A Finger Trap
A Finger Trap By Martha “Cati” Pudner, 2nd Year ETA There are not enough chairs in our cafeteria, but two are always left empty. They sit loyally to either side of a certain student, leaving a thick, telling slice of space in a sea of crammed bodies. I tap her while passing to wave, and she doesn’t look up. I carry on to the teachers’ table, scolding myself for drawing attention to her. Maybe she likes to believe it goes unnoticed. Soon after I sit down, a group of my peers approaches in a single file. A-line dresses flow like blooming petals in the breeze behind them. They sit a couple of chairs away. I steal quick glances as their remaining food diminishes, trying to correctly time a gap between our leaving. I believe I’m successful until I reach a nearby coffee shop and find them inside. The group faces each other in a lively circle and their conversation bounces against the coffee shop’s walls. They acknowledge me with a bow, but the circle stays shut. When the barista calls our drinks, mine is placed conspicuously to the side. As I pass them to approach the counter, my skin grows hot. I imagine pairs of eyes studying me. Has the tray I’m holding suddenly become slippery? I try to gaze coolly in front of me as I head to my table. The teachers’ laughter swirls around the room and twists to avoid the air around me. I feel as if I’m throwing off the carefully curated aesthetic of the cafe, as if I’m an unmatched piece of furniture sticking out sorely. I can feel the self-consciousness slowly rise in my body, and I know it will make my movements unnatural and my steps clumsy. I hold my breath, seizing myself into stillness as if against a beast waiting to pounce. I’m hoping it loses interest, forgets I exist and saunters away on its own. It remains persistent. Frustrated, I push against it with all my force. It latches on like a kitten being pulled from where it is laying, sinking its claws into my chest. It does not give. The familiarness of this process makes it all the more frustrating. It has the acute feeling of trying to lift your feet off the ground by your ankles, tugging ferociously against a law of physics. With agitation, I stare out the window. A vague image rises dimly in my mind: a memory of an old childhood prop. It holds a suggestion to me, and I tentatively reach out to it. I drop the resistance and fall into the emotion. I invite it to swell up with its strength and course through my blood without restraint. Gradually, its demeanor changes and it welcomes me with open arms, like a wave sweeping me up and pulling me to its chest. All at once, I am swallowed and dissolve into the streams of light coming in the window, filling the space between me and the others. My vision is crisp, and my feet dance a couple inches from the ground. But habit hung on my arms like a jealous child, and as quickly as I rose, it pulls me back to earth. The next day at lunch, I see my student sitting alone again. Something has changed: either she or the world around her has transformed. Her face is perfectly calm; her skin breathes fully. Her hair fans out around her, and her feet are inches from the floor. She is still and strong as the water that towers on either side of her. It is as if she has parted this sea on her own. Her silence rings louder than all the surrounding chatter; it clings to my ears. I watch all this for a moment in newfound recognition. How did I not see it before? Then, suddenly afraid someone is watching, I drop my eyes to the ground and hasten away. [Featured photo by Tansica Sunkamaneevongse]
Twenty-one Twenty
Twenty-one Twenty By Brittany Scardigno, 1st Year ETA 2-1-2-0* The keypad lock on your apartment door beeps with rejection for the fourth time, setting off the alarm. Even though it is an alarm, and its purpose is to let others know that someone is trying to enter a space that is obviously not theirs (because if it was their own, they would know the code), the sound only lasts for thirty seconds. When the alarm stops, your fingers press: 2-1-2-0* Again. 2-1-2-0* You know this is not the correct code, yet your fingers keep pressing the same numbers. If you try the same numbers two more times, the useless alarm will sound and echo through the empty apartment’s stairway. You know this is not the code, because when you first moved in, you thought to yourself: “This code is so similar to the numbers my father used to use for his passwords.” You remember thinking this; so why do you keep pressing 2-1-2-0*? Because it is the correct code. There must be something wrong with the lock. It is the lock, not you. 2-1-2-0* Can a mind be conscious and unconscious at the same time? A mind can be conscious of a mistake being made while it unconsciously instructs the body to perform themistake. Consciously, you are sure this is not the correct code because it is not the same numbers your father used to use for his passwords. Unconsciously, your fingers push the keys: 2-1-2-0* There is an intruder trying to enter this space. Defeated, you walk up to your landlord’s door on the top floor. She becomes worried, asks if you are okay. You pay ₩200,000 for a man to drill into your metal door and replace the keypad lock. [Featured photo by Victoria Thiem]
할머니
할머니 By Grace Moon Meharg 할머니 no longer belongs just to me.Out of every man, woman, and childthe word slips from open mouthscasually, carelessly. Their teeth barely catching its edge. She was Halmoni and she was mine,growing into a god.Framed by a halo of storiessown by the lips of my mother. Grandmotherborn of her daughter, deliveredto the girl whoshares her name. I climb my roots across the ocean. Reaching within and without,glimpsing her in roses,curved backs in the market.The mountains gaze at us both. There’s so muchI remember I’ve forgotten.As stories start to fadethe gaps gain flesh and earth. Our bodies meet in Jeonju. My soles where my mother began.The air wrinklestogether. Three generations.One pair of shoes. [Featured photo by Kierstin Conaway]