One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Undeniably, there are several things that deserve great acclaim in Milos Forman's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. The first of those things is reality. The film was shot in Oregon State Hospital, the actual location of the novel's setting. Another is the picture. Another is the color and picture of this film, which were aesthetically appealing - partly because of the white hospital walls in the background - even in today's standards (the film is more than twenty years old). Another great thing about the film was casting. The casting of each character was perfect, I'd say, and the actor for McMurphy was more than appropriate because of the look of innate madness.

  Yet, there are a few things that could have been better. For one, the background music (in my opinion) was not of best quality, and many scenes lacked such music that could have helped emphasize the innate tension in the film, made sad scenes sadder, and so on. Not only that, character development was problematic as well. Unfortunately, Bromden, the protagonist and easily the most complex character in the novel, was not portrayed or developed adequately in the film, so that the final scenes in which Bromden kills McMurphy and leaves the hospital is somewhat awkward, seriously injuring the quality of the entire film.

  Overall, though, the film is indeed a success. Although it does not completely follow the novel in many aspects, there is great strength in the film's own version of the story, and the technical aspects of the movie nicely matches the original story.

Comparative Adaptation: Forrest Gump (Book and Film)

Hee Ku Kang

It is common for the film adaptation of a book to fail to improve or add upon what the book already has. In the case of Winston Groom’s famous novel Forrest Gump (1986), however, the film is not only different from the book but also actually better in many ways. Hollywood star Tom Hanks’ impressive acting certainly contributes, but it is mainly the scriptwriter Eric Roth’s, and possibly the director’s, intention that shaped the film so differently. Here is how and why:

The main character, Forrest Gump, is portrayed completely differently in the two works. In the film, Forrest is an independent being who is capable of sustaining himself. Actually, aside from his problem with speech and slight tactlessness, he is quite a normal man. He is able to bring up little Forrest all by himself after Jenny passes away, and his athletic abilities (running in particular) and mental sturdiness are impressively above average, if not the best. His being special this way helps him pave a right path in his life, resulting in his successes as a Vietnam War hero, a college foot ball player, and, of course, member of the national ping pong team. In the book, however, Forrest is never this successful. He has to attend a special school for mentally retarded kids after being banished out of a public school. In the film, his mom manages to keep him in a public school by having sex with the school principal, but that never happens in the book. Like others of his “kind,” Forrest is segregated from what normal kids are offered and has to be treated differently from early stages of his life. Moreover, unlike in the film, Forrest is unable to finish university. He does play football but never gets that famous, and he never plays ping pong. In short, the book Forrest is much less successful as a person than the film Forrest. It is then obvious that he is less individualistic and independent as well.

In Jenny’s case, her character is similar between the book and the film, but her background differs a lot. In the book, Jenny is a regular, normal girl who doesn’t really have a lot of problems in her life. In the film, however, she has a lot more problems than normal girls of her age would. Her father is a perverted jerk, and her mother is dead. This adds up to her coming to have several problems with drug and sex in her adult life. We can clearly see that the scriptwriter intended to portray Jenny more negatively to make the altered ending - her dying and Forrest coming to look after his son, not the original ending where Jenny goes away with another man and raises little Forrest herself - more positive and plausible. And I have to say it certainly worked.

All in all, Forrest Gump is one of those rare cases where the film is actually better than the original work. I personally think that this effectively brings down the common misconception that most people have about films that are recreations of stories from books. Well, it seems now that Harry Potter was one of the worst cases.

I Talked To God Yesterday

I Talked To God Yesterday...

I talked to God yesterday

At four forty four.

He said you were no longer mine.

That made me whine.

I talked to God today

At five five five.

He said you were mine.

He said you were mine.

He said you were mine.

What lies.

What terrible lies.

I will talk to God tomorrow

At six sixty six.


What terrible dreams.

The Worst College Essay (That I Ever Wrote)

             Hey I brought home my class’s fish. Really, let me take a look. Be careful; they can be really sensitive. Of course I will. Aren’t they pretty? Yeah, they are.

             That was years ago. And for those years, I raised fish. Generations of them. At one point, my biology teacher in middle school made a brilliant suggestion: “Why not write a research paper on the tropical fish you seem so interested in? There are science fairs for middle school students, too, you know. You might do well in one.” And that became my first research paper, titled Finding the Optimal Tropical Freshwater Fish for Koreans Based on Biological and Behavioral Properties (2006). The prize was great. Immediately, Mrs. Seok, my biology teacher, became the answer to all the “influential person” questions asked to me. It’s true. She changed the course of my life.

             Frankly, at first when my little sister asked me to manage the fish, I never intended to “study” them in any way. Rather, I simply loved looking at them, which I found extremely beautiful and unique. I spent hours per day with them, looking, checking, cleaning, feeding. A week into it, however, I realized managing an aquarium was no sport. It was business.

             I quickly found out that some fish were harder to raise than others. Being famous did not necessarily mean it was easy to raise them. There were also fish that could not be put into the same fish tank, or else they would fight or one would prey upon the other. I also learned that the freshwater tropical fish people normally know of or keep is only a miniscule portion of the whole population. I found all these facts very interesting. I cut my pocket money spending on all other things, and focused on buying new fish tanks (cheap ones, normally), fish (not necessarily cheap), and other equipments.

