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Forgotten Footprints

Ampersand Literary Club

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐1-­‐  

Spring 2013 Issue


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Table of Contents Mirror of Miracles........................................................................................................3 Individuality..................................................................................................................4 Splintered......................................................................................................................5 Which Way to the Sun?................................................................................................6 Perspective.....................................................................................................................7 Twenty Questions for the Fog......................................................................................8 Gestalt Collapse...............................................................................................................9 Thanks......................................................................................................................10-11 Plague.............................................................................................................................12 Rebellion as a Necessary Part of Growing Up...............................................................13 Pull of the Poor...........................................................................................................14 Oceans Mask...............................................................................................................15 The Past is the Present and the Future..........................................................................16 Lost in..........................................................................................................................17 Walking in Time....................................................................................................18-19 Legacy of an Artist................................................................................................20-21 Haiku (I Like Music....)..............................................................................................22 Popcorn Bomb.............................................................................................................23 From Tokyo to Paris.............................................................................................24-27

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Mirror of Miracles The little boy found it in a back alley, shining, a pearl, or so he thought— a mirror-glass with white streaks, ribbons lying across iron waves spiraling and twisting around it like a wreath of roses. He brought it for show-and-tell, for the little ones, always waiting and watching: they touched its scratchy surface, the coldness of the metal and they all agreed it was too fine a thing to look at, and they buried it. One little girl loved to play with it, naming it a “magic mirror”— Just like the mirror in those stories of castles and princes and ladies-in-the-tower, right? and the little boy agreed, nodding— Yes, just like the mirror in those stories and ignored the pit in his stomach. It was always a part of their game now, their favorite game of fairies’ mirror and riches and the little boy, too weary, too wise, watched them play kings and princesses in their pauper’s rags. Joan Yea

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Individuality

Chantelle Choi

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐6-­‐  


Splintered Amidst the blackened rubble of the great house— the home where women spun tapestries scarlet and gold with hopes shimmering, shimmering— a waif, a mite wrapped in a cloak punctured with wounds, gaping, finds the dreams of a thousand dolls, splintered. Joan Yea

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐7-­‐  


Which Way to the Sun?

The past nudging her in the back, the future shoving her from the front, but in the grasp of her own fist. Blinded, by the new dawns to her right and to her left. Straining eyes, like a lost child; frantic, searching that void. That void that is overflowing with clashing, colored waves because she is incapable of switching on her brain, forgetting to wind the music box in her chest. She closed her eyelids. and spreading her wings, pushed herself off the cliff, Diving into the void; lights burst on music tumbled down. And she emerged. Skipping, singing. Footsteps engraving a path to a sun, her back darkened by the sunset. Past and future, arms linked, with hers. Unknown to her was the next sunrise, nor the next sunset. Yet today’s sun was shining. Tchelet Segev

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐8-­‐  


Perspective

Fighting the Heart

Tantalizing. Mere air molecules separating us. I can. I shouldn’t. Because there’s more between us: Pisas of textbooks about to collapse, Lined paper screaming at me to scar its skin, A pigsty of clothes slop and teddy bear poop. But you’re there, nestled in the corner. Beckoning, comforting me there is time; You show me, The slow, slow fall of sand in the hourglass. Taking a step, too close, Like a magnet, we touch. You’re sitting in my lap; I trace the lines of your face The cover. perfection. I gently turn you over Fanaticized by the tattoo on your back. I tentatively, open you. No! Slamming you shut I can’t. I flip the page. And give in. Tchelet Segev

Hahnji Jang

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐9-­‐  


Twenty Questions for the Fog

When I woke this morning – the world’s back was turned, ginkgo and fog greeted me, the needles of some Asian pine, men looming down to the canal to walk, why? Why fog and not snow? Why a continuance of fog? Body sore and a job, a desk, a cup of coffee at my desk, warmth and shelter and benevolence, why? Which way is it to the canal? Which way to the river which is now blanketed - soaked with white nothing? Breathed in, smell sulfur and burn? Which way to the smokestacks that I cannot see this morning? How far to the other side of Daejeon? Of Seoul? Of the 38th parallel? To the Tumin? Which way do I go to see a mountain in this place? A true mountain? A true rock? Real dirt? Is this the first Fall? Where do my feet fall, fail? On which step would my back give out? Will it? How resilient is my life? This whitest fog, will it lift? Kristina Erny

