Academic Council: 101 Roots

101
ROOTS
L I T E R A T U R E
I S S U E 1
edited by: the Academic Council

101 Roots: Issue 1
CI Literary Magazine
Feb 2023
101 Roots is an in-school literary magazine initiated by the Chadwick
International Academic Council. We aim to provide students an
opportunity to express their creative thoughts in the form of writing and
keep a record of their work in the form of a publication.
Editors: Alex Han (12), Sarah Seo (12), David Lee (11), Alex Lee (9)

Yachts
I shout across an empty lake,
No one on the other side–
The furled white yachts
Float by themselves
I have seen them in their heights,
The holidays by the beach–
Flowers bloomed by the strand
Which girls ran across
Summer dresses and happy sails
Billowing in the wind–
Women board the docked yachts
Rubbing sand off on the gentle-wet deck
The waters are gentle still
Though they do not need to be:
The crones set away in urns
Must not care for the sails
I am shouting, shouting still
Anyone up for the lakes–
I shout till my throat is hoarse
Shout to no avail
The boats unfurl their sails
Though no winds are left to blow
Waiting, waiting still
For sandy-footed girls to board
Dohan Lee

Tin man lost what he thought was his
–my heart too full
with unspoken words
A summer fruit left to frost
A frozen path of dirt
Life forgone, already lost
And yet still I breathe–
My heart still beats,
Roses blooming on pale cheeks
The throes of the fire
The residue of the heat
And still I breathe
Ice claiming what is left
Embers meet budding frost
To birth gasps of steam–
The words are lost
In the red autumn air
And yet still it beats
Veins of brown creeping up
The more the breath
The more the rust
Tin man lost
What he thought he had
Dohan Lee

Fight For Justice
A poem about the Russia-Ukraine War
Is this what we were waiting for?
Children on the streets, shivering
Until the bloody bullets stop
They beg for a new sun to rise
Mothers bawling for their children
Jenny Ra
Is this what I was waiting for?
Whilst fathers resist with their guns
Battling for families, land, and blood,
Pleading for peace to return,
I am still with no fear above my head.
Is this right?
Thousands of families flee their homes,
Running away from their motherland
While I wait in my room for news to come?
Is this necessary?
Troops of bloodstained Russian bears
Swirling, soaring above their prey,
Attacking and hurting the nightingales?
No.
We shall not let more blood drain.
Fight For Justice.

Jenny Ra, G9
Fight For Justice reflects my opinions on the Russia-
Ukraine war. As a student living far away from the
ravaged cities of Ukraine, the poem expresses my
thoughts on the extreme cruelty of the war on
thousands of Ukrainian families. I aimed to point out
the contrasting lives of the civilians of the war
compared to myself, living in a safe country without
life-threatening events. The poem continuously asks the audience, ‘Is this
right?’ ‘Is this necessary?’ with my final answer being ‘No. We shall not let
more blood drain. Fight for justice.’ Although it has almost been a year since
the start of the war, my answer remains the same. I hope those who will read
Fight For Justice also spread this message to become more heedful of the
issue.

The Reflection
Stars sprinkled in waves,
Each separated in oblivion.
No amount of magpies
Or affection could close the daunting gap.
At the pure pristine lake,
Angel white flakes covered
All but two smiles–
Across the half-frozen grounds our footsteps intertwined,
Across the evergreen trees our whispers flitted,
Across the sparkling skies we painted our dreams.
Sitting side-by-side, we naively thought
The blackbirds would be our rescue.
Our promises, the war cries.
Our hearts, the beacons.
Once we saw the reflection on the lake
Showing a brighter copy of ourselves,
It enchanted and allured our minds.
Forgotten, we parted. Into darkness, we sank.
Then we became the mirage, the reflection on the lake–
For all that we spoke of and shared was fake.
Alex Lee

Alex Lee, G9
The Reflection is an ekphrastic poem that I'd written, coming across a frozen
lake in the midst of a forest. Although it was a flitting moment, the image of
the sparkling ice was firmly embedded in my mind and brought me to wonder
how my reflection would look on the undisturbed surface. Based on these
initial ideas, I explored the topics of identity & love, exploring the obsession
with appearances contrasted with the lack of attention on our "inner selves."
By using powerful and evocative language, this poem interests the audience
and brings them to reflect on themselves.

Glass Ceilings
Esthelle Chung
Never had Josephine been so confident of
her promotion. On April 14th, promotion
day for the past eleven years, she had
written down her resume full of her annual
accomplishments, word-by-word, with
great deliberation. Yet when Josephine
defiantly pressed down her file of papers,
carefully compiled by a paperclip on the
silver desk of her boss, he would only peek
through the first few words and shake his
head disapprovingly. Josephine had
expected things differently this time, but
her heart sank deep when she recognized
the familiar tilt of his head.
With a sullen face, she spotted her
companion, Victor, with a pleased smile as
he marched boldly down the glass staircase
directly connecting the executive floors to
the boss's office. Unless promoted to an
administrator, the only day Josephine
could take this fancy shortcut was on
promotion day. "Seems like I'll be taking
these stairs to work, starting tomorrow!"
exclaimed Victor. He patted Josephine's
shoulders assuringly, but somewhat in an
offensive manner, and any other person
would have easily raised their temper, but
Josephine simply disregarded him.
The skies were cloudless, with not even a
single speck visible in the cerulean sky.
Among the thin, swift layers of blue, the
slanting rays of the rising sun gave a
warm orange glow through the windows.
The temperature was well above 30
degrees Celsius, yet Josephine felt a sharp
chill as she closed the door behind her. The
grand silver door shut tightly with a loud
thud, as if never capable of opening to its
visitors. Although it was the eleventh
time, the firm rejection excruciated the
wound she first received as a part-time
intern.
It had always been an irony that none
could understand. Victor and Josephine, as
university colleagues, had entered the
company simultaneously, and all graduates
agreed: Josephine was better off. Her full
marks and prodigious reports made it
evident that she exceeded Victor's abilities;
no one expected Josephine only to be
admitted part-time after being waitlisted
when Victor entered as the top applicant of
the year. No one expected Victor's
promotion every two years, while
Josephine made bare progress once in 6
years.