             I eventually had eight fish tanks, all inhabited by many different fish of various species. The living room of my house became a small lab. Because I had to plan by myself and spend my own money on all fish-related stuff, and because my pocket money was limited, I became a semi-expert at efficient spending on fish. Also, my three years of “looking-at-fish” experience had allowed me to accumulate the sort of knowledge that only experience could teach you. This led to writing the paper.

             Mrs. Seok found it very interesting for a middle school first grader to be “scientifically,” as she put it, interested in fish, normally considered as mere pets or decorations. I once showed my English teacher a short story I wrote on fish, original titled The Pet Disruption, recently recreated as A Tropical Disruption. My English teacher showed the story to Mrs. Seok, and Mrs. Seok suggested me to write the research paper. It was the beginning of my “research life.”

A Girl Named Claire (2011)

A Girl Named Claire

Hee Ku Kang (2011)

- 1 -

Claire the average high school student shut the door and locked it and checked the lock. As always.

“I’m home, ma!”

“Yes, honey. You didn’t have to shout. Quiet. Ralph’s sleeping. You might wake him.”

“Sorry, mom. Didn’t mean to. Love you.”

“Love you too, Claire. Now inside, will you? You’ll really wake the dog.”

Claire went into her room and shut the door behind her. She checked the lock, out of habit.

It’s another typical day, she thought as she fell onto her bed.

- 2 -

“Another typical day,” said Mr. Paulson as the chalk broke again in his hand, “Sorry about that.”

Claire yawned. She didn’t like school very much. The droning lectures had never been her thing. It was a relief, therefore, that she had something to look forward to. Her itinerant mind had long since drifted away to the cozy, ramshackle little hideout of them five. Oh . . . she longed for the bell.

Ariel, Claire’s best friend, who above all regarded Claire’s boyishness as charming and even almost angelic, winked at her from the desk next door. Claire smiled weakly, and yawned provocatively again.

“Claire! Ariel! You troublemakers!”

The fresh chalk Mr. Paulson had just picked up shattered on the edge of Claire’s desk. She yawned again. The classroom was immediately drenched with disapproving jeers and headshakes. Mr. Paulson had had enough.

“Out! Both of you!”

Suddenly putting true, blazing smiles on their faces, both girls sprang from their chairs and exited the classroom with no hesitance whatsoever. Mr. Paulson stared after them, pulling another chalk out.

- 3 -

“Ariel? Claire? You’re early!” said Greg when the two girls entered the small place in the basement of his house.

“Paulson again.” Claire spat as she sank into the sagging chair, “We might arrive early every Friday, with Paulson in charge of the day’s finale.”

Greg nodded, holding an empty soda can in his left hand and a hamburger wrapper in his right.

Greg was this typical large guy who was into Sci-Fi stuff. He liked the series Battlestar Galactica best, and back in his house had a room full of figurines of famous movie characters such as Han Solo. Claire couldn’t really make herself enjoy Science Fiction, but at least she liked Greg because he never bothered her or lied to her. She hated people who lied.

“Anything new?” Ariel asked lightly, crouching down beside Greg. Greg dropped his soda can. The can bounced away with great clangs that echoed in the hollow basement. Well, the only things in them five’s little hideout were the only chair, a feeble lamp, a few dressers, and a small handgun. This last appliance was there heavily due to Oliver’s taste.

“Uh, no.” Greg mumbled, his voice becoming noticeably smaller. He still had trouble with girls. “A typical day.” he said finally.

“That’s what Paulson said.” Claire spat, and Ariel nodded. “No offense, Greg.” she said quickly.

“No, it’s alright. Alright.” said Greg, in a noticeably stabilized voice. Claire had noticed that Greg seemed to find her much more comfortable than Ariel. Well, that was how it was, especially among teenagers. Prettier girls were often harder to deal with for boys.

Ariel had been crowned queen in all of last year’s parties and festivals. She, with her impossible scarlet hair, 5 feet 6 inch height, perfect body, and dazzlingly beautiful face, possessed the irresistible charm for boys. The only reason she had joined this “gang of five” was that she was so tired of sex and so sick of boys tailing her everywhere she went. She had had to become a weirdo.

Claire, on the other hand, was a bit the boyish type. She had short black hair with slight curls at the ends. She was of average height and had a bright yet slightly dark voice with a timbre of beauty, a round yet not too round face with balanced eyes, nose, mouth, ears, and eyebrows. She was slim, just to that extent that most boys would think “Well, okay.” when they saw her for the first time. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but certainly wasn’t ugly. That was a relief for her, for she wasn’t someone who sought a great deal of social attention. She did wear light makeup every day, but that was only due to the pressure her mother gave her. Claire definitely wasn’t that silly type of girl who spent hours every morning ornamenting her face and body.

This great contrast between the two girls had easily made them best friends.

“Three here already!” exclaimed a familiar excited voice from the doorsteps.

