#UG.ACCEPTED

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Noah Schroder-Lee Pronouns: He/Him Age: 23 Occupation: Composer Tech Canon: THAN_03

When he’s old enough, he wonders why he had been born so unlovable.

Neglected by God that he has no choice but to foster ambitions in the revival of pity and compassion earned. It’s a sad thing, a real sad thing. A boy who has to worry about things that children shouldn’t have to live their lives fearing. He asks himself what could he have possibly done in a past life to acquire the sufferings he has now. When the only things he should’ve been concerned growing up—the kinds of toys he’ll land in his next Happy Meal, whether or not it’s his sister’s turn to take out the dog, remembering to hand off his birthday wishlist to auntie Euijeong; not the premises of living immunocompromised. And he knows, he knows. A lot of things, he knows.

He knows he’s an ugly thing to look at. With mottled eyebrows and hair in places that refuse to grow back months at a time. His cheeks raw and red. He knows he’s a real, real, ugly little boy with legs too long for his body and arms too willowy to match. He begins to wonder if it had been better for everyone to die at stillbirth. Quietly, unmoving, without pain. Nobody would remember a single thing and neither would he. Maybe grief, a feeling only time could repair.

He is left to make up for it, bypassing all front-lining despair. To boys that will grow into men, the world is immediately given and he knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. It’s always been the system his predecessors have dug up from beneath the Earth, and he knows. He’s only got one life in this aching body that threatens to endure, and endure, and persist. He’s here one day and could be gone the next.

This is a love letter to Noah Schroder.

/

It’s a lackluster onset that’ll cut the first turf for what’s to come.

He starts with piano. Underpinned with suggestions to better his disciplinary management, father subscribes to lessons straightaway. At the bench by the side of a local composer and musical therapist, he learns all the scales needed for rudimentary knowledge and takes home the chords to Blue in Green by Miles Davis, but nothing else.

As time stretches and monotony coexists between lessons, it’s up to stagnancy to do the heavy lifting that curiosity can mildly provide.

The drives up to the music therapist’s house is no longer. Whatever three year attachment and scattered piano charts left astray on the asphalts of Anchorage, tucked in black binders now living as beginner’s footnotes to be remembered. These will be the things he’ll later be grateful to know and become built upon.

A preoccupied middle school advisor with gum clicking to her teeth obliges, “there’s a few seats left in string orchestra if you want to fulfill your elective requirement.”

In a wool beanie that covers where Noah’s eyebrows should be, he nods.

Nowhere boy sits in the fourth row at the edge all by himself where nobody will care to find. Nowhere boy arrives early to tune his violin and rosin his bow before class begins. Nowhere boy sits in the fourth row until he’s in the third, then second, then first row beneath Mrs. Sandoval’s elbow. Nowhere boy practices during lunch in a booth because he lives a pathetically lonely life theft of honest companionship.

Never meant to fit anywhere, with anybody. That poor, ugly thing who looks half-done, underdeveloped, unfinished—this sick alien-faced boy.

As if his eyes were just bearishly slit into his face when he was a womb. God couldn’t decide to make him look more like his father or mother but took the equally, barely redeeming and less misshapen parts of both.

Nowhere boy realizes he’s scarcely worth tolerance and empathy at the extension of self-production.

Without, nowhere boy would be nothing.

/

Nowhere boy crawls out of the little hub of Alaska. He only needs a few things: his guitar and following equipment, his phone on his family’s plan, wallet, and clothes.

By the time Berklee entertains his acceptance, he no longer calls himself a violinist. “It’s just something I know, and had fun with,” he’d say. “The piano—that’s usually everybody’s choice of a foundational instrument, right?”

He taught himself in his little room, mortgage paid by two state attorneys of the house. Both that claimed to have fallen in love during Boston College’s law program when they had met, very predictable (not so much excited about “love” in recent years, yet remained together for the two children in their lives). Once bought a beat up guitar on mom’s card with hopes of paying her back. Nothing fancy, it’s not Fender’s new model. An old, yet painstakingly reliable six string Stratocaster in a fiery red body coat—chipping with age. Gig bags, wires and amps all included.

Noah makes several friends away from home. He learns there’s more to offer than his hometown where the majority of his graduating class stayed behind. The feeling of belonging nestles deep from within, beneath the heart.

They agreed to stay in touch, through friendly group chats when timezones don’t interfere.

All because Noah booked it to Seoul, sabotaged his chances of available space in a NYC based alt-rock band. It’s been forever since his last visit; the last time he had seen his extended family gone forgotten. His mother says it’d be good for him, to disconnect from here for awhile and go back, maybe even visit auntie Euijeong in Namwon for Chuseok. It’d be the right thing to do, since it’s been forever and a half ago.

Because running Protools in a studio offers decent pay for their trivial faith in assistants, but it’s enough for a studio apartment and more. But that’s not where the real chase is. It’s in the lofty seats of a record label’s lobby, the seats in the booker’s room, the contract beyond the readings in fine print—that’s where the money is. Gigging around town and filling in for so-and-so’s act until a guy slips his card in, talking about ‘I know some people’ only for The Here and Now to begin their steadily free-flowing journey.

Now?

He’s just gotta act the part. The part where there’s no label backing them up.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Hwang Mido Pseudonym: Luce Pronouns:  She/her Age: 24 Occupation: Fortune Teller Canon: SOLO_04

TW / parental death, bullying, suicide, drug and alcohol use, infidelity.

