Ah-Young Dana Park is a student attending a high school in Boston, Massachusetts. Her poetry often explores memory, interiority, and fleeting moments. Beyond her writing pursuits, Dana enjoys singing, painting, and exploring other artistic fields.
Eugene Han is a student at an international school in South Korea. His artwork explores themes of identity, culture, and nature, often blending abstract and representational elements. Through vibrant colors and textured layers, he aims to capture both the complexity and simplicity of the human experience. Eugene has been honing their artistic skills from a young age and is passionate about sharing their vision with a global audience.
has stains all over it which looks like a piece of art
and has crumbs of food between its cracks
The crumbs, which are made of food and dust
abandoned for years and years to come
await eternal custody between the cracks
The cracks, created from constant use of the floor
continues to expand further and bigger
eventually taking over sections of the floor.
The stains, which were results of liquid spills
is left on the floorboard as a remembrance of them
And would never be erased or forgotten
The Punishment of Filth
Step down or you will stay
where the crayfish sleep
Possibly eating the crayfish too
Where all the lost and defeated go
For the rest of their lives
With their cheeks open for eternity
How the fish would poke
And feed on your excrements
How tingly and provocative it feels
But apart from it
There is nothing one can do
To stop this from happening
The tedious process
certainly bores one to the death
And makes one regret
what sins he committed
All that awaits one is the infinite punishment
Here I Sit
The exhausted man,
with his eyes barely wide
trudging slowly toward the can
after getting a drink goes to the side
The happy child
And his ice cream on a cone
became satisfied and smiled
With his teeth whiter than a bone
The giant statue
With its condition at the purest
Its glory matches to
a rhythm of a beautiful courant
The miserable lady
With her makeup wet in the rain
Wanting to cry like a baby
And her whole mind in vain
The old man
sitting on the bench
watching his old hometown
reminisces his town’s past
The woman with a red dress
Sitting on a wooden bench
Drinking a cup of hot coffee
looks at her phone
Ethan Lee is a student who loves expressing himself through creative writing. He enjoys writing stories, poems, and reflections inspired by the everyday world. When he’s not writing, Ethan can be found reading, sketching, or exploring new ideas. He believes in the power of words to inspire creativity and connection.
This is where they carved their names into the bench,
This is where the pigeon gathered,
This is where they played music all night,
This is where the door slammed shut,
And no one ever came back in.
This is where she planted flowers,
This is where he fell off his bike,
This is where the ice cream truck stopped,
This is where they held hands for the first time,
This is where the leaves piled up,
Only to scatter with the next gust of wind.
This is where the wind took the kite,
This is where the bus never came,
This is where the fireflies gathered,
This is where the old woman hummed a song,
This is where the shortcut led,
Through broken gates and overgrown grass.
Footsteps in Motion
The man in the striped shirt,
Thin lines curling around his frame,
One cuff rolled higher than the other.
His shoelaces double-knotted,
A folded newspaper tucked under his arm.
The teenager with the headphones,
Thick black cushions pressed to his ears,
One wire disappeared into his jacket pocket.
His sneakers untied,
A keychain jingling against his belt loop.
The girl with the yellow scarf,
Fabric trailing loosely around her neck,
Fingers smoothing its edge out of habit.
Her boots are damp at the toes,
And a loose thread dangles from her sleeve.
The man with the suitcase,
Worn leather rubbed raw at the corners.
He grips its handle with both hands,
His brown loafers, the soles worn thin,
Catch the edge of a mat near the door.
The woman with the grocery bag,
A paper sack cradled to her chest,
The bottom sagging under canned goods.
Her sneakers, streaked with dried mud,
Pause as she adjusts her stance.
Each step resounds,
A quiet rhythm of passing lives,
Before it fades,
As footsteps shuffle them into the past.
The Gathering
The table glows under warm yellow light,
rice bowls steaming, chopsticks tapping,
and the smell of doenjang rising like a memory.
Our reflections blur in the polished wood.
Grandmother’s silver hair tied low, uneven.