Ariel and Greg instantly broke their awkward conversation up, and Claire pulled herself out of the reverie she had been about to sink into. Tina, the third girl, was here.

“Ooh, Claire! I love your hair!” she shouted enthusiastically.

“Yeah, and you just said that for about the thousandth time.” said Claire sourly. She wasn’t that fond of Tina, to be frank. Tina was too normal to gain Claire’s interest. As a matter of fact, being too normal and being not good at anything were the major reasons Tina had joined this club.

“And there’s the pan flute.” said Ariel, “Here comes our leader.”

Next moment the door was thrown dramatically open, and Oliver their so-called “leader” walked down the steps in his usual proud strides. It was summer, but Oliver was trench-coated, masked, and hooded. Everything he was wearing was black except for the exquisitely white pan flute he was holding with all ten fingers. The wind that blew from outside through his long coat made him quite an impressive figure.

“Greetings, comrades.” he said. That was the way he talked—pompous, authoritative, and cold.

Oliver was rich. He didn’t have friends, but he hated nerdy stuff. Nobody had an idea about exactly why he had joined this gang of five so-called eccentrics.

“And so begins today.” he said, and banged the door shut with a slap of his long fingers.

Yes: actually the one and only thing the five had in common was that they all went to Olstone High, an average institution of education located in an average suburb. Well, at least for now.

- 4 -

School again.

“Claire, Ariel, come up here at once!”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Paulson, sir!”

They raced each other up the aisles between the desks and faced Mr. Paulson. Claire yawned again. Mr. Paulson looked so pissed off that it wouldn’t have been peculiar at all if he had exploded right in front of them.

“You know what your problem is, don’t you?”

“Don’t you, sir?” sang Claire with an evil grin.

Mr. Paulson did explode, at least in the figurative sense: he thrust his arm out with surprising agility. Claire flinched. Ariel screamed. The class gasped. Mr. Paulson’s hand, with chalk-stuffed fingernails, closed around Claire’s forearm. Claire resisted, but Mr. Paulson clenched his grip further as though he aimed to break her arm. She started to scream, and met Mr. Paulson’s cold brown eyes.

It happened.

The classroom seemed to slowly shatter away from all around her, as at the same time a vivid scene wormed itself into her vision. A middle-aged, heavily coated man turned left on the poorly lit street and hurried into a small liquor shop in a corner. He talked to the owner, probably about which branch of wine he should buy. Claire was dumbfounded. What was this? Then, a stout teenager approached the man in large strides and, without warning, stabbed his back with a knife. Blood everywhere. The owner dived for the phone as the middle-aged man slumped onto the floor of the shop.

Fresh chalks rolled out of his inner jacket pocket. The scene shattered away.

Claire took a step away from Mr. Paulson, shuddering all over and waving her arms weirdly. She mouthed wordlessly for ten full seconds. Then, she shouted out in a squeaky voice:

“You! You’re going to be murdered in a liquor shop!”

Sticky silence followed these ominous, strangely hilarious, words. Then, Mr. Paulson spoke.

“Follow me, Claire.” he said.

- 5 -

Claire was expelled straight after.

Normal kids at Olstone would have cared; they would have cried their hearts out at night. Yet, Claire didn’t give a damn. She knew her mother was going to scold her, harshest in history perhaps, so she headed for the five’s secret hideout.

She hesitated in front of the basement door. Will they accept her, after what she’d done? She pondered for a bit, and concluded with a definite yes. She unlocked the door with her private key. Click. She entered.

Click.

“Out,” said a voice that was cruelly familiar, “Now.”

Oliver, Claire thought. Then she looked up. Oliver was dressed as usual—black trench coat, black mask, black hood. But there was the handgun in his grip instead of the usual white pan flute. His right index finger was placed, slightly quivering, on the trigger. The gun was loaded for the first time in the five’s history.

“I said out,” said Oliver, coldly still.

Greg and Tina were simply cringing behind Oliver. When Claire didn’t move, Oliver started towards her, fingering the trigger menacingly. Claire stood her ground.

“You are no more a student at Olstone. That means out.”

Then a hand quietly squeezed Claire’s shoulder, and another hand pulled her out through the door. Claire gave herself powerlessly to the lure.

“Ignore him,” said Ariel’s voice in her ear.

Roughly pushing Ariel aside, Claire dashed up the stairs. The basement door slammed shut behind her. She came out into the light of the afternoon sun. She swayed and fell into a neighboring lawn.

She was crying her heart out.

- 6 -

Claire was fingering her engagement ring.

She was rich. Her attitude in life had changed. Her mom had passed away years ago, but Claire had shed no tears. She had foreseen it years in advance. From the day she had been expelled from Olstone, the day she had accurately predicted her old teacher Mr. Paulson’s horrible death in a liquor shop, she had known. She had a rationally inconceivable “ability.” She could see futures of objects she touched. She had so far figured that her power was “activated” only when she was in an emotionally unstable state.

For years she had literally lived with this ability, predicting stock market ups and downs, lottery lucky numbers, and even fates of people. Naturally, she had worked as a fortune-teller, an exceptional one no doubt. She was never wrong in predicting anything. She had even gotten her lover after seeing herself with him in future.

