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Nov/Dec 2012, Issue 1 Vol. 1


Our maiden issue takes flight!



PARALLEL INK Issue 1, Vol. 1

Editorial Board meet the staff and contributors Jamie Uy Managing Editor Jiyoon Jeong Senior Editor, Head of Art Korean-English Translator Puinoon Na Nakorn Senior Editor, Head of Technology Thai-English Translator Zoe Ong Guest Editor Francesca Tinga Guest Editor Ice Somboon Technology Assistant Contributors: Swish Dish, Elaine Park, LuLu Labbe, Vincent Tantra, Chloe Duval, Helen Chang, B.L.P, Darin Sumetanon, Gene Vichitanan, Elle Schenk, Emma Breber Š Parallel Ink 2012 The writing and artwork published in this issue are the intellectual property of the accredited contributors. All rights reserved. No part of this magazine may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Parallel Ink. In other words: honor the hard work of the editorial team and the writers, respect the images' licenses, and don’t plagiarize the writing in the issues or on the website!


PARALLEL INK Issue 1, Vol. 1

Editorials the PI experience We asked some of the team to write a bit about their experience with Parallel Ink. Here’s what we got! Jamie Uy (Managing Editor): It’s incredible to think that this – the brainchild of our summertime boredom – has matured from being one of our weird little notions to a real, living, breathing writing publication called Parallel Ink, fondly addressed by staff as PI (which is oddly synonymous to both the math value and the delicious desert – purely coincidental ;D). There’s something unexplainably cool and camaraderie-like (other than having no adult supervision!) in starting a project like this with your friends, especially since PI’s contributors come from all over. In the process of preparing this Nov/Dec issue, I was able to reconnect with former writing friends living in Manila, Singapore, Colorado, and Seoul. These overseas friendships are at the heart of PI, and directly lead to Parallel Ink’s philosophy: there is solidarity in writing. To support this, we have translated two pieces (‘Star Sweeper’ and ‘Shh…’) in Korean for our bilingual readers, and we hope we can connect with you further on Twitter (@ParallelInk), or on Facebook ( On November 8, we host a writer’s café at the International School Bangkok. Finally, a big thank you to the following adults for their advice and help publicizing PI in classrooms:

Left to right: Zoe and Jamie, Puinoon with our friend Tanya and Jiyoon (top right), guest editor Frances


“But still it was a new experience - and as new experiences always are - it was intriguing and exciting at the same time.” Jiyoon Jeong, Senior Editor

Mr. Denby Ms. Ulster Mr. Romary Mr. Healy Mr. Tague Mrs. & Mr. Uy On behalf of the team, I hope you enjoy our maiden issue! J Write on, Jamie Jiyoon Jeong (Senior Editor, Head of Art; Korean-English Translator): Hello, this is Jiyoon! This is my first time doing something like this - and probably the same for the other PI staff - and it was rather harder than I thought. But still it was a new experience - and as new experiences always are - it was intriguing and exciting at the same time. So I really do hope that you enjoy our PI's November Magazine!

PARALLEL INK Issue 1, Vol. 1

Francesca Tinga (Guest Editor): To be honest, I have no idea what writing is. Is it the actual pen on paper? Clicking of the keyboard? Or the letting out of all the emotion in your heart? Just kidding. Rewind.

I’ll keep this short and sweet; this fun little You guys are awesome, venture has honestly been an amazing experience. Zoe  As guest editor, I have less responsibility than all these big shots around here (cough Jamie cough) but I still feel like part of Parallel Ink all the same. I honestly never thought I’d ever be a “writer” in a magazine and definitely not part of the behind the scenes staff. It’s been a learning experience for me as much as anyone else. Reading all your works, and smiling and laughing along with your characters makes all this hard work worth it. Others may have said it already but it does bring about a sense of unity. Everyone working on this publication is from different areas all around the globe but we’ve all come together for a single purpose, our love for writing. While you may not see me around next issue, I would just like to give a quick thank you to all of you for even taking the time to read this little note. Parallel Ink is an experience like no other and it’s made of the combined blood, sweat and tears of the whole editorial staff so before I leave, a little poem for all of you. Writing is an art. One that is not exclusive. Love it, cherish it, share it.  Thank you once again for all your support! Love, Franny Zoe Ong (Guest Editor): Well, it's somewhat shameful for me to say that I'm writing this now, a night after it's due, especially after the amazing experience it's been. How on earth am I supposed to sum up working on Parallel Ink in 150-ish words? I guess I'll start from the beginning. When I first heard that my friend, Jamie, was starting an actual magazine, I was shocked. She'd always been interested in writing and reading but a magazine?! A real, true magazine? When she went on to say that I could be guest editor, well, does the word 'overwhelmed' suffice? PI (Parallel Ink) has been my first time to work on any kind of publication, and I was truly honored to be a part of it. It was a unique experience. I mean, to be united


in writing with kids/teens from all across the world through an online magazine is pretty darn cool, don't you think? :)) Too soon this amazing collaboration has come to an end but, like all things, it must. So, to all you readers out there, happy reading! I sincerely hope that you'll enjoy Parallel Ink. :D Hope to see your writing in the next issue!