No one expected Victor to end up climbing
the glass staircase before Josephine.
Josephine stared at the sky blankly through
the glass ceiling above. The lofty,
suspended tower pointed endlessly toward
the loop of lurid clouds. At a glance, it
looked close, but in reality, as if protected
by an invisible barrier, it seemed
unreachable for Josephine. Surrounding the
tip was a hexagonal spiral of glass
windows stretching over the 123 floors of
the tower. An infinite light spectrum was
reflected on every glass panel with a
miraculous combination of rainbow colors.
From the windows, the scenery Josephine
viewed was quite different from its interior;
the rows of mountains, dressed in
evergreens up to their crowns of silverwhite,
stood sentry to the bluest of lake
waters. A turquoise stream swerved
soothingly near a line of pine and birch
trees. Sunlight seeped through the canopy
of tree branches while a myriad of hues
merged into a single greenery palette. The
vast emptiness of the idyllic scene mystified
the audience: a halcyon paradise, indeed.
A sense of melancholy struck; Josephine
unlocked the windows in search of fresh
air, closed her eyes, and breathed in. A
pang of crisp, icy air swirled around her
nose, and her skin trembled from the
unforgiving cold. An unfamiliar scent
stacked in transparent layers: dampness
haloed by an array of vapors, stickiness
encircled with pure aroma of earth, and
clouds of mephitic gas floating extensively.
Curiously, she opened her eyes, only to find
herself holding onto a frozen, fragile ladder
dangling on the side of the glass tower.
Below, the wind whipped through the knot
of trees as little specks of white covered the
chorus of greens floating in the shallow air.
For some reason, she sensed the strong
urge to take on this plight, to climb the
ladders leading to the small, unknown
window at a random opening. Her ungloved
hands burned whenever she clenched on the
next step, her fingertips aching with
numbness. Halfway through, her spirit felt
dislocated from the entire muscular system.
Yet, when just about to give up, her body
felt lighter and elevated, somewhat "lifted"
from the resistance of gravity. An
engraving pain traced the interior of her
scapula, and suddenly, a pair of flattering,
silver wings appeared: she was flying.
'Pure providence, thank you, God,' thought
Josephine, as she mimicked a fledgling to
control her gentle fluttering.
It only took a few seconds to reach the end
of the ladder, and oh, how swiftly the
wings moved! The austere simplicity of the
flight stunned Josephine. At the top, she
cautiously landed on the window sill, her
whole body reaching not even half of the
window's height. Silver ornaments adorned
the room, each flashing notably with
familiarity. In the center of the room was
an enormous, almost menacing, silver
throne accentuating the intimidating feeling
instilled in the atmosphere. A sudden spasm
of trepidation hit Josephine as she
recognized where she was. The 123rd
floor, the very room she had stepped out of
this morning in discouragement: the boss's
office. Nothing had changed since the
morning's encounter, except now, the boss's
chair was empty.

No one knows what triggered her;
suddenly, Josephine settled on the empty
throne. Surprisingly, the seat was perfectly
comfortable, as if it had found its destined
owner for the first time. Judging by the
color of the sky, it was maybe half past
four. Josephine knew that the boss could
return at any time, but for some reason,
she wanted to stay, as a strange sense of
belonging seized her heart. This diadem,
finally within her reach, was too pleasant
to deny. As she glanced up at the same
glass ceilings above, they looked much
closer to grasp. Her arduous efforts for
eleven years had never worked, yet
miraculously, a sudden flight transported
her to her dream. How easy was that!
Esthelle Chung, G10
My name is Esthelle
Chung, a sophomore,
and I wrote this story
for my English
assignment to write a
magical realism short
story on a significant
social issue.
'Glass Ceilings' is a story of a skilled female
worker in an office who suddenly grows
wings that enable her to ‘fly up’ physically to
her long-desired, high-working position. The
phrase is a metaphor representing an invisible
barrier preventing women from gaining
seniority and relates to gender bias prevalent
in Korea's patriarchal culture. I intended to
criticize how certain minorities, being
oppressed from promotion, start looking for
unofficial shortcuts in the race to the top.
Thus, while the story reflects gender
discrimination towards the female character,
who consistently loses to her male rival, it
also expands on how the partisan environment
can lead to negative consequences due to
rising competition.