“Hello?”

Claire looked up. A heavily-built man of average height had entered her little place.

“How may I help you?” she asked kindly, batting her eyelashes. He was handsome.

“I heard you’re good. Best,” said the man.

Silently, Claire reached out and took the man’s hand in hers. As usual, her place shattered away as a new scene wormed itself in.

A cavernous wedding hall—the man, bridegroom of the day, smiling at his guests—the bride shying away—the man kissing the bride on her cheek—the bride’s veil falling away—her having short black hair and her face—

Claire lurched from the scene. She had stood up. Her chair had been overturned.

“Well?” said the man eagerly.

“Um . . .”

“Claire,” said the man suddenly.

Flabbergasted, Claire looked up. The man was holding out his hand, and was beckoning. Surprised yet knowing this was something she had to obey, Claire went out into the night with the man.

- 7 -

The man led her to a fancy villa on the edge of the suburb Claire was living in. Claire did not utter a word. For the first time in her life, she was feeling “destiny’s pull,” a fortune-tellers’ jargon.

“Here,” the man said in a suddenly low voice, “Inside. You’ll see.” He opened the door.

Claire had a fleeting glimpse of a cave-like hall, with door-less rooms lining the circular wall. Then, there was a Click.

“Long time no see, Claire.”

The man who had brought Claire there stepped between her and the muzzle of the handgun now pointed at her. He turned to face her. And as Claire registered the beautiful scarlet-haired woman slumped on a white sofa, the white pan flute on the table next to it, and the dark-haired, spectacled woman sitting behind a small wooden desk and put the man into context, she knew.

Greg. A thinner Greg. The gang of five.

“Oliver?” Claire croaked.

“Get out from between us,” said Oliver’s voice, much more mature now, “Good work, though, Greg. You brought the five together. You completed the number.”

Greg stepped away at once. He seemed to cower. Oliver beckoned at Ariel. Ariel, still beautiful, rose from the sofa and wobbled over to him, clearly drunk. Tina stiffened, as though afraid of Oliver.

“So you got what you always dreamt of,” said Claire scathingly, “Power. Money. Women.”

Oliver simply smiled. It was an awful, greedy smile. Claire shrank. She turned to leave, but—

—Click.

“You’re not going anywhere,” said Oliver in his cold, arrogant voice, “I’m getting somewhat tired of Ariel in bed. Fresh meat is always welcome.”

Claire screamed. Oliver bore down on her, and roughly grasped her elbow. He then pulled her into his arms, stroking her short black hair with his long fingers. Claire shuddered.

“Tina, get her to our drawing room and shape her up.”

The spectacled secretary—or maid—rose, and silently pointed to the only room with a door. Claire followed. Claire entered first. Tina followed in, closing the door behind her. She turned the light on with a click, and a small but fancy chandelier flared into light. Tina turned to face Claire.

“I’m undressing you,” she said, “Turn around.”

Claire nodded obediently, and turned around. Tina reached her hand out to the zipper on the back of Claire’s pretty dress. Claire closed her eyes obediently. She was ready. Then, Tina suddenly pushed her roughly onto the wall. Claire didn’t resist.

Tina spoke in an extremely fast, husky voice:         

“I need money. I need your ability. I need to know how exactly you knew of Mr. Paulson’s death. I need to know how you became rich. I need to know how you became popular.”

“Stop, Tina, stop!”

“I was always ordinary. You guys never liked me because I was. Oliver did some great acting back there, didn’t he? The fake handgun and all?”

“You mean you’re the one in charge?”

Tina laughed, and it was a cold one. “Yes,” she said, “Completely fooled, weren’t you?”

“Actually,” said Claire. She turned around, shoving Tina’s hands away. Tina pulled out Oliver’s real handgun, but Claire already had her hand in the exact place where Tina would hold the handgun. She snatched it. “Actually, you shouldn’t have let Oliver act so realistically,” she said, kicking away the knife Tina had placed on the floor earlier, the one she had just been trying to pick up, “You shouldn’t have let him grasp my arm. And,” Claire placed the muzzle on Tina’s forehead, “you shouldn’t have touched me just now when you were forcing me onto the wall.”

Tina was staring at her with oddly blank eyes.

“My ability works only when I make direct physical contact. I saw the liberation of the other three coming, and I also saw this scene when you touched me.”

“Okay. I surrender. Go.”

“Leaving you to torture my three best friends till death? I don’t think so.”

Claire pulled the trigger. The bullet went straight through Tina’s skull. It killed her straight off.

Claire didn’t give another glance at her old mate. She exited the room.

Greg had been standing right in front of it, pacing. When Claire appeared with the handgun, he ran towards her and hugged her tightly. Claire threw the gun at Oliver. He caught it, muttering a low word of thanks. Ariel was again slumped on the sofa.

“Out of here,” said Claire. And they went.

It had been a very atypical day.

- 8 -

Days passed. Ariel was in a hospital, recovering. Oliver had disappeared mysteriously, but Claire was sure he would be all right. He always was. Neither he nor Ariel would talk about how they had been lured by Tina. Claire didn’t pursue the subject.

