.png)
LITERARY ART Gallery
We are proud to recognize the students selected for this year’s Festival of Young Artists Literary Art exhibition. Each piece represents outstanding creativity and artistic achievement from a talented group of young artists.
The year my mother stopped marking the calendar, the clock in the hallway stuttered, ticks tumbling over one another like teeth left in a drawer.
The radiator clanged. Heat arrived late. I slept in a sweatshirt that still believed in another body.
Weeks filed themselves under the couch, between spilled pencils and a sock I had forgotten.
At school my face rearranged without permission. At home my hands startled me— attached, operational, unfamiliar.
I traced the fire escape as it slid along the wall, metal scraping brick.
It moved anyway.
The sink was just a sink. Plates stacked in silence, water running over them whether I looked or not.
Time tipped sideways. I pressed myself against each tilt, folded into walls, folded into the floor, waiting for the house to cough, or for something in it to forget I was here.
*2026 Literary Art Winner*
That feeling—being surrounded by stars that shine brighter, younger, sharper. Their brilliance fills the room, a reminder: you’re not enough.
It pushes you, but shame pulls you inward, deep into the cluttered dark of your own mind, where shadows linger—born from light.
You fall. Again. Worthless. Not enough.
They won’t see your roots, only your broken branches.
They don’t know where you’ve come from.
They notice only when you break.
I am a tree—I wither in winter, chase the sun in spring, bloom in summer, only to be torn again by autumn’s ache.
When I stood tall, no one saw the scars. When I fell, they heard the crash— not the silence that followed.
They called me unstable, not a survivor— a defect in a forest of ideals. They loved only the green leaves; the flaws were unforgivable.
Pain doesn’t change. It loops until you forget who you were before it began.
Why can’t we see beauty in the unseen, the unsaid?
I envy the birds—symbols of freedom, never afraid of the branch breaking, trusting their own wings.
But me? No one had faith— not in my roots, not in my rise. I’m tired of being fake to survive, of pretending this forest is home.
Outside, there are seasons – winter, spring, summer, fall. Trees go from dusted with snow, spindly branches bare, to freshly leaved, sweet smelling blossoms blooming. Soon, the leaves fully unfurl and fireflies nestle between branches, before the trees turn fiery and leaves fall again, spiraling slowly.
Inside of each living creature, there are seasons, too. Mirroring the elemental seasons out in the world, there is a winter, spring, summer, and fall inside of us, too. A swallow clings to a branch as the wind ruffles its feathers, a stag stands at the front of his herd in the snowy pines. A fox weaves easily underfoot before settling inside its den, the howl of a wolf echoes through the air as it tilts its head towards the clouds veiling the moon.
There are seasons in all of them, too. And inside of me, and you.
Another breeze sweeps by the towering mountains, silhouetted against the color-filled sky in the last rays of fading light.
Then, the swallow takes flight.
She sits still, like the world has asked her to pause. The children close to her sides, their faces turned away, as if looking forward would hurt too much. Her hands are rough, her dress worn thin, and the air around her feels dry, like a season that forgot how to rain.
Nothing is happening, but everything is happening.
Hunger waits.
Tomorrow waits.
And the question of how long a person can stay strong still awaits.
This is not a moment people usually write about.
No shouting. No movement.
Just a mother holding the weight of a future, a future that is still waiting to unfold.
The ground beneath her feels tired.
The sky doesn’t promise anything.
Still, she stays.
Still, she holds her children close, like spring might come if she believes in it long enough.
Dry wind passes
the family huddled together holding on through the cold Spring awaits.
The river moves freely like the wind, never ending.
It twists through dirt and stone,
Carrying pieces of the world with it,
Leaves, fish, fragments of life pulled gently towards the ocean.
The dam stand tall and unmoving,
An abrupt stop to the once roaring current.
It is hard, grey, and still.
The water waits, pressed by concrete walls. What was once alive,
Now hums with machinery, not the water.
The river wants to run, while the dam exists to stop.