Melody of Cosmos
Yoon Lee
I am eating lunch alone in the cafeteria*
watching my former best friend conversing
with a new group of friends. I remember
the same time last year in middle school.
We are still best friends then, bringing a
bitter smile to my lips. We throw our stuff
on a bench at the park and play basketball
together. We have a burger and walk home
together every time we hang out after
school. Then, without a word, he suddenly
moves to a different apartment complex
just before the first day of school. Ever
since that day, he pretends I'm invisible or
bullies me. The bell rings, and it snaps me
back to reality. I am surprised by a
sandwich thrown on my face. I wipe the
sandwich remains off and walk to my next
class. Welcome to my world.
Next period is music class, and as usual, I
go straight to the library* to find my hiding
place in the fairy tale section, where I feel
secure without worrying about being
discovered by others. I look around, making
sure nobody is watching. Then I plug in my
AirPods and follow the melody to Welcome
to the Show by DPR Ian. As the volume
and rhythm of the music get louder and
faster, the lotion inside an almost-empty
tube is being squeezed out. Then as the
rhythm changes, I follow along to 'doom chi
dada doom chi dada' when suddenly, the
beat becomes the shaky ground.
I turn around to find a clan of hyenas
chasing me at full speed. Welcome to my
multiverse.* I am dying of thirst, but no
matter how hard I run, I can't reach the
freshwater that lies just ahead. I'm the
audience in a bad dream, watching myself
on the giant screen, unable to wake up or
run fast enough. I wake up in a puddle of
water on the library carpet when the show
is over. Shit. Aden and his gang will have
a field day with this one. I see the music
teacher walking towards me, and I get that
sinking feeling in my stomach. As
expected, she makes a scene that attracts
the whole school's attention, and by the
next period, Aden calls me a bed-wetter.
The day drags on, and finally, the last
period rolls around. P.E. class* happens to
be a unit in basketball. I am warming up in
the corner, trying to stay out of sight,
when a basketball zooms by my head,
barely missing it by a centimeter. As I sigh
in relief, another ball whacks me on the
head. I am knocked unconscious. I wake up
in the nurse's office, and she asks me if I'm
okay. I am, and she lets me go. I head
home on the bus. Feeling safe on the back
of the bus+, I put on my air pods and
slipped into my multiverse's comfort. The
familiarity of my space starts to fade, and I
feel the presence of someone. I turn around
to see the silhouette of a girl. (Sicko Mode).

Her dark mood suddenly bleeds into my
multiverse+ as if someone spilled a bottle
of ink, and my world flows in a darker
dimension. The beat changes aggressively,
and I fall into a sudden depression that
conjures up a deep sorrow from the depths
of my soul. One drop of sorrow falls from
my left eye. After the song ends, I suddenly
snap back to this world and can't contain
my excitement. Crossover exists!! Never in
my 16 years have I felt this ecstatic before.
As my surroundings come into view, I look
around the bus. I find a girl sitting three
seats in front of me who looks about my
age and is the only one with air pods.
Before I ask her anything, she gets off at
the next stop. All I can see is a glimpse of
her profile and school uniform. I recognize
it as the all-girls catholic school uniform in
town.
Being the stalker that I am, I go to the bus
stop+ every night at the same time to
"accidentally" run into her. After a week of
this stalking activity, I finally see her at the
bus stop, and a big smile spreads across my
face. I sit next to her to ask questions about
the ability that we have in common.
"Hey, I know you! Aren't you the kid from
'The Multiverse'?* My name is Chloe," she
says as she holds her hand.
"You know what? Get your AirPods on and
take my hand.". (In the Dark)
I follow her lead, and we slip into her
multiverse. Her world is way darker than
mine, with so many others wandering
around and interacting with one another.
All these different people look similar
somehow.
"A commonality connects them. They're all
lonely and depressed," Chloe says.
"How...But I...Was I talking aloud?" I ask.
"No, we can read each other's thoughts
here," she smiles as she tells me.
She's pretty when she smiles.
"No two worlds are alike. You build up
your world by expressing yourself and
feelings, but you can also communicate with
others."
At school*, I am alone again. Someone
throws food on my face (again). My former
best friend (still) bullies me. He and his
gang treat me like the scum at the bottom
of the food chain and spread rumors about
me. But why am I smiling?
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Who wants to know?" she retorts.
"Uh..Ahh.. My name is Lee! And you
are….?" I reply timidly.
As she looks at my face, her demeanor
changes.

Mushroom Grows Itself
Jessica Hong
Eunju Kim, a housewife living in a small
flat, lazily prepared food for her husband.
Her husband, Jeonghoon Kim, was a
typical businessman with a pale face and
sharp features, which made him look
intimidating. The husband and wife both
had a shadow flit across their face – they
did not even say a word while eating
breakfast. As Jeonghoon discovered that
Eunju was nibbling on one side of the bread
until he was almost done eating, he
slammed the table.
"That's enough. You're acting like you lost
your mind! Noah is dead, unfortunately, but
we have done all we can! Get over it!"
Eunju looked at him with surprise, but
soon, the gleam in her eyes shed away.
"How could you move on so easily? You
don't feel guilty about it, don't you?"
"I had things to get done! Why would you
blame it on me? It was just an accident!"
"You've always been like this. Acting as if
you're not a part of our family!"
"It was Noah who ran into the road
himself!"
"We are his parents! You can't just run
away from all the problems, you coward!"
"Stop all this; I don't want to hear about it
ever again!"
While Jeonghoon was yelling, one of the
plates slipped from the table and shattered
into pieces, making a loud noise.
The argument grew intense as Eunju lost
her temper after seeing the plate, which
Noah made at school, being completely
destroyed. She screamed, cried out curses
to Jeonghoon, and threw the cup at him.
They fought for an hour, blaming each
other for Noah's death until Jeonghoon
accidentally pushed her to the corner of the
table. Her forehead was bleeding;
Jeonghoon knew he had to do something,
but the blood scared him, triggering his
worst trauma of seeing his son's dead body.
He hastily left the house without turning
back. Eunju was left behind alone with her
wound.
It all started with a small itch on the back
of her neck. Eunju kept on scratching it
until she realized that something was
wrong – a mushroom was growing from it!
She stared at the tiny, brownish mushroom
through a mirror, completely stupefied.
Ironically, the first thing that came to her
mind was the money that would cost. As
soon as she estimated the price of hospital
bills, Eunju instantly covered the mushroom
with her hair. "It wouldn't be a big
problem," she thought, "at least it's small
and can be hidden." She held back the slight
migraine in her head and went back to do
her work as if nothing had happened.