Memories of the “gang of five” had been floating somewhere between Claire’s consciousness and unconsciousness, never surfacing. Yet, she now realized that they were the very foundations of who she had been. Who she was.

And who she was going to be.

Greg loved Claire. Claire loved Greg. She had broken her engagement with her fiancée. She could recall what he had told her the day before:

“Your mysterious boyish aura is enough to magnetize many covetous men. Those large azure eyes of yours, that rare olive hue in it . . . That’s your problem.”

And there was just another thing that she could recall very clearly, for very different reasons:

“One question, Claire. You want to marry me because you saw it when you touched me. You killed Tina because you were sure she was doing bad things. But what if you were wrong?”

“Yes.” That voice had sounded from behind the bench she and Greg had been sitting on.

Click.

And there were two gunshots.

She saw Greg slumping off the bench with a hole through his shirt. She was already dead.

“Same as poor Paulson I killed,” said the voice.

Clear notes from a pan flute drifted lazily through the evening breeze.

The Hero's Journey: The Incredibles

Group: Group Four (Wonji, Seewan, Heegu, Min)

Our Film: The Incredibles

Why we chose it:  Almost everybody our age watched it.

ACT I

1. Ordinary World:
The ordinary world for Mr. Incredible was the world where his family lived, a world in which a lot of superheroes exist and occasionally save the world from burglars. His son Dash and his daughter Violet, who are also superheroes, go to school. His wife is an ordinary housewife. He is an ordinary salary man.

2. Call to Adventure:
Mirage sends Mr. Incredible an electronic device containing a summons to an island to fight a runaway robot.

3. Refusal of the Call:
He worries about his family and is reluctant of going back to his superhero days and putting his family at risk.

4. Meeting the Mentor:
He meets Mirage, who informs him about the robot and its abilities.

5. Crossing the Threshold:
He rides a very modern jet and goes to the island to find the robot.

ACT II 

6. Tests, Allies, Enemies:
His first test comes when he first fights the robot, which can learn while battling. He almost gets drowned and melted in lava but finally finds a way to kill it. His one ally is Edna Mode, the woman who designs superhero clothes. She provides him and his family members each a suit that suits individual abilities. His family members, Elastigirl, Dash, and Violet are also allies. His real enemy is the rich weapons producer Syndrome, who used to be a fan of Mr. Incredible in his youth.

Another test comes when he encounters a new, upgraded robot powered by Syndrome. He is powerless in front of Syndrome.

7. Approach to the Innermost Cave:
He uses a statue and breaks through a fake lava-clad door to approach the central system. He looks up heroes’ and heroines’ names to see if they had been killed or not. He finds out that Syndrome is trying to conquer the world by launching a rocket. He gets caught.

8. Ordeal:
His family (his wife, son, and daughter) come to rescue him and are eventually caught.

9. Reward:
Violet uses her ability of shielding to escape from the electric bounds, and goes to save the world. Mirage tells them the password, and they fly to the city to fight the robot.

ACT III 

10. The Road Back:
They fly back to the city.

11. Resurrection:
While the Incredibles are going home after destroying the robot, they find out that Syndrome has got Jackjack, the little baby. The other four are caught by Syndrome and then the baby is taken away by him. But surprisingly the baby had a great ability, and Syndrome is killed. Basically the baby resurrects the family.

12. Return With the Elixir:
Violet becomes more competent with boys, and Dash enjoys the races. The family becomes happier and more intimate.

Points of contention (ifs/ands/buts):

Perhaps Mirage is not a perfect mentor, because she worked for Syndrome and then changed into a good woman.

A Girl Named Claire

H.G. KANG, 2011

- 1 -

Claire the average high school student shut the door and locked it and checked the lock. As always.

“I’m home, ma!”

“Yes, honey. You didn’t have to shout. Quiet. Ralph’s sleeping. You might wake him.”

“Sorry, mom. Didn’t mean to. Love you.”

“Love you too, Claire. Now inside, will you? You’ll really wake the dog.”

Claire went into her room and shut the door behind her. She checked the lock, out of habit.

It’s another typical day, she thought as she fell onto her bed.

- 2 -

“Another typical day,” said Mr. Paulson as the chalk broke (again) in his hand, “Sorry, everyone.”

Claire yawned. She didn’t like school very much. The droning lectures had never been her thing. It was a relief, therefore, that she had something to look forward to. Her itinerant mind had long since drifted away to the cozy, ramshackle little hideout of them five. Oh . . . she longed for the bell.

Ariel, Claire’s best friend, who above all regarded Claire’s boyishness as charming and almost even angelic, winked at her from the desk next doors. Claire smiled weakly, and yawned pointedly again.

“Claire! Ariel! You troublemakers . . .”

The fresh chalk Mr. Paulson had just picked up shattered on the edge of Claire’s desk. She yawned again. The classroom was immediately drenched with sarcastic jeers. Mr. Paulson had had enough.

“Out! Both of you!”

