Haeun (Regina) Kim is a student writer from Seoul, South Korea. When not creating visual works, she can be found writing and struggling through amateur ballet.

a study of the mantis shrimp

this body breathes dizzying ultraviolets and looping

polarized light. in, out. easy as breath. they blind me, 

i am blind to them. the mantis shrimp holds

sixteen photoreceptors, inhaling and exhaling colors 

imaginary to me. and what is imaginary but invisible? 

still, the mantis shrimp disappoints, like all prayers do.

it can not, does not distinguish the gasping pigments 

dancing across its exoskeleton. sacrifices sight for

survival. why? when this vision is breathing? when it is

lungs alive with color? this body breathes. in, out. out.

Tteok (떡)

Half-eaten on my desk, gelatinous flesh 

puffed where the tines of the fork slid inside, 

is a rice cake. White and fluffy with three

lone mustard yellow seeds nestled inside. Like three

sore thumbs or three dull iron eyes. They taste

like rice cake.

Pinched like petals, flour

wilts like sorrow. The best flowers 

are sour. The half-

animals that bite into them

leave them half-eaten. They always leave

them. Strewn on the floor like

metaphor turned cannibal. This is our

last defense, this was

our last stand. We taste

like rice cake.

AN OBITUARY FOR MY FATHER

after Victoria Chang

Because you used to dream in chromatic figuration and now you forget your dreams when you wake up. Because the memory of them warms your hands like a cup of liquor you can’t keep down as you stumble through the door. Because your vision fails, as in it fails you, as in it betrays you. Because you wanted to create something. Leave this world something more than your grave. Press your thumb into the soft flesh of the earth and breathe. Where does our breath go? You pray it is not back into our lungs.

Alternatively: because you warm my curious hands when I wander out to the curious stars. Because you roll down the car window to the infinite sky so we can tip our heads back. Because you don’t flinch when I pluck black hair after gray hair after white hair. Because I know I will mourn you like you mourn yourself.

Haeun (Regina) Kim is a student writer from Seoul, South Korea. An alumna of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship, the Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference, and the Sunhouse Summer Writing Mentorship, she has been recognized by Bennington College, the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers, River of Words, and more. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, Stone Soup, and The Galway Review, among others. An editor at Polyphony Lit, she serves as the founder of MISO-JIEUM. When not writing, she can be found painting in an art studio or struggling through amateur ballet.

Jinwoo Brian Park is a student attending high school in Massachusetts with a passion for visual arts. Brian’s art portfolio encompasses a range of mediums and styles, reflecting his diverse interests and inspirations. Outside of his artistic pursuits, Jinwoo enjoys exploring nature, reading, and spending time with friends and family. He is excited about the possibility of sharing his artwork with a wider audience and looks forward to continuing to grow as an artist.

The Star

Noting further the progress 

hope for the widest possible adherence

Inspired by the great prospects 

opening up before mankind 

giant balls of hot gas that shine 

orbital systems 

They fall out of view.

Their envious light

How bright they shine.

The Boat

A loud horn spread through the air

Rumbling the world

Attracting everyone,

To the boat

The ships leaving right now,

With the people

waving up their hands,

Screaming goodbye to the ones left

There runs a man

In a black suit,

Running and running,

Yet the engine starts as the man sighs

The others peak their face out,

Waving goodbye,

To the fellows that are left behind

Hoping for a day to see them again

The boat swooshes,

Through the sea

Vanishing in sight

In a blink

The sound of the waves,

Starting to vanish,

With the people left behind

Sighing with a walk back 

The boat filled with pleasure

Sound of happiness and delight

The laughter and giggles 

filling up the boat.

The Lights in the Night Sky

The light of the stars

Pouring down the sky,

With the waves on the sky

Just like somebody is swimming

The mountains stay up,

High and steady,

The moon,

The lights,

Shining through the buildings

 Making the dark night shine.

There is nothing,

yet the darkness

Within the sky,

The night continues,

And never seems to end

Within the sky.

The light of the sun

Pouring down towards the sky,

The heat touching me everywhere,

Pouring my sweat out.

Feeling the white cotton candy

Floating up in the sky

With a slight comfy.

Just like a bed.

It stays high up, never falling down,

Filling the surroundings,

Blue and pale

With the beauty.

Different shapes exist,

With the different material

All there,

It stands the louds.

Dongeon is currently in 7th grade and attends an international school in Vietnam. He likes to read both graphic novels and chapter books. He also likes to play games and socialize with his friends. 

