Eomma says it is time for bed. Eomma makes me pee in the urinal outside. Appa is asleep. The blanket hugs me. Eomma kisses my forehead. The candle dies.
–
I can’t sleep tonight. The sheets are cold. My eyes are open. The moon is in the window.
–
Eomma packs me potatoes for school. One, two, three in the burlap sack. At lunchtime, they stick to my throat.
–
Teacher makes us say his name again. She writes it on the chalkboard in long, thin strokes: 김정일. Kim Jong Il. His face is above the chalkboard. He looks like harabeoji. White hair. Soft eyes. He is our dear leader. Teacher is happy.
–
When I get home, the sky is many colors. The bough murmurs. Unflowered.
Eomma is sad.
She doesn’t see me.
Appa. Appa. Appa.
My mind is loud. My face is wet.
Eomma tells me she will be gone. She will look for Appa.
She tucks me in the warm cover.
She touches my face.
Her hands are warm. My eyes are dark.
–
My eyes open. The world opens. Appa is gone. Eomma is here. She puts things in the burlap sack.
A knife glints.
Let me touch it, Eomma. Eomma says no.
–
The river is white and rough. The moon is in the river.
–
Eomma is wet. The bank is dry.
The river is backwards. The moon is broken.
The river leaves us.
–
Beulokeo, Eomma says to the broker. He looks like Appa. Eomma, where is Appa?
–
Beulokeo talks to the soldier. Red and blue and white.
–
Paper. Hands. Paper. Hands. Eomma, why did you give paper?
–
There is no sky. The building is fat and bright. It says Chinese on it. We will sleep here, Eomma says.
Beulokeo. Paper. Hands. Paper. Hands.
Hard floor. Soft bed.
–
Eomma kisses my forehead. The blanket hugs me.
–
We stoop in the truck. The building leaves us. The road is pebbled. The moon is cold.
Consulate, Beulokeo says. He points. A building. A gate. It says Japanese on it.
Beyond, soft land. Warm light. He smiles.
–
The truck stops. The officers wear guns. The officers are night.
Songhwan. Beulokeo whispers words.
Eomma’s eyes are vague. She doesn’t see me.
I don’t want to go back, Eomma.
–
The moon is cold. The officers are night.
Eomma. I don’t want to go back, Eomma.
–
She retrieves the knife. Clutches it.
–
The moon is cold.
The officers are night.
We are red.
This piece merges a poetic voice with a childlike perspective to tell this simple, haunting tale. The prose has a beautiful cadence and flow, and I was astonished to discover that this piece was eligible for the New Voice Award. I hope to have the chance to read a lot more from this author in future!
Ingrid Jendrzejewski
The power of this story is how it takes us out of mundane existence and places the reader on an axis of a harsher perspective of life. I am particularly impressed with the use of the short line. They almost work as haikus.
Nick Makoha
Yossi Eun-Chong Rosen studied creative fiction and poetry at Interlochen Creative Writing Summer Program and currently attends Sidwell Friends School in Washington D.C. He is from Bethesda, Maryland. Multiracial and interfaith, Yossi Eun-Chong hopes to inspire others with diverse backgrounds.
Oxford Flash Fiction Prize 