Ver.

Spring 2020

Annabelle Jeong David Park Jeongwoo Lim Kevin Na Samuel Yi

Annabelle Leigh Erin Jun Jiewoo Jung Kylie Lee Sarah K
Burrows Ethan Lee Jin L Leia Jung Sku
Annelise Lee Faith Yejin Namkoong Jiwon Hwang Lily Kim sm
Ashley Paik Grace Lee Joseph H Lucas Lee Stefanie Shin
Bryana Lee Halie Won Jules Kwon Matthew S Super Positive Boii
Charlie Kim Hannah Kim Julie Lee Megan Ann Cleaver Suyeon K
Chloe Ahn Henie Cho Jun Kim Nero Viola Sydney Chang
Chloe Kim Hojun J Justin Choi Presley Blake Yeongseo L
Claire W Huey Kim Kailie Ahn Raina K
Daniel Choi Isabelle Marie Brant Ken C Sally K
Cover art
“Disconnection”. Acrylic Paint and Charcoal on Paper. Chloe Ahn
My sustained investigation topic broadly is about family, and I explored three themes on family:
Connection, disconnection and consolation. Kodokushi, or lonely death, is a current problem in Korea
where elderlies die without family. I reflected that disconnection and isolation through the seclusion of
being in space, remote from the Earth.
Phoenix Word
since 2018

Korea International School

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Poets Authors ToonDay Artists
Annabelle Leigh Burrows Lily Kim Annabelle Jeong
Daniel Choi Lucas Lee Charlie Kim
David Park Stefanie Shin Erin Jun
Ethan Lee Presley Blake Julie Lee
Jeongwoo Lim Nero Viola
Kevin Na Sku
Kylie Lee sm
Leia Jung Super Positive Boii
Megan Ann Cleaver Sydney Chang
Samuel Yi

Artists
Annelise Lee Hannah Kim Joseph H Raina K
Ashley Paik Henie Cho Jules Kwon Sally K
Bryana Lee Hojun J Julie Lee Sarah K
Chloe Ahn Huey Kim Jun Kim Suyeon K
Chloe Kim Isabelle Marie Justin Choi Yeonseo L
Claire W Brant Kailie Ahn
Faith Yejin Namkoong Jiewoo Jung Ken C
Grace Lee Jin L Lily Kim
Halie Won Jiwon Hwang Matthew S

Chief Editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Miru Jun

Layout/Graphic Designer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Miru Jun
Editors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jeongwoo Lim, Lucas Lee
Calligrapher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sungjai Lee

Special Thanks To:

Ms. Aimmie Kellar Ms. Meaghan Odell
Ms. Candice Kim Mr. Micah Crochet
Ms. Denise Brohm Ms. Samantha Degen
Ms. Esther Ahn Ms. Sarah Beaucham
Mr. Mark McElroy

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Editor’s Letter
Created from the home of each contributor, the publication of
the Spring 2020 Phoenix Word is proof that student effort never ceases –
even during the pandemic of COVID-19.
This time around, talking face to face was no longer an option,
and even with all the different modes of communication (email, Zoom,
Messenger), the process of putting together this magazine was slower
than usual. But thanks to all the contributors who replied to my emails
and texts with infinite patience, one by one, the pieces came together.
We proudly present the fourth edition of Phoenix Word. We hope it will
mark the start of a spring that will bring the pandemic to an end.
In light of quarantine and social distancing, this is also a time of
reflection. During the past two years, each edition changed dramatically
in efforts to surpass the last. However, this is just the start of what we
hope will be an enduring tradition. As a graduating senior, this edition
of the Phoenix Word will be my last. It’s bittersweet, but I trust that the
future editions will steadily improve to truly become a magazine to rep-
resent KIS.
The Phoenix Word was a project that I wouldn’t have been able
to begin without encouragement. So at the risk of sounding cheesy, I’d
like to say to our poets, authors, artists, and all our readers, don’t let fear
stop you from doing what you love.
Chief Editor,
Miru Jun

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6
 igh
School

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“Yin Yang”. Ink and Watercolor on Paper. Sally K
I used contrast between ink and water color to emphasize the diptych of the water lily. I wanted
to show different perspectives of how the flower can be seen, so the contrast helped show this
contrast.

Poems
The Caterpillar Became The Butterfly Ethan Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
College Jeongwoo Lim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Untold Chances Kevin Na . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Oh Look, More Stairs Samuel Yi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

