Get 20M+ Full-Text Papers For Less Than $1.50/day. Start a 14-Day Trial for You or Your Team.

Learn More →

Excerpt from Folklorn

Excerpt from Folklorn By Angela Mi Young Hur Stepping Through the One-Way Mirror can't remember when I was born or the years before and soon after that very important event--but it's a fact that I lived in my house before my friend ever showed up. She liked to remind me that she'd been around for much too long, even before me, but I don't think it counts if most of that time was in her world, and I'm not just saying that because I brought her into mine. I can't take all the credit anyway. It was my father, not me, who broke her free. I first got the idea of making a friend of my own while watching my mother eat her shiny, bruised leaves. She had a stack of them, soaking in dark oil and covered with specks of red chili. With her silver chopsticks, she peeled off the very top leaf and carried it to her bowl. It hung like a broken bat wing as the light shone through the skin between the drooping veins, but the shape was unbroken. With a flick of her wrist, she wrapped the leaf around a bite-sized bundle of rice, and the http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Azalea: Journal of Korean Literature & Culture University of Hawai'I Press

Excerpt from Folklorn

Azalea: Journal of Korean Literature & Culture , Volume 7 (1)

Loading next page...
 
/lp/university-of-hawai-i-press/excerpt-from-folklorn-o7zeFp5y1I
Publisher
University of Hawai'I Press
Copyright
Copyright © University of Hawai'I Press
ISSN
1944-6500
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

By Angela Mi Young Hur Stepping Through the One-Way Mirror can't remember when I was born or the years before and soon after that very important event--but it's a fact that I lived in my house before my friend ever showed up. She liked to remind me that she'd been around for much too long, even before me, but I don't think it counts if most of that time was in her world, and I'm not just saying that because I brought her into mine. I can't take all the credit anyway. It was my father, not me, who broke her free. I first got the idea of making a friend of my own while watching my mother eat her shiny, bruised leaves. She had a stack of them, soaking in dark oil and covered with specks of red chili. With her silver chopsticks, she peeled off the very top leaf and carried it to her bowl. It hung like a broken bat wing as the light shone through the skin between the drooping veins, but the shape was unbroken. With a flick of her wrist, she wrapped the leaf around a bite-sized bundle of rice, and the

Journal

Azalea: Journal of Korean Literature & CultureUniversity of Hawai'I Press

There are no references for this article.