurt her, “If some people were born to hurt the ones they love, then you must love me very much.”

But when he looked up, opened his mouth to talk, his mother was present the way she rarely was. Her hand was poised over her fork, head tilted in his direction. He was once again the boy who had latched onto his mother’s clothes and asked her to stay.

So he shook his head, muttered an “it’s okay”, and hoarded her indulgent smile.

Which didn’t explain why, the next day, fifteen year old Riley was staring at the urn on the living room table. The originally beige coating had dulled to an almost brown. It was pretty, he supposed, in the way it rarely left its place in the glass cabinet.

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He had eaten the ashes. Had just scooped out his father’s bones, heated and crumbled and ground into a handful of powder, and ate it.

Riley leant over the kitchen sink, coughing out grey flakes. The tap was still running, dragging what was left of his father down the sink, to become nothing more than grime. The rest he choked on, some congealing in his throat and wedging between his teeth. He gurgled more tap water. If he just tilted his back a little, the urn would still be there, looking full. He collected the sludge in his mouth and swallowed. It tasted like the smoke that got caught in his nose sometimes, walking past trash cans stuffed with cigarette butts. His tongue fuzzed. Checking that the urn was tightly sealed, he lifted it back into its seat. He wasn’t sure what for.Heat flushed his fingers. Before he could wretch open the glass case again and break the urn, the same way he had broken his leg, accidentally—the lock clicked and his mother was sweeping into the living room, skirt brushing against the carpet. Riley stepped away.

“Welcome home, mom,” he said.

“Good afternoon,” she said. She still wasn’t looking at him.

His stomach squirmed, watching his mother pray to a man whose ashes were now in his son’s body. The ash clawed at his throat. He went to the kitchen to wash it down.

Author's Biography “Maple has been told she writes dense but beautiful prose, and hopes that rather than being beautiful, she isn't dense. Also wants you will cry after reading her works; in hopes that they are that good.”

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Starships by Dohwa Jina Kim

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Mum

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Dohwa Jina Kim

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Incense

gochujang lips swallow her quicklymilk is better than water

he walks on clean feet over puddles of clear soju in metal chalices

the smoke clings to the hair limp on the sides of her head

when a chopstick fallsshe kneels the floor is sticky.

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Mold

Brown zipper teeth askdoes a husband exist?

The broken glass in his hand wasa cup, sharp dust and celedon.

White and green cotton covers split toma-toes leaking orange juice and sugar

Four for one thousand

Three for one thousand

I buy a flimsy black bag.

Alyse Brower

Author's Biography “Alyse is a poet, who has a hard time saying that from Michigan and Seoul. All of her exboyfriends have now found true love.”

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Watchman's Pause by Kaiying Fu

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Left Heart

Red dress in circular motion.Fire breathing waists,Sunlight in my heart.She left me evaporated.

If the heart were the shape of a cosmic heart.One dagger end,There is a hook that hangs mine.Swinging a led pendulum, Here to there, here to there.

by Lea Kim

Author's Biography “I am Poetry's mistress, the one that looms in the night light."

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SPACE by Lea Kim

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The spoon falls spinning on its head In the hall, silent chords' echoes—Can’t leave this crack under the bed

White light from sun, wheat scent from breadCurtains rising, breeze sneaking lowThe spoon falls spinning on its head

A heavy drop—has something bled?Outside—hold—footsteps without soles—Can't leave this crack under the bed

Alarm ringing—it's time for medsGlass clinking, water pouring—oh.The spoon falls spinning on its head

Knock on the door: heavy like leadThe sheet is flat, the blanket cold—Can't leave this crack under the bed

Think you won't live to see the dead?All downstairs, they won't take a noThe spoon's stopped spinning on its headCome, leave this crack under the bed.

Hue Canh

Author's Biography "Hue Can is writing words into a ladder to get herself out of the hole she has dug."

Morning

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Caged by Cana Fallon

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Papers were on the walls and in drawers; strewn over tables and tucked between the folds of the double quilt slouching at one corner of the bed. They were the off-white recycled kind of paper bought glue-bound from an art store four subway stations away from his dormitory.