PARALLEL INK Issue 1, Vol. 1

‘What’s up?’ Column: Procrastination a hilarious take on laziness By Swish Dish

Editor’s Note: The ‘what’s up’ column will be a feature in every issue. It contains musings, thoughts, random humor, and opinions on topical matters that affect kids. A guest columnist is selected every issue. Without further ado, let Swish take the stage! How do I start? Well, let me just say that I’m a lazy person. I don’t particularly like doing work, (Who does?) and I rarely think things through. So when my sister approached me about writing a column a month ago, I replied with a nonchalant “yea sure, whateva”. Now here I am, typing late into Saturday night wishing I had never agreed to do this column thing. If you’re like me, you’ll understand. I often procrastinate and sometimes entirely forget about things that I have to do. Take this for example. I had a whole MONTH to do this, but each day I just put it off until one day my sister’s like, “Hey you done with that column yet?” and I’m like, “OH SNAP!” Naturally, that day was today, and so here I am writing at 11:20 in the evening. This is definitely not the first time I’ve pulled off something like this. Various school projects have shocked me randomly when I discover they’re due tomorrow. Think of it like a friend’s birthday. You know it’s coming the whole time, yet when it’s here, you’re like “lol wut?” Procrastination is probably my biggest enemy. But it’s even worse when it’s self-inflicted. I could have just said no to this whole column thing and I wouldn’t be in this predicament right now, but I said yes. T*A=P Yes, T times A equals P. Time multiplied by amount equals procrastination. That, ironically, is the formula I came up with in math class-when I could have been doing my homework. Anyways, back to the point. T*A=P. 1 month*500 words= Procrastination Level OVER 9000! This column was a recipe for disaster. Ladies and gentlemen, I advise you to memorize that formula, as it is very important for people like you and me. Whenever you get a new assignment, use this formula to calculate your level of procrastination. (Note: use days as the measure unit for T and words as the measurement for A.) Here’s a chart to interpret it: 0-300: No problem. Procrastination will be low, if any. 301-600: You should probably get started. Like, right now. 601-900: Procrastination levels are getting high. Start, or risk Procrastidoom. 901-1200: You know what’s going down. Save yourself while you can. 1201-1500: What project? So there you have it. Unfortunately, while writing this column, I suddenly remembered the Science project due in two days. Peace.



Poetry the budding bards of tomorrow Shhh.... Chloe Duval Shhh… Hush Do you hear the sound? The sound of secrets wisping around? From mouth to ear And ear to lips Can you even catch a glimpse?  Travels like sound  Quicker than light  Can you set the secrets alight? One small slip 

쉿... Chloe Duval 쉿... 조용 소리가 들리나요? 입에서 귀로 당신은 엿볼수나 있나요? 소리처럼 이동하고 빛보다 더 빠르게 당시은 비밀을 퍼트릴 수 있나요? 한번의 아주 조그만 미끄러짐 더 이상 가지고 있을수 없지요 왜냐하면 하나가 나간 이상.. 분수처럼 쏟아지거든요 쉿... 조용 소리가 들리나요? 당신의 비밀이 돌아다니고 있거든요

And you can cancel the trip For gone are the secrets No longer can they be kept Because once one’s out… They fall like a spout  Shhh…  Hush Can you hear the sound? For it’s your secrets going around

Bio: My name is Chloe Duval and I live in Bangkok, Thailand. I moved here from the United States and attend the International School of Bangkok (ISB). I love reading and writing and am twelve years old. I live with my father, mother, a dog and cat, and my younger brother Caleb. Editor’s note: We have translated ‘Shhh....’ into Korean, although it was written in English. :)



No One Lives Forever Gene Vichitanan There was a young man waiting on a chair, reading a brown, crumpled note Only an imbecile would invade his zone. Yet all he does is sit and stare Perhaps in his heart there is fear or guilt he waits out here just for one man he looks as mournful as a powerful leader dies a friend’s life shattered at the dagger’s blade his dearest comrade on his mind that fateful act two days ago just how he feels, none can know to his brothers fate, he seems resigned Months ago, life was facile. The fight was theirs, it went too well was then his trusted comrade fell brought down by a cunning, wretched soldier So now he sits outside the ward he sits, and waits, and nothing more he's unambiguously staring at the door and prays his friend to be regenerated… Bio: Gene is an ISB 8th grader. He lives in Thailand.


Life LuLu Labbe The road will break nothing can ever stay the same. All things change. People move on and so will the pain. So don’t end your life in vain. There will never be spring if there isn’t a fall, to kill it all. Bio: My name is LuLu Labbe. I was born on October 8, 1998. Right now I live in Nonthaburi, Thailand. I am 13 years old right now but will soon be 14. I love music, drawing (even though I am not that good), mustaches :{), and my favorite color purple. Most of my pieces are poetry there are inspired be events in my life. I have a dog named Barley that I love very much and I am an expat (my first move was to Thailand).


The Crimson Wood B.L.P

Autumn leaves falling all around, As her body starts to rot within the ground. . Her anguished cries had once pierced the frigid air, As dirt and twigs entwined in her raven hair. .  The daggers silver shone in the moon lit night, Reflecting on the strangers face, the victor of the fight. .  Her obsidian eyes full of fearful tears of death, As he savagely took her final breath. .  Her blood so vivid, Her blood so red, Smoothly trickled down the side of her head. .  Her lifeless corpse, still warm, lay upon the leaf covered ground. Not a whimper, nor a peep, not a single sound. .  Deep within the forest, in the crisp autumn air. Lies the remnant of Olivia Blair. .  Who shall forever remain in the Crimson Wood.


Bio: I am 13 years old and have lived in Australia, South Africa, Egypt, USA, and now Thailand. I enjoy going to new places and having unique experiences. My favorite pass time is to sit on my window ledge when it is raining and work on a piece of writing or a drawing, I have found that the pitter pat of the water and the grey coloring around me helps my imagination greatly. My advice to other authors is to be curious about words! don’t be afraid to pull out your dictionary whenever you have trouble, I have expanded my vocabulary immensely by doing just this.