I.

she remembers spending long mornings at the dining room table separating seeds that were shaken off the sansuyu trees; the tips of her front teeth weakening and loosening due to the activity she’s learned to love. her grandmother used to supervise her all the while, ensuring that her little one’s doing a proper job and keeping her vivid imagination at bay. its had a vice grip on mido since she was old enough to form memories, and while her thoughts have done well by creating a girl with a sense of whimsy and a passion for mysticism, its also had a hand in how accident prone she is. after all, according to her, it’s hard to talk to fairies in the woods and keep track of the placement of her limbs all at once. so, it goes without saying that, because of this supposed “quirk” of hers, her guardians had to keep a close eye on her at all times.

when she wasn’t assisting her grandparents with the festival season, she was a constant front-row occupant at their pansori performances; all three of them piling into their beat-up old car to travel from their home in gurye to namwon on show nights. she’ll never, ever forget watching the two of them on-stage. her grandmother’s voice alone carried so much magic in it, and the beat of her grandfather’s drum reminded her of the pitter-patter that hearts make. the stories told always captured her, no matter how many times she’d heard them in the past, and it was in those moments that she earned an admiration for those who choose to entertain others. over time, she decided that she wanted to do the same thing.

by the time she was eight years old, her grandparents taught her all they knew about singing and music—acting not only as parental figures, but also mentors; nurturing these interests as best they could. money was never abundant, so they couldn’t afford proper instruction for her, but they did their best with what they had, and it only made the three of them grow closer.

however, despite how happy her childhood seemed, mido often noticed how people looked at her. she’d recognize the sadness and hurt in the eyes of family members, and even some passersby in town, whenever she was around. no matter how many times she would ask what was wrong, no one would ever be honest with her. it didn’t stop there, though. inquisitive as ever, whenever she would inquire about a certain mystery woman that’s present in old photographs, she would also be rejected. that bothered her more than anything else because, even though she had no idea who she was, she bore a striking resemblance to her, and in some way, felt a connection with her that she couldn’t exactly explain back then. kept in the dark, she learned not to ask about her anymore... but the curiosity never fully dissipated.

II.

on the cusp of her entrance into middle school, her family was visited by a sullen-faced man. he wore disheveled clothing, had wild hair, and despite arriving in hopes of seeing mido, he wasn’t allowed to. she watched from the kitchen window as he spoke with her grandfather outside, and when he turned and happened to catch a glimpse of her observing them, he offered a smile—leaving a few gifts behind for her before walking away. after inspection from her grandparents, they were handed over to her, and in truth, the contents left her a bit gobsmacked. not only was a gorgeous ( and clearly well-loved ) six-string acoustic guitar sitting in its case, but there was a collection of cassette tapes, too. what she didn’t get to possess yet was a polaroid of a couple bathed in the neon lights of the city and a handwritten letter providing insight on what all of this meant. sadly, her family remained tightlipped in regards to all her queries despite her older age, and at that point, she was beginning to accept the mystery as merely that, and nothing else.

with fresh equipment and large sources of inspiration, she began to work hard at learning the ins and outs of her new instrument; opting to be her own instructor. it took her an entire summer of practice, but little-by-little, she was making improvements; pairing the strum of the strings with the silken voice her grandmother helped craft. much like her elders, music still alighted a deep passion inside of her, and she didn’t know it then, but it’s also something that moved both her mother and her father, too. however, the discovery of that didn’t come sweetly, nor did it occur in a manner that her guardians were anticipating. instead, it happened at school.

turns out, kids stop being kind as they get older, and the instant that she was transitioning from childhood to adolescence, there was a target imprinted onto her back; one that her peers loved to strike with petty judgments, lame rumors, and derogatory monikers. most commonly, they’d refer to her as a witch or a demon. she was the type of person that would twirl her way through campus sparking conversations with others in somewhat peculiar fashions—asking nonsensical questions, offering whimsical comments, and laughing at seemingly nothing. not only that, but around this time frame, she developed an interest in divination. she’d bring knapsacks full of crystals she’d collect, tarot cards she’d practice readings with, and it wasn’t unlike her to offer to read strangers’ palms for more experience. at first, she thought that may have been the only reason as to why she’s received such a negative reaction from them all of the sudden.

however, without anyone’s knowledge, a schoolmate’s mom ( one who the hwang family ) let it slip that mido’s mother suffered a mental break postpartum, and it sadly only took a couple of months before she ended her time in this dimension, in search of the next. when all of this got whispered around school, everyone was dumbly convinced that she was a cursed person, so they mocked and alienated her. friends had already been hard to come by due to her eccentric flare, but now, it was even worse. when word inevitably got around to her, she suffered her first ever heartbreak—one that began to mar the naïveté she’s forever possessed; one that was at the hands of her own household. maybe if she had been able to take the much-needed time to digest it she would’ve handled it better. she was stripped of that, and now, the biggest enigma in her life became her worst nightmare.

III.

the songs she wrote became sadder, and the loneliness she felt swallowed her whole. she felt betrayed and exposed; violated even. at once, she was facing all of the symptoms of grief head on, despite the fact that she doesn’t remember her mother at all. with everything broadcast, her family finally unveiled the truth, but it seemed like it was all coming too late. she spent all of her time in high school feeling so resentful towards them. it took her a long while to feel better, and music became her only distraction from the chaos. she poured herself into her craft; writing and creating a sloppy catalogue of tunes that she felt proud of. she didn’t have a great set up, nor access to a studio, but slowly, mido gained enough confidence to showcase her best material on soundcloud, and there, she was introduced to a brand new community of people that truly opened their arms to her. for the first time in years, she felt like she belonged somewhere.

with that said, she knew that she couldn’t stay living in gurye for much longer, and as soon as she was able to, she took up a part-time job to save money. she told her grandparents that she needed cash to buy a new set-up for better recording, but in truth, she needed it to fund her getaway plan. pals online had convinced her that running away to the city would benefit her in more ways than one, and being as easily-swayed as ever, she wholeheartedly agreed. it’s not like she had anything tethering her to her hometown anymore. those days had long passed.

a few weeks after her nineteenth birthday, she ensured her bank account was where it needed to be, and in the dead of night, she left—guitar strapped to her back, her luggage hauled over to the train station by hand, and the photo of her parents stowed away in her handbag. school wasn’t important enough for her to complete, she left a note behind for her grandparents, and started life as a starving artist—which she personally believed was a romantic concept in itself. according to her, all the best musicians were dirt poor and homeless before their careers took off. all this makes sense for her, though. being that her world has sort of turned into the mess it is now, mido’s become addicted to the melancholia; the blueness feeling safe and familiar.