With true, blazing smiles on their faces, both girls sprung from their chairs and exited the classroom with no hesitance whatsoever. Mr. Paulson stared after them, seething.

- 3 -

“Ariel? Claire? You’re early!” said Greg when Claire entered their small place in the basement.

“Paulson again.” Claire spat as she sank into the sagging chair.

Greg nodded, holding an empty soda can in his left hand and a hamburger wrapper in his right.

Greg was this typical large guy who was into Sci-Fi stuff. He liked the series Battlestar Galactica best, and back in his house had a room full of figurines of famous movie characters such as Han Solo. Claire couldn’t really make herself enjoy Science Fiction, but at least she liked Greg because he never bothered her or lied to her. She hated people who lied.

“Anything new?” Ariel asked lightly, crouching down beside Greg. Greg dropped his soda can. The can bounced away with great clangs that echoed in the hollow basement. Well, frankly, the only things in them five’s hideout were the only chair, the feeble lamp, a few dressers, and a small handgun. This last appliance was there heavily thanks to Oliver’s taste.

“Uh, no.” Greg mumbled, his voice becoming noticeably smaller. He still had trouble with girls. “A typical day.” he said finally.

“That’s what Paulson said.” Claire spat, and Ariel nodded. “No offense, Greg.” she said quickly.

“No, it’s alright. Alright.” said Greg, in a noticeably stabilized voice. Claire had noticed that Greg seemed to find her much more comfortable than Ariel. Well, that was how it was, especially between teenagers. Prettier girls meant harder to deal with for boys. Ariel had been crowned queen in all of last year’s parties and festivals. She, with her impossible scarlet hair, 5 feet 6 inch height, perfect body, and dazzlingly beautiful face, had this irresistible charm for boys. The only reason she had joined this “gang of five” was that she was so tired of sex and so sick of boys tailing her everywhere she went. She had had to become a weirdo.

Claire, on the other hand, was the bit boyish type. She had short black hair with slight curls at the ends. She was of average height and had a bright yet a bit dark voice with a timbre of beauty, a round yet not too round face with balanced eyes, nose, mouth, ears, and eyebrows. She was slim, just to that extent that people would think “Well, okay.” when they saw her for the first time. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but certainly wasn’t ugly. That was a relief for her, for she wasn’t someone who sought a great deal of social attention. She did wear light makeup every day, but that was only due to the pressure her mother gave her. Claire definitely wasn’t that silly type of girl who spent more than an hour every morning ornamenting her face and body.

This great contrast between the two girls had easily made them best friends.

“Three here already!” exclaimed a familiar excited voice from the doorsteps.

Ariel and Greg instantly broke up their awkward conversation, and Claire pulled herself out of the reverie she was about to sink into. It was Tina, the third girl.

“Ooh, Claire! I love your hair!” she shouted enthusiastically.

“Yeah, and you’ve said that for about the thousandth time.” said Claire a bit sourly. She wasn’t that fond of this girl, to be frank. Tina was too normal to gain Claire’s interest. As a matter of fact, being too normal and not good at anything was the reason Tina had joined this club.

“And there’s the pan flute.” said Ariel, “Here comes our leader.”

Next moment the door was thrown dramatically open, and Oliver their head walked down the steps in his normal proud strides. It was summer, but Oliver was coated, masked, and hooded. Everything he was wearing were black except for the exquisitely white pan flute he was holding in both hands. The wind that blew from outside through his long coat made him quite an impressive figure.

“Greetings, comrades.” he said. That was the way he talked—pompous, authoritative, and cold.

Oliver was rich. He didn’t have friends, but he hated nerdy stuff. Nobody had an idea about exactly why he had joined this group of five so-called eccentrics.

“And so begins today.” he said, and banged the door shut with his leg.

Actually, the one and only thing these five had in common was that they all went to Olstone High, an average institution of education located in an average suburb. Well, at least for now.


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This is about two fifths of the entire thing.

Introduction to Claire in "The Claire"

Claire was nineteen and was to go to college next year. She was busy with her GPA and SATs like everybody else, because she was American. She went to Olstone High, an average institution of education located in an average suburb. She the average student had short, sleek black hair with cute little curls at the ends. She was of average height and had a bright yet a bit dark voice with a timbre of beauty, a round yet not too round face with balanced eyes, nose, mouth, ears, and eyebrows. She was slim, just to that extent that people would think “Well, okay.” when they saw her for the first time. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but certainly wasn’t ugly. That was a relief for Claire, for she wasn’t someone who sought a great deal of social attention. She did wear light makeup every day, but that was only due to the pressure her mother gave her. Claire definitely wasn’t that silly type of girl who spent more than an hour every morning ornamenting her face and body. She was a good girl. A good student.

Claire loved drawing. She loved it greatly, so that the walls of her room were covered almost completely with her old and new works. Thanks to that, the white wallpapers were already dirty with strokes of paint that had flowed down from incompletely dried works. A regular girl would have cared about this. A lot, in fact. Even a tiny pencil mark would have counted as a fatal threat. Claire, on the contrary, didn’t give a shit. She had more important matters than that to think about.