Friendship Elaine Park Friendship looks like a box of treasures with many secrets whispered to each other. Looks like intent, caring eyes, patiently listening while the other talks. But on dismal days, it's two backs not facing each other. Friendship smells like warm hot chocolate aroma drifting to your nose. Smells like  your mom's delicious cooking that wafts up to your room. But on dismal days, it's like smoke from burnt out, all-finished fire crackers thrown away. Friendship feels like  a soft blanket; warmth snuggling close to you. Feels like  the warmth that you don't want to leave  left on your bed  after you've woken up on a cold morning. But on dismal days,  it's like chilling shivers running down your spine. Friendship sounds like loud, quick chit-chat  when the teacher isn't listening. But on dismal days, it's an awkward, uninviting silence. Friendships tastes like  that first sweet bite into your grandma's cookie, never wanting to leave its side. But on dismal days, it's like a bite into stale bread unable to eat.  Bio: My name is Elaine Park, 13 years old, born on April 20, 1999. I lived overseas 3 years before coming back to the US, which is where I live now in Colorado. I love writing and reading especially writing poetry.




Narratives a short story packs a punch 911, After Me or Her? Elaine Park A sunny bright morning opens up a new Sunday like a present full of surprises. Blinding honey-golden sunshine scintillates through the wide windows that are open to welcome fresh air in. Outside, our lawn is freshly cut; a healthylooking green color is spread before me as if it was painted with a paintbrush onto a pure white canvas. All tells me that today would go by smoothly. My family is getting ready to go to church but of course, I am always the last to finish preparing. My young sevenyear-old daughter, Elaine, is messing around in the study room where my husband is working. Well, at least trying to work. I chuckle to myself because he is clearly getting distracted by Elaine’s speedy, cavorting movements around the room along with her high-pitched voice right in his face. I go upstairs and start arranging my apparel and make-up. From the first floor, I can hear Elaine playfully taunting, “I’m going to call 911 and see what happens, Dad!” He replies, “Elaine, stop messing around with the phone and get ready to go to church.” Elaine, being oblivious to his command, answers, “I’m going to dial the numbers now!” My husband ignores her playful childish prank and continues working on the computer. I can hear the rapid typing of his fingers continue on. By then, I finish my foundation and what-not of brushing my eyes with mascara, tracing my eyes with eyeliner, and painting my lips with lip gloss. I head downstairs to pack water bottles for the whole family just in case. As always, I prepare everything for everyone. As I go down the stairs, I hear the sudden slam of the phone from the office room and think to myself, Finally, she’s given up on it. Now maybe she’ll listen to me. But as soon as I hear the deafening slam, I see Elaine hastily running up the stairs as fast as she can on her short speedy legs with an unusual ashen look pasted on her face. I call out to her, “Pack your Sunday school bag and don’t forget your Bible!” Instead, I am, once again, ignored by my own child. The closing of Elaine’s bedroom door rings throughout the house which makes me jump and wonder what’s wrong with her. I continue on to the kitchen where I dread washing the dishes from breakfast this morning. Reluctantly, I pull on the rubber gloves and prepare to give a refreshing bath for these dishes by scrubbing the dishes with warm water and bubbly soap. About 10 minutes later, as I’m rinsing out the last of the dishes, I hear the doorbell ring interrupting my humming which has kept me company for the last 10 minutes. Ding Dong! I wonder, Who is it on an early Sunday morning? My husband calls out to me intruding my thoughts, “Can you get the door? I’m a little busy right now.” Of course. You’re always busy, I think. Ding Dong! Sighing and muttering under my breath, I turn the tap off, take my gloves off, and wipe my hands on my pants. That’s when I notice the police car outside. Right in front of our driveway. A black and white police car leaving me speechless and lips dry. I try to assure myself that it’s not there for us but my hopes quickly and rather menacingly say goodbye to me and vanish into thin air. My heart starts to beat faster with every step I take to the door. I yearn to hide in a closet, run away from the door, and away from my mistake. At the door, I take a deep breath and open it with a creaking sound that indicates our weather strip is much too old now. To my dismay, it’s an official policeman standing outside like he’s justice itself with inquiries in his soft eyes mixed in with a hardness that tells me he’ll do anything for rightfulness. Subsequently, the vivid scene from a few nights ago rewinds, pauses, and plays back in my mind like an old crackling videotape in a VCR.


It’s dark and late when I am driving home in our car with the whole family coming back from a visit to a friend’s house. My husband is snoring with his feet propped up on the dashboard. My two kids are sleeping soundly as well. As I look over, I have a strong craving of lying down to sleep too. But I force myself to keep my eyes open and alert, straighten my back, and grip the wheel so tightly until my knuckles turn white. Our car has an auto pass for tolls so when we come up to a toll gateway I don’t expect any bar. The radio’s soft luring music seeps through my ears as I near the toll gateway. Even with the headlights, I don’t see the bar that’s apparently directly in front of the car because the night is as dark as the tunnel of a subway. I press down on the ‘accel’ and whiz through the toll. A blind mistake. Literally. I drive through the toll carefree and suddenly feel the loud CRASH! as the unexpected bar and our car make contact. My heart drops to my stomach. The impact has no effect on me but clearly the weak flimsy toll bar is no match for our hard-headed car. The heart-wrenching sound jerks me awake and adrenaline pumps through my veins. The bar flies off to who-knows-where while I continue to drive on thinking about what I have just done seconds ago. There’s no time for me to stop and think about what just happened because we’re driving down a highway full of distant headlights shining in the pitch-black after hours. Trying to make my hands quit shaking fails miserably and I can hear my heart beating in my ears like a drum’s constant beating rhythm. I take a quick look to the back seat but surprisingly no one is awake. On the rest of the journey home, I expect a police siren and flashing lights coming after me. Insecure, I keep looking unconsciously and nervously into the rearview mirror. However, I soon find myself driving up our driveway into the safe barriers of our home with this incident becoming long-forgotten until now.