That evening, Eunju went out to buy
groceries; it was the first time she went
outside for six months after Noah's funeral.
In the flat's elevator, she encountered a
young male college student who was living
next door. He stared at Eunju for a second,
noticing the big wound on her forehead, but
instantly looked away. Although Eunju
was certain that he heard the fight as the
flat's wall was thin, he remained silent. She
felt relieved that he did not call the police,
but on the other side, she felt lonely that he
did not care at all.
On her way to the store, Eunju met her old
friends. They were laughing at their own
jokes, holding each of their kid's hands
until they recognized Eunju and stopped
simultaneously. When Eunju looked at the
kids who reminded her of Noah and smiled
at them, her friends pulled their kids' hands
urgently, whispering, "stay away from her.
She has bad luck," and walked past Eunju.
Left behind, she felt like a petty cockroach.
She felt mixed emotions: anger, misery, and
embarrassment. She could not tell them
apart, but it was clear that none of them
were pleasing.
That night, Eunju woke up from
indescribable pain. The back of her neck
ached as if a demon was gnawing off her to
suck every piece of her soul. She could not
resist collapsing from her bed, crying in
pain and rolling on the ground, waking
Jeonghoon up. He groaned sleepily, but as
he discovered the humongous mushroom of
about 2 feet with moss growing in places,
he jumped out of bed and screamed.
"Help, Jeonghoon! Call the ambulance!"
Eunju shouted in pain while irregular
droplets of blood were leaking from the
rashes on her neck – but all Jeonghoon
could see was a human-shaped creature
with pale skin as a dead body, shouting
incomprehensible shrieks. He felt nauseated
as the disgusting smell of blood permeated
the air. As Eunju slowly crept towards
Jeonghoon, he threw the pillow at her and
cried out, "Get away from me! You
monster!" He aggressively grabbed his
jacket and ran out the door. Eunju has been
left behind again. She felt like God had
turned his back on her. At this point, she
did not feel any emotions. Even the pain
was slowly fading away; she just felt a
slight breeze coming through the window.
She wiped her tears, wore her coat, and
went out for a walk.
It was snowing outside. Eunju walked for
a long time, leaving footprints behind until
she reached the top of the hill. She spotted
a stump, cleared the snow from it, and sat
down. Up on the hill, she could see the
small city that she had lived in for her
entire life. She recalled her memories and
asked herself questions – Who am I? What
did I live for? What was I meant to be? She
couldn't answer a single one. In the end,
Eunju came to the conclusion that she
wasted her whole life obeying what other
people told her to do without making her
own decisions. After a moment of regret,
she pulled out a knife from her pocket. She
cut down the mushroom until it fell to the
ground feebly. White blood wetted her
coat. Feeling the cold air, Eunju felt a
sense of achievement. It was the day of her
fortieth birthday.

Rationale
In my story, the mushroom is directly related to Eunju’s
depression. As the story proceeds and Eunju gets left
behind by other people, her depression grows until it
takes control of her soul. I wanted to send a message to
the readers that everyone should care about people
around them who are struggling with depression.
Currently, the suicide rate in Korea is 24.6 percent;
Korea is the country of the highest suicide rate among
OECD countries. As suicide is a
preventable cause of death, I believe it is a shame for us to ignore others who are
struggling and live egocentrical.
While I was writing <Mushroom Grows Itself>, I struggled with depicting Jeonghoon’s
avoidant characteristics. In my first draft, there wasn’t a clear reason why Jeonghoon
ran away after hurting Eunju while he had a chance to help her. However, I overcame
this challenge by adding his tendency in the dialogue, trying to avoid facing his
responsibility. I believe his avoidant characteristics were illustrated well ultimately since
the readers can learn the fact when Eunju shouts “You can’t just run away from all the
problems, you coward!”
The end of the story is unclear, as it does not mention what exactly happens to Eunju;
she cuts off the mushroom, but the consequences are not stated. I intended to make an
open ending where readers can imagine what happened. Most people might think she
committed suicide, but she may have cut off her depression and moved on, determining to
care about her ownself from now on – it is the readers who interpret the ending.
I hope my story is memorable to the readers, allowing them to reflect on people around
them, and raise awareness to care about each other; everyone’s life is valuable.

The Price of Mistakes
Parvathi Aneesh
There is a reason why Inwang Jesaekdo is the most appreciated artwork from
cultured South Korea. This artwork is simply a painting that depicts a landscape,
then why am I so drawn to this historical painting? The morsels are glossing over
this painting. I am still determining where the intense attraction is coming from. Yet,
I can only imagine the intricate strokes of the tools he used back then so finely
touching the paper. The water that continued being stained by the paint repetitively,
again and again, displays the ignorance of the painter. The frustration of making the
simplest mistakes seems so evident for the artists. I wonder what you would have
thought if you knew this was one of the nation’s treasures. Those simple mistakes
that tear through your thoughts during family dinners are cherished by “ME.” The
hands that made those mistakes also wove the silk of clothing. Those mistakes that
you made are worth millions, NO billions of wons. Your mistakes are worth a lot
both in won and history. I hope you love the hands that made those paintings. I love
your mistakes, Jeong Seon. Thank you for your hard work.
Seon, Jeong. Inwang jesaekdo (Scene of Inwangsan Mountain After Rain). 1751.