IV.

sleeping in bathhouses, offering curbside tarot and palm readings, and busking on busy street corners was how she made things work. it was arduous, but she truly enjoyed learning about the lives of the people who utilized her services. the capital city offered a wide array of colorful personalities, their lives full to the brim with constant motion and modest confusion. she felt important in that they came to her for spiritual guidance. she’s always been able to sympathize with others easily—hell, sometimes even a little too much. then, in the midst of all this, she met an intriguing someone who took her under their wing; who introduced her to the wild nightlife and indie music scenes in places like hongdae and itaewon; who helped her out when she had nothing. not used to being so doted upon, mido dissolved into them; eliminating any boundaries effortlessly in a way that wasn’t helpful or healthy. for the remainder of her youth, they became her world, and allowed her to be wholly herself.

she became a wayward soul that did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. at twenty, she started to frequent the variegated bars and clubs in order to better infuse herself into the community she desperately wanted to be apart of. for the first time, she felt a sense of freedom that she didn’t have back in gurye; one that she wanted to explore fully. she accepted any drink or substance offered to her—indulging in the sweet highs and finding solace in the bitter lows; using the crashes as sources of inspiration to create melodies. becoming a musician was still the end goal, after all, even if it was harder for her to record given the circumstances. however, at age twenty-one, the tragic end of the most important relationship she had in seoul occurred, but this time, she wasn’t the victim of misfortune. instead, her capriciousness and her fierce need to be accepted led to her infidelity.

to her, saying yes is dramatically simpler than saying no, and when the vibe is right and all feels magical, she’s quick to give into temptation; unearthing layers of herself that she’s never seen before; sides that veer uglier than the others. when everything came crashing down, mido was beside herself. she caused all of these problems and had no on else to blame. she made her bed and now she has to lie in it, and it was harder because her lover’s friends had become her friends, and because of what happened, no one fucked with her anymore. it was like high school all over again, but this time, she deserved to be “targeted.” it’s like she missed the feeling of being alienated and made the choice to inflict it on herself again. deciding to take a step back, she accepted a job offer at a saju café to be a fortune teller. she spent the next few years writing, composing, and working; investing all her time and money into paying rent, buying equipment, and making improvements—both musically and personally.

V.

she became a ghost in seoul until the dawn of 2020. she remained quiet, focused on her music ( as that’s the sole reason she relocated to the city anyway ), and felt like things were slowly, but surely, falling into place. lots of changes had to be made in order for her to pick herself up from the cold ground, and it was hard for her not to fall into self-deprecative spirals, but she made it through somehow. of everything, her signature sound, sonically, is what experienced the most dramatic makeover. she bought a used synthesizer and upgraded her online software to give herself a more diversified edge, and the result is something that captures all the best parts of her. it’s dreamy, soft, and heartfelt; comprised of simplistic melodies and poetic lyrics. she’ll dabble in quirkiness once in awhile, but for the most part, it exudes a lightness; an easiness. that in mind, she decided to give herself a stage name, luce, the italian word for “light,” as she felt it matched her work in an honest way.

in the beginning, mido’s modest following was mostly found in cyberspace. those on instagram and soundcloud warmed up to her nicely, and though she wanted to try and book herself a few gigs, she was a little nervous given her past in hongdae. she had no idea who was still around, and above all, she didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable—including herself. she laid low and did her own thing for awhile, and in doing so, amassed 35k followers on social media. it’s something she’s still proud of to this day, especially since she considered herself a nobody and still does. however, in the spring of 2021, she released her first mixtape—one chronicling her life since arriving in seoul. with a whopping eighteen self-produced, self-written tracks, it created buzz in the indie scene; lauded for its honesty and intimacy, as well as its vintage pop concept. the ripples were enough to almost force her into performing live, and when she eventually did, she was terrified, and still is even now, but she’s adamant on swallowing her anxieties and reaching her goals; no matter what.

bit-by-bit, she’s getting back into the swing of things, and while it feels like life is finally giving her some wins, all of them may end up slipping through her fingers. being back in the clubs feels like home in a way, and like before, she’s tempted to say fuck it and give into her vices—the work she put into herself at risk of vanishing even though she’s only just getting started. mido still doesn’t know what she wants to do, but one thing’s for sure: drugs, sex, and alcohol are all around her, and being that she’s never been the type of person to say no to simple pleasures, things aren’t looking very promising.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Hyun Woorim Pronouns: He/Him Age: 30 Occupation: Staff Writer at RiTZ Magazine Canon: RITZ_01

banghwa-dong, gangseo-gu.

mom is still in school when she marries dad, a hotshot songwriter. they have their first kid together, a son, six months into their marriage. she becomes a pediatrics nurse; it’s smooth sailing for the hyun family, until eight years later, when dad is exposed, or framed, or whatever he feels like calling it, for plagiarism.

another three years, and hyun woorim is born into a broken family. his brother speaks of the good old days, reminiscing their parents’ sappy romance and movie-like love story, but woorim doesn’t know of any. all he’s seen is his dad, always drunk, always bitter, and his mom, working her ass off at the hospital, always tired, always lonely. the concept of family dinners and rosy reunions is unfamiliar to him; he’s only learned to follow woohyun’s trail like a lost puppy, wide-eyed and wary of another fight brewing. avoidance, that’s what woorim knows best.

his dad isn’t the physically aggressive type of alcoholic, but more brooding, sulking, sleepless, trivial. his mom isn’t the workaholic type, and rather makes time, squeezes it out of her hellish schedule, to send woorim to school and be a part of his life. she adores him, her second son who’s a damn eleven years younger than her first. you’re so much like me, she claims, pushing back black locks and pinching pale cheeks. these eyes, these ears, this brain. she puts on a LP, holds him in his arms. and so much like your father. these hands and their eagerness to create.