Reeling myself back to the present, I think to myself, Oh shoot, he’s come to fine me or something. My hand on the doorknob turns moist and slippery as I imagine myself falling through a-never-ending-bottomless pit of troubling punishments. My knees start to shake and buckle from beneath my torso. Soon, it feels like my legs have been swept from underneath me and I’m standing on nothing but empty air. The police officer’s deep masculine voice snaps me back to reality, “Hi, your house called 911. Is there any problem here?” At the moment I hear this, I regain my balance for I was getting ready to beg him not to take me away or anything. I let out a deep breath of relief that I have been holding in. I realize it has nothing to do with a few nights before and this realization alleviates the stress that was built up. Following, confusion rolls in, for if he’s not here for me, then who called 911? Then, unfortunately for Elaine, it clicked. My husband comes to join me at the door and tells the police officer that it must’ve been our clumsy little daughter who called out of curiosity. Thankfully, the officer most gracefully seems to understand, wishes us a good day, and heads back to more primary duty instead of wasting his time investigating an “accidental” call by an immature seven-year-old. Speaking of my daughter, I turn to see Elaine standing at the bottom of the staircase with fear and dread filled up to the brim of her eyes. Eyeing her closely, I notice her trying to stop her lips from quivering by pursing those thin cherry-red lips in her wan discolored face. Her tears were starting up and looked as if they could come pouring out like a flash flood in a second. As I look her top to bottom with increasing suspicion, I also perceive that her small toes are wriggling uncomfortably against the rough shaggy carpet. Oh gosh, she did call 911 in the end. For real. We thank the police officer for coming to check on us and I am especially grateful inside that it wasn’t me who was in trouble. Elaine immediately scrambles up the stairs in a flash like Gingy, the Gingerbread Man, from the movie, Shrek, before I can scold her and slams her door, again, causing the whole house to shudder. I climb up after her but find her door locked and I can hear quiet crying from inside. I think about cajoling her to open up the door but I know that won’t happen. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m really sorry. It wasn’t meant to be a prank. I won’t ever do that again. I promise,” she says, although it’s muffled between sobbing. I can tell she was scared the life out of her when that policeman actually showed up at our door. I can totally understand her because I, although hate to admit, was too. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Just don’t ever call 911 when it’s not an emergency. Okay?” I reply to her through the door.



“Okay, Mom,” she answers shakily. “Good. Now get ready to go. We’re leaving in 5 minutes.”

To this day since then, I have seen Elaine dial 9 and 1 on the keypad of the phone to amuse herself but not any further than those two digits before hanging up. Bio: My name is Elaine Park, born on April 20, 1999, I am 13 years old living in Colorado, USA. I love both reading and writing from poetry to narratives. This narrative is a narrative with a twist because it is about me but is written from my mom's perspective, who was there at the time this story took place. Running Against the Limit Helen Chang Coaches’ instructions buzzed around my ears like bland murmurs under the scorching, afternoon sun in Thailand. Adrenaline rushed out from my pores as I tilted my head away from the blaze. Fifty other students stood on the sundrenched track with me, each clenching their fists, rolling their necks and loosening their shoulders. I felt skittish, thrilled and hopeful all at once as I rested my quivering finger on the “start” button of the stopwatch. ‘This is it,’ I thought and felt it with every sense in my body. As everyone trudged to the start of the threekilometer race, I averted my eyes, scanning the circle of students around me. They were absolutely impassive; not even a single emotion, smile, or a hint of anxiety revealed on their graceful movements. I recognized some of their faces, but didn’t know their names. They were simply competitors, each hoping for one of the ten places in the Varsity Cross Country team. In the previous tryouts, I vaguely had an idea that I was on the latter five of the ten fastest girls. However, now that I encountered new faces, my assurance faltered. Not knowing their abilities as runners, they sent off strong scents of intimidation, slowly building up like a fog. ‘Don’t expect to make the team and you won’t be disappointed,’ I convinced myself, submissively. ‘Try your best and be pleased with whatever result you get.’ My friend, on the other hand, constantly stretched her arms and took slow deep breaths. “Are you really nervous?” She inquired as our eyes met, with a hesitant smile on her face. “Not really, I don’t mind being in the Junior Varsity team.” I paused, unsure if the outspoken words were meant for my friend or for myself. Gulping down the last sip of water, I sauntered to the starting line of the race. Not even a pin drop could be heard as silence swept over the field. I took an audible breath and slowly deflated like a balloon. “On your mark… get set… go!” exclaimed the coach, as feet rushed forward. Tension hung tightly in the air as the herd tried squeezing in to the first lane. I concentrated on the rhythmic beat of my feet, and when my consciousness resurfaced, I found myself running the last loop of the race. Salt dripped onto my eyes and ran down my neck. I glanced below, searching for a shadow behind my feet, but nothing was there. My lungs squeezed and painfully expanded to my ribs, agony bursting with each step. As the terrain changed back to track for the final hundred meters, I felt a surge of fatigue overwhelming me like tidal waves. Finish line felt like a mirage, waving its hands from miles away. “Run! Finish strong!” Yelled out the coaches, their applauses fueling my motivation. Sprinting on pure determination, I exerted all my energy to drive me through the finishing line. My legs were on fire and my arms ached as I desperately sucked in air. I wiped the sweat pouring down my forehead and stopped my stopwatch. Before looking at my time, I promised myself that, ‘No matter which place you get, remember that this was the best you could do.’ The next day, I reluctantly dragged my feet to the bulletin board. A single white paper was tacked onto the bare board. It read: “Varsity Girl’s Cross Country.” My heart skipped a beat as my eye traveled down the list of names. Suddenly, a glimpse of ‘H’ caught my eye. In a neatly typed letter, was my name. I screamed silently, as the corner of my mouth helplessly went up. It felt as if the feeling of ecstasy was going to be imprinted on my heart forever. As much as I cherish accomplishments, the most rewarding result out of all was that I learned to embrace any results if I put my best effort toward it. I realized that the experience itself is a lesson, and accomplishments are mere outcomes. I began to believe in myself because I was the one ultimately reaching for the stars. Running against the limit is my motivation, my determination, and my inspiration. Bio: I'm a Korean living in Thailand. I lived over half of my life in Thailand. Currently I'm learning how to read and write Thai.