Rationale
This is a short informative story about one of the most
treasured paintings of South Korea, the Inwang
Jesaeko. The name of the painting means "After the
rain at Mt.Inwang". Presently the painting has the
title of the 216th National treasure of South Korea
and is located at the Hoam Art Museum. The reason
that the author wrote this is to understand more about
South Korean culture and practice her writing skills. I
am very proud and impressed by the story as it has
been a long since I have read my own work. It is truly
a compelling piece that speaks for the moment in the
past that could have been long forgotten.

The Laughter
Dohan Lee
Chapter 1
Opening Soliloquy
Laughter stands on a razor’s edge, becoming
an insult but not quite. It spills out of a mouth in
a circle, spreading like a ripple in a pond when a
stone is thrown at it. The ripples spread, far and
wide, and when it meets another ripple, it echoes.
There is malice in this echo: there are now two
people laughing, and then three, and then more,
whether with you or at you or at someone else,
but regardless will trap you in a world of round
sound, circles that wrap around your neck and
snap it.
Call me K, because I have been slandered:
accused, or accursed, whichever fits. In the
accusation perhaps I am accursed, not by the
actuality of the crime but the impending
judgment that looms always about.
Yet I cannot escape my accuser, circles of
laughter that berate my wrongdoings.
Accusations are hissed, whispered, and howled,
as I defend myself against each one. But they are
endless: they leap at me from everywhere, hiding
in a throat until the last second.
Cherry lipstick parts in an awkward
semicircle to reveal teeth, double bars of ivory.
I’m sorry, I reply. I didn’t mean to.
“This relative you are speaking * of?”
“Yes. Him. He’s not sure at all.”
“May I ask for his name? We can contact him if
you wish to.”
“Kim Jaehan. But there is no use. You’ll never
find him–I’ll never find him myself.”
“May I ask for his phone number? His address,
perhaps? I’m sure we can find him.”
Cherry lipstick parts in an awkward semicircle to
reveal teeth, double bars of ivory.
No, not her–the other woman. She hangs from
the ash tree out by the small window, a
stretched-thin grin pasted on her face.
“I can’t. Not won’t, can’t. He is far away.”
“Out of town, I presume?”
“A different country entirely.”
The fluorescent lighting is giving me
headaches. It illuminates the room, beating down
from a single lamp, a beam of white that burns
bright.
Beyond the haze, by the window, the corpse
is still laughing.
“That’s a shame. When will he be back? I’m
sure he would like to know you’re here.”
“Soon. I will let you know. It isn’t as if we’re in
a hurry.”
“No.” A sigh. “No, we aren’t. Thank you for
your time, K.”
Chairs screech, metal on wood, and we leave.
I walk out onto the hallway, where I can hear
my sleeves brush against my skin. The
loose clothing is featherlight and cool mountain
winds travel through me as I breathe in and out,
in and out. Breathe, the fisherman said. Breathe.
Saltwater gushes, my stomach lurching. I am
lying face down on a beach and particles of sand
are rough against my face. My mouth is filled
with salt–all I can smell is the sea, the deep black
sea, where there was no light to be seen.
The corridors are filled with patches of light,
winding down the stairwell in dirty shades of
white, cracked paint all over. Down and down I
walk, and then through the doors–outside, to the
courtyard, where water opens up in a placid
rectangle. It is the reflection pool. Beneath the
water, there was sound: the flowing silence that
broke itself free from the non-existence that had
been bound to it by definition, the noise of notnoise,
hidden, or perhaps created, by the liquid
wall.
I get down on my knees, bending over to look
at the pool. There was water, again: the giant
that had swallowed me in a stormy night is now
reduced to a hapless dwarf trapped in a
menagerie six inches deep.