she tries to filter music into his bright mind, to encourage him to love it as much as she had when she had first met the love of her life, but her efforts are futile. woorim already hates the hint of melody. he hates notes, chords, harmonies. and the little guy hates his own hands.

he hates them more when he loses his mom to breast cancer in high school. it takes his mom’s prolonged death, his brother leaving the house for a life of his own, and a beating by furious fists for his dad to finally separate the rim of a liquor bottle from his lips. but recovery is not as rewarding as support groups promise it to be. in fact, sobriety has never been so bleak.

it takes two years of poverty for his dad to clean up and get a job. woorim’s graduated by then and gets accepted to hongik university, which his brother, newly married and working at a conglomerate tech company, pays for. he’s never been much of a student and is in it for some random major, korean language and history, but makes do with what he has. mostly because he’d promised his mom that he’d, at least, go to college, and he’d rather be out, listening to the drag of professors than clean up after his remaining family.

podcasts had been the only noise streaming through his earphones on his way to his first semester of classes and his many part-time jobs. at age twenty, he still couldn’t stand listening to lyrics sung by unknown faces to a familiar tune. then he comes back from the army at age twenty-two and meets the first person who makes a bitter song taste sweet.

she’s a musician, so she labels herself. he hates music, he tells her. she laughs, as if the idea is so ridiculous, it can never be taken seriously. she’s never heard such a bizarre thing in her life.

woorim-ah, she pushes back black locks, no one ever hates music.

he learns to love to listen, then to translate that into sentences, paragraphs, big titles. he’s a terrible student that skips classes, gets into fights, stays out late and never goes home, but he’s a good writer. the magazine starts small, first selectively featuring her and her band, then later expands as woorim steps foot onto the hongdae scene; free printing on campus is used to manufacture his amateur articles and friends are persuaded (coerced) into handing them out on streets, at shows, in bars. security at clubs are paid off to allow him to slip in and increase his exposure to as many different types of music as he can; spare time is spent burrowing into rehearsing musicality. his grades plummet with the unexpected break-up but he manages, and by the time he’s put his hands on a degree at twenty-six, woorim has more pressing matters to deal with: RiTZ magazine, the hot place to look for news about music, fashion, and young culture. the rising and solidified online star, right at people’s fingertips.

heartbreak burned him, but the magazine rose from its ashes. and woorim couldn’t be happier.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Kwak Jieun Pronouns: She/her Age: 26 Occupation: Freelance Music Copylist Canon: CTRL_04′

Freeform:

Grief has a tendency for overstaying. It seeps into the smallest of things: the outline of a frame on the living room wall, the vacant chair at the dining table that suddenly feels too big for their home. Constant reminders of how an ending can be as easy as leaving your set of keys at the table, a note accompanying it like an afterthought.

Still, her father can’t bear to throw it away. She can’t find it in herself to blame him.

It’s the finality of it all that hurts the most. As a rule, breaks are never clean  — theirs is no exception. To watch the death of a marriage in real-time is less fire and conflict and more waking up in the morning to an empty bed, the other side cold and unslept in. Anger is only ever at the beginning, at the part where the cracks are still salvageable. At the end, the only thing that remains is apathy and a gaping black hole. Living through the latter is more bitter, she finds.

—

On a Wednesday morning, a few weeks before she turns twelve, her mother decides to not come home.

It’s never the same after that.

—

The aftermath is a blur. November into August into November again. She wants to say: wait for me, world. Slow down and let me cry into my hands. My heart is soft and tender and rotting like fruit left out too long. I am hurt, I am mourning. I need time.

In actuality, the world moves on without her. Silly of her to think otherwise.

—

The house is always cold, even in the heat of summer. She tells herself it’s a house with old bones, because the alternative is unthinkable. Some months the bills are paid on time, and she learns who to call when they aren’t; keeps a list tacked onto the fridge long after they’ve been printed into her brain. Her father is the picture of surrender — spine perpetually bent, shoulders heavy with regret. It’s pitiful until it’s her cross to bear, the sentiment souring on her tongue. She picks up the pieces anyway, because she has to. Who else will?

She’s such a sweet girl, so dependable for her age; they say it to her face, behind her back. No point in differentiating between the sympathetic and the condescending — their gazes sting the same way.

She’s not one for semantics: to survive, she had to grow up.

It’s not about how the pain eats at you — it’s how you move forward despite it.

—

Time passes, and it gets better.

Or maybe it doesn’t. It just starts to fit better instead. This hole she has to live with. This hole that lives in her.

—

A brief interlude:

The room her father uses as an office is the product of his mind: stacks of vinyls piled on top of each other, curtains pulled shut, the only light coming from the flicker of his screen. And of course, it was all perfectly in place, so nothing was to be touched. Everything in balance  — or the semblance of it.

He teaches her how to play the piano when she is five, fingers gentle over her own as he recounts muscle memory. My hands are too small, she remembers having said. They’ll change with time, he had replied.

It’s not as if she believes him, per se; more like she wants it to happen, so she makes it so. Practice, practice, perfect; in time, it’s not about the end goal, but the pursuit.

It just makes her happy.

That’s enough.

—

Time passes, again.

Absence is silent and thunderous in equal halves. She grapples both with the same (lack of) finesse, channeling her signature spirit: try, and try, and try. At some point, the illusion of succeeding is a good enough replacement for the real thing. Step by step, she learns what it’s like to live.

There are mistakes: the smoking habit she picks up at fourteen, for one; lying next to a boy she had given everything to, but who gave nothing back, another. Then there are growing pains: when her mother calls her on her birthday, or sets a date to meet up, she becomes familiar with perfunctory responses: thanks, mom; sure, mom; no problem, maybe next time, mom.

But there are the good moments, too.

Hours spent in the dead night going over this lyric, that note. The piano is her first love, a boy her second, writing her third. The rush of standing front row, center stage; the clarity of oh, this is it through the double-vision. Standing front and center on the other side of the fence with people singing her songs. Finding a place to call home.