Yet they both have their kind own power,
The river, giving life,
The dam, creating energy.
they stand in the dark
waiting for the void to notice them.
it was so dark.
how dark was it
it was so dark
that the only thing visible
was the dim light
staring at the coal
it aint that dark
it was so dark
each step you took
felt like ya last
you exaggeratin
when i tell you it was so dark
how dark
it was so dark
the bat next to me
got lost in it
stop playin
im tellin you
it was so dark
we had to grow up quicker
to not be afraid of the dark
tell the truth
boy it was so dark
man how dark
it was so dark
our dreams got so scared
they left us in the dark
and ran to the light
& the last bud
breaths heavily
succumbing
to her death note
never again, will the same
greens loom
never again, will leaves
crisply twirl under once-
burgeoning trees
why? why wilt in her
presence?
why suffocate in
her white ashes?
yet — somewhere
embers whisper:
see snowdrops erupt
from sleeping beds
pines dress in
golden opalescence
among steamy-breathed
jingles n’ laughter — hushing the cold
and so, i begin realize
nothing ever left.
buds remember
flora wait
sealed in her
white lips
she is the magic
that makes spring
brilliant
There’s a maple by the wall
I see it from the other side,
I see others from the other side, I
see the last dry leaves hanging on
while the wind sharpens into a spear
and tries to pick them off one by
one.
There’s something growing by the wall,
under it, between the system of stones I
have to imagine that others also know this
on the other side.
But, what’s this?
There are no leaves left.
Were they there in the first place?
The maple is sleeping now,
and it knows that change is
always just far enough away
until it is right in front of them,
when they wake up.
The cold wipes clean what collects in the recesses, the alcoves, and the sulci of the brain.
Then it waits and waits,
and waits to become a weapon.
The maple languishes in restless sleep.
If only I could ignore the wall; its power and violence…
But that feels wrong—
I wish I could tear it all down with my word-knives; with my attention,
but it doesn’t listen, it can’t hear.
I can only witness and wait as something grows between its stones, tendrils reaching through the cracks.
Then I will grab on.
Until then,
only the maple can make us meet again,
prove that the world is unrecognizable,
let us wonder if something grows out of that world.
The maple sleeps and so do we.
Will we wake up?
Will we be free?
Your winter forest is hidden under pure white.
Every wind covers you with the heavy snow.
Over the white world, you closed your eyes.
Remember, every night I send you warmth and prayer through silence.
Even as new sprouts appear and the last leaf falls. Until next summer, when we will meet again, My yeoreum breathes in the cold.
your eyes closed in snow when
warm sunlight touches you
promise me we’ll meet
*yeoreum= summer in Korean / my cousin’s name
Need work
A bump in the road,
an unexpected place,
the breeze guides you,
to the unknown,
its there to disturb you
Rough path
Going one way,
till your not
Can't stop it
Can't avoid it
Life is not consistent
Life is unpredictable
Life is uncertain
Life is random
Its up in the air
Constantly
I see a wolverine moving through the snow,
alone in the wide white woods.
I see his dark fur against the cold ground,
his small tracks stretching forward,
not turning back.
He walks without a pack,
he walks without a leader,
he walks because he trusts his own path.
The forest is quiet, the forest is open,
the forest does not guide him,
he guides himself.
I see the wolverine pause and look ahead,
strong in his silence,
sure in his own way,
belonging only to himself.
A walk through past roads, the grass brown and wilted, but I remember the green plush stalks, the earth singing with me. Can any sound be more melodical than a laugh? Can a day bring you back to another? This desolate place was once my everything, everyone around me, a contrast to the emptiness that fills my bones, flows through my veins as dopamine once flowed through hers as she giggled, sweat trickling down her damp skin into the wet soil, sharing secrets, playing house, pretend problems that she knew but did not understand. I, once so eager to grow up, now understand. If I could truly, just for a day go back I would tell her "Stay, stay you, be kind to yourself and true, girl," but I am hidden behind a shrubbed wall, a lone spectator to better days through foliage. I long for her, that girl, that hair-and-face- messy-with-sprinkler-water-and-crumbs-and-juice-stickiness girl. She existed before joy became numbers, my vessel at war with itself, she became a consuming-unconsuming- obsessive girl. Now I am a girl-almost-woman new, my core-being messy with petals and unfulfilled promises to me and her and I question if misery can be beautiful. I long to tell her
"Remember who you are, girl, don't let them break you down,
girl stay you," but perhaps she was with me all along,
twisting and turning, as was I in her so long ago, maybe her
and I are us, flawed and imperfect, hurt but healing,
persevering through, as vivid and unwavering as the sun.