For instance, she spent most of the time thinking about her future. What could she do? She was sure she would not be able to make it into a good college. She would definitely go to some school, as she always had, but that wouldn’t be enough in the world of competition she was living in. She had no strong familial background, nor was prominent in anything. She was okay in everything, but was never enough in anything. She wasn’t smart enough, pretty enough, sociable enough, or eloquent enough. She was too average.

Claire was average, but wasn’t normal at all. The way she acted was enough to suggest that. Her not caring about the paint on her walls was just one example. Unlike most nineteen-year-old girls, she didn’t hang out with a bunch of other female humans. Actually, she preferred boys than girls. In her point of view, boys were more mature than girls in many ways. Well, they didn’t giggle for a start. On one hand, she thought girls were easier to approach but harder to become real friends with, for their personas were too thick. On the other hand, she just liked being with boys. Not in that unwholesome sense, though. She didn’t know why, but she felt more comfortable with male humans.

It's not complete, and may change drastically.
I don't think she's interesting enough yet, so I need your ideas!

Something Beautiful

12I-2 Creative Writing

14^th Wave Hee Gu Kang

2011. 04. 05

Something Beautiful

Softly and delicately the spring rain falls. Oaks and beech trees comprise the major portion of this forest, where wild lilies and roses smudged with dirt litters the winding earthy path that vanishes into the overgrowth beyond. Mostly it is plants, but a single pair of rabbits is huddled beneath a rather lone tree in the corner, shivering and licking the weak sunlight. Eddying air shakes the leaves of the trees and the bushes and flowers and grass as the light rain intensifies into a downpour. The rabbits scatter, soaked wet and hairs standing on end. Humid and damp, the earth beneath the animals’ rapidly leaping feet begins to bubble, and many earthworms break the crust and emerge, dancing enthusiastically, into the rain. It is no beautiful sight. Nor it is ugly. Great, it is, for the word can be both positive and negative.

Before I actually encountered it, I thought the picture was a commonplace landscape painting; a rainy forest with lots of trees and a pair of animals couldn’t have looked duller. Expecting a terrible disappointment from myself, I approached it with great caution. Artistic senses sharp, I stared at the work of art by the nameless painter, my eyes narrowing by the minute. Ugly, I thought, Mundane; I knew it. Then, unexpectedly, one of the supposed-to-be-stationary rabbits stirred and ran; the other one did, too, shortly afterward. I stared, paralyzed with wonder, as the rain actually became thicker before my eyes and earthworms emerged from the soil. Furious with myself, I rubbed my eyes fiercely, but nothing changed. Ugly though the painting might be, it was alive. Lively, vivid, and dynamic.

  Yes, I thought blankly, Here’s something beautiful.

The Superstar

12 I-2 Creative Writing

14th Wave Hee Gu Kang

2011. 03. 22

The Superstar

April sidled into the room, looking sour. Her lips were thin, her eyes were cold, and an icy frown was on her face. The manager, Mr. Lee, got up and asked her why she was feeling bad, but April simply pursed her lips and turned to sit down in the large, comfortable red sofa in the corner of the room. Mr. Lee got up from his stiff chair and approached April cautiously.

“Is it your father again?” asked the manager. His tones were awfully careful.

The ten-year old girl nodded. Her dark brown hair was tied fashionably in a special round knot. She had thick makeup on her smooth little face, and had purple-jeweled earrings on her ears. The light green dress she was wearing rippled gracefully around her like soft tides of the sea, her practically non-existent breast was emphasized brutally by a strap around her waist, and a pair of tiny shoes with flamboyant white shoelaces had been squeezed into her feet. She was pretty, but at the same time had a slightly dumb look about her. She was fingering the hem of her dress’s left arm repeatedly as if nervous. Well, she was nervous. It was time.

“I called him yesterday.” said the manager heatedly, “He said yes.”

April scoffed. “He was drunk. He didn’t know what he was saying.” she said scathingly.

Mr. Lee looked up with surprise, again, that such a young kid could speak so roughly of her own father. April’s father, Mr. Kim, was highly conservative and was strictly against what his daughter did in the monthly fashion festivals. Personally, Mr. Lee hated Mr. Kim. He was the sole yet intimidating obstacle to their success. His success.

“Well, then,” said Mr. Lee heavily, “we’ll just have to ignore him, I think.”

April nodded. She hated her father as much as Mr. Lee hated him.

“Prepare. The show’s approaching.”

The Void and the Men

12I-2 Creative Writing

14^th Wave Hee Gu Kang

2011. 03. 14

The Void and the Men

The Japanese swordsman was exchanging courteous bows with the American cowboy.

The Australian hunter was swearing loudly at the Chinese cook, voice rising infinitely.

The Mexican dancer was laughing broadly at a joke the Egyptian architect had just made.

The Indian mathematician, who alone had remained solitary and silent, spoke: “We cannot possibly coexist like this. We need someone to lead us.”

“The seven lost people . . .” breathed the Chinese cook, still seething and glaring at the Australian hunter, “We’ve been stuck here like this for hours now. We need a solution.”

“We need food. We’re hungry.” said the hunter irritably, “Cook for us.”