And within it, clearer than any mirror, there he
was: a man with graying hair. Gray hair–he had
never seen his mother with it, never. Even
though her hair was gray near the end, she kept
it hidden with black dye–so his recollections of
her were all the same, converging on a pair of
images: curly black hair and red lipstick, mixing
in a palette with sunlight as the canvas. A dirty
crumbled halo on her hairline. He stood still by
the doorway to her room. She is ironing her dress.
Crimson as ever, but it had started to fray. Bits
of red fabric glow as they are smoothed out,
basking in the iron’s heat.
A drop of liquid falls into the pool, creating a
small ripple, and the face in the water is distorted
for a second. And then another, and then
another– it had begun to rain. The ripples
spread, far and wide, and the reflection breaks
apart into a flurry of small waves.
Chapter 2
The Memory
Sharks swam by the bayside of the town
where K. was born. Time after time the
fishermen would find one tangled up in the nets.
Once, when K was a child wandering the
wharf, he saw one of them: a tiger shark, dead,
hung by its fins. It had been caught the night
before, speared with a harpoon.
K. was alone at the docks. Stumbling, he
crept up to the wooden stilts displaying the
shark. The sun was setting, the wharf set alight
with gasoline lamps. The gray body of the shark
was glowing, reflecting the lights that bathed the
pier. When he came face-to-face with it, he saw
that its mouth was open, flecks of blood dotting
serrated teeth. The shark was smiling. A flat
smile, K. thought, the corners of the mouth
contorting in an upward twitch. Did all sharks
smile like that, bloody jaws twisting, in the
depths as they tore at their catch?
K. did not know. Standing on tiptoes, he
looked into the left eye of the shark. A watery
black bead stared back at him.
Scared, he climbed down the stilts and back
onto the docks. In short strides he started away
from the carcass, which by now had lost some of
its glow. The sun had completely set. Soon, the
strides became a jog, then a sprint, and then a
run at full spurt. K. ran out the entrance to the
wharf, then past the fish market where schools
of dead fish stared at him with their jelly-dull
eyes. Eyes, eyes– he had escaped a pair only to
run into a full hallway of them. His legs gained
momentum; terror sped him on.
As the lights of the market faded behind him,
K. entered the town proper. He ran through
gaslit alleyways and half-cobbled streets. As he
ran, the world faded into streaks of sound and
color. Lines of white, burning bright, dots of
shouts, exploding then dissolving–all of it
rushing past, as dots lengthened to lines and
lines spread out to become a blurred plane, a
tunnel around his vision. As he ran as he ran as
he ran.
When the blurs slowed, regaining shape, he
stood on the front porch of his house.
By night the fishermen would pay visits, one
at a time, green bills and faded jeans at
their doorsteps. His mother, clad in a red dress
and pearls, turned the moonlit alley into a
painting: vibrant colors dulled by the night mist,
the red of the dress mixing with the faded blue of
the jeans as his mother ushered the man inside.
What happened then he knew; since when he did
not know. Childhood, like a summer haze, came
and left in a breeze.
His mother wore a smile like her polyester
dress–reserved for nighttime, for her customers,
fake. They came in a set, the dress and the smile,
crimson against the pearls. Come morning, the
smile was wiped, gone with the makeup, washed
down the basin. What was left K. thought of as a
skeleton: devoid of color, of expressions, of life.
His mother did not smile during the daytime, lips
taut and jaws set, curly black hair in shambles,
an undone bun from the night
before.
It was Ma’s smile, K. thought as he lay in his
bed that night. That was what he saw on
the dead shark’s mouth. As his eyelids drooped,
the world dropped in and out of vision, swinging
between barely tangible shapes and total
darkness. Somehow the shapes became clearer
when his eyes shut–the shark’s teeth and his
mother’s lips on a blackened backdrop.

As his mind flickered, the two forms blended into
one: flecked blood into cherry lipstick, serrated
teeth into double bars of ivory, until the faces
merged into–
But before he could grasp the horror, the
pitch-black curtains fell, and K. was asleep.
*
The sunlight fell into my afternoon in an
orange shower. Sprawled across a desk, drowsy–
the type of drowsiness where you have a mild
headache and don’t know whether you should be
awake or asleep–I perspire heavily. Beads of
sweat trail off my forehead and the forearms, then
to the desk, adding to the moisture budding on the
walls– the lukewarm room was submerged in
summer heat.
I open my eyes to be rid of the fog. Still
sweating, I grab a towel nearby to fix a makeshift
bandana out of the red fabric. The air conditioning
must have gone bust–the AC, staring at me from
the ceiling like a rectangular face with a
horizontally stretched mouth, showed no signs of
life. It was not much of a surprise at this point–
the third time this month, and the mechanic was
nowhere to be found. I try to orient myself,
breathing in the musky scent of the room. In the
moments of stupor after waking from an
afternoon nap, who and what and when and
where took a moment to be found, my mind not
quite yet adjusted to a sentient world. Rubbing
my eyes, I blink once, twice, shut the eyelids
completely at the third blink–and drop anchor into
this plane of life.
It has been months. This room is my tomb, and
I don’t know if I’ll leave it or not. I hate it
here–even the walls seem to close in, suffocating–
but the stale air is soft to my tongue. I can’t stand
the fresh wind–I can’t. It smells like needles, steel
chloroform pricks poured into the inside of my
skull. And when the smog comes it’ll be worse,
the winter sky will be all gray dust and I’ll throw
up the moment I smell it. So I hide in this pocket
of fermented air, sordid and repulsive to anyone
but me, reeking of rot and sweat. Like vermin in a
rabbit hole drenched with rain, I hole myself up
and make a blanket out of the filth.
The red towel is getting heavy on my head–I
undo the bandana and throw it down on the floor.
The house is empty, and the AC keeps me
company: a white rectangle face with the ON
button as its eye, mouth closed shut as if listening
to my thoughts. As if it’s looking down on me,
into me and not saying anything, refusing to say
anything out of disgust or maybe pity. That
thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I find
the taciturn stare of the AC to be too much to
bear–its presence, an itch in the back of my neck,
had turned into a constant burn so hurtful. I
drive myself out of my bed and out the door,
across to the bathroom and away from the prying
eyes. I hit the lights and the LED flashes and I’m
blinded, but after a few blinks I see myself in the
mirror.
The bruises are scattered over my torso like
rust, fields of gray and bluish-green, red
veins popping here and there. I inspect them one
by one, wondering why these things would not
fade. Regarding myself silently like the way the
AC did, mouth closed shut and teeth biting into
the tongue, I breathe in, and out–in, and out–
and feel the air. The fresh air, seeping in from
the ventilator to the bathroom, encircling my
mangled skin and down into my lungs, is
tormenting to the senses– the LED too bright,
the taste in my mouth gone bad. Hugging myself,
I quietly turn off the lights and close the
bathroom door, limping back to my bed to hide
beneath the covers.
The world has turned blue under the blankets,
light filtered through the marine-colored lining–
and I am drowsy once more.
*
K. detested laughter. He hated it when he heard
it, ringing from his mother’s throat all the way to
the bedside window. Until the grime-ridden
panes of glass would ever so slightly shake,
painfully, the too-high thrums of a violin out of
key.
But when it was gone, he wanted Ma to laugh.
It was a lie he loved, a wonderful falsehood–
some days it seemed as if it would become true if
repeated long enough. Though he was no longer
a child–by now his voice had started to develop a
scraggy edge, and