Star Sweeper (스타 스위퍼) Vincent Tantra A slight breeze swept through the chrysanthemums, carrying their scent and tossing it through the air. The grass bowed to the wind, and they waved on for miles on end, with no tree or rock to disturb them. Small sediments from the earth rolled silently across the ground, smoothing out the dirt. 약 간의 산들바람이 국화꽃들 사이로 스쳐 지나가며, 그 향을 들고다니다 공기중으로 던졌다. 풀은 바람 에게 고개를 숙였고, 끝이 없도록 돌이나 나무의 방해없이 손을 흔들었다. 작은 흙 조각들은 소리없이 바닥에서 구 르며 땅을 평평하게 만들고 있었다. This place was named The Meadow, where the sky and the flowers met, where the fireflies get their light from the stars and the owls practice flying through the night (which is very hard, mind you). The Meadow wasn’t on any map, in any region, but it was just there, in space, in time. And it was the favorite napping spot of The Star Sweeper. 이 부분의 이름은 ‘The Meadow’이다. 하늘과 꽃들이 만나는곳, 반딧불들이 자신들의 빛을 별들에게서 받고, 부엉이들이 밤에는 나는 연습을 하는 곳 (당신은 모르겠지만, 이것은 몹시 힘든 일입니다.). ‘The Meadow’는 어느 지도, 어느 곳에도 나타나있지 않았지만, 그 곳 - 우주, 시간안 - 에 그냥 있었다. 그리고 그 곳은 스타 스위퍼가 가장 좋아하는 낮잠 자는 곳이였다. The Star Sweeper was a young man, though his age was a mystery. He had no name, because he never needed to call himself anything, and the very few that ever saw him called him The Star Sweeper, or just Sweeper. His skin was pale like a glowing angel, and his hair was a listless white, an effect from too much exposure to stars. But it was his eyes, if people saw them, that caught the most attention. They were purple, more purple than lavender, more purple than eggplants, which he hated, and more purple than plums, which he loved. They were also struck with bright rivets of orange, and the contrast sometimes was enough to make the hardiest of people cringe. 비록 그의 나이는 의문일지라도, 스타 스위퍼는 젊은 남자였다. 그는 이름이 없었는데, 그 이유는 그는 자신을 무엇이라고 부를 필요가 전혀 없었었고, 그리고 그를 본 극소수의 사람들은 그를 스타 스위퍼, 또는 그냥 스 위퍼라고 그를 불렀기 때문이다. 그의 창백한 피부는 마치 빛나는 천사같았고, 그의 머리카락은 별에 너무 많은 노 출로 인하여 노곤한 흰색이였다. 하지만 그의 눈아, 사람들이 그를 보았을때, 관심을 가장 많이 끄는 것이였다. 그 것은 보라색이였는데, 라벤더보다 더 보라색이고, 그가 싫어하는 가지보다 더 보라색이고, 그리고 그가 사랑하는 자두보다도 더욱 보라색이였다. 그의 눈은 또한 밝은 주황색 리벳이 박혀있었는데, 그 대조는 가끔씩 가장 저항적 인 사람들마저 얼굴을 찌푸리게 할 수 있었다. He was lying on a small bed of grass, about 5 meters long, but he still could fit his whole body on it. He stared at the sky, resting. Today was another hard day of work, and he wanted to get some sleep before the next day. Sweeper stretched his limbs. He wished he was taller. 그 는 5 미터 쯤 돼는 조그만 잔디 조각에 누워있었지만, 그래도 그의 온 몸이 꼭 맞게 누울 수 있었다. 그 는 쉬며 하늘을 쳐다보았다. 오늘도 또한 힘든 일을 끝낸 날이였고, 그는 다음 날이 오기전에 잠을 약간 자고 싶었 다. 스위퍼는 사지를 뻗었다. 그는 그가 더 키가 크면 좋겠다 싶었다. It wasn’t long before he saw a twinkle, and then a streak of light as a shooting star past. He groaned. Another one. Right before I was going to fall asleep. Slowly he pushed himself up, and made sure he had his gloves and goggles on. Stars could be hot, and very bright. 그가 반짝임을 본 것은 얼마지나지 않은 뒤였고, 그에 뒤따라 빛줄기가 지나가더니 별똥별이 떨어졌다. 그는 불평을 하였다. 또 하나. 내가 잠들기 바로 전에. 그는 느리게 자신을 올려세우고, 장갑과 고글을 착용하고 있 는지 확인하였다. 별들은 굉장히 뜨겁고 밝을수 있었다. He took a step, then another, and started quickening his pace until he was sprinting down the meadow. His strides widened until suddenly he crouched low, and leaped up high above the ground. The world shimmered, but it was vital he kept his pose. Everything started to swirl rapidly, and Sweeper eyelids slid shut, blocking his purple irises from the world. 그 는 한 걸음을 나아갔다, 그리고 또 한번, 그러더니 ‘The Meadow’ 아래로 역주하고 있을때까지 발걸음 을 빠르게 움직였다. 그의 보폭은 그가 갑자기 웅크렸을 때까지 점점 커지고 있었다. 그러더니 갑자기 땅 위로 높게 뛰었다. 세상이 희미하게 반짝였지만, 그의 자세를 유지하는 것은 필수적인 일이였다. 모든것이 소용돌이처럼 급 격하게 돌기 시작했고, 스위퍼의 눈꺼풀은 그의 보라색 홍채를 세계에서 막으며 감겼다. When he opened his eyes again, he was on a chilly mountain, gray with clumps of snow as if a woman tried to patch her dress with white cloth. He squinted at the horizon. Something was twinkling on the ground, and he bounded over to it. It was chilly, and he wanted to go back to The Meadow. 그 가 다시 눈을 열였을때는, 그는 마치 어떤 여자가 자신의 치마를 흰 헝겊으로 패치하려 하였다는듯이 눈 덩어리들로 때문에 쟂빛으로 변한 쌀쌀한 산에 있었다. 무언가가 바닥에서 반짝이고 있었고, 그는 그 것을 향하 여 뛰어갔다. 쌀쌀하였고, 그는 ‘The Meadow’로 돌아가고 싶었다. As suspected, it was the star that fell. Now, Sweeper doesn’t exactly sweep stars, but rather takes them, and puts them in their proper place again, so no constellation was missing a point or anything. He quickly hefted the star, and even




