THE HITCHHIKER’S GUIDE SPRING 2017
Freedom May 2017 Seoul, South Korea Yongsan International School of Seoul The Hitchhiker’s Guide
“ freedom in art,
freedom in society, this is the double goal towards which all consistent and logical minds must strive � - Victor Hugo
Thread Daniel Hwang
Let’s Go Calista Ogburn she stood there with long brown hair and big round eyes on top of the Saint Vernon mountains and she whispered, “Let’s go” “Let’s go” “Let’s go” I didn’t want to leave. I badly wanted the fresh pine smell and slight breeze undo her chains of OCD. We walked down the mountain while she counted the trees and sanitized her uncontrollable hands I begged for her to be free.
Forest Sophia Shin
River Sophia Shin
Free Floating Bia Nam
Nighthawks Rachel Kim “Charles, you can’t avoid me forever.” She looked down at her nails, painted a bright scarlet, as if she had seen them for the first time. The woman was gorgeous by any standard, her porcelain body accentuated by a wide-cut, deep maroon dress that exposed her defined shoulders and dainty collarbone. A silky rouge coated her lips red, and her flaming hair, pinned back so as not to curtain her beautiful face, was made even hotter by the red fabric. To complete her look, resting in this fiery nest was a pair of pearl earrings, which gave off a shy luster in the yellow lights of the diner. It was apparent that she had invested a hefty amount of time to present herself in the best way possible, albeit she could not conceal the smell of cigarette smoke that clung to her like burrs on wool. The man beside her, seemingly the “Charles” referred to, slowly let out a deep sigh. Clearing his throat, he answered, “I’ll be back after just five months, I promise,” in a way that suggested that he had already repeated this phrase countless times before. He too was of visually pleasing build, with handsome features in a perfectly-tailored suit. Charles and the lady looked as if they were coming straight out of an illustration, with her orange hair complementing his navy jacket: the ideal couple. Yet an awkward silence surrounded the two, freezing the air around them and thus weighing down on the diner’s atmosphere as well. They had cups of untouched coffee beside them; perhaps the liquid had frozen hard so as for it to be impossible to drink. The youngster managing the bar, in white uniform and glancing periodically at the woman, bit down on his lip and strived to become invisible. Charles wove his fingers together, preparing for his next lines. “How about we push ou-” “Why don’t we get married this week?” She hastily cut him off, desperate. “Nothing big, just something to hold us together over the long distance, you know? We just need to fill a few documents and someone to witness everything. I’ll wear that white frock I bought downtown and the-” “I’m leaving tonight.” His firm tone silenced any protest from the lady. “I’m sorry.”
I let out a bitter laugh from across the diner.
sticks and stones, words and bones Woojin Yoon Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never break me. I have heard these words since my youth: a silly child’s rhyme chanted while feet skipped to and fro, trying to evade the skipping rope. But never has a nursery rhyme ever been so true. Words do not break bones, but they form a noose around my neck, hang me from my own vine and fig tree. Let me go, I scream, but an h and a only join together and laugh at me: ha, ha, ha, they sing. Let me go, I beg, but these new words — let and me and go — only tear at my throat, make me cough up bloodied flower petals, and all I do is choke.
Candy Floss Sunny Lee
Self-medication Stephanie Park My cheek is pulsing. Like rubber. Gone numb. It feels good to have a focus, A warmth under my skin more complete And kinder than any goodnight hug. My tears are dry. My vision is clear. The trick is to use your bicep, not your wrist, And to make sure your elbow is locked. Fundamental physics. Mechanics. The human body Is a machine. It lends itself fully to your control When you stop being afraid of leaving marks. It's basic art therapy. Emotions are easier to name And tame when they’re splattered across a canvas. Ground yourself in the physical world, and Move on. You have no time to waste on being a ghost. Iron is real and faeries are not; The same goes for bruises and sorrow. Words are thinner than shadows but twice as damning. Sticks and stones are honest, if nothing else. And a healthy set of knuckles costs less Than antidepressants.