Slowly, the loose sheets left behind their naked paper jackets. From time to time there would be a new impulse. It took Gregor just a week of arduous journaling to know it can never sat-isfy. Why he was always playing catch up, he could never figure out. But it was an addiction that relieved a thirst for conversation too dangerous to have directly with the world he was trying to be cordial with. The world kept lying to him. His pride wouldn’t allow a breakup to happen. He wrote love letters apologizing for how he misunderstood it, saying he would try again, asking someone, something to not give up on his ability to change. But the words went to no one. They slept in his drawer beside their spent skins. Gregor wore them like a smile. Chemistry was colourful. Science couldn’t lie but it couldn’t explain its convictions either. What Gregor learnt about organic chemistry was that if you didn’t understand the results, you were probably looking at the wrong chart. Describe the precipitate. Describe the solution.

Gregor was really good at observing. With the right equations, he could figure out every com-pound. He excused the systematic errors that produced minor abnormalities. Chemical formu-las were not semantic. They spelt out life in a dead language. He didn’t want their consola-tion but he also tended to be the last in class to shed his lab coat.

The project of charting his memories had gone on for quite a while. Journaling had been an unequal chase. He believed the graphs that emerged, almost blooming, from pieces of fragrant gestures looping over samples of his life he tried to examine. He gathered warm fragments of recent memory into a rich tapestry, for a time managing to knot those loose ends in writing. The outliers, however, kept on running and he found his reference points fermenting with time. One conversation, one new rumor, a new line of scripture, another broken connection; he fought to keep up with his unravelling.

The words on paper lay limp like ruins. For all their honesty, they failed him. The images they conjured were too accessible, too slow, too inaccurate yet too easy to remember.Remembering was misunderstanding but misunderstanding’s familiarity was bittersweet. Put-ting pen to paper, the very instance he created enough to represent, he distorted to forget.

Recovering Gregor Kaiying Fu

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The pressure mounted. Time, bus numbers, ratios, prices, years. All numbers stripped of their alphabetic sidekicks. We, She, I, It, He. Pronouns mis-gendered meticulously. Over time Gregor’s handwriting shrank. His typography evolved with some letters elongated in anticipation of the next line they needed to entangle. Other letters were shaped loosely and in some words sporadically missing. Each sheet of sullied paper set the bar for another sheet of ciphering. Pushing a last line out of his pen, balance had been restored until the next time someone spoke to him again. He looked fondly at his art. He read it again. He watched himself grow up in mere seconds. What was in that pen, that all which began sour must end up sweet? The voice he found at the end was him – that was the clarity promised by writing. That voice stroked his cheeks and restored his heartbeat. He wrapped his arms around his knees and slipped soft cotton over his frigid back. He let himself lay aside the fear of being unable to put back all those missing words and gave in to sleep.

A new dawn attempted to penetrate the tight window blinds of Gregor’s dormitory room. Every three weeks or so he would run out of paper but every day he would stop by the col-lege bookstore to peruse the notebooks section. He would linger in front of the leather-bound varieties and try the strength of their spines. The handstitched bindings made a horrifying covenant with chronology. Gregor would like to believe, however, that his montage could now stand against scrutiny. His art abounded in its inauthenticity. The reticence of curating loose sheets had become far too honest for his taste. For the first time, he left the bookstore with one of those notebooks in his hand. The road home was damp. Gregor smiled through the midday drizzle as he clutched the note-book’s hard edge through the wooly yarn of his knit sweater. The redbrick dormitory was located off-campus only a block away. The tree-shaded pavements funneled the rain into dol-lops that pelted his head every now and then. As he rounded the curb, his right foot crossed his left.

Imbalance.

Gregor grappled for a sense of where he was falling. The concrete was cold against his heavy body. The back of his head laid hanging just over the road. A car sped by.

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Shivers surged along his neck and shook his skull violently. A light taste of iron spread in his mouth told him his senses were still alive. Gregor heard another car whiz by. Blood returned to his hands. He thanked God quickly and drew in a long breath. Letting his head curl gently into his neck, pressure escaped his extended spine. His eyes followed yet another car turn that corner – a police car. He thanked God again. Death mortified him. In death his remnants would be cleaned out. Someone would arrive at his opened door, just as he had always left it.

Before he left the room each day, he’d squirrel away every sheet of paper into the under-desk drawer. He carried the discoveries of his project in his heart but the ruins on paper memorial-ized the ugly process in-between. He wasn’t ready to let those words speak yet.