She holds this feeling tight in her hands until her knuckles turn white. Good things are so rare to find these days; might as well keep them close until the warmth turns cold.

She’s selfish that way.

—

She should know better by now. That to open your heart is to invite grief. The same grief that stays after the love leaves.

She should know better.

But she never learns.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Bae Yunjin Pronouns: She/her Age: 26 Occupation: Musician Canon: CTRL_04

Freeform:

bae yunjin’s life is pretty comfortable. upper middle class, only child, academically inclined without being socially inept. all the makings of a cushy existence.

it helps that she’s a cute kid. pretty, smiley, so on and so forth. makes herself heard, but doesn’t overstep– and given how meek her parents are, it’s quite the exercise in restraint for a little leo.

the early years go by in a sort of blur: middle school drama, shedding tears over exam prep, and late nights at the academy‚ it’s all mostly uninteresting as far as yunjin is concerned. the issue is that she can’t think of anything fun to do, until her parents suggest picking up an instrument as a hobby. it’s a bit unexpected, but it’ll do.

she first gets into her dad’s hidden stash of vinyls when she’s 12, finding a hidden treasure trove of punk, alt rock, and grunge classics. it’s the furthest imaginable leap from the image she has constructed of who her father is, but definitely an interesting discovery. it seems there can be more to the people you might think you know.

everyone’s rather disconcerted by the fact that she chooses to stick with drums. maybe it’s the incessant need to prove herself,  a desperate bid to go against expectations. and she does just love the noise.

picture perfect high schooler by day, aspiring punk rocker by night. the idea of having a hidden life is so endlessly appealing. it’s like no one can ever see the full picture of who she really is;  her social standing perfectly balance on a knife’s edge.  

her parents catch on earlier than she realizes (in hindsight, she wasn’t even really hiding.) but it becomes impossible to ignore once the university entrance exams draw near. her father, potentially more enamored by the idea of having a rock star daughter than he’s willing to admit, proposes the following deal: she can pursue her interests freely as long as she finishes school. at least a bachelor– yunjin, please.

said and done, she sets off to university with every intention of keeping her word; balancing her very much not-lucrative career as a drummer in an all-female alternative rock band with the maintenance of her mid-level gpa is a chore at best. she hates how it all feels like work, but it’s a formative experience nonetheless.

it’s a miracle that she lasts through the degree. the dues have been paid, and she’s finally off the hook of her parents expectations, and on square fucking zero of life now that her little darling project group has caved to the pressure of the adult world. so what now?

ctrl is the answer to that question. a fever dream of late nights and making it up as they go, a worthy sample size of success.

it still doesn’t feel like her life though. maybe it never will, or perhaps she’s just internalised years of critique and accusations that she’s a glorified party girl who happens to be able to play the back beat. on a good day she’d contend that she’s keith moon reincarnated, in the flesh for one more night, just wait and see. other days, it hits a little too close to home.

some nights yunjin imagines a levon helm future for herself, taking the center of the stage and staying on the road into old age. other times she wonders if it’s time to retire the whole performance, pull back the curtains and see what’s even left back there, just collecting dust and memories.

quarter life crisis aside though, bae yunjin’s life is pretty fucking great at the moment.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Im Hyunwoo Pseudonym: ASH Pronouns: He/him Age: 26 Occupation: Part-time at Streetwear Boutique Canon: SOLO_03

Freeform:

there comes a point when song devolves into sound, and sound into oblivion. when lyrics become meaningless because he can't help but to slur his words, let alone sing them. his eyes are fiercely reddened, though it's unclear whether that's by way of overwhelming emotion, too many hours boring into the monitor, or the devilish toxin coursing through his blood now. it’s evident that he’s well into losing his voice, and he wonder if it’s possible to lose it forever. maybe that would take him out of his misery. the last ten takes all sound exactly the same, by the way; the same utter shit.

im hyunwoo has no clue how to really write good songs. they say the best songs are written of love or something like that. he's not sure that's true but doesn't have much of a way of knowing. he's not the best acquainted with love, in whatever shade in comes in. he's born to a mother who’s too young and too strained with the bitters of reality to really love a child, and he doesn’t have a father around who could even try.

he doesn’t love his friends growing up. they share nothing in common, minus the way other people veer away when walking by on the street, sneaking in looks of disdain with the slightest dash of fear. that, and the fact that they’re all good for nothing – a similarity if it counts for anything. it’s almost as if petty crimes and communal substance abuse don’t do too much in fostering true affection or trust. his friends don’t know that he increasingly sneaks away to do the only thing he really finds fulfilling: music. they only know that im hyunwoo is pretty neat at karaoke; kind of how he’s also neat at finding girls to take home. they joke that it’s all really only thanks to his face, and that’s not a real talent.

one of these friends asks him one day: 'damn, did you write this?' hyunwoo regrets inviting the bum over, more deeply regrets not putting a password on his laptop. he rushes over to turn it off and ends up slamming it shut altogether when he struggles to find the pause button. and so he responds as any self-proclaimed musician would after devoting the last six months on his first mixtape.

'oh, hell no.'

but he did. he doesn't know why he so adamantly said no then, doesn't know why it was such an easy lie to tell or where the accompanying scoff came from. maybe he found it embarrassing to be ‘soft’ like this. maybe he felt some actual shame for once, for being such a hypocrite. crooning about love and heartbreak when he stopped saying ‘i love you’ in real life as soon as he realized he didn’t have to in order to get others to say it to him.

---

for years, he doesn’t think much of it. occasional pangs of shame and cowardice when he recalls the fleeting interaction, but that’s not new. he falls out of touch with this ‘friend,’ much like he falls out of touch with most everything in life minus his music. but he never thought he’d ever make it this far. sure, maybe he hasn’t made it that far, but it’s far enough where he starts to wonder how the rumors have spread so wide. you'd hope people would learn to remember the things you actually want them to remember and not the things you don't. unfortunately life never worked that way.

sometimes it pisses him off. sometimes it strokes his ego. mostly he’s bewildered by why people even cared. nobody used to care.