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Photography
Untitled (Self Portrait) Grace Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Lipflick Julie Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Sleepy Monday Justin Choi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
Artwork
Reality Annelise Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
Swim of the Orca Ashley Paik . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
Little Boy Bryana Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
The wants of a society Chloe Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Frictionless Stems Claire W . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Prego Faith Yejin Namkoong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
Individual Hannah Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
Insistent Henie Cho . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
Untitled Hojun J . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
When We Leave The House To Play, Our Dogs... Huey Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
Untitled Isabelle Marie Brant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
Little Things Matter Jin L . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
A Girl’s Dream Jiwon Hwang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
f/w 2020 Monroe Jules Kwon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
Frustration Jun Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Layers of Emotions Kailie Ahn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
Open Hours Ken C . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
Fairies Lily Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
Housemate Matthew S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
Untitled Raina K . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
Into the Unknown Sarah K . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83
In the Midst of Suyeon K . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
The Silver Pavilion Yeongseo L . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
~~~~
Disconnection Chloe Ahn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cover
Yin Yang Sally K . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Untitled Joseph H . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
A walk by the moonlight Jiewoo Jung . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
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 Ethan Lee
Ethan Lee is a 14 year-old freshman at KIS. Ethan hails from Phoenix, Ar-
izona and has lived for 14 years until coming to Korea in 2019. He enjoys
playing the violin, creative writing, and watching movies. Ethan also likes
listening to music and has currently been watching Itaewon Class. Ethan
lives with his mom, dad, and little sister.

The family who were like doves,

Could not survive the cold winter.
And all except for one,
Left skulls.
The one who survived felt lonely,
With no one to talk to in his cold, gloom world.
The euphoria of being with a family,
Now seemed like a utopia.
But nevertheless,
He tried to make the best
Of his own, difficult hurls.
He wished that he could run away from the grey cloud
For his own peace to return loud.
But when he met her,
His cold, gloom world, met her golden world.
And slowly,
The caterpillar became the butterfly.
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“Untitled (Self Portrait)”. Digital Photography. Grace Lee
In this photo I wanted to explore the different facets I had as a person using multiple ex-
posures. In order to expose these facets, I deliberately presented myself in an unusual way
(with stickers and without glasses) in order to alienate both the viewer and myself.
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 Jeongwoo Lim
The author of the poem Jeongwoo Lim is a Junior in high school who has
been thinking a lot about her future. As a rising senior, her main concerns
have been college and she has expressed her thoughts about her whole
admissions process and options in her poem.

Of all the names

And the majors,
Where will I choose and where will I end up?

We all hope for the best,

We all work to our best,
But only some succeed and some fall behind.

What value do the names have?

What are the values we should focus on?
Are we still valuable if we ended up where we don’t want?
Who decides our values? Why can’t it be just us?

I have so many questions,

but I don’t have the time.
I’ll answer this question when I get there.
Wherever it is, I’ll answer it then.

Will it be too late?

Maybe it is.
But, who will wait for me?

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“Lipflick”. Digital Photography. Julie Lee
Lipflick is a piece where you can see the model’s various motions in one photo montage. I
included the motion of the model flicking her hair, putting on her lipstick, and looking to
the sides in the middle and mixed the background with multiple shots of it. I also changed
the level of each small shots to show rhythm and to emphasize the movement.

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 Kevin Na
Kevin Na is a junior who both enjoys and fears the uncertainties in life.
He enjoys writing in general, and he hopes that someday other people
would remember him as a hardworking person who made valuable and
significant impacts on the KIS community.

You could choose blindly

for ten seconds,
and they could transform your path forever.
I think to myself as my course registration
deadline passes me
within the next few minutes.
There isn’t much use to say “oh no” but I do.
Words fly away, plummeting invisibly
toward the unseen abyss where
the light and the dark meet.
The computer screen is like that in those seconds,
nothing but the untold chances that you end up with.

You’re there somewhere,

a tiny insignificant being
but you might be a nobody.
Forever is a space of a split time
from which to salvage after the moment passes.
My comment flies out there somewhere,
and then I send my prayer into the wake
of the course registration headed for
the vast Internet network clustered with data packets.

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“Sleepy Monday”. Digital Photography. Justin Choi
I wanted to capture how students feel like at 8 in the morning on a Monday when they saun-
ter into class and plop down at their desks, desperately wanting more sleep. The subject’s re-
luctance to look at the camera shows that he wants to be someplace else – probably his bed.

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 Samuel Yi
Samuel Yi is currently a high school student, second year. He joined
the creative writing club due to his personal interest in literature and
storytelling with the express desire to create his own tales. Due to this,
Sam has had experience with writing before even having the beginnings
to a bigger story that he hopes to one day get fully animated. He initially
planned to write a story using his big story’s setting and characters,
however he quickly found out that it would not only take too long, so he
decided to expand on an older short poem that he had written a year ago.

On top of the mountain, Looking up Time moves on as it always does

Seeing the skies blue as the sea
Seeing the clouds, white as ice
The trees part away to show more
Oh look, more stairs
The slope steepens, with rocks all abound
Blocking the path and forcing those who climb up
to go around
The heavy heaving of one’s legs across the tilted
surface
Climbing to the apex of the mount
Oh look, more stairs
Yet higher up, another hiker climbs
Always on the horizon, that far-off line
Just around the corner, around every turn
The only other company on this lonely hill
Legs burn and sweat runs down
But that inner spark doesn’t allow for rest
The climb continues, with the stranger above
Looking up, to the stranger and beyond
Oh look, more stairs
The sun rises and falls
On the trail that particular day
A second stranger, sitting beside the steps
Breath heaving, arms low
Head bowed down
Perhaps with humility, perhaps shame
Looking up, the other stranger still stands
On top of the next hill now, looking abound
They’ve begun the next climb, further beyond
Back to the new stranger now, their chest still
heaving
With a heavy heart, and with hands shaking
Extend your arm and legs freeze
Offering a hand to help the new stranger off his
knees
Looking back up now, the first stranger gone
And looking beyond, with no surprise
Is the single thought
Oh look, more stairs.
For once, walking alongside someone else
It’s...a change of pace
They walk a little too slow and with much less
haste
The first stranger is barely a speck now, so far up
That they’re only visible from the next slope up
As the trial continues, with the new stranger
ahead
Turn around and look behind
And without words, realize
That right behind you is the flat level ground
With boot prints, leading up

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 Table of Contents

Untitled. Ink on Paper. Joseph H

The majority of the piece is covered in stippling, I used this to express the fluffiness and warm-
ness of the location. The location is Lover’s point and on this piece I express how I feel about this
place and how it just feels like a dream.

Short Stories
The Witch and the Child Lily Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
The paths I could(n’t) take Lucas Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
Anxiety Stefanie Shin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
The River’s Worth Presley Blake . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50

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 “Reality”. Acrylic Paint. Annelise Lee
I decided to explore how what we believe is a “perfect” picture might be just a selfie that is
taken with one’s foot. Throughout my AP portfolio, hands represent the greed we have and
our need for perfection, warm colors represent expectation and the positives, while cold
colors represent the reality and negatives. I wanted this piece to depict how although this is
the reality of social media, people still strive for it to be “perfect” despite it being all fake.

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“Swim of the Orca”. Ink on Paper. Ashley Paik
I used a variety of zentangle, madala, and paisley patterns to express the dynamic moves of
the whale and splashes of water in the ocean. The patterns that make up the whale is more