No, no one should realise they are words. The desk would be polished of its unruly past; the bedsheet replaced, pillows re-snuggled into their cases, blankets shaken and rolled up to the side. The walls would be left bare, save for a few carefully curated paintings so loaded with false strokes and parts drowned in blots of muddy grey that Gregor thought successful enough for safe display. Finally, he would lock up the drawer before unwinding the blinds to shroud his lair with light. Sometimes his suitemates would follow him into the room when he got home, asking about yesterday’s class or seeking consolation over another bad date. Nights of beer, laughter, movies and music unfolded under the caustic glare of the almost empty walls. He soothed them the next day with new paper Band-Aids. From his lifeless body would they have taken his key? Unlocked the drawer of drafts; of inau-thenticity?He was only trying to find his way. He had to get back! The plots receded in a final unraveling. For the first time, Gregor did it himself. Opening his drawer, he ran every thread free. He shut it without a key. The leather-bound notebook sat at the edge of his bed. Itself, the walls and drawer from then on left empty.Now each time Gregor came home, there were two locked doors.

Author's Biography “Kaiying began writing because someone asked her where her writing was. Messy faces and muddy colours stir a special place in her heart. She will go on to master something at some point in life. Like abstract clarity.”

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Bridges by Kaiying Fu

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Untitled

If the dreams I dreamare mine

and the dreamsyou dreamare yours

then what do we make

of the space between us

as we drift

into

alone

out of

together

of what is youandof what is me.

“Na, koj yog li cas?”

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With the slightest tilt of my mother’s voiceI can see her tired tired hands. One holding the phone and the other changing the channel. I let the weight of her words float around me and I cannot help but embrace their familiarity.

One simple question. “Na, koj yog li cas?” and all I can think about are the memories that I am not a part of.

Of when my mom comes home from work, talking to Grandma and I am unable to fall asleep again. Of when my dadreturns home from work and instead of me,he takes the kids to school in the morning.

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One simple question and all I can seeare my seven siblings,no longer the same person when I last left.

“Na, koj yoj li cas?” and the only thing willing to leave my trembling lips,the only thing keeping my mother’s aging handsfrom breaking apart.

The only thing, I can say.

“Kuv yoj zoo.” Vana

Author's Biography “Vana Xiong is a Hmong-American from the US. She aspires to be a trav-eler, writer, and educator and is nothing but excited to see God’s glory shine through her work.”

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Grounded by Kaiying Fu

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Goshiwon

Round the pleasure domedecreed by Kubla Khan in Xanaduwere scores of goshiwonsto house the workers.

The goshiwon,where walls are a paper curtaincheckered and worn.

Old man, three doors downwhat has stirred youto rave on your cell phone?Young man, in bed so late, yetalready snoring?These are the lullabies, the tremulous undercurrentsof life in a goshiwon.

Slamming doors announceyour coming and going, but goI bless you for that.Go againand do not come back.

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Old man, what stewis bubbling in your pot for dinner?That smellcreeps through the ventand is effervescentlyputrid. I close the bathroom doorto breathe.

One chair for study two for friendshipand three for society,said Thoreau, from his cabin by the lake.In the goshiwonthere is one chairand only room for one chair.So study it is.

Stephen Kagarise

Author's Biography “Stephen Kagarise is an American living in Korea, and recently started writing poetry again after a seven-year hiatus, mostly filled with teaching English.”

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Mariel Alonzo

blush of a kidney, undressed by his polished itak. his father’s crystals, ripe for mining. he cradles

them in his mouth, savoring the flavor of untouched glaciers scraping gum and teeth as he runsthrough sunburnt paddies, their rusted skins surrendering scraps of sweat to a fanged sky. he rememberspromising his father – one day he’ll catch them where they fall, stitch them back above their homebut his palms never grew enough to hold any offering. only enough to beg in the city, smear cents

of wetness around his lips – lipstick, to moisten the cage that kept his father captive. insidehim, they hold each other hostage. touching what the other’s thirst had touched. this is how to love

a famine: bear the protest and wait, the soil will be soft again to till. to bury.

*itak – Philippine bolo knife, similar to a machete

El niño

Author's Biography “I am Mariel Alonzo, a psychology student from the Ateneo de Davao Uni-versity (Mindanao, Philippines) and poetry reader for The Adroit Journal.”

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Finger Bird by Lea Kim

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