‘yeah, i saw him play last weekend. he’s okay. but did you hear he doesn’t really write his own shit anyway?’

‘fine, i guess he’s kind of cute. i think he hooked up with my friend or something. yeah, i'd say she’s pretty hot. why do you ask?’

‘okay, but i heard he used to be in a gang. yes, i know he’s skinny as fuck. you think i could take him in a fight?’

he meets with agents from record labels a couple of times. mostly out of novelty, partially because perhaps an extra buck or two couldn’t hurt in the long term. each meeting goes down the same way. polite nods and smiles from a corporate puppet across the table, a half-hearted ‘yes, we’re very interested in your music’ before they eventually wind up at what they really wanted to get to. ‘but we have heard a few things about you that are a bit more… personal.’

maybe the thin smile pressed onto his lips tips them off that he’s not willing to apologize, nor does he intend to sit and make up excuses for himself. ‘oh, of course we’re not concerned or anything! i mean all buzz is good buzz. for someone like you looking to break out of the underground, it really is. we can work on cleaning up the rest together.’

funny how they think that’s the motive here. he gets up and leaves, take a business card because they insist. he doesn’t call them back.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Amanda Shibasaki Pseudonym: KAONASHI  Pronouns: She/her Age: 24 Occupation: Producer/DJ Canon: PROD_02

Freeform:

OAKLAND

It’s not perfect. Her parents never fall in love. She shows up at the wrong time, in the middle of lives meant to go in different directions.

It’s Amanda who ruins everything. Amanda that changes the trajectories of everyone’s lives.

And that’s just the way life goes.

Mom says it could be worse, she could be a lonely little girl who no one in the world loves. She could’ve been given up for adoption, left to wait for people who are looking for little pug-faced girls to bring home.

But she wasn’t given up for adoption.

She’s raised by Erica and Nozomu until they get divorced and Nozomu gets replaced by Steven who doesn’t like kids especially not little girls name Amanda.

And then Nozomu comes back and Erica and Steven go away and nothing’s ever constant.

“It’s not your fault,” Nozomu tells her, “just unlucky and born in the middle of wrong lives.”

Later when she’s older she finds out it’s called being a victim of circumstance.

---

JŌETSU

There’s something about being othered.

She’s not Japanese enough for the girls at school. Her accent is funny, and she stands out awkward and gawky amongst her schoolmates. One of the girls tell her if she made more of an effort maybe they’d like her more.

Then again, maybe not.

Even when she tries her hardest she still sits just on the outside, always looking in never quite included in.

Dad says being popular in high school doesn’t really matter anyways, not at least in the grand scheme of things. There are things Amanda has that the girls at school don’t. Smart to a nearly prodigious degree, she’s got talent where it really matters. People later in life will get her, he promises.

But promises of the future don’t change the present. She rides her bike home alone, sits in her room alone, and buries her head in the pillow and listens to the same handful of songs on repeat. Repeats it ad nauseum.

It’s easier to exist in a daydream. To press her head to the speaker and get lost in something other than herself, and at some points she decides to make her own soundtracks. Posts remixes of songs she’s made when she ought to be busy enjoying her youth under a name as nameless as she feels.

Turns out people like it too. The irony of people loving KAONASHI more than Amanda Shibasaki doesn’t escape her.

---

SEOUL

Here’s the part not mentioned. She gets into Waseda not because she wants to but because everyone else wants her too. She’d break her own back for a crumb of approval.

It’s pathetic really.

But she gets into Waseda even though she doesn’t want to go and spends another year out of place (for the most part) stuck in a major she hates at a school she doesn’t care for.

And then, because she can and because she’s bored (and maybe because she’s looking for a reason to self-destruct) she takes a chance at a year abroad in Korea. Nevermind the fact she’s never had any desire to go to Seoul, nevermind the fact that she doesn’t even know a lick of Korean. It’s the act of running away she wants. Feet hitting the pavement and moving as fast as she can.

And then it falls apart.

She does the same shit she does in Tokyo. Nights run too long, bleed into days, she wastes time in clubs, smoking, drinking, always listening for something that sets her alight. But Baachan and Dad are a country away and Mom might as well be a world away. No one asks anything of her, no one expects anything of her.

Her grades fall first. Or maybe she stops showing up to classes first. She can’t remember, it’s not important either way. What’s important is she convinces some band in her shitty little Korean that she’s an actual producer and not some stupid girl just playing at something and they give her a shot and they make a song that’s fucking good. What’s important is some of the local clubs take her on as a DJ, let her waste the night away spinning records and wasting time on childhood passions.

But mom calls and says she’s a ungrateful fucking idiot for wasting everything on little pipe dreams. Fuck the scholarship. Fuck the degree. Fuck the perceived promise of a secure future in a job she’ll inevitably hate. But she’s the idiot for throwing it away.

Dad’s disappointed too, even though he doesn’t say it. He says he worries about the future, asks her to come home. The music industry’s never been known for job security. He worries maybe he indulged her too much growing up, filled her head with too many fairytales and not enough reality. He sends her a plane ticket and tells her to comeback, he’ll be there to pick her up when she gets there.

“Don’t worry about it,” she tells him over the phone, “I’m a happy idiot here. I’ll be alright.”

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Jaco Strejcek Pronouns: He/They Age: 23 Occupation: Musician Canon: SBP_01

Freeform:

His father names him after Jaco Pastorius.

The gesture; it’s rooted in the dreams that [now, today] endures as ghosts of pitied “what ifs”. The fruitful nothings, a life in his late thirties defeated by modern-day burdens weighing economy-driven productivity over personal ambitions, deeply intimate, cultivated close to the heart, nurtured and loved. Humiliating a spirit that once lived for more. The usual cautionary tales that warn against the uncertainty of pursuit. Often told by rubbernecks too comfortable in their shiftless lives, living to work and die without a penchant of honest, passion-riddled momentums. If only time hadn’t been a merit of expiration. If only, if only, if only.