dense and bold while the ocean patterns are thin and light showing a contrast between the
two.
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 “Little Boy”. Mixed Media. Bryana Lee
This is a painting of my old toy. I was exploring about how memories last and wanted to
show that memories don’t last long so covered up some parts with resin. I used acrylic paint
on the bottom to paint the actual toy, then added resin on top with glitter and small shapes.

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 Lily Kim
Lily is a sophomore that enjoys writing fantasy stories.

Moonlight shone in the forest. The bare tree branches quivered as a cold
wind danced in the woods. The lakes were frozen, but the rivers survived,
pouring cold water. In the midst of the woods–over the thick blanket of pure
snow, the thorny thickets, and the lurking creatures–was a small torch. A man
held the torch, the orange and yellow flame flickering and bouncing its colorful
light in the woods. Beside him stood an old woman, her eyes empty and cheeks
gaunt, as her hand grabbed tightly onto the child’s, wrapped in a thin layer of
cloth. The little child looked tired, but would not protest under the bruising
grip.
Among the howling shadows stood a woman wearing a crown of thorn and
ice. Her name was Eira, and she was the Snow Queen: the witch that listened
to wishes in exchange for their children. She was the enemy of the Myosotis
kingdom. As someone supernatural, Eira was an anomaly between them, with
her blood-red cloak glowing in the night. Unlike the two helpless adults, the
witch wore a charcoal black mask that was shaped like a crow’s head. Her voice
rasped in an inhuman voice as she looked down at the three strangers.

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 “What have you brought me that you must need?” Eira growled from deep
within. Her voice hurt each time she did it, but she’d gotten used to the pain.
On the plus side, it made them listen to her. The couple glanced at each other,
nervous by her voice and figure.
“A child,” the mother tugged harshly onto the boy’s wrist, up in the air, “a
child of light and warmth. For you are our queen, we bestow you your doom.”
Eira let out a snort. What a bunch of idiots. They’d brought the boy here be-
cause he was not what they wanted.
The father interjected. “He is the prophesied child. Now give us a gift as you
promised to the others.”
“And what prophecy you speak of?” Eira questioned.
He looked at her in the eyes, afraid and greed stricken. “He is the child
that is meant to kill you. He is your downfall. We’ve only found out the night
before, but what is the point of taking care of him when we can’t take care of
ourselves?”
And so, she took the boy’s hand.
“Come,” she hissed, “you will follow me to the end.”
The soft wind turned into a howling tornado. Soon, it vanquished the flame
of the torch. Eira left them alone in the woods. Either they’d find their way out
or die in the cold before being eaten off by the wolves.
The child, a little boy with no name, was the child prophesied to kill her.
Most evil creatures, when faced with a fated challenge, find themselves acting
like a frenzied animal backed up against the corner. She would have done the
same, if it weren’t for the fact that the so-called prophesied child was being
sacrificed to her, by unreliable parents.

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 They’d made a terrible mistake.
She had lied. There was no gift, no blessing of hers that would give those
who sacrificed their children a happier life. What was different was that she’d
given them a false sense of security. Abandoned children were merely given
away to a better home.
It started out with a small rumor, a terrible rumor that Eira made up to scare
the people of Myosotis kingdom away. After taking blame after blame about
the children disappearing into the dangerous forest, she had enough and made
a story. A witch, the queen of snow, who took people’s firstborns and gave the
family a curse. She expected parents to cower, warn children to not go deep
into the forest. But as rumors do, the rumor changed as it passed on.
Much to Eira’s disappointment, people would do anything to live a bet-
ter life, even if it meant dishonoring themselves. As she walked through the
thicket, she noticed how he lagged behind. She stopped and lowered herself to
inspect him.
“You are cold,” she mumbled holding his small hands. “You must be tired.”
Without thinking, she hoisted him up into her arms and continued the
journey. He did not react. She looked down at the boy in her arms, his bare feet
swollen and frozen from enduring the cold, harsh, forest ground. He was half-
dazed, half-conscious with brown eyes, shivering every now and then when the
cold wind blew. She held him closer to her and wrapped him in her cloak. As
they trudged through the piled snow, going to a place the child did not know,
she felt the boy sob. She stopped.
“I don’t want to die,” he whispered.
She glanced down at him before continuing. “You shall not.”

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 After walking for what seemed to be fifteen minutes, she found a small
home with warm light shining through the windows. On the wooden steps of
the cabin, she left the boy before rapping on the door.
“Stay,” she ordered. “You will live here till I think of something.” He didn’t
say a word as she left him alone, the door opening as she disappeared into the
cold night. The two would have never met again had she not realized that most
people knew about the chosen child and the Snow Queen.
On the night of a full moon, where Eira discarded her disguise and sat in
her warm living room, she heard a knock on her door. Despite her annoyance
of the disruption in her reading time, she left her chair and walked to open the
door. She swung the door open to see the boy once more. Compared to the last
time she met him, he looked worse. A sense of guilt spread through her heart.
She knew her mistake.
“I just need to stay for the night,” he whispered. “Please.” He shuffled his
bare feet covered in scratch marks. His black hair that had been a little messy,
for her taste, was like a bird’s nest. Ignoring all the possible consequences, she
took him in.
It took her fifteen tries to make him fall asleep. He was too paranoid to do
so, and it was after she had cast a calming spell did he fall into a slumber. And
after he had fallen asleep in her arms, did she choose to bring in her trusted
partners. Her right-hand man, Wulfric the wolf, and her left-hand man, Owen
the lich butler. The three sat on the arranged chairs, with bottles of beer on the
round table. The wolf asked her the question she had considered.
“Shall we kill him?”
The lich butler waited for her answer.

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 Eira sat silent, watching the boy sleeping in her arms. He was a frail child
covered in bruises and burn marks. She was a witch covered in lies and blames.
Vulnerable and weak, he would be unable to do anything under her strength.
Right here, in her secluded home, she could simply kill the boy and live a
peaceful life once more.
But Eira found the child endearing.
“We shall not,” she faced at the black wolf ’s green eyes, “he will be one of us.”
They decided to call him Valentine.
Much to Eira’s delighted surprise, Valentine had no knowledge of her being
the Snow Queen, the witch of the cursed forest. As Winter began to settle, and
Spring took over, she noticed how he never spoke when necessary, always re-
fraining himself from asking for his needs. Valentine was always in the distance
when she visited him every now and then in his room. Never did he allow his
back to turn against her. Never did he show he was weak.
Maybe he was afraid that the lady he didn’t know would betray him. Per-
haps he was afraid of the woman sending him to the cannibalistic witch in
the rumor. On one stormy night, she visited Valentine when she heard him
weep from above her library. The door creaked as she opened, but she could
hear nothing. She took a peek. Cowering in a corner, his back against the wall
and his face buried in his arms, he appeared far littler than she had ever seen.
Valentine was facing a nightmare, and he could not rest in peace. On top of
his shoulder, she noticed a little whisperer sitting, whispering dark lies and
giggling when it heard him sob. A cursed being sent by the king of Myosotis,
urging the boy to accomplish the prophecy. His mind was awake, but his body
could not move. How annoying to see one. Eira snatched the creature off of the

25
boy and threw it out the window.
As she was about to leave, she felt a tug on her shirt. Eira faced Valentine.
“Why are they here?” He asked. Of course, he was aware of his identity
as the hero who would kill the Snow Queen, but he did not know why the
whisperers would come every night, leaving him with a feeling of nothing but
sorrow and guilt. In Eira’s community, she was well known for her honesty; she
wanted to tell him the truth. But in truth, Eira did not want to tell him that it
was because he was in her hands. It was because he was with the Snow Queen.
His role to kill her, shining at the moment. So she gave him half of the truth.
“Because they want you to kill the Snow Queen.”
His eyes shook with fear. “But she’s so frightening.”
Her fingers twitched. “Is she?”
“I don’t get why she wouldn’t let me be,” he whispered. “I just want people to
leave me alone.” Both of them waited in the silence, wondering what to say.
“Is she a bad person?”
“She takes children away to a terrible place.” Eira felt a pang of guilt. “You
must be scared tonight,” she quickly changed the subject. He nodded.
“Then I will be by your side,” she sat beside him and waited for him to do
something. He stared at her dumbstricken.
Her expression softened. “Rest well.”
For the rest of the time, she tucked him into his bed, stayed by his side, and
sang a lullaby she had once heard when she visited a different family for a dif-
ferent child. At least that child was accepted.
He slept well for the rest of the night.
It was at this point, that their relationship began to blossom. When it was
a stormy night, he would visit her library, listening to her read before falling
asleep. Again, she’d lay him in his bed, while guarding him against the creatures
sent by others. Then one day, he left his room and stayed by her side.