Tears Aamna Shehzad You sit on the white cloth that your Mom and Aunt had spread out earlier that day before everyone else came to the Old House. You pull the shawl over your head more properly, as it keeps falling down. Prayer beads in your hands, you do what everyone else is doing. You pray, saying all of the prayers that your seven-year-old self knows. Your younger cousin sits right next to you. She also grabs one of the prayer beads, even though she hardly knows any prayers. Your cousin is very calm and collected today, which makes sense since she is just a kid and she hardly knows what is going on around her. When you, on the other hand, heard that your grandmother had passed away, you refused to believe it. You could not say anything at all, and even when you were coming to the Old House in the car, you were quiet. You just sat in the backseat with your brother and kept on glancing at your parents, your Dad with dark circles under his eyes and your Mom crying all the way. You had lived in the Old House after you were born. From what you can remember, you spent all of your time with Grandma. You always begged for her attention and she always praised you for whatever you did. She was there when you said your first word and when you took your first steps. When you were two, you moved out of your Grandma’s house and started calling it the Old House. You still visited her house every other weekend, as it was the only time when you were free. You had started going to school and you would bring the pictures you had drawn and the stories you had written to show to Grandma. As you got older, your brother and cousins were born, and you got into higher classes, you had less and less time to meet with Grandma. When it was time to go home, you would stand outside the house, next to the pink flower bush. You didn’t know what that flower was, you still don’t know what that flower is. You would pick one of the flowers from the bush and give it to Grandma, who would proceed to put it in her hair and thank you as if you had given her some sort of precious jewelry. As you grew older, your Grandma got weaker and weaker. After all, she wasn’t immortal. She got seriously sick a couple of times, but then, she got pneumonia. That coupled with old age, did not agree with Grandma’s frail body. She was in fact hospitalized on one of your birthdays. Your seventh birthday. You still remember it clearly. Your parents had gone to the hospital and you just sat in the living room the entire day, watching boring shows on the TV. Your nanny, being the kind soul that she was, made you your favourite food because that was the most she could do for you. Your parents came home after your nanny had put you into bed. You know this because you heard Mom crying and Dad trying to console her. It happened four days later. Grandma died in her sleep, and Dad and your uncle were there to witness it. After she was buried, on that same night, you and your family went to the Old House, where everyone had come for her funeral. You are at that funeral right now, praying for Grandma on the white sheet. You remember all the times you had with Grandma, which you guess is normal at a time like this. Then, without a single warning, you start crying. Your tears flowing like waterfalls, you bite your lip from crying out loud. Your cousin looks at you, not knowing what to do at all. Your mom also looks at you, worried, but stays seated. You realize that this is the first time you have cried since Grandma died, and even though you have heard it said a million times that crying helps you feel good and eases your pain, it didn’t, in the least bit, feel good.
smothered Anonymous
they say dark isn’t righteous black isn’t pure dirty isn’t proper. so why is light so blinding white so crude clean so suffocating? the comfort of boundless shadow matches that of revealing brilliance. to never be touched be seen be known
exist
Montmartre Rachel Kim
Death By Train Megan Yu Alone, each passing sigh was nothing more than a breath, a dream, a smile held back. But when you looked at me, those warm, dark eyes, I felt myself fall again and again Off the chair, out the window, onto the cool metal kiss of the tracks, And I wanted to laugh like I was dying and it was sweet something freeing and soft and insistent rising up inside of me, Like sleeping grass and crying rain the taste of sunburnt lemonade a breeze curled round my shaking fingers. But at some point it became just me waiting for you alone in a dusty old chair unused, stains deep of an unmoving train, stuck watching you run me by some pins stuck into my cheek. I closed my eyes, the pattering rain dripping in a slow, silent rhythmthen, somewhere, in a dream, I think I heard the rattling of a train a rumbling whisper--- and then it was youyou, who was sliding in beside me, you, smiling with your boyish laughter as our shoulders pressed together-and a heat blossomed within me as I forgot how to breathe.
Sometimes Gina Sinclair Your gaze is a pen And it leaks Every now and then In tongues I cannot understand It grooms the page, Nods and blinks and Shuffles to push up your glasses A fountain unsteady tide it gives me Splotch Eyes Stain Forehead Drench Depth Sometimes your gaze is a fresco Chiaroscuro, sfumato, pentimento You tell my sprezzatura to look up, To nod and blink and sigh Sometimes your gaze is Kundera A homage, Unending lítost, As if to tell me, Es konnte auch anders sein; It is not worse Sometimes your gaze is Dostoyevsky, It heals my toska, Becomes my pochemuchka, And understands my perepodvoypodvert Sometimes your gaze is Mahler’s Adagietto Aufrecht halten my progress Calm but also blut Träne Ends in satisfactory Schweiß My gaze is a pen Sometimes it seeps death Sometimes it seeps inferno Sometimes the ink is so black that I cannot see through the dense tar that bubbles and oozes and is moist under my fingertips, buzzes shrill like cold cathode gas-discharge light, burns through the page, But Sometimes, it seeps dumka. and Sometimes I stare back.
__ KEY: chiaroscuro = light/dark sfumato = to evaporate like smoke pentimento = repentance sprezzatura = studied carelessness lĂtost = random grief/sadness es konnte auch anders sein = it could just as easily be worse toska = melancholia pochemuchka = a child who asks too many questions perepodvoypodvert = to do something in a complex way that makes no sense dumka = thought aufrecht halten = sustain blut Träne = blood tears schweiĂ&#x; = sweat
Quest Sophia Shin
EDITORIAL OFFICERS RACHEL KIM DANIEL HWANG MEGAN YU JESSICA CHOE MS. AMY. ATKINSON
ARTISTS/WRITERS DANIEL HWANG RACHEL KIM SUNNY LEE CALISTA OGBURN STEPHANIE PARK AAMNA SHEHZAD SOPHIA SHIN GINA SINCLAIR WOOJIN YOON MEGAN YU + A.
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