Maybe she was me all along as the waves are the still water,
as the wind is the calm air. X-ray me and I'll find you, girl,
zealous, bright, and beautiful as ever.
The fish nets tug at my ankles, tallying each drift–accusing me of impermanence,
No solid ground can tie me down–
No border could define me,
I shed my skin on the shoreline
The tide harbors me,
Rocking me with the rhythm of the seals, the fish, and plants–
Who I surrender myself to:
My name and hair dissolve into sea-salt, I loosen from flag or face.
Winter storm lulls me back ashore, Redistributed against sun-dried rocks, and drifting as sea foam.
The Skylark leaps into the radiant light,
Ascending like a golden arrow, defying the restless wind.
Its song slices through the clouds,
Fearlessly, soaring higher and higher.
A kite confined on its string below,
Bright colors waving like a flag.
It dips and rises, fighting the wind,
Trying to fly as valiantly as the bird.
Above the fields and playgrounds,
Courage in the sky,
In the song of a bird,
In the fight of a kite.
Soil tastes like an end
Earth’s shadow collapses here
A seedling grows close
Ready or not not not
Here comes the shot shot shot
Hide behind the gate gate gate
Hope you aren't too late late Late
No it goes like
Conceal your eyes eyes eyes
Under the smoky skies skies skies
Stay in the ditch ditch ditch
Dont even twitch twitch Twitch
No it goes like
Hide behind the wall wall wall
Made of stone stone stone
Piled in dirt dirt dirt
Everyone hurt hurt Hurt
Down down baby
Down to the ground now
Nobody's hiding
Everybody's been
Found.
Silence is loud We sit in
the waiting room as if
patience were a skill we
forgot about.
The chairs arranged in order, far
apart, to keep us separated from each
other.
The television is running
to keep the tension low
the wind is howling to
drown the silence.
A man flips the same page of
a magazine, over and over. A
woman touches her phone
without even reading.
The silence grows louder
as we wait to be called,
for a door to open, for
our hearts to express.
The nurse is here,
pronouncing a name as
it belongs to one life, I
guess.
The rest of us, patient, still
practicing how to wait.
I sing because I like the sound,
the sound that carries me out of the sea and into the sky.
It makes me feel free,
and like there’s more to life than these waters.
The day the sailors came was like any other.
I sat upon my rock, harmonizing with the whistle of the breeze.
The sailors were infatuated with my vocals and pulchritude.
They anchored their ship and swam out to my rock,
like a shiver of sharks.
Mistaking my melody for a serenade,
the sailors reached for me,pulling at the shells in my hair and the pearls around my neck.
I dove into the water to try and escape them,
but their grips on my tail were tight.I swam deeper and deeper, pulling the sailors with me.
It wasn’t long before their human lungs ran out of air.
I drowned them,
all the sailors but one.It was an accident.
“Siren’s lure sailors to watery graves,” they say.
I was only singing.
A song is not an invitation.
A song is not consent.
I haven’t sung a single note since that day,
and I don’t think I ever will again.I'm in a burning house, a house I used to call home. I'm in a burning house that I set ablaze.
The walls scream with the crackle of flames,
and the air, thick with smoke, clings to my lungs.
I'm trying to fix the fire I started,throwing water from trembling hands.
But you stand there, feeding the flames—
your words like kerosene,
your silence like kindling.
I shout, but the smoke swallows my voice, and all you see is the ruin,
not the fight within my hands.