Afterthoughts.

Forlorn regrets recurs at the dining table split into two, his fiancé’s family and his own as they sit and consume each other’s should-be happiness to approval’s credit. They marry, a woman from Aomori, and her lover, a native to Prague. A routinely profession of processing invoices and other small-print obligations in tall buildings of steel. It’s never inoffensive, rather appropriate for tidying finances and rudimentary income. It’s enough for the boy to never know hunger when neither of the two are home in time for dinner.

Father names him after someone who he wished he had met, or had become. If he cannot fulfill neither, he’ll succumb to disinherit any leftover faith dissolving somewhere in his consciousness. Better yet, instill his son as the vessel of his missed opportunities, lost hope, and channelled futures. It’s what selfishness owes to the hard-bitten love of fathers who relentlessly, and quietly, mourn all to themselves.

/

The faultless family portrait comes apart. Slowly, then all at once. The nuance of forever was never in the cards.

Though they loved intensely. The language of their marriage was introduced with impractical desires. Intimacy that was never short of nothing: a blend of carnations in a pearly vase, days on end made to keep excitement afloat in their relationship, his careful hand resting on the small of her back. Her mother tells her before the monument falls, your husband is a man that you should be in love with, he takes care of you, he loves your child, he can always come afoot into my home and provides as what men ought to do. His affections are accessorized to a pretend, and idealized vision of his wife that he clung to on his demise. She is no longer the young woman swaying on the indecisiveness and rapid romance of her twenties. She is no longer the young woman whose naivety was the only consequence of her youth. Together, they had met though a sum of mutual friends in Strasbourg as university students. Unimpressive, perhaps dulled without a punchline meant to stun their couple origin story, but it is one where timing was loyal to their side.

Their ruins lied in their inability to provide expectations for one another. Whatever she needed or wanted, he couldn’t compromise to bring forth in support of it completely. Had he wanted something too, seldom, it was issued. It was a love meant to collapse when they were given a chance to part ways, maybe amicably. To have each other, whole, somebody as an extension to one’s made-up joy to keep going in the world. Truth is, an unmarried woman who became pregnant would suffer the most. A man will always have options, whether built-in escape routes or abandonment on the horizon. A marriage molded by truths, that in hindsight, shadowed a divorce with separate homes.

Jaco is thirteen. He’s only been to Japan for vacation, until a tiny apartment in Osaka with tatami flooring becomes his home. His mother with a promising telecommunications position with a pay rate that’ll eventually get them to move out, and for awhile it’s solely been them. He runs, tumbles, breaks some bones, climbs rock walls, kicks a soccer ball across the field, laughs and cries like many young boys with infinite energy and iron fists to rule. With his father’s upright bass in his room, he scraps enough for a previously used electric from all the hours spent ringing up meat, poultry, and vegetables.

It is the most beautiful thing he owns.

/

A man breaks his heart and he wonders if a heartbreak is supposed to hurt so much that he can’t even force himself to eat. Time wasted and gorged until memories of them burn in him an anger so deep, so pronounced, slow brewing and grim. He doesn’t know where to place his grief as it’ll all accumulate into the fire. Then, ashes.

His mother, now remarried, refuses to return his calls. Jaco wonders if his father knows, too. He wonders if his father knows that his only son loves as intensely as he does, yearns and pines for men with terribly forgettable faces and strong hands gnarled from woodworking stresses. He wonders when and how has a love lost its innocence and integrity, when not with a woman. He wonders what his father thinks of him, it’s something that he’d contemplate rather than to know the truth of. Jaco thinks about a plethora of things, ones that make him lose sleep with a crutch of betrayal.

He can’t sit and feel sorry for himself for too long. The Earth’s still on orbit and the seasons will change.

A full ride to Yonsei announces itself of no use. A statistical number in an overly concentrated major, it’s all that Jaco is anyways. The degree will manage itself shelved up like a trophy without any real substantial commitment. Other things is waiting for him, visa under his name and all. The spring of his to-be graduation is when he leaves a musical collective on matters of becoming crowd pleasing to predictable r&b hooks.

Among other things, a newly built apartment in Jongno-gu with enough square feet to haul in amps and synthesizers signs him off on a friendly lease. Yonsei’s grounds will be without his idle presence, and all he’s got is his useless music and useless charts and useless Stanley Clarke inspired techniques. It’s all useless but it’s all the things he loves. The only thing he’s been sure and serious about all his life. At the cost of an early childhood hijacked by one man’s secondhand quest to live through his son’s beginnings.

Then, Strawberry Paris. Situated on a couple of nonchalant shrugs and semi-assuring “why nots” of a bunch that figured academia wasn’t the sole cheat code to life. They got together and made themselves a little group. Acquired a taste for some sounds, dwelling into the 90s for some ”aha” moments. An aerial map for their trial and errors that’ll later catapult them to a few known successes if steadily dedicated. Who knows, who knows. They’re bandwagoning on some good intent, steadfast more than anything.

Jaco is a believer. They won’t get it for the first time.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Lee Daeun Pronouns: She/her Age: 25 Occupation: Part time worker at a nail salon Canon: SBP_02

Freeform:

it’s common knowledge that child prodigies never actually grow up to be anybody memorable, and lee daeun is no exception to that rule.

her mother claims that her little girl is some kind of genius when she’s four and sitting in front of the piano, her fingers flying across all of the keys. she’s seen her older brother play a few times, and her mother practically lives in front of the instrument that stands so strong in the middle of their living room. it must have come magically to her or whatever. daeun doesn’t think anything of it and neither does her dad, but her mother insists that she’s special.

it’s not long before her mother is sitting her down in front of the piano for hours, attaching the best private teachers to her hip and making sure that her daughter lives out a scheduled life so that she can become so much more—or so her mother claims. daeun’s too young to wrap her head around the concept of becoming a pianist, but she likes the sound that the keys make, and she thinks the undivided attention her mother gives her is great since her father’s too busy with her brother anyway.

time passes and she evolves into the little prodigy that her mother wanted. she’s sweeping awards and has become a household name among those who are interested in young pianists. daeun can see the happy tears in her mother’s eyes whenever she comes home with another grand trophy.

she’s still too young to see the way her mother’s brows furrow whenever she comes in any place but first.

