Tag Archives: writing

“Dial 911”

Not long ago, a three-year-old boy saved his mother’s life by dialing 911 when she suddenly fell into a coma. The little boy had been playing with his toys beside her when she collapsed. At first, he cried in shock, … Continue reading

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1971 Autumn

Sleep unfinished drifts into sleep again,and before my wandering truly ends,my feet are drawn toward a house of gathering. The cries of Biafra echo in my ears,yet they do not slay the truths that have aged within me.The images of … Continue reading

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Facebook vs. Faith Book

It has been only a little over ten years since Facebook was introduced to the world, yet reports say that more than 800 million people now use it. A few years ago, when I first heard that my children were … Continue reading

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The Sound of Cicadas

(Parsonage Letter: Story of the Four O’Clock Flower, Ninth)© Wanhee Yoon, 1995 A few days ago, while eating breakfast, I found myself gazing out the window at the thick summer greenery. Then suddenly, from outside, came the loud chorus of … Continue reading

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Before and After

The spinning top—still,yet burning like the sun. An open fieldwith roots layeredfor a thousand years,silent,as if the earth itselfwere waiting. The sea did not cool—it flared,a mass of fire,an ocean swallowing its own horizon. Faces collapsed,masks shattered,falling into ocher clay.Dust … Continue reading

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1969.9.9.

Beneath the tall stone embankmentby the elementary school beside my home,the sound of murky water trickling—the black, stagnant waterseeping from every cornerof the city of Present where I live. Deep in the mountain valley,where ancient trees and rocks keep watch,water … Continue reading

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“Haircut Day”

Last Saturday morning was my youngest son’s haircut day. Usually, he goes to the barbershop, but sometimes, when he refuses to go, we set up a temporary barbershop in the bathroom. Armed with scissors, a comb, and various haircutting tools, … Continue reading

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The Day Moon

Winter brushes the fingertipsof the shaman—empty-bodied,visible from all directions—morning and evening. A bird, perched on a dry branch,laughs,its entrails spilling out. Hair, like scattered feathers,drifts towardbuildings stripped bare,unfolding slowly—a voice without accompaniment. The night that had been swept awayreturns to … Continue reading

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“What Remains”

On the window frame of the parsonage entrance, where the sunlight streams in dazzlingly, sits a small decorative porcelain cat I bought not long ago at the church’s thrift shop for fifty cents.Its glossy black coat is tinged with soft … Continue reading

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“Family”

One evening, while my youngest child was playing computer games late into the night in their father’s office, he turned to me with a satisfied expression and said, “I love my family the most! I’m thankful for everything!” “Really? I … Continue reading

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