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Gestalt Collapse

Chantelle Choi

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐11-­‐  


thanks

my son breathes out, little clouds spread from the corners of his mouth against cold glass the shape an upturned heart, his nose, his little nostrils warmth from candle this dim morning radiant heat from spine little spine curls around two chipmunks early dawn a body in my lap, reading book about animals the same book about animals the same book about animals this one spanish two bodies dancing on the low brown table a crack in the middle they don’t care two bodies celebrate after bathtime before bedtime two bodies hurtle themselves into the back of the black couch two bodies jump run race learn to jump from chairs knees spread out side no tongue no tongue in the way of the teeth no need for blood no need for sews in the tongue learn learn tel am tenki eh papa god, point to jillo point to tirzah point to grandma to grandpa to uncle paulie to cousin jude the dark morning and the dark night. the chair where we read - the one is broken down the other is firm to the seat the books the stacks of books “crashsmash!” “where were we?” “talk bout the robot, momma” “talk bout me” “talk bout Jesus in the cave”                                                                                                                                                            -­‐12-­‐  


“talk the one bout the tiny little tiny cat” covers never cover him he sneaks to the porch sneaks to the door slides it open with his little hands crouches in the orange light his bed in an L against the other one in twilight in darkness he and the other one, their bellies rounded out with milk with pancakes with peanut butter spread on each bite fingers sticky from honey sticky rosy cheeks and teeth they shine Kristina Erny

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐13-­‐  


Plague

Let them be abased for what they have made us, on the soil of what we used to call home. The land adulterated just by their footsteps, The air they tend to breathe out. We watched, helplessly, as the corrosion spread like a plague. At their acme of ecstasy, they continued, watching us rot away into soils, going back to where we came from. Becoming more and more lethargic from the sudden dilution of the world. Loathing cannot start the thoughts in us. May we not be covered by malice, Next generation tainted by our civil blood, Misanthrope, open my eyes and see the misunderstood. This cannot be perpetual. Let it all with revelry. Emily Woo

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐14-­‐  


Rebellion as a Necessary Part of Growing Up

Hahnji Jang

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐15-­‐  


Pull of the Poor

We don't know how lucky we are that we don't have the scar, of poverty. If you just open your eyes you’ll see those who lie among the streets forgotten those pure hearts slowly turning rotten. Does it not seem cruel to you and me? That some people are blind and cannot see. That some people live in slavery, And others live completely free. you've got to learn to be real before you're dead and your coffin has a seal there will always be an end so this is what I recommend don’t ignore the poor Elal Segev

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Oceans mask

Waves pound against the distant shore way up high the seagulls soar flying through the great blue sky white spots of freedom as they fly the smell of salt seemingly without fault the constant pounding of the endless waves who could think such beauty had taken so many to their graves? making proud boats sink which proves that even the proud and mighty some day must fall the ocean is a mousetrap that has a tasty bait but when you sit on it and wait... So when the ocean gives you a raging kiss be prepared to see the ocean's abyss after that well, I suppose you’ll be in bliss.