though he wore his gloves, it still radiated its special heat. The star felt cold, in a way that made it feel burning hot, and Sweeper never really got used to it. But before he was going to put it back up, he noticed a pink shimmer in the skin of the star. Bewildered and curious, he poked at it, and it slid out easily, landing on the rocks below. His ears pricked. Every time it bounced, a small ding could be heard, like a small music box. 예 상했던대로, 떨어진것은 별이였다. 자 이제, 스위퍼는 별을 정확히 쓸어담는다 할 수는 없고, 오히려 그 것들을 주운뒤 그 것들이 있어야 할 제자리에 놓아 그 어느 별자리라도 없어진 부분이 없도록하거나 그런 비슷 한 일이 없도록 하였다. 그는 재빨리 별을 들었다. 비록 그가 장갑을 꼈어도 별은 그 고유의 특이한 온기를 내뿜었 다. 별은 차가웠는데, 그 것이 그 별을 타는듯이 뜨겁게 만들었고, 스위퍼는 그 온기에 적응 된 적이 딱히 없었다. 하 지만 그가 그 별을 다시 올려놓게전에, 그는 별의 껍질에서 분홍빛 반짝임을 보았다. 당황하고 호기심을 보이면서, 그는 그 것을 찔러보았다. 그 것은 쉽게 빠져나와 아래에 있는 돌에 떨어졌다. 그의 귀가 찔끔하였다. 그 것이 튈때 마다, 작은 딩이 들려왔고, 그 것은 마치 작은 오르골 같았다. He waved the star back into place, and picked up the pink sediment. It was small, the size of a glass bead or pearl, and had a pink, translucent color, that swirled around the sediment endlessly. He studied it closely, forgetting about the cold or the chilly wind. Images flashed back and forth, faster than his eye could trace. He shook it, as if it was a rattle. By chance it past his ear, and the effect startled him. 그 는 별을 제자리로 보내고, 분홍색의 돌을 집어들었다. 그 것은 작았다. 유리 구슬이나 진주의 크기 그 리고 돌안에서 끝없이 빙글빙글 도는 반투명의 분홍빛을 띄고 있었다. 그는 추위나 쌀쌀한 칼바람들을 잊고 그것 을 자세히 관찰했다. 그의 눈이 따라갈 수 있는 것보다 빠르게, 이미지들이 왔다갔다 보였다. 그는 그 것이 마치 딸 랑이라도 되는 양 흔들었다. 우연히 그의 귀를 치나쳤고, 그 효과는 그를 깜짝 놀라게 하였다. ...wish... … 있었으면... A young girl’s voice. His eyes grew large in awe. Is it possible? He wondered. He held it up to his ears again. 어린 여자아이의 목소리. 그의 눈이 놀람으로 크게 떠졌다. 이럴 수 있나? 그가 의아해하였다. 그는 그것 을 다시 귀에 대었다. ...wish I can find... ...내가 찿을수 있었으면... He held it even closer. 그는 그것을 더욱 가까이 대었다. I wish I can find my music box. 내 오르골을 내가 찿을수 있었으면. Sweeper slowly moved the pink bead away from his ear, and stared at it in reverie. Only few records of wishes were ever held, mainly because of their improbability. For a wish to successfully snag on a star, it had to be said a few nanoseconds before the star actually appeared, allowing it time to leap across space to the star. It also had to hit the star directly, and not the bright glow it trails behind. As The Star Sweeper, he had to grant the wish. He knew he would be a legend among his kind if he accomplished such a feat, but such a process was unknown to him. All he could do then was take it back to The Meadow. 스위퍼는 천천히 분홍빛 구슬을 귀에서 뗀뒤 그 것을 공상에 잠겨 쳐다보았다. Back at his small bed, he carefully rolled the bead between his fingers as he read from a archive about wishes. Only three have been found so far, and just one was granted. Sweat started to form on his head, and he flipped the book faster. Finding...rarity...history...granting. He stopped a yellowing pager, crusty with age, and brushed away the bookworms inside. The passage was slightly blurred, but Sweeper could still read it. This is what it said: To grant a wish, the founder must completely will the wish to be granted. Once his willpower has reached maximum, he must counteract the wish with one created in this format: “I wish that the boy/girl can...(the wish).” Only then will The Meadow supply its power to transverse space-time and... He shut the book abruptly. He couldn’t stand science, but this was simple. All he had to do was wish too right? He strode over to a small patch of grass, and held up the bead. Sweeper closed his eyes and count to ten, willing all his energy into the bead, before pronouncing in a clear voice, “I wish that this girl can find her music box.” One, two, three seconds past, but Sweeper didn’t feel anything. There was no change in the wind, no energy transcending space to grant the wish. He tried again. “I wish that this girl can find her music box!” Still nothing. He sighed and slumped onto the ground. He toyed with the bead a little longer, and the Meadow Caretaker swept in in the form of a swirling wind. What happened, Sweeper? “I can’t grant this wish,” he replied sullenly, slumping deeper. Did you will it? “Of course, I...” No, Sweeper. Did you will it? “I tried, but...” SWEEPER. DID YOU WILL IT? The force the Caretaker had stunned him for a second, and he slowly replied, “No.”