When she listened to the birds, he would sit beside her. At first, not all of the
forest were exactly thrilled with the new stranger. But as Eira taught Valentine
how to introduce himself, the forest began to care for him. Some creatures may
have assumed the quiet between the two was suffocating. The ones closest to
them, however, saw the calming silence of each other. Both took care of each
other when the other needed help. The forest that was cursed began to melt its
snow and ice. The ice faded from Eira’s crown, and the thorns that accompa-
nied her turned to lovely vines with roses. Valentine became taller each year,
and she saw him as her son. Her frozen heart melted and so did the forest.
Like it was a new year of life, Eira cherished Valentine like a son.
She wished it would stay like this for eternity.
But good things never stay forever.
It was on the beautiful day of summer when she realized the boy became
paler and paler under her care. Alas, she realized the boy was cursed under her
power. When she thrives, he would wither. When she would die, he would live.
Eira loved her boy more than she could have ever imagined.
She was his mother after all.
And the prophecy had to be completed.
Slowly, she began to train Valentine; he was unaware of her plan. Each day
he grew stronger; each night he grew wiser; each moment did their relationship
become stronger. Even with Eira’s many attempts of trying to drift apart from
her child, she was dragged back to caring for him like there was no tomorrow.
For what seemed like painful days, she prayed and hoped that this would not
be the day their time would end. When it was winter, she knew it was time. On
that morning, she approached Valentine with a golden cape.
“A gift,” she handed him a sleek cloak. Valentine looked at it, holding it up
before looking at her. The cape was gold and white, a tree branching out from
the middle, with wolves that surrounded it. It was of fine craftsmanship.
“It’s larger than I expected,” Valentine pointed out.
“It’ll fit you when you become an adult.”
“But being an adult is tedious.”
He was right. “I suppose the cape can spice it up.” Valentine raised an eye-
brow at her.
“Now run along now, shoo, go and play with the faes. Remember to never
tell your name.”
Valentine’s eyes glinted with joy. “Oh, I won’t.” She watched as he ran to-
wards the empty field where the faes waited. They wouldn’t try to harm him
under her influence.
“In five years, he might die,” Wulfric appeared from behind her, “the warlock
of the west confirmed it.”
“There isn’t any way to extend his time?” she asked, her voice hushed.
Wulfric shook his head. “No, not even a blessing from the gods.” They stood
there silent, thinking about all the possible outcomes. Owen stood behind the
two, staying alert as he watched Valentine play with the faes.
“Pardon my words, but I doubt you intend to kill the boy,” Owen broke the
tension.
“And so do all of you,” she shot back. He crossed his arms, letting out a small
huff, but didn’t deny her statement.
“Then what will you do?” Wulfric questioned.
28
 Eira’s eyes dulled as she looked at the crescent moon. “It was never said that
the boy would kill every one of us. Only me.” Her fingers dug into her cape
when she watched Valentine look at her from the distance, smiling and waving
at her.
“I will die,” she waved back, “the time has come for my child to leave.”
“And you do not regret it?”
“Regret is nothing but a small sacrifice,” she sighed. “What matters is how
this will all end. Do not worry, I will not die but you will if you stay here.”
Wulfric nodded before running away from Eira; Owen faded away, into the
shadows, as her hands glowed an electric blue light. She watched as Valentine
looked at her confusedly before he was blinded by a bright light.
“Be brave,” she whispered. When Valentine could see again, Eira was not
there. No one was standing there. His ears rang, and as he looked around the
castle he called home was frozen and crumbled. Desolate and broken, his mind
could not comprehend why everything was gone. There was nobody.
Except for one. He almost saw the woman as his mother, and as he was
about to approach her, he realized the truth. He did not see his mother. Instead,
he saw the Snow Queen.
“Run,” she taunted. “Your home is gone.”
Without a single beat, he ran away from her, the forest, and his memories.
The only thing left for him was the loss of a loved one and the cloak. There
would be the guards of Myosotis city awaiting for him like they always did.
They took him in without hesitation. When Valentine met the king, imme-
diately, he was told it was the Snow Queen’s fault. He stayed in a room made
of wealth and pride. Alone in the room, with a tranquil expression, his blood
boiled. Fingers clenched and quivered on the soft fabric of the cloak. Dried
29
tears itched against Valentine’s cheeks; his body shook in hatred. He would kill
her. He would kill the Snow Queen for ruining everything.
Eira would watch him from the distance as he joined the Myosotis kingdom,
became a strong captain, and sought revenge. Sometimes she would feel pride;
other times she would wonder if this was what she had wanted. Four years felt
like months, and she readied herself for her death.
The first shot was from the king. The retaliation was from Eira.
“Did you know that my son wanted to be an adventurer?” she asked. It had
been twenty days since the Myosotis soldiers entered. If the moon fell and the
sun rose, she would have to make a choice. Owen hummed in acknowledgment
as he tended Wulfric’s bleeding snout. He knew what she was going to say. All
of them knew.
“Tomorrow, you will leave me,” Eira watched the flames in the forest, “find a
better person to side with.” Wulfric protested, and Owen accepted.
“We will make sure he will be safe,” Owen assured.
The mask covered Eira’s grimace. “Let him follow his dreams.”
The moon fell and the sun rose. Her time had come. White armor glittered
as if sand glimmered under the sunlight. The armor was the worst among all
of her armors, made for a tradition that she had long forgotten. It was easy to
destroy under a single impact but not too noticeable. Twenty days of chaos
and blood cries hushed as she made her entrance. With each confident step,
enemies and allies backed away and gave her an empty path.
But one knight stood tall and against her path.
“You must be Valentine,” she greeted. He didn’t say anything and raised his
sword aimed at her heart.
“Let us begin.”
30
 From then on, it was a blur of metal clashing against ice, swiftness against
strength, and choices against fate. The battle resumed, but none dared to touch
the strongest forces. It was a stage for the Snow Queen and Valentine. Like fate
had promised, she had managed to take the mantle of evil against Myosotis
and fought her son. She wondered if all parents, who were fated to die like her,
would have done the same thing as Valentine drove the cold blade deep into
her stomach.
Behind his golden helmet, she could see the rage in his eyes. He let out a
shrill battle cry that she almost mistook for a child’s cry and twisted the blade.
Eira let out a choked breath, staggering as she held his arm. He was about to
pull out the sword when she hugged him. Then a familiar tune stumbled from
her lips. Valentine froze under her grasp.
With shaky hands, he raised his bloody hands and removed her mask. Rec-
ognition flashed in his eyes, and she felt his body shake.
“Why?” He asked. “You–you were supposed to stop me. You’re supposed to
be dead. Why? Why’d you let me?”
Because you are my son.
But she said nothing, and embraced him, humming the broken tune she
used to sing before gently falling into a deep slumber that she accepted. Her
knees gave away, and if it wasn’t for Valentine she would have fallen flat onto
the cold marble ground. She closed her eyes in peace. In the deathly silent
space, Valentine wept as he hugged his mother. Her blood seeped into his white
and gold cloak, a gift from her.
“You were supposed to stop me,” he repeated, his voice breaking. “You knew
everything! You were supposed to live happily with me. I was nothing to you.” He
was no proud son, yet she called him one. He held tighter to her limp body, a
31
husk of what he remembered her as. His mother and the one he had hungered
to kill.
“So is this how it ends? Me alone? Why am I here? What am I supposed to
do?” Among the endless questions, tears began to fall down as he rocked her in
his arms, cradling the back of her head.
“I’m sorry–I–just,” he shook, “please wake up. I’m begging you.”
There was no response. With a quivering voice, he asked her again and again
to sing the song she always sang for him as a child. Clutching her chilled body,
he begged again for her to return and tell him it was all a sick joke. She never
did. Under the roar of a now meaningless victory, Valentine imagined the soft
song of a mother’s love. The song from a mother.

32
“The wants of a society”. Pencil on Paper. Chloe Kim
As I was planning this art piece, I deeply thought about how the society was like, no matter
what country, or state it is, a human’s mind is always the same. Everyone wants the glory
and luxury in their life, however not everyone is capable of having that. Either the lack
of wealth or talent. This results in jealousy and bad thoughts. The human arms that are
hanging from the toilet paper represents the needs or the wants of a person, that has been
upset from the fact that they are not able to have that, or either that they are not trying hard
enough to reach to get what they want.

33
 “Frictionless Stems”. White Ink on Paper. Claire W
I explored using ball point pens and contrast between black and white purities, it is a close
up drawing of a leaf and all its impurities and natural patterns and curves. It is to show the
beauty in the broken and how imperfections can make a piece far more beautiful rather
than a fault to be redrawn or removed.

34
v

PHOTO

Lucas Lee
A very average person living a very average life.

“It’s your father.”

No, not again.
***
The hospital’s a familiar sight. Familiar elevator, familiar entrance,
familiar lobby.
“Miss Park?”
Ah, familiar receptionist.
“Yes?”
“Your father—Patient Park Sungho—is in the emergency ward. He’s...
he’s stabilized, for now.” The receptionist answers. She’s the honest type, at least.
“When can I see him?” The worry escapes my breath. I bite my lip. I