She spoons the doenjang jjigae into my bowl,
her hands moving slow but steady,
She is careful as always.
Father’s hair, short and slicked with gel,
He leans back, recounting his day.
His voice dips and rises like an old song,
the kind you don’t realize you’ve memorized.
Mother’s braid falls neatly over her shoulder,
its end brushing the edge of her apron.
She smiles faintly as she wipes the table,
her silence speaking louder than words.
My sister’s hair, cut blunt just above her shoulders,
bobs as she argues, words sharp and quick.
Her chopsticks tap the rim of her bowl,
her laugh cut through the warmth like a spark.
My hair falls messy and loose,
hiding my face when I look down.
I twirl noodles around my chopsticks,
letting their voices fold over me.
The air smells of sesame and roasted garlic,
the room alive with clinking bowls and laughter.
Steam rises, curling into the quiet spaces,
and love lingers in the pauses between bites.
Olivia Koo is a high school student and emerging poet. When she’s not writing she enjoys reading, movies and music. She is currently putting together her writing portfolio.
Sophie Yoon is a student and aspiring artist. Drawing inspiration from her surroundings and personal experiences, she uses various mediums to craft pieces that connect on an emotional and thought-provoking level. Sophie is passionate about storytelling through art and hopes to inspire others with her unique perspective.
He had only one day. He was thirty eight, a meager age. Poor man, he was; life passed by and stopped before he had his way.
He had to seize the day – and thwart it from flying away. And so he tried to find the day – catch its tail and grab it until it would start to suffocate.
As the clock stroke three, he went out to feel the sound of a summer day. He didn’t know what was coming, yet he had to flee from the cavern of his stuffy room; reign earth before he had to go back and return his breath to mother nature on his way.
Funny, it was. He noticed the little. He saw the ants, forming long barcodes with They were moving, eager, ground earthy more than ever. He paid attention to the azure skies, cradling clouds that made many lives. Zebras! Elephants! Giraffes! He stared, elated, though the vast expanse of the sky had always been above his eyes.
Did he miss anything in his way?
He stood to see – make sure that no images pass by, like the wind on that one lonely night. He failed to stop time, but he captured every moment – opened up a bubble to protect himself from the fast-moving day.
Fried Rice
It was all simple, when mama used to cook me fried rice. She just threw in bowls of white pebbles in the black pan – saw it jumping, dancing to the beat of life.
How do you cook so quickly, I asked. To that, she grinned and said, Son, fried rice does not require the blessing of time.
She was never afraid to change the recipe, succumbing to her little whims as ingredients caught her sight. Carrots, Potatoes, Bacon – everything she saw, she chopped and threw it into her cauldron, together with her little frights.
It’s better that way, she replied to my unasked question, as she turned around to clean the aftermath of her bloody kitchen, slightly smiling, as if she somehow knew the secret of life.
It all got too difficult, after I flew out of mama’s nest. I tried to talk to the world, break the silence, but it only responded with awkward murmurs and lies.
So, now I’ll make the world my fried rice. We’ll not talk; we’ll stare at each other like lovers on first date. I’ll just hand it a plate of fried rice, put into the shape of a heart, but we’ll both know that our lives got more simple
than it ever were.
Walking on White Snow
I’m scared to walk on white snow. I’m afraid that I’ll make footsteps with my dirty shoes. Touch what I should not touch – take what has been taken from me for a long while.
I stand by my front door and wonder how the snow maintained its beautiful, curvy figure over the long, scary night, how it never encountered the touch of a stranger who could do things that he knew were just not right.
I don’t want to leave any marks on this trail of white snow; I want to protect it and ensure that it keeps its whiteness that I so greatly miss, on some quiet night.
So, I’m scared to walk on white snow. As much as I love a winter day, I shall stay in my house, let the snow stay this way & hope that it will stay this way for a long while
Sean Lee is a high school student at an international school in South Korea with a passion for poetry and creative writing. Growing up in a multicultural environment, he finds inspiration in the intersection of different cultures, languages, and personal experiences. His poetry often explores themes of belonging, memory, and emotional introspection.