Do you know how to will it? “No,” he said honestly. Remember. Sweeper searched his memory, one that he boasted of. He could remember every star that he has picked up, how many of them he picked, but now he was clueless. He asked the Caretaker what to search for. Remember. Then the wind swept into his ears, his eyes, and slowly crept down into his heart. He screamed in agony, but visions past his eyes, and suddenly, he was standing in The Meadow, at daytime.           “A dream?” He murmured.            No. Watch.            Suddenly he saw a smaller version of himself, running frantically around. He was screaming about a lost star, one he kept as a night light. Sweeper, the present one, cried out a tear.            Remember.            “I lost it.”            And it was found.            Little Sweeper lucked something shiny from the ground. He gasped with relief and fell to his knees, all the while hugging the small bright piece. Remember what was in your heart. Remember what you felt. What allowed you to realize this miracle.            “Miracles.” He wiped his eyes. “I remember.”            He was back in the field. The Meadow Caretaker was gone, but he didn’t need her anymore. Slowly, he help the bead up, and, with a voice that wobbled with conviction, he synchronized his feelings and whispered. “I wish...”            Somewhere in London, Great Britain            Chloe stared at the night sky, eyes cracked red from her tears. It’s gone. She thought. My music box. She jumped down from her little perch and turned over to her bed. But right when she lifted the sheets, a pink chrysanthemum petal, of all things, danced across her face. She gazed at it in wonder as many others came, carried by a wind that the curtains didn’t wave to, and combined on her sill to form a familiar boxy shape. The pink glow fade to reveal the object’s true colors. And as the city fell asleep, some say that that night, they heard the small tinkle of a music box playing, and felt the warmth of a will, a wish, and a miracle. Bio: I go the SAS and am in 8th grade. I don't really have any hobbies. I am always at war with procrastination. I like short sentences. I still hate biographies. Editor’s note: We translated part of ‘Star Sweeper’ in Korean as we thought it would be nice for some of our bilingual readers.



Essays expository excellence Fairy Tales and Gender Stereotypes Emma Breber Everyone’s seen Disney’s fairytale movies - “Sleeping Beauty” and “Ariel” are recognizable faces and fun movies - however, how is watching these movies affecting how you see the world and the people who inhabit it? All those fairytales have the same structure: the poor, weak woman gets whisked off her feet by a strong, handsome man. This perfect man rescues her at various points throughout the movie and she is basically only there to be a pretty face and to give him something to do. How do these movies, watched from eager, impressionable eyes at four or five years old, change how we view women and men and their differences? We’re beginning to live in a much more tolerant world, yet we still consider women as the weaker sex if we compare the two. Women are supposed to be tender and loving and men are supposed to be the ones who are strong and powerful. That may be how it works in the movies, however the real world isn’t like that. So why do we continue to believe that men are stronger then women? Why do we continue to prioritize what gender people are in things like job applications? Why do we continue to care after it’s been proven time and time again that women can be just as proficient as men? This leads us into talking about how the world works with these ideas about the differences between female and male. If men are considered better than women, how does that affect jobs? If you believe that a man can do a job better than a woman can, and you have to choose between a man and a woman for an important position, how are you going to choose? The man of course, if you think he can do the job better you’re obviously going to pick him. But what if that’s not true, what if the woman would have been much better in the job but you didn’t pick her because of an incorrect prejudice? What if because you didn’t give her the job, her family lost their house? And now she and her children are living on the street? That doesn’t seem very socially just. Especially if you would have given her the job had she been male. Now she’s in a horrible situation because you couldn’t look past something she can’t even change. This type of social prejudice can be used in all types of situations. And that’s not to say it can’t go both ways. If you’re looking for a babysitter for you kids, you’re probably going to look for a woman first, right? That’s the time where a man looking for a childcare job is in trouble. So, pretty much, these gender stereotypes that we’ve created and have been spurred on by popular culture (not just Disney movies or the Twilight books, there are so many types of media that play in the stereotypes) hurt everyone involved, and we need to dispose of them. Overall, I think that we first need to notice this prejudice in ourselves. Once we are aware of it we can start trying to get beyond it. We also can’t let this idea of women and men being so different affect our everyday lives. The fact that women sometimes won’t be chosen for a job based solely on the fact that they are women and that they get paid less then man in the same exact jobs, has to stop. We need to stop making these fairytales a reality. We accept that dragons and magic aren’t real, why can’t we accept that the women and men in those movies aren’t real as well? The idea of the prince and the damsel in distress, it’s not something that happens to the majority of women. It’s not like we, as students, sit at our desks, taking notes, and whenever we don’t understand something we scream for the guy sitting next to us and cannot calm down until he has comforted us and explained it all. We laugh at that image in our minds, how crazy would a girl like that have to be, right? Then why are we trying to make that a reality with these ideas? Women and men are being treated differently, the blame of which can be partly shouldered by fairytales, and it needs to stop. Bio: My name is Emma Breber. I live in Bangkok Thailand. I was born on October 31, 1999 therefore I am 12. I LOVE reading and writing. I am passionate about them both and also love music! 