the cottonlike fuzz around his lips had begun
growing long and black–he would lie in bed at
night, envisioning a perfect world–a
blasphemous lie–where his mother would laugh
with him and for him, careless and carefree.
So on a winter day when the gales howled
over the sea, he imagined Ma laughing
underneath a sky that had drowned the earth in
its cold blue calm.
A hillside where the morning glory had
bloomed and died by the twilight. The pale
petals would part, unsure of what lay beyond,
then warily open wide, crimson. The bud had
blossomed, revealing itself to a world where it
would briefly thrive. Then, oh then–it would
shrink and fade and fall apart into a summer
storm of foliage, raging like a monsoon only for
a moment, the golden moment, which is then too
gone alongside the flower.
But when the last petal had touched the earth
and he was forced to open his eyes, all that fell
was brittle snow. The world beyond his window
was a perfect pool of black, incapable of
shedding any light–every so often a grain of
snow would ram itself into the window and then
melt away in white, but save for that there was
nothing else to be seen. Looking into the void,
K. felt his heart sink–there was no hillside nor
flower. Mesmerized, he saw the drops of
snowflakes whirl and die, reaching out to the
frozen sky that could not be touched:
and I wake once more to the sound of the
door opening. The world under the cover is still
that shade of marine blue. Through the fabric a
silhouette appears–a faint stain.
The stain, which looks like a chess figure,
grows larger and larger, developing into a
solid outline. A hot stream of air escapes
through my mouth as I cringe, drawing away
from the approaching shape, back pressed
against the bedposts. Back, back, get off me!
The shadow washes over the blanket, a black
tide that blocks out the dim light. Now my head
is between my legs, and I do not see or hear but
feel the gaze, a touch of weary disappointment
in her eyes. Eyes, eyes– why must they always
regard? A black bead, a brown pearl, they were
all the same. From behind the gelatin bulbs
darted the colored spots, making judgments
with every blink of the eyelid.
I can feel everything now, everything I
touch and breathe. A trickle of sweat on my
lips. I feel that drop of liquid seeping into my
tongue. The blanket rough against my skin, wet
gushes of air rushing out of my nostrils, cramps
in my back muscles contorting in a fit and I
compress my body into a ball and silently
scream help help help there is something out to
get me. Is there. There is–there is indeed I feel
that presence pressing down on me. It is
electric not like sparks but electric the way the
quiet hum of LED lights is electric, a soft buzz
that keeps adding up. It
pounds away at my nerves and I feel that in my
skull the gaze of another person and it hurts it
hurts it hurts. I wind myself tighter and tighter
like please please please–
And the shadow leaves. The black pool that
was semi-visible from beyond the fabric
recedes, and I can breathe. In and out, in and
out: I pace my breathing, drinking and spitting
the same stale air on the lining over and over
again.
Chapter 3
The Trial
It was a stormy day for him to go outside
without the umbrella, but the black fabric had
been torn and now he had to walk in the rain with
the assistance of a raincoat, which too was frayed
and worn. So he went: a man wandering the streets
of a seaside town, his drenched overcoats glowing
sleek underneath the lamps that illuminated the
waterfront. Shivering, the weight of the water
slowing him down, the man walked up the steps
which would lead him to the town hall.
The town hall, built during the times when
there was a colony instead of a nation, an
empire instead of a republic, stood arrogantly tall
as a reminder of what it once had been. A giant
towering in its baroque splendor, the hall had grand
wooden doors which opened to reveal a large room
with high ceilings.

The room was in the shape of a courtroom.
Giant, elevated desks dominated the far side,
behemoths carved of fine oak. Behind it sat three
petite men–the judges– shriveled and
old, bald foreheads glowing under the glare of
the chandelier that hung from the ceiling. He
walked towards the center of the room, right
beneath the chandelier, where there was a small
chair and table of the same material as the
judges’. He tentatively pulls out the chair and
sits, unsure if that is the right thing to do –but
the room remains silent, not a single person to
speak and tell him his place.
He sits surrounded, on both sides, by a mob of
people from all around the town. They are not
the jury but merely the spectators, as the law of
this nation declares that it is up to the judges to
make all decisions. Yet they judge; he could feel
their gazes in his very skin, the daggers stabbing
him with every unspoken thought. A hallway of
eyes was preying upon his guilt, feasting on the
crimes of an alleged innocent. My crimes, he
thought. What were they?
The judge sitting in the middle, the head of
the triumvirate, signals a man standing at the
foot of the table. A court usher? Where was he
when the man entered the room? No matter. The
judge calls for order, a contained bellow that
briefly rings through the room, and the crowd
falls silent.
The judge speaks.
Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth?
“I do swear.”
Your name is K. The alphabet. K. No other
name, am I correct in that?
“Yes.” A brief pause. “That I am. Sir.”
Your honor would do. The judge frowns, looking
down on the table as if to examine
paperwork–but there is nothing there.
You have been born in this town, round the
corner of the fish market by the bay. Am I
right in that?
“Yes, your honor.”
You are, as of present time, twenty-one years old
according to the papers. Am I right in
that?
“Yes, your honor.”
And you currently reside, I am made to believe, on
18th Street? The green-roofed house
by the warehouses?
“Yes, your honor.”
Mr. K, age of twenty-one, is now brought before
the court.
From the left side of the court a giant matron
of a woman stands up. She is wearing a
bloodstained apron made of pale rubber, with a
noose that wraps around her neck and waist as if
she is a convict herself, ready to be hanged.
The accuser speaks. Mr. K. is brought here
upon the charges of matricide. Her voice is
strained as if the sound is heaving out of her body.
A week and two days ago. A prostitute
discovered dead by the docks. Hanging from the
stilts where dead sharks would be hung.
Makeup done and dress tidied as if for a grand
occasion. Her limbs bound with the same
hempen rope that broke her neck. Silk ripped from
the dress covered her eyes...
Two empty red pockets bleeding tears that fell
to the earth. A pair of streams running along the
creases and folds of the skin, red rivers for red
valleys. K. thought of sharks and eyes and
dresses.
Mr. K, the woman started, Do you recognize
this knife?
The said knife she fished out of her apron and
held upside down. The serrated blade would’ve
gleamed a fine silver under any light, K. knew; but
now the luster was lost under the flakes of dried
blood that stuck to its teeth. And amidst the
stains, alongside the flat of the blade, a single
initial was carved.
It is yours, is it not.
Her voice, booming, is tormenting to the
senses; the chandelier too bright, his eardrums
shaking as the accusation is made. K. grips the
nonexistent armrest tight, his knuckles pale.
The knife was found stuck in the woman’s eye
socket. Do you see your name here, sir?
The woman has made her way to his front. Her
giant form–a stark wall–blocks out
everything else. The apron, K. now realized, was
stitched together from animal skin– the greasy
skin of a shark.
The woman, taking the knife by the flat side, asks:

