“The vision begins with Myongbu staggering through the fading, indigo darkness. His outline is unclear, his feet are moving frantically, anxiously, and he’s gasping for breath. Daybreak’s layers of murky darkness surround his body, making it seem as if he’s struggling to swim up through the waters of an immense ocean. Tu-tu-tu-tu-tu. . . From somewhere I can hear the ominous, metallic rattle of automatic weapons being fired, gradually coming closer, a noise like rocks being churned on a beach, or like waves crashing against the shore. With his back pressed against the alley walls and desperate to evade his pursuers, Myongbu edges toward Sangju’s house. Before long, he reaches Sangju’s front gate, quickly looks around, and in a muted voice calls out: Sangju . . . Sangju . . . it’s me, I’m here.”

—from “Spring Day” by Im Cheol Woo,
translated by Susie Jie Young Kim

“The drunken men keep up their lewd taunting to the end. The woman, feigning that she doesn’t hear, descends the steps. She pauses on the last step and turns around sharply. Her voice rings out.
        ‘Sons of bitches—dogs! All of you!’ she cries, barely able to leap off the bus as it starts to pull away.
       Loaded with dogs, the bus hesitates for a moment as if confused, then picks up speed. Driven by a dog, filled with dogs—some of the dogs with their paws up on the windows and barking—the bus barrels down the state highway like a dog that’s been kicked in the balls. It disappears into the distance.”

—from “The End of the State Highway” by Choi
In Hoon, translated by Theodore Hughes

“Homesick and lonely, I take my bath, crawl into bed. Last night the whole family sat in front of the TV set. It was the first time in years we’d all talked about one topic. Though he had been a soldier, my father never spoke to us about war. He had fought in battles for at least twenty years. But he was a defeated soldier. When the war ended, he went to a reeducation camp for six years. During those hard times, my elder brother joined the Young Pioneers because his law school had been dissolved. Later, he fought in Cambodia. He returned on one foot, with eighteen scars on his body and lots of medals and citations. Perhaps it was thanks to those citations and medals that he got to go to the university. Four months later, my father also came back home.
       All three men in my house drink. My father drinks with old friends. My elder brother drinks with young comrades. My younger brother drinks with his office chief and colleagues. All those years and they had never talked about the war. If war just means fighting, then I know nothing about it, even though I was born and grew up during the war. But if war means women’s sorrow, misfortune, helplessness . . . these things were absorbed directly into my bloodstream when I was in my mother’s womb.”

—from “The Ghost” by Ly Lan,
translated by Kevin Bowen