The Room

The room hums softly 

with the sound of kids playing in the snow

a wooden table embedded with marks from countless dinners

the sound of silverware echoes in the silence

My brother, with his elbows propped up

grins wide, 

immersed in the YouTube video playing on his phone

He barely pays attention to his plate

despite the piles of rice in his bowl

He sloppily stuffs his face with a single spoon

Dad sits across from him, 

calm but stern

His eyes scan the room, watching over the dinner table

He slowly sips the barley tea

as he briefly touches my brother’s arm

when he laughs too loud

He slowly raises his set of chopsticks and spoon

carefully placing the banchan on top of his rice

As Things Pass

A leaf skates across the sidewalk,

Caught in a swirl of wind

It lands with a sigh 

On the edge of a curb, unnoticed

A constant flow of people move beneath skyscrapers

A woman in a red coat pauses at the end of the street,

Her scarf fluttering in the wind

She clutches a small paper bag

(maybe lunch or a gift) tightly in one hand

She jaywalks against the crowd of cars

Like a true new yorker

Nearby, a man sits on the curb

Shoes untied, a cigarette dangles from his lips

As he exhales

The smoke slowly makes its way into the air

Across the street, a bike messenger cuts through the crowd

His tires spraying water from the recent rain

A pigeon pecks at an old napkin

Its head bobbing in sync with the others

The air smells thick 

Of hairspray, shampoo, or something chemical

A row of mirrors stretches down the wall, 

Each face with different emotions

A woman grinning, thrilled with her new haircut

While a young man forced a smile, his eyes cast down

Feels Different These Days

The North Pole feels colder these days

The stars seem dimmer, and the snow less pure.

Even the elves, once bustling in cheer 

sit in silence, unsure of their purpose

Once, the children believed…

their letters fulfilled wishes and dreams,

that Father Christmas would soar across the night sky

with Rudolph’s red nose, and his other reindeer friends

that their snowmen would start talking

But now, the world is different.

Children no longer sit by the windows,

staying up all night for a glimpse of his sleigh

Now, they sit in silence,

heads bent low, eyes fixed on screens.

Katie Hong is a high school student based in Seoul, South Korea, whose love for poetry is surpassed only by her passion for baking and spending time with her puppy, Loki. With a gift for words and a keen eye for detail, Katie weaves intricate tapestries of emotion and imagery in her poetry, inviting readers to embark on self-discovery and introspection. When she’s not immersed in the world of poetry, Katie can be found in the kitchen, experimenting with flavors and textures to create delicious treats that delight the senses. With a zest for life and a boundless imagination, Katie is committed to sharing her voice with the world and making a meaningful impact through her writing.

The Photograph

Between the frames, the camera

captures teal, splashing water, and my

brother’s legs kicking through the pool.

Behind the camera, pool water drips

from my hair, cold as the ice cubes

jostling in the drink I grasp tightly

in my hand. A symphony of hues

danced upon the pool’s surface, as

the turquoise blue water met the

gleaming golden sunrays, shining

through cracks between marshmallow

clouds. The leaves by the poolside

rustled, and short grass blades swayed

in the soft wind. Sunlight hugged us all.

Walking past the pool, scents mingled

in the air, from fragrant roses to toasty,

buttery pancakes, as stray leaves brushed

past my tanned, twiddling fingertips.

On the Walk Home

On the walk

home, while an icy drink cooled my

left hand, the flowers around me

released soft, fragrant scents. The

subtle sweetness of the roses was

intoxicating, while the dust of an array

of dandelions tickled my nose. Even

the slow buzz of bees seemed tuneful,

like nature’s quiet melody. Moss green

leaves brushed my fingertips as I trotted

through, entranced by the beauty of it all.

Even today, the scene replays in my mind.

——————

Yesterday, the sun shone through

my window at a quarter past six.

The alarm rang then, like the piercing

screech of an unwelcome rooster.

Mumbling and trudging, I hastily dressed

before a vehicle whisked me to school.

A blur of quiet laughter, presentations,

and questions passed through me like

harsh gusts of wind. When they passed,

peace settled in its place.

Vaguely Familiar

A postcard never sent.

Dust transfers to my

fingers as I examine it.

Ink has bled like veins,

turning its message faint.

The postcard holds a photograph

with no one looking at the camera.

Darting between the silhouettes,

my memory strains, catching on

vaguely familiar shapes.

One face holds me still, tied to

a name I almost remember.

Once easily spoken, now,

its syllables are hollow and dim.

As my eyes fixate, I hear the

echo of a goodbye they never gave.

I recall the sight of eyes darting,

feet stomping, and doors slamming,

before they vanished like snow on

a spring morning, leaving behind

nothing but a dark memory.

Grace Lee, a high school student in Seoul, South Korea, is passionate about words. Whether crafting stories or poems, she blends her unique perspective with the vibrant culture of Seoul. Excited to contribute to the literary landscape, Grace’s writing reflects the universal themes of adolescence in a big city.

Jahin Claire Oh is a twelfth-grade student attending high school in San Jose, California. She enjoys coding and takes an interest in media art as a hobby. She prefers warm tones over cool tones and is generally drawn to calming imagery with naturalistic depictions. In her free time, she enjoys spending time with friends and occasionally visits local art exhibits.