/

the thing with kids who are raised to think they’re special because of a skill is that once the skill disappears, they’re no longer treated like they’re special.

by the time daeun reaches high school, she’s no longer sweeping awards. the amount of money her mother pours into her becomes meaningless when she’s coming home with bronze medals or simple popularity awards instead of the golds and grand prizes she used to bring back.

it leads to her coming home only to be met with her mother’s heavy sighs and her father’s yelling about how she was never meant to be some worldwide pianist.

(”every young child shows that amount of talent. you tried to force it onto her.”

“no, i was right. daeun just stopped trying. if she worked hard enough, she could have become a star!”)

whenever that happens, her brother comes beside her and gives her a tight hug. it’s his way of telling her that she’s doing just fine. it’s not convincing enough, but she still tries her best to take comfort in his embrace.

/

she can tell that her mother has given up on her and frankly, so has daeun.

she comes to realize that she never actually enjoyed playing the piano. the sound is still beautiful to her ears, but sitting down and pressing down on the keys no longer sends a thrill through the back of her spine. the teachers stop coming and the grand piano sitting in their living room only continues to gather dust.

college application season is coming up, but daeun’s spent too long focused on the piano to have the grades to back her up in getting into a good university. she simply listens to her teachers who advise her to apply here and there under this major or that. they give her a safety net to fall back on, and it’s not good enough for her parents, but it’s good enough for her.

/

nothing ever works out the way daeun wants.

college is just an extended version of the way that she’s grown up. sure, she has a little more freedom in the way she can choose to not show up to class or she can choose not to do the assignments that are assigned. either way, it’s not much of an escape like she wanted.

her brother tells her that she’s going through some belated puberty with the way she appears like she’s rebelling against the world. she gets a tattoo or two, goes out to drink with some random people she meets on campus. her parents no longer want to deal with her drunk ass coming home so they get her a one-room near her university in hopes that the bare minimum support will help her get her shit together.

all it does, however, is give her an excuse to stay out later since nobody’s going to be home anyway.

she’s all alone, and it’s not too bad. she swears.

/

oddly enough, she actually does make some friends during the year and a half she’s in university. it’s when she’s dragged by one of them into an instrumental store that she’s forced to face the piano once more.

except this time, it’s in the form of a keyboard.

daeun’s never had experience with anything but her grand piano. anything that was electrical was never viewed as an actual instrument in her household. her friend nudges her into its direction and while she resists, she can’t help but admit that she misses being good at something.

(”you’re good with nail art, daeun. isn’t that enough?”

“don’t forget how daeun’s a master at differentiating between coke and pepsi with her eyes closed!”)

she presses down on one of the keys, and it’s so much lighter and almost feels fake, but she likes it. she really likes it.

her mother would be appalled, but she begins to play mozart, schumann, brahms and so on. the melodies flow through the instrumental store and soon she’s got a crowd around her. the applause that comes afterwards is so much more genuine than the forced ones she heard back during her childhood recitals and competitions.

“do you only know how to play classic?”

the question catches her off-guard, but she nods.

“you should try something else. you sound like a natural.”

/

that’s all it takes for her to print out the drop out papers on her college website. she doesn’t tell her parents, but they find out sooner or later. surprisingly, they don’t say much in return, and daeun’s certain it’s because it’s been forever since they’ve really cared about her.

she starts dropping by the instrumental shop more frequently and strikes up a conversation with the guy behind the counter who recommends her some bands. music has never been more enjoyable.

it’s by complete coincidence when she’s scrolling through those school pages that she never signed out of and finds talk of a band being formed. there’s nothing for her to lose anymore, and there’s nobody left in the world to hold her back so she clicks.

/

daeun finds the band name ridiculous. it’s like they spun a wheel of fruits and a city and just went with whatever came out, but it still gives her a sense of belonging. her groupmates are simply groupmates, but she believes in being civil since they are making music together. it’s taken almost twenty years, but she thinks she can now confidently say that she enjoys playing the keyboard.

the sound of the keys are obviously more artificial in comparison to the grand piano she used to play, but the way those keys send vibrations through her heart is something completely different. she finally feels free to be able to live the way she wants to.

her parents still like to pretend she doesn’t exist, and daeun only gets much financial help from her brother who hasn’t been silently ignored like herself. she’s always taken good care of her nails so she gets a part-time job at a nail salon since she needs something to help pay the bills while strawberry paris continues to build a name for themselves.

it’s definitely not the type of life she dreamed of when she was four but hey, she finally feels a little special.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Ma Ilseong Pronouns:  He/Him Age: 23 Occupation: Club Promoter Canon: PROM_02

Freeform:

if there's a proper way to leave, then ilseong must have missed the memo.

he's seven the first time that he has to say goodbye. not to a person, but to his childhood home and somehow it hurts more this way, baby blue rain boots stuck in an entryway and hands clinging on to the doorframe with all his might. it's raining outside and his mom's saying something about how he's letting it in while his dad's screaming 'get your ass over here right now, ilseong' — a core memory, his school counselor will call it years down the line when it's the only thing that he really remembers about america.

/

he's korean, but his mother tongue is english. 'the universal language', his parents had called it when explaining their reasoning for not forcing him to speak korean at home, but it doesn't help him any when he has to greet a class full of people who hide their snickers behind their hands. his homeroom teacher introduces him as isaiah ma, heavy accent taking its time to register in ilseong's mind but once it does, he's baffled. he's ilseong in america, isaiah in