Small Things Can Make Big Changes Elle Schenk I advance slowly into the shallow water trying not to step on any rocks. It’s very hard because of the giant flippers I have on my feet so I take one step after the other, trying to lift my leg as high as possible, out of the water. Suddenly, one of my flippers isn’t on the ground correctly and it bounces me forward, face front, heading to the water. I quickly close my mouth and eyes but it’s too late. My mouth is full of filthy, salty water; my nose too was cleaned but luckily my eyes closed fast enough. I keep walking until I reach silky strips of white sand that I accidentally destroy. I slip my goggle and breathing mask on that have been in my hand the whole time, double check there is no seaweed on either side of me and sink my head down into the water. At first all I see is sand, and more layers of silky sand. I turn around and see rocks, all kinds of rocks, seethrough ones, spikey ones, ones with mold on them, some with holes in them and much more. The only thing I don’t see is life, apart for seaweed and all the feet I see of all of the people walking on the only sand strip in the rocks. I decide to find some animals. I try to swim in the very narrow surface; the water is only about half a meter high so it’s very, very hard to swim without getting cut by the many sharp rocks. I move my head around from side to side to look for some life, but no sign of anything apart for rocks. My feet flop slowly in the water as I see something move right under me. My head automatically looks straight under me causing my breathing tube to come down with me. And once again there is water in my mouth, but this time I swallowed it. I try to spit and force it all out but all of my efforts were fruitless. I decide to take my breathing mask off for a minute so that I can look under water again without any problems. So in I go again and inspect the rock for a closer look. I look in a hole with no luck; nothing is in it so I look around all of the sides but still no luck. I can’t find anything more so I put my breathing mask back on and keep looking. I paddle around a bit until I see one miniature fish. I am behind it so it can’t see me though it can probably hear me. I keep following but try to keep my distance. Then suddenly another fish about the same size comes out from one of the rocks and just swims side to side with the other fish. Then one other fish comes out but this one is a little bit bigger. Then these three little fish swim toward one massive bush of seaweed. I keep following them, hesitating if I should go or if I shouldn’t. But I come to the conclusion that I don’t feel like meeting unusual creatures that are any bigger. So once the little fishes swim in the bush I just wait nearby for something to happen. Then I finally see fish come out from another end of the bush. I suspect they are the little fish with more of their friends. They tried to trick me! I didn’t know fish were smart! I keep following them until I see some huge fish! Well, they’re not huge but they’re bigger than the first fish I saw. They’re about 40cm long, and in these fish I see one that looks like Dory from “Nemo” but the colors are a bit different. The ‘background’ color of the fish is bright orange and there is bright turquoise stripes layered on top. I choose to look up and see how far I’ve gone and realize I’ve gone a long way from our beach. So I go back down and look and the fish swim their way and I start heading my own way. I think about all of the fish I saw and their habitat and realize how different it is from all of the pictures I’ve seen and articles I’ve read. This small thing has changed me because I can’t imagine that one day the whole world will look like this shore.


Bio: My name is Elle Schenk and I love to write. I am American and Swiss but I live in Thailand. I love sports and learning new things, and boy, there is so much out there to discover!


Animals…Humans Darin Sumetanon On Sunday, my whole family decided to go to the zoo. It was really cool. But I also learned that animals are a lot like humans while I was there too… confused? Well, there are a lot of things that make up humans. And I’ve discovered animals have them too. Listed below are what I mean. Intelligence At the zoo, we were allowed to feed animals. When we went to go feed the goats, there were two goats smaller than the others. Whenever we tried to feed them, the bigger goats would butt in and grab the food before the two smaller ones could even get a bite. The two small goats knew that they wouldn’t have a chance against the big goats. So, they found a rock next to a tree. They climbed up on the rock, and then climbed up on the tree. Then, we would be able to feed them, because the tree they were on was higher than the other goats’ heads. This shows intelligence. Love There were a few monkeys at the zoo, separated from the humans by a river. As we kept on walking, we saw a mother monkey and a baby monkey. The baby monkey climbed up a tree and accidentally fell. I watched the baby monkey start howling (in pain, I guess). The mother monkey hurried over to the baby monkey, picked him up and carried him to a lower branch. Then, she played with him until he stopped howling. This shows love. Anger In another cage, there were two chimpanzees. A few high schoolers were feeding them, despite the DO NOT FEED CHIMPANZEES sign. One of the chimpanzees (Chimpanzee 1) had just gotten a banana. The other chimpanzee (Chimpanzee 2), saw it and wanted it. Chimpanzee 2 grabbed the banana out of Chimpanzee 1′s hand. Chimpanzee 1 was mad, grabbed the banana and hit the Chimpanzee 2 in the face (I laughed). This shows anger. Sorrow I feel so bad for the tiger at the zoo. It was stuck in a small cage, and it was taking a nap in the shade. I could tell it was sad because it looked up at me, and moaned. I would hate it if I was stuck in a cage like that. Tigers should be free. This tiger felt sorrow being stuck in a cage. Happiness At the zoo, there were a few giraffes. We would stand up on a little house and feed the giraffes bananas. One giraffe was shorter than all the others, and couldn’t reach the banana I was holding out. So, I took a little asparagus stick that was left over from feeding the deer, and I reached as far as I could… and he got it! The little giraffe looked up at me, and I knew he felt happiness. Bravery When we went to go feed the zebras, there was a zebra, bigger than all the others that kept on butting the other ones away when they tried to get to the food. Then, one tiny zebra walked right up to that big zebra, and without any hint of cowardliness showing, he started to eat the food. The big zebra walked away. That little zebra had shown bravery. These are the things that make up humans. These are the things that make up animals. To me, animals and humans are pretty much the same. Bio: My name is Darin Sumetanon. I was born on May 29, 2001. I was an only child for 6 years, and then my middle sister, Mena came along. I got a dog after that, and named him Mushu. Then the youngest and last sister Anya came. When I was nine, my whole family moved to Bangkok, Thailand. I live there now, and attend a great school


PARALLEL INK Issue 1, Vol. 1

“Parallel Ink caters to kids around the world aged 11-15 by publishing their writing and thoughts through digital, 21-century mediums. We love writing that speaks to and addresses the issues affecting the pre-teens/teens of today, and art that challenges us to change our perceptions. We are a completely voluntary, notfor-profit publication run by a team of three editors (13-14 years old) who thought it’d be cool to try publishing an eMagazine.” Parallel Ink Website

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Parallel Ink: Issue 1, Vol. 1  
Parallel Ink: Issue 1, Vol. 1  

Publishing insightful writing, for students by students around the world. The maiden issue of a brand-new writing publication.