can feel the blood slowly trickling.
“P-Please wait until we give further notice. The doctor is doing every-
thing that he can.”
Familiar responses.

35
 ***
“Room 404.”
“Thank you.”
I walk past 84 tiles in the hallway to the wards. I’ve done enough
pacing around here to know that much. There’s a faint white gloss. It’s an eerie
feeling, it feels as if I’m walking through my dad’s road to heaven.
Yeah, I wish.
“Well, here’s the room,” I whisper to myself. There’s a tugging feeling
down my throat, it hurts. I turn the doorknob, gently, and greet the nurses. The
doctor too.
Dad.
Dad.
He’s strapped to those tubes. The monitor shows him pulsing, him breathing,
him surviving, even if it’s just momentarily. His hair’s thinning. And his eyes,
they’re open. They’re open. I don’t want to stare, but my eyes still stare.
“Ms. Park, may I speak to you in private?” The doctor asks, breaking
the silence.
***
“Your father...he’s gone into a vegetative state. We’re sorry.” The doctor
looks down at the floor. It’s not his fault, but the panging in my heart begs me
to blame him.
Silence.
“When will he wake up?”, I need to ask. I’m begging, please.
“Ma’am, your guess is as good as mine. Your father’s coma has lasted
for over three years, three years and seven months now, and he hasn’t awak-

36
ened yet. The best we can do is hope, because it’s all we can do now. I’m sorry.”
There’s a quiver in his sentence, but he continues.
“If you’d like, we’ll leave the room. If you want to be alone with your
father, that is.”
I smile. It’s a half-smile, but he gets it.
My gaze falls towards my dad. We’re all alone now.
No.
I’m dreading the words coming out of my mouth.
No.
Out comes a flood from memory lane.
No.
Please die, dad.
Please.
***
From the beginning, it’s always been me and dad. Dad and me. My
mother left us before I could know her. The only mother I ever knew was the
headstone in the cemetery three miles from our house. So it was just me and
dad. Dad and me. It was a strange experience, definitely. ‘Bring your mom to
school’ day with my dad was an awkward one, but he made it work. He always
made it work.
He never re-married. I didn’t mind. Maybe a part of me even felt
relieved. That he never moved away from my mother. For a man then in his
40s, the ahjummas next door who’d babysit would always tell me that he was
quite the looker. Hearing that, there’d always be a warm, fuzzy feeling inside my
heart. A feeling of pride.

37
 School was never my forte. It soon dawned on my dad in high school
that I was never cut out to become the lawyer that my father envisioned for me.
If that were to happen, I’d have had to raise my tests by about 20%, per class.
Ha.
Art and design was probably the last thing he wanted to see me pursue.
But I did. Dad seemed worried about the financial stability side of things.
No, not for him. He said his blue-collar life would do it for him.
No, for me.
Maybe until I won fourth in the local design competition did he
change his mind. A silver pair of outstretched wings did.
Maybe he was convinced when he saw me smile, hoisting the little
copper participation medallion with a delusional look of glee screaming that
the sky was the limit. He looked proud, as he always did.
Maybe I did peak in high school.
***
I should’ve known, should’ve known that something was all bound to
go wrong. That’s just the way it is.
March 8th, 2010: the beginning of the end.
7:44 AM: My father left for work. The old plant at Busan offered good
money, of course he’d jump.
8:53 PM: The ringing of the phone. My dad was in the hospital. An
accident, they said.
By 9:39 PM, I had made it to the hospital. Before even seeing my fa-
ther, I had already endured 46 minutes of hell.
It was nothing compared to the years of hell I was sentenced to next.

38
 Before he “left”, my father told a coworker to relay a message to me. A
message of willpower that would drive him forward, no matter what. That he’d
do it for me, like yesterday, for tomorrow.
My father surely knew the work could be dangerous, but art school
cost money.
Who knew risky contracts could be so cruel.
Then the medical bills. Comatose patients are expensive: the debt
racked up.
Who knew hospital bills could be so cruel.
No fucks given about my father.
Who knew the world could be so cruel.
Continuing a design major at college seemed far-fetched. Not with my
scholarship. By the end of the week, I was back in my room, my own room,
feasting on beer and gloom.
The wings I continuously drew on our old DELL monitor weren’t
enough to let me fly away, I suppose.
I claw at my face, hoping for the cascades of trips to stop.
I cry out the crocodile tears that only an unthankful daughter could
cry.
I’m sorry, dad.
I hope you can forgive the ungrateful daughter you’ve raised today,
even though I can’t.
***
Sigh.
Hicc.
It’s me and my dad. Me sitting beside him, gently resting on the hospi-

39
tal bed. The windows are open, and a soothing breeze billows out towards our
faces. I’m sure he’d like it. A little black bird rides on the gales, soaring higher
and higher into the sky. I wish I could also leave my past behind, spread my
wings, and fly forward.
I tightly grasp his hand, thinking I never want to let go. It’s convoluted.
“Just die already, please.”
One tear. I can only afford this one.
I’m sorry.
If dad dies, there’ll be life insurance. And even after the inheritance
tax, the debt might still be able to get covered. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be out of
this god-forsaken hole. Please.
“If you really loved me, you’d die right here, right now.”
I can’t stop myself from saying it. It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong. But
there’s a part of me that knows I want it though I hate it.
“Don’t do this to me.”
“I love you, but I hate you.”
“I want to stay, but I can’t.”
“The pain’s too much.”
“Any ordinary daughter, no, any daughter, would tell their father to live
on. But not me. I’m a monster. A monster that wants to see my own father dead.
I’m the worst, I’m not the first one to admit it. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t
be doing this to you, not with what you’ve done. But I’m selfish, deceitful, crude,
and moreover a terrible daughter. I’m not the good daughter that you’ve always
believed that I am. But this is the only way, the way for me to start living now
with the hollow husk I call my heart. Away, away from the pain of letting go. I’m
no daughter of yours, not if I behave this way.”
40
 “I’m sorry.”
A second tear. And a third. Next comes the waterfall.
I feel the roughness of his hand, the fruits of his labour. For a second,
I thought I felt the slight tug of his hand, maybe it’s the tugging of my heart to
him. Then comes the singing pain, the pain that singes my heart. The pain of
losing my father. The pain of losing with whatever road I wish for. The pain of
the paths that I couldn’t take with my father.
“I’m sorry.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a singular, lone tear coursing down
the right side of his cheek. Right from his wide-open eyes.
It can’t be. It’s just the humidity.
“Just die already, goddamnit.”
I draw the curtains close. And grab the doorknob, but can’t find myself
to leave just yet. I stare at him, pleading with my vegetative father for a wish no
daughter should ask for.
“I’m sorry.”
The next day, my father, 62 years old, passed away.
He passed away from the pain of living for another’s suffering.

41
 “Prego”. Ink on Paper. Faith Yejin Namkoong
I captured two different landscapes in Garda, Italy and combined them in this single piece.
I used many different line types and texture to show how beautiful the view was in person.
I named it “Prego” as I means the view is saying “You’re Welcome” as it is a truly beautiful
sight and I was thankful for being able to see it in person.

42
“Look”. Graphite on Paper. Halie Won
I decided to explore different ways I can use graphite for my whole piece. I wanted to focus
on the topic of “waste disposal” in this project. I wanted to spread the awareness of how
wastes are increasing every day, and in those wastes, there are living creatures that live
among the wastes.

43
 PHOTO

Stefanie Shin
Stefanie Shin is currently a senior in Korea International School. She’s lived in
San Francisco, California and she currently lives in Seoul, South Korea. She’s not
only a writer but a passionate tuba player.

Anxious, worried, agonized, I stand in front of the door anxiously

waiting for my turn. My heart thrusts echo in my stomach. Uneasiness tight-
ens my stomach like a corset. Holding an index card - almost crumbling it - I
repeat the same phrase over and over.
“Are we really living in the society we have fought for decades?”
“Are we really living in the society we have fought for decades?”
Without even time to decide whether I should put emphasis on the
first word or the last word, I hear the door creak open.
“Stefanie, come in.”
Fists clenched, mouth shut, I drag my feet- almost reluctantly- into
the room. My footsteps echo in the unwelcoming silence of the room. Podium,
standing tall in the center, awaits for someone to stand behind it. Standing
behind the podium, my eyes arrive at the clock. The tension in the room is pal-
pable. All eyes on me. I stand upright. Back straightened, fists clenched, mouth
closed shut. Pulse beating violently, each pulse stabbing my heart. Am I ready?
44
I respond with a no but I keep on telling myself that I am ready. Closing my eyes
shut, my whole being is filled with utter darkness and silence. Pitch black, iso-
lated from the outside world. Breaking the silence, a warm voice echoes in my
mind. Relax Stefanie. This is just four minutes of your life. Gently opening my
eyes, I inhale. Without warning, my body sharply pushes air out of my chest,
throat, and tongue.
“Are we really living in the society we have fought for decades?” Pushed
off the tip of my tongue, words spill out of my mouth. A warm and tingling sen-
sation lingers in my throat.
Was I loud enough? Did everyone hear me?
Am I deaf? Unaware of the volume of my voice, the pitch of my voice,
or whether I should place an accent on a phrase or not. The indescribable fear-
fear that I messed up- slowly overtakes my body. Trying to oppress my fear, I
speak even louder and louder.
This is like a marathon. I’m running faster and faster and I’m breathing
heavier and heavier. Running closer to the finish line as I run faster and faster.