“There’s nothing to cook with!” the cook snapped, firing up at once.

“We need rules first.” said the Japanese swordsman firmly, “Rules are highly valued in the arts of Kendo.”

“Yes, yes, and for rules, we need a proper leader.” said the American cowboy with dignity, “Leaders are pivotal to all groups, including us cowboys, of course. Proud, brave Americans!”

“But there’s nothing here. We don’t know where this place is, or why we suddenly came to be here. Why us? Why now? Why?”

“Yeah, I was in the middle of an annual performance!” said the Mexican dancer with obvious annoyance and bemusement, “I was having the time of my life back there. The queen was going to award me a prize!”

“Our priority now is to find our way out of here.” said the Egyptian architect, “I need to complete the design of the pyramid I was working on with my coworkers.”

“Wait a moment. Wait a moment.” said the Indian mathematician, “Did you say pyramid? Pyramids were built hundreds and hundreds of years ago! Don’t talk nonsense.”

“Pardon?” said the architect, looking heartily astonished, “We’re building multiple pyramids right now in our country!”

The mathematician looked thunderstruck. The hunter shook his head.

“And a Mexican queen . . .” hissed the Chinese cook, “Mexico has no queen.”

“We do. Monarchy replaced republicanism in the year 2083. Well, there’s no more of those old ideas of democracy or free market in any country now, I heard. People had had enough of freedom when the sixth Nuclear War killed two thirds of the world population.”

“Nuclear?” chorused the cowboy, the swordsman, and the architect, “What’s that?”

“Wait a moment.” said the cook slowly, “You folks don’t know about nuclear weapons?”

The three shook their heads. The hunter shook his head again.

“I’m starting to grab the gist of the situation now.” murmured the mathematician, stroking his chin, “We seven were taken not only from random locations, but also from random time periods. I came from the year 1989.”

“1887.” said the cowboy.

“2014.” said the cook.

“I don’t know what those numbers mean.” said the architect. The swordsman nodded.

“1962, I reckon.” rasped the hunter.

The mathematician looked excited. “Good. What a union! I wonder who did this to us. We’re in . . . a void!”

They all looked around. Yes. They were standing—or floating; they couldn’t tell—in literal nothingness. Their surroundings weren’t merely black, but literally non-existent. There was no sunlight, no mountains, no horizon, no ground, no air, no . . . anything. There was nothing. They couldn’t tell if they were in a small room, on an expansive plain, or in midair. Around them was boundless nothingness, and there was no escaping the cursed predicament.

“It’s hell living without a hero.” said the mathematician abruptly.

“Someone needs to be the hero.” said the cook, nodding to the Indian.

There was a moment’s subdued silence, then—

“Me.” said a voice.

With a flourish, the swordsman drew a dagger from a strap around his waist, and threw it at the cook with surprising agility. It hit him squarely on the forehead. He toppled. The architect, who had been standing right beside the cook, flinched a little, but before he could do anything, the cowboy had discharged his rifles two times, killing the swordsman. The hunter was eying the swordsman with disdain.

“Two down.” breathed the cowboy, “That Chinese bloke was right, though. We don’t have a hero here. A leaderless group is bound to be driven into violence.”

“So it is.”

The Mexican dancer suddenly pounced upon the cowboy, and before the American could defend himself, had smacked him around the head, knocking him down. The dancer snatched the rifle out of the cowboy’s hand, but the hunter killed the dancer with an accomplished shot from an old-fashioned handgun. The cowboy got gingerly up to his feet, and said, “Thanks.”

“Useless idiots,” spat the hunter, and blasted the cowboy’s universe away with another shot from his handgun, “Why kill the cook? Why kill the cook?”

The mathematician and the architect looked puzzled. The hunter directed his gun at the two surviving people. They raised their hands in desperate defense, but the Australian mercilessly shot the architect down. The mathematician cringed ever more.

“Any mathematical discoveries you haven’t yet disclosed?” shouted the hunter, pushing the muzzle of the handgun into the Indian’s chest, “Any mathematical discoveries you haven’t yet disclosed?”

“Err . . .”

“Tell me! Now!”

“No. There’s something I’ve been working on, but I haven’t finished—”

“Farewell, then. Another failure.”

BANG.

*                   *                   *                   *                   *

“Got anything, Mark?”

“Yeah.” said the Australian hunter as he emerged from the lopsided stone gate, “It was a bit unentertaining this time, though. Only one of the selected was from the future.”

“Was it a he or she?”

“He. He was a dancer from 2083 Mexico. Monarchy will return to this world after the sixth Nuclear War, from what he said.”

“Good . . . So, there’ll be another Nuclear War after the fifth.”

“Suppose so.” said the hunter, sitting roughly down onto a stubble, “Your turn this time.”

“Yeah.”

The second hunter got up from his stubble, and dragged his body to the gate.

“When do you think will humans abandon the law of strength?” asked the hunter as his colleague was about to disappear back into the void.

“Never, I think. We’re a bunch of barbarians. The most brutal race ever to walk on Earth.”

With that and a small whoosh, the second hunter disappeared into the gate.