Elal Segev

                                                                                          ��                                                                -­‐17-­‐  


The Past is the Present and the Future

Hahnji Jang

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐18-­‐  


Lost In

empty and flat, it spreads reaching past the edges where i cannot see it is not blue, so it is not a sky no color, but rather an absence of it as if the strange god of this strange world forgot to give life to the heavens i am small next to the infinite horizon stretching it encompasses my vision until the infinite horizon is small next to me but who knows if it exists, for where am i? i am frozen next to the unending rows of trees they tower over me, their silhouettes like skyscrapers in the sunset this tree frozen like a stone pillar caught in the moment before it falls and i, caught in the space between the pillar and the ground i cannot move i cannot turn away It is a painting after all. Daniel Chae

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐19-­‐  


Walking In Time

It’s lunchtime and we’re walking in the shade. I’m taking small steps forward, leaving you behind. I turn around to make a joke, to tell you a story, to ask you something trivial I turn to you only to stop, my mouth half open or half-closed. Who knows, still no words have left my tongue I pause as it hits me, that you’re gone, you’ve flown away like a swallow in the fall, migrating to warmer places. Except that swallows always return home. And I find myself trapped in a moment of silence, as I realize that it’s a funny kind of emptiness. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth; It catches in my throat, rubbing it raw. I blink. Burying my words like flightless birds, as I swallow what I was about to say. I look back ahead but, when I think about it, it’s even scarier. Because someday I’ll forget, I know;                                                                                                                                                            -­‐20-­‐  


as I walk, I’ll get used to turning around to no one, I’ll get used to the autumn air; and one day, I’ll stop. and then, you’ll be so far behind me it’ll be like you were never here at all. Daniel Chae

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐21-­‐  


Legacy Of An Artist

The life of a man is like a collage of tiny little snapshots of every memory, of every moment he has ever experienced. And in each of these tiny chunks of life, these pages in his story, lives a different version of himself, a frozen record of who he was that day, of what he said and of what he thought, of the mistakes he made and of the lessons he learned. The person who lives now, who changes and grows, he is the sum of every moment he has ever experienced, like the moving picture, the cinema; And so man, while the reel still spins, works to leave his mark on the world. He works so that, when his time is up, those moments do not die with him. And this is why every man leaves his own legacy, Some leave great speeches to speak for them in their absence. Some leave monuments to show us their former glory. Some leave scars to remind us of their mistakes. But, the artist, is a man who leaves only beauty.

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐22-­‐  


through the strokes of a brush on canvas, or a clear voice singing to the night, or hasty words scribbled in a notebook. Therefore, the artist, he works. to not be forgotten, but live on. in a painting, in a song, in a poem. Daniel Chae

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Haïkū (I like music…)

That sojourns the dress of my intuition Cleanses the window to my soul Fills in the void of my thought Jihun Jeong

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Popcorn Bomb

Michelle Lee

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐25-­‐  


From Tokyo to Paris

Screenplay Dedicated to Woody Allen Two couples in their late thirties are having a dinner at a café near the 16th avenue. The two couples are allegedly friends, sharing a casual meal and talk over work and life on a Friday night. All four work in New York’s publishing and art business. Jack, with the round glasses, is a literature professor at Columbia University. Gregory is the gregarious type, while Melinda is his similarly more frivolous and easy-going wife. Jack is the neurotic-type hypochondriac, while Margaret is the more reticent-thoughtful wife. Margaret: Honey, I think you’re exaggerating. Gregory: (with genuine excitement) No, no I’m not. That’s how we met. I was driving to Venice by car, you know and then I see this woman struggling to get her car out into the headway. So I think to myself, sure I’ll help her; I don’t see anyone within the 500-mile’s radius. Margaret: You really are going to continue with this ridiculous story. Aren’t you? Gregory: (Ignoring his wife) Yeah, so I pull my car on the side and approach her, ask her if she needs help with anything. I mean she was alarmed at first, because think about it; a total stranger in the middle of nowhere, except the fact that the road lead to Venice. Melinda: Oh, how romantic! Margaret: Uh, uh, the exact opposite Gregory: So she tells me yes, that her car broke down after her fuel went out and is now having a hard time trying to start it back on. And then she opened the hood for me, so I could see if there were any problems with the engine and what not, and bingo! (In a short flashback, the two eyes of a young woman and man click at once) Margaret: Just like that? Gregory: Yeah, love at first sight, and you know, we paraded through Venice for the next seven days like the most abnormal couple of tourists. Melinda: Yeah, yea (cynically) Jack: (Breaking out of his reservedness) Ha, ha, that really is one of the funniest wedding stories I’ve ever heard.                                                                                                                                                            -­‐26-­‐  