The violent pulsations force my vocal cords to vibrate.
“Ironically, the government we have set up is trying to manipulate us.
We are like puppets with hidden strings controlled by the propagandist.”
My words tremble rapidly like a child trembling in the cold. My hands
in an awkward position, not knowing where to belong. Why can’t I speak like
how I practiced before? Why can’t I deliver the speech like I imagined myself giv-
ing? Why? Frustrated at the fact that I was anxious and that anxiety is making
me mess up, I pause for three seconds.
One, two, three. I embrace the three seconds of silence otherwise filled
with errors and trembling. I inhale, calming the heavy breath and violent thrusts
45
of my heart. I exhale, preparing to let the words escape my mouth. I let my stom-
ach push out the air out of my chest, throat, and mouth.
“This is absolutely absurd. Are we living in the North? I see no distinction
between the South and the North.”
Still trembling, but with less magnitude. The words are sturdy and well
heard. The shaky and cracking voice delivers my sincerity. Pacing myself at a
steady tempo, I let out the final words of my speech.

2010, One Chilly Day

Tiny, delicate hands clenching into a fist. My facial muscles tighten up,
letting out a stiff smile. Tiny classroom, filled with indifferent third graders sitting
crisscrossed on the rugged carpet. The teacher gently taps me on the shoulder,
signaling me to start.

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this. I have to do this.

Sweat dripping down the temples, fighting with my inner self suppressing my
voice, I force myself to speak.
“Hello. My name is Stefanie and today I am going to present my animal
habitat project.”

Ever since my childhood, public speaking was not my favorite. Quiet,

reserved, shy, I hated the act of speaking in front of a huge audience just grossed
me out. It was always that one word I muffled, or that one word that lacked power,
or the one word that fails to fall off from the tip of my tongue. I despised projects
we had to present in front of the class.
Fast forward to 2018. Did anything change?
46
 Unfortunately, no.
Like deja vu, the overwhelming familiarity of fear and anxiety lingered
in my body.
“Stefanie. Why were you shaking so much?”
I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m shaking. I don’t want to but my body
tells me to.
At this point, I just decided that it was a part of me. Quiet, reserved, shy.
It’s just innate qualities of me. I can’t change who I am. It’s just me, Stefanie.

After what felt like an eternity, I let out a huge breath, as if my soul left
my body. The huge rock, the rock that was suppressing my heart for weeks, was
lifted. Although the speech was on Tuesday, it felt like a Friday after I gave the
speech. I know I wasn’t perfect, or it didn’t turn out the way I imagined, I was
glad I finished it. I always had the same question after giving a presentation in
front of the class. Why was I so nervous? Why was I shaking so much? I knew if
someone told me to give a speech again, I would tremble and stutter again, but
I always wondered why I feared giving a speech so much. That same day, I came
back home and sat on my bed. Although I made some mistakes here and there,
I felt proud and accomplished that I made through it. Even as I was giving the
speech, I was almost shocked that I can fill the classroom with my voice and I
could make gestures with my hands. I’ve had countless numbers of speeches and
presentations, but this one was memorable. Thoughts about my future lingered
in my head. Maybe I have potential. Maybe my speech was decent after all.
Maybe next time I could try harder. I don’t know when I would be able to give a
perfect and excellent speech without trembling and stuttering, I’ll have to fight
through my fear.

47
 “Individual”. Graphite on Paper. Hannah Kim
I used a mixture of imaginary and real elements to create this piece. I wanted to show that
everyone has different beauty preferences and that we shouldn’t force ourselves to match the
stereotypical standard. The imaginary element, the lips on a pouch portray ourselves and is
throwing up makeup products out because it is over flooded by them.
48
“Insistent”. Pencil and White Pen on Paper. Henie Cho
I wanted to convey the urgency of global warming through my art work.The black hole
in the mirror, swallowing the plastic and the leaves represents the intensity of the climate
change occurring at this moment.

49
 PHOTO

Presley Blake
Presley Blake is a freshman at Korea International School. She loves to write
and is a really big reader. Presley is originally from Las Vegas, Nevada and
also likes golf and soccer.

The water churned and spun, it’s gurgling voice filling the air with a peaceful
sound. The village was quiet. No one was awake yet, and the town could be
mistaken for deserted. Except for one girl, who was walking merrily along the
river line. She smiled at the way it moved and used its voice to hide her own.

She was singing. Softly, but strong enough to where, without the river to hide
it, many would hear and marvel. Her voice was serene and peaceful. It spoke of
safety and kindness, something the people in the village were desperate for in
this day and age.

As a general rule, the tiny village farmed and did their jobs and stayed out of
trouble. They enjoyed the peace and quiet. The serenity. Without it, who were
they? The water was peaceful, and so they would be. And so the times came
and went.

50
The girl was no more than a child, small and laughing. Her shiny blond locks
flashed in the rising sun, rivaling the brightest light. Her bright blue eyes spar-
kled and spun like the water. She was a pretty one, and the village loved her.

As the town woke and went to work, the girl quietly slipped back into the ranks
of town, silencing her voice. It was only to be used when no one was around.
Otherwise, she was the same as any other villager. She worked hard all day in
the fields, then harvested and helped distribute the crops. She did not speak.
She did not hum. She did not sing.

Until the sun began to rise again the next morning, and the little girl went out
to sing again. This time, she sat on the banks of the river and kicked her feet
in the air, admiring the water and how it moved. She clutched her locket in
her hands and waved it around, laughing and singing with her melodic tones.
She was not aware of the dark shadow that had been watching her until it was
directly behind her. She did not have a chance to cry out in fear, though her
beautiful eyes widened.

The town woke and went to work like any other day, but the day was not
normal, as the little girl was nowhere to be found. She had simply vanished.
Her mother found a locket of hers, however, sitting on the river bank. It was
covered in blood.

The village went into an uproar. Who could have kidnapped such a little girl?

51
She was only a child. Everyone panicked. Women hid their young ones inside
of houses guarded by their husbands. People thought they would be the next
ones to be kidnapped. The village across the river heard about this, and the
panic spread quickly.

The river mourned over the loss of the girl’s voice, and curled up and dried out.
There was no more water left in either village, and they both hated the river
for leaving them without water. They wished the little girl that had been stolen
from them could be returned.

The girl’s name was Rosemary, dew of the sea, and she was the river in the
villager’s hearts.

Her mother, a woman of pretty stature, with blond hair of her own, sat by the
empty riverside each morning and clutched the locket in her hands. As the sun
was rising for another day, her mother began to sing softly. The love and heart-
break in the woman’s voice were sad for anyone who could hear it.

But the river would not return, and as it failed to come back, the villages ran
out of water, precious water, their only resource they truly needed to live.

As the water disappeared and the villagers on both sides of the river began to
die, it was said that the mother of Rosemary died too. But it was too late.

If anyone had bothered to look, they would have seen a body of a little girl
washed up on the edge of the sand miles down the river. Her hair was blond,

52
brighter than the brightest light, and her expression was one of terror.

For Rosemary had not been taken. She had merely slipped into the river,
startled by the presence of a rather large pig. She dropped her locket when her
hands cut on the rocks on the bottom of the river, and simply was swept away.

The river drowned the young girl, who could not swim well. And as it drowned
the young girl, it hated itself, and swept itself away, leaving the villagers without
water.

How important a river is in society. How needed it is.

For all of us are rivers, and we are all needed.

53
 Untitled. Ink on Paper. Hojun J
I decided to use ink in different perspectives to explore techniques and expressions I can
portray with ink and a brush. I used many different lines depending on thickness, thinness,
directions, and intensions. This drawing is about reflection, I have been to this place almost
everyday of my life when I go outside since I was born. This place helped me look at the
clear yet reflective water and always helped me think and reflect about myself when I am
there.

54
“When We Leave The House To Play, Our Dogs...” Ink on Paper. Huey Kim
I decided to explore the idea of a dog’s perspective whenever the owner leaves the house. I’d used black
and white pen and to create the depressing emotion dogs have to face every time their owner leaves.
I made this piece as dark as possible by emphasizing the dog’s emotion by using only black and white
with a captured moment that already is self explanatory in terms of the dog’s emotions.

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 Untitled. Ink on Paper. Isabelle Marie Brant
The whole beach scene was just made of ink and brush. It was a mixture between three
beaches I’ve been too in the past. I wanted to show a sort of tropical and calm beach scene,
with a few clouds and calm seas. The beach was meant to have a relaxing and chill feel and I
think it turned out very well.

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 Table of Contents

ToonDay Artworks
An introduction to ToonDay and the theme, Hope:
Hi, this is ToonDay, KIS’s chill drawing club. Every month,