Do you see it?
What do I see?
A small room. Moonlight’s glow. A shard of
glass on the floor.
Does the glass reflect the moonlight?
A pad of paper the shade of brown. A ballpoint
pen. Red, green, blue, black, have your choice.
Black looks fine on brown.
Proceed. The tip bites into the paper. Ink marks
all over.
The sound of words being written–the frantic
scratching invades the night silence.
Laughter stands...
Laughter stands on a razor’s edge,
There’s a sentence. It isn’t enough.
Becoming an insult but not quite.
It spills out of a mouth in a circle,
Spreading like a ripple in a pond when a stone
is thrown at it.
Who is saying it? Why? Where does it come
from? Where do the words fit?
A small room. Like the one I am in except
for the light. LED burns bright instead of
moonlight. Like the bathroom. Hot to touch, cold
to see.
There are two people in it, a man and a
woman. I recognize them; they are the ones that
I am searching for.
Call me K., because I have been slandered:
accused, or accursed, whichever fits.
I see, comes the reply. Words are jotted down.
Laughter stands on a razor’s edge...
There are two people in it, a man and a woman.
I recognize them; they are the ones that I am
searching for.
Call me K., because I have been slandered:
accused, or accursed, whichever fits.
I see, comes the reply. Words are jotted down.
Laughter stands on a razor’s edge...
The air conditioner opens his mouth to exhale
a sterile burst of air. I shiver, swallowing a glob
of spit as the sensation washes over me. My
senses were screaming at me again: the texture
of cooled air pricks my skin.
I close my eyes to block them out.
What do you see?
Cherry lipstick parting in an awkward semicircle
to reveal teeth, double bars of ivory.
“He dislikes it.”
“Who?”
“Jaehan. He dislikes clean and cold air.”
“How peculiar.”
“He is an odd person, I’m sure. As odd as they
get.”
“What had caused him to be so odd, I wonder?”
“What caused him to be?”
“Well, you must know him better than I do.”
“No,” Metal grates on wood. “What caused him
to be?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What caused him to be. As simple as that.”
“His parents, I assume.”
“What caused his parents to be?”
“Their parents, I’d say?”
“And then?”
“Well, it goes on and on doesn’t it.”
“To what end?”
“Some cells. Adam and Eve. Doesn’t matter does
it.”
“But it does.” A pause. “You asked before for the
numbers, the phone and the address.”
“Jaehan? Yes, of course. Thank you for your
cooperation–
“There are no numbers. As far as I know the
government doesn’t give out those to him.”
“You’re being impossible again. Please stop with
the riddles.”
“I am being quite literal. I’ve always been as
literal with you as possible. People don't get
confused when someone’s beating around the
bush–that is how people speak. It is honesty that
confuses all of us.”
“I have nothing to say to that.”
“Sure you do not. I have run out of words
myself.”
“My god,” A pause. “Fine.”
That was it for today. The ballpoint pen must
have run out of ink. The tip scratched and
scratched but nothing would come out. All that
there was the sound, the incessant hiss of pen and
paper. What did I do now. The marks are left
still, half-visible ink drying out.
I switch the air conditioner off as he draws
one last breath, but not before the cold is spat
out–at which moment I catch a breath of my own.

The air conditioner is cackling
I
His jaws are unhinged to reveal
A gaping black maw.
Throw
Up.
up.
And then look
Laughter slides off the razor and it insults.
Around the mouth there is red and that is what I
see, red. His face is pale–pale as the moon and
pale as the teeth, and the moon bleeds on a red
day. On my hand is a pen and that is stronger
than a blade or so does the idiom go? He bleeds
rivers and it runs. I hack away, methodical
butchery trapped in lackbeat repetition.
Splinters
Splinters
Splinters
hack
(what used to be)
hack
(Is now)
B R
OW
N DE
BRIS
AsIhackedasIhackedasIhacked.
Dohan Lee, G12
I am a high school senior at Chadwick
International. I was born in 2004.
A nascent writer and an appreciator of literature
who is set to major in English at college.
Favorite authors include James Joyce and
Cormac McCarthy.
*

101 Roots: Issue 1
Feb 2023