Gregory: (back to his story telling, in a more earnest manner) Two days later, we got married on a gondola whilst the sun set in the Grand Canal and swam back to the hotel after she pushed me off into the water. The gondola guy got mad, almost chased us but he let us go afterwards wishing us a happy marriage in Italian, and here we are today, all fed up with the Occupy movement and so forth. Melinda: (excitedly) So we’re thinking once again about leaving America and trying out for a new destination, if not South America. Margaret and Jack look above their mouth-sweeping handkerchiefs with a look of disbelief. Jack: Really? Margaret: Well, we’d love to go with you. Have you decided where you’re already going and how you’re going manage to live under the glaring sun? Melinda: Well, Gregory’s applied for a fellowship to research the newly found paintings near the Machu Picchu, but we’re not sure if they’ve heard from us or not. Gregory: (breaking apart from his silence) Well, three months have passed and we haven’t heard anything from yet so. Margaret: Well, I’m sure it takes a long time to process those things with the large pool of applicants and everything. Melinda: And surprise, we just heard from them two days ago, via email that they’re paying for the plane tickets and everything. So we’d like you two to come with us if you can. If all goes successful, they’re giving us a full-grant to do any future-research we want, and a beach mansion near the Praia de Forte. So, we’d like the two of you to really come with us if you’re not super busy with your teaching schedules and everything. Margaret: Yeah, totally, I’m so excited, Jack, I’ve always wanted to see South America. (Self-astonishing herself with all the exotic images related to South America) You know with, the native tribes, the ancient archeological sites, the dance and culture under the divine god of sun! Jack, let’s go! Jack: (in a rather pensive mood, looking down thoughtfully at his hands clasped together) Jack: (finally opening his mouth) Well you know I have a permanent teaching job at Columbia. Melinda: Can’t you a take break or something?

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Jack: (slightly anxious) I don’t know, you know with economy and everything, every educational institution in America is growing short of teaching jobs. I don’t think they’ll allow me to leave for such a long time. Melinda: Come on Jack, can’t you inquire if you can also be part of the research while you’re there? Jack: (anxiously, rather alarmed) I don’t know. I teach Flaubert and Sartre. I don’t think Madame Bovary and No Exit really has anything to do with the glories of the South American civilization. Gregory: Come on Jack, you’ll have lots of fun! All the beach girls and the dusty masks that come out from the dusty tombs, they’ll fascinate you! Jack: for sure, but you know, my wife and I really can’t afford to lose this position, it’s been so far my highest-paid position, so I’m not sure if I could afford to lose this. And by the way, our third child is coming along the way in three months. Do you really want our child to be intoxicated by mysterious ritualistic airs of the Incan tribes, Melinda? Gregory, Margaret, and Melinda: Jack! (Sympathetically) Gregory: It’s okay if you can’t come. We just thought you guys might enjoy the notion of an adventure and expedition. Melinda: No, no. Gregory, despite my husband I still want to come. When do I pay for the plane tickets? Jack: (in worried tone) Melinda, then what about Tom and Benny, and Julie? Do you want to intoxicate your newborn with the hypnotic scents of the Aztecs tribe, and drive her crazy by the time she turns 18? Gregory: Oh come on, Jack. That won’t be happening to any of us! Margaret: Yeah Jack, I’m pretty sure it’s all perfectly civilized in those places nowadays. Jihun Jeong

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Contributors/Club Members 2012-2013 Editors: Joan Yea – grade 12 Tchelet Segev – grade 11 Members: DaKyung Jo – grade 10 Elal Segev – grade 8 Jihun Jeong – grade 11 Daniel Chae – grade 10 Emily Woo – grade 10 Advisor: Mrs. Kristina Erny

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐29-­‐  


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issue 1

                                                                                                                                                           -­‐30-­‐  


Ampersand -- Issue1-- Spring 2013