we submit drawings under a decided topic. We chose March’s
topic as Hope, due to the sudden rush of events at the start of 2020
(Australia fires, coronavirus, etc.). We hope our drawings will
make you think in a different light. Enjoy! (Check out toonday.
wixsite.com/toonday to see older drawings!)

Piece of Hope Annabelle Jeong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58

Into the Doraemon World Charlie Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59

Growth in Hope Erin Jun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

Drop of Hope Julie Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

Grace - Hope Nero Viola . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62

Hopeful Day Sku . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63

Still Has Not Ended sm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64

hyunnnnnshill Super Positive Boii . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65

Hope Sydney Chang . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66

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 Piece of hope
Annabelle Jeong
2 weeks ago, I spilled water to my MacBook but didn’t break.

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 Into the Doraemon World
Charlie Kim
This month’s theme was “hope” so I wanted to connect a cartoon character with
reality. This picture represents a unique hope which is the existence of the connec-
tion between Doraemon and my room by making the objects coming out from
Doraemon’s magic pocket.

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 Growth in Hope
Erin Jun
The tree flourishes because of the hope, but without it, it wouldn’t grow.

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 Drop of Hope
Julie Lee
Because I felt like the water symbolized the hope that could end global warming

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 Grace - Hope
Nero Viola
As soon as we thought the year 2020 was going to be better, the monstrous forest fire set-
tled upon Australia, burning flora and fauna mercilessly. As the rest of the world chooses
to be either the hero or the bystander, God takes pity on the poor country and sends a
message of grace and hope.

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 Hopeful Day
Sku
Because it literally has the word hope.

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 Still Has Not Ended
sm
Since this month’s theme is hope, I decided to draw a situation when a person’s everything
is gone away, there is still one hope left.

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 hyunnnnnshill
Super Positive Boii
This shows the reality of the world... (doesn’t really have hope)

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 Hope
Sydney Chang
My picture represents the theme ‘hope’, through the girl’s hope about the flower grow-
ing up.

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 iddle
School

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“A walk by the moonlight”. Ink pen, color pencils, and pastels on paper.
Jiewoo Jung
The main subject of my piece is the roof filled with different patterns, the cat walking by the roof,
and the moon. I wanted to create a unique composition, so I started the roof from the right side
of the paper. Then I added a crescent moon with a soft glow so that I can balance the composi-
tion of the piece and form the night mood.

Poems
Home Annabelle Leigh Burrows . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
Facing Fears Daniel Choi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
Roses David Park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
My Confession to You Kylie Lee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
scrambled egg Leia Jung . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
What have you done Megan Ann Cleaver . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85

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“Little Things Matter”. Ink on Paper. Jin L
This project allowed me to focus on the small details of a little object and magnify it to be
able to fit it on a large sheet of paper. To make the object stand out even more, I painted the
background completely black with ink. The piece shows how even things that appear little
and insignificant at first has much more to it if one were to observe it further.
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 Annabelle Leigh Burrows
Annabelle has lived in many different states and countries. She has lived in
Korea for two years and is leaving what she now calls home. In her poem called
Home she wrote about her experience leaving Korea and wondering about what
her home for the next four years will be like. This was her first time writing
poetry for a class. She didn’t know anything about poetry until this year when
Mrs. Odell taught her all about it. She wishes to continue writing and learning
everything she can as she starts her new life in Texas.

Dear Texas, what will my comfort be like there?

I can’t imagine what this will be like
possibly
not knowing what my future looks like
possibly
not knowing who to sit with
possibly
not knowing what to do
warmth with a freezing personality.
changed mentality for the worse.
what does texas have to offer me?
dull days masked in shining sun.
boring experiences filled with fake laughter.

why? is what they say true will I

why are they forcing me “make the best of it” Just because I always have
I don’t want change Or will I slowly be
I don’t need change sucked
back
My parents… in?
they want this
this move drowning in the pressure
this difference to be happy
make the best of it
counting down the days love my surroundings
5 months 20 days it’s all too much
5 months 19 days
5 months 18 days moving on
Until what? leaving this
Going back “home”
until we go “back”
Back to what they want I’m not going back to my home
Back “home” my home is this
Back to comfort
but you don’t always get what you want
Leaving something new all I want is my own future, not the future decided by others
Leaving what has become “home”
Leaving what is now comfort but you don’t always get what you want
all I need is comfort in the undecided
Comfort is what I have now
exciting adventures but you don’t always get what you need
new learning experiences I need this
dim Korean days

70
“A Girl’s Dream”. Pencil Drawing. Jiwon Hwang
I thought most of my dreams were peculiar and surrealistic so I tried to put some different
surreal elements (e.g. fish and branches) that came out from my dreams. Moreover, I split
the paper in order to emphasize that it is inside the dream, not in reality.

71
 “f/w 2020 Monroe”. Digital Painting. Jules Kwon
I decided to explore a future where plants and greeneries become a scarce resource in the
world, making petals a substitute for precious trinkets in the fashion industry. This Vogue
magazine parody expresses the change in climate and the wilting world at hand. I used Mar-
ilyn Monroe as my model as part of her symbolic beauty that is expressed in our modern
culture today, and to represent the commercial industry in our society.

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 Daniel Choi
Daniel Choi is an 8th grader studying at KIS. As an enthusiastic clarinet and soccer player, Daniel
passionately shows his talents through various areas. Music is a significant companion in his life,
always listening or playing some type of music. As an amateur writer, Daniel plans to write continually
throughout his school career about his interesting life experiences and events.

He was invincible.
When we’re young we all feel invincible.
We’re unafraid to try.
To take risks.
To be vulnerable.

But as we grow up these things keep happening.

We are constantly reminded of our own fragility.
News headlines of sudden deaths make us paranoid.
Experiences in our own lives suck away our light.
We become more afraid with every passing year.
We stop putting ourselves out there.
We prefer to stay safe.
We remove all beauty from life…
The uncertainty,
the risk,
the discomfort.

But I urge you to do the opposite.

I urge you to say yes.
To say I love you too early.
To quit the safety of a routine for the possibility of a dream.
Because that’s how we beat death.
That’s how we honor the dead.
By facing fears, just like the Black Mamba.
To The King, Kobe Bryant

73
 “Frustration”. Graphite on Paper. Jun Kim
This piece was an experimentation with graphite because i’m not too fond with graphite
and wanted to get better with this medium. For this piece, we had to create a series of works
based on a theme that we had in mind. My theme for my series of pieces was about insom-
nia. I wanted to base my paintings off of insomnia because it relates to me and its a constant
struggle to all students that stay up late working long hours, affecting the amount of sleep
they get and the way they act in school. This piece shows how I am constantly rubbing my
eyes, trying to stay awake in class because of the minimum amount of sleep that i’ve gotten
the day of.

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“Layers of Emotions”. Acrylic Paint on Canvas. Kailie Ahn
I decided to delineate the different emotions that I show in my daily life using vibrant colors.
Each face resembles the distinct emotions that I have and the wrinkles on my face shows the
structure on my face that I invested while creating this piece.
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 David Park
David Park is an 8th grader studying at Korea International School. In his poem, he wrote about his thoughts
because this was a chance for him to think deeply about the things happening in his head. As a passionate
student, swimmer, and debater, he wants to keep up the great work throughout his life.

Life. Flames rise from the ground

It’s about Life. Making the world elegant
Everyone is given life. Making the world meaningful
One life. As people’s lives do.
Exactly one life. After being exposed we humans seek a future, expose our
puzzles to the rest of the world.
Just like a rose We grow as a salutary human
We grow just like a rose.

0 to 18 50 to 80

It all comes from the same world The red petals that once made the world elegant fade
Every time. away.
The green worms rise. ` The red petals that once made the world rich fade into the
Believing that they could touch the sky one day. thick velvet curtains of a theater.
Just once. The red petals that once made the world artistic curls
I desired to reach the top itself. Shy of being exposed.
To have the sky in my grasp We stay at home.
To be a giant to glare down at the people We rot in the old garage of life.
Death comes nearer and nearer
18 to 20 A strange mixture of feelings erupt within us
Tingling through every cell with revenge to conquer...
Then green wings fold back The revenge to Conquer us.
“You’re on your own now.” The body starts falling apart.
We melt into tiny shreds of agony
20 to 50 Pain starts rising.
Life’s pain
On your own.
Outside. 80 to 100
Like a lone star up into the cloudy sky
Like a lonesome cactus in the desert land Falling…
Like a deserted rose in the greens of a garden
Then you find your way One by one they fall.
I don’t know how we do it The petals dropping to the ground.
The world is a subtle place that demands the Stomping through what was left from ashes
world at large Flames flickering in the light
Like a place for a remote rose. And my eyes close
Our eyes close
The red petals curl out exposing itself to the
rest of the world. Coming times
To show their skill to the world
One by one the others go their way. After all the effort
One by one the others bellow to the world, “I’m All the endeavor in the world
here” We are forgotten
One by one the others take their place. We become a dead rose in a colorful garden
They shine in pride. We are covered by the thick soil of memory
Their beauty making the world vivid And that is the dissentient of life

76
“Open Hours”. Dry Media (conte crayon and color pencils on black paper).
Ken C
For my Surreal Still Life project, I turned the Magic 8-Ball, ice cream scooper, notebook,
and the gridded plastic pieces in my composition into parts of an office building and the
belt into a highway. I then added three hikers at the left and added snow. I wanted my com-
position to convey persistence during adversity by using the sights of hikers, people at work,
and people in traffic during a blizzard in the night. I divided the piece into three to enhance
the disjointed vibe.

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 “Fairies”. Pencil on Paper. Lily Kim
I chose to explore the idea of fairies through pencil by making it as realistic as possible. The
reason why I chose to leave the fairies obscured is because I don’t know what they look like.
I thought that leaving it to the viewer’s imagination was much better, which is why I used
the cloth texture to hide their face and overall body.

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 Kylie Lee
Kylie Lee is like a pair of clamorous pants.  People say her vibrant colors race within your brain and her
unique pattern stimulates your nerves. She does not soil like the other white pants; she capable of hiding
small grubby stains; she is special, exceptional, one out of many.  However, Kylie is not convinced. 

Sometimes, I wonder what would’ve happened if my grandmother didn’t

marry my grandfather.
I wonder what would have happened, if she didn’t marry at all.
In her late teenage years, her father asked her to marry a man.
He is handsome,
but he is ugly inside.
His family is rich,
but they are poor inside.
She gives birth to 3 children; my aunt, my uncle, my father.
She wakes up at 4 when everyone else wakes up at 6.
She sells vegetables for her children’s education, even if she only graduated
middle school.

Dear young Granny, this is my confession to you.

You will get yelled at for giving a beggar some changes.
You will never take a seat in family dinners, as you are moving plates and
fetching water for others.
You will find pornographic DVD cases in your husband’s closet.
You will be diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at the age of 72, and will collapse on the road from
your trip for groceries.
You won’t be able to hear that the cause of your disease was from extreme stress because
you’re in a coma.
Back when you actually spoke, blinked, and talked, your only hope that kept you throughout
the week was when you met your granddaughter, and your daughter-in-law, because they
were the only ones that treated you with
respect.

Now, you are lying in bed unable to breathe without an oxygen tank.
What I want to say is, please run away.
Run away as soon as you are 20.
Get your education, chance to see out the world other than the grocery
market or the laundry mat.
Be pleasantly surprised by how big the world is.
Learn to follow your passion and not focus on making some detox juice for your hungover
husband.
Get your chance to see people who don’t treat you like a maid.
Seek power, not a man.
Look over for your life, not ours.
I love you so very much granny.

79
 “Housemate”. Pencil, White Chalk Pastel on Paper. Matthew S
I decided to draw things that are near us but we can’t see often and things we can see often.
The objects on my piece are some of the things that we can see commonly, but we don’t see
mice very often. However, both are always near us and we sometimes live in the same house.
That’s why I named the piece as Housemate to express that all of these things are with us
whether we see it often or not.
80
Untitled. Acrylic on Canvas. Raina K
Through this piece, I wanted to depict how I want to act when I become impulsive espe-
cially when I’m doing art. This is actually a revised version, and the previous piece only had
one hand pouring paint. The piece was mostly done with acrylic paint and emphasized the
falling yellow paint.
81
 Leia Jung
i am a scrambled egg in a world full of yolks
a world where
no matter what i do
i will never belong
out in the world
they point at me and stare
their fingers and eyes becoming lasers
as if there’s a big red target on my face
they whisper words they think i can’t understand
each world a sharp needle
piercing my skin
every word
every stare
is a reminder of why i don’t belong
my eyes too big
nose too tall
skin too tan
hair too curly
each time i crack a little more
until one day
i break
the shell around me shattering
into small pieces
i am scrambling
i pick up the broken pieces of shell
and put it back together
starting that day
i become someone i’m not
i slather white onto my skin
stain my lips blood red
straighten each strand of my hair
listen to music i pretend to enjoy
speak the language they think is only theirs
and tell myself again and again
i am a yolk
i am a yolk
i am a yolk
if i believe the lie
maybe they will too
82
i step out of my room
into the world
praying to finally belong
i hear whispers behind me
i turn my head to face them
the words crawl into my ear
“look at that american girl”
i shatter again
i visit the place i used to call home
the place where i belonged
where i fit in
but it’s been too long
they say i’m too asian now
ask
why i’m wearing the pale makeup
the red tint
why i listen to kpop
i’m not like them anymore
they tell me how to belong there
to get a tan
wear tube tops
lip gloss
buy scrunchies
hit cotton candy juuls
i go to the bathroom
scrub the pale off my face
wipe the red off my lips
wash the straight out my hair
i change myself again
and again
and again
until
i don’t know who i am anymore
i look in the mirror
at my tear stained face
and for the first time in years
i see myself
split between two worlds
two cultures
two homes
i am a scrambled egg.
“Into the Unknown”. Ink on Paper. Sarah K
The piece explores the idea of sense of mystery and nostalgia. Using elaborate accents and
various fonts and graphics, it is meant to reminisce one about the beauty and magic of fairy
tales and story books.

83
 “In the Midst of ”. Ink on Paper. Suyeon K
I tried to convey a mystical sense and capture the moment where a serene scenery of
waterfall reveals before one’s eyes, as if the viewer were venturing the depth of the forest
and uncovering a hidden site. The composition was created by merging different reference
images of nature.
84
 Megan Ann Cleaver
Meg is an eighth-grader at KIS. She is currently interested in drawing, reading,
and writing, though most of her work is yet to be finished. She is a self-pro-
claimed swimmer with a soft spot for Japanese food and a passion for trav-
eling, and she loves her family, friends, and all of the other people who have
encouraged her throughout her life so far. She is currently working on multiple
unfinished stories and comics.

you believe my chest collapses

that I am someone as the pressure from above
that should blend in, flattens me,
flow with the current, molds me,
move with the tide. forces me into a shape
that no human was ever meant to be.
that a paintbrush should be dipped
in the whites and blacks and grays I
that shade cannot
our hallways, breathe.
our cities,
our nations, so here I am,
our voices. I say.
paint me however you want,
society crush me into any shape,
is an illusion. lock me to the chains that clamp around their ankles
and force me to walk with them.
but when that paint starts to crack,
when the color underneath it starts to show through, emotions
what do you do? are an illusion.

you brush another layer over but pain

my once-colorful body. is a feeling
layer upon layer, that is shared.
until I am no longer human.
when I scream,
a bump you will not hear,
in the smooth, flat ground. you will not see,
but you will feel.
life
is an illusion. life
is only once.
I cannot breathe.
waves upon waves of people just know,
from my black-and-white photo above all,
stomp upon my painted grave, that whatever you do to me,
pressing me into what you have done to me,
the cold heart of the earth. all you have done is suppressed the person
who refuses to be suppressed.
I cannot breathe.
my lungs are full, the human inside of me
but not with air. is not unlike that in you.

I cannot breathe. death

is not an illusion.
85
 “The Silver Pavilion”. Ink on Paper. Yeonseo L
I chose to draw this scenery because it is a scenery from the last trip I went on with my family. I
used the scumbling technique for the bushes and trees in the background, stippling for the leaves
on the nearby trees, hatching for the reflection, and crosshatching to emphasize the shadows. I
wanted bring life to the scenery through all the line textures because it brings back a lot of posi-
tive memories and I wanted to capture those memories in full detail.
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87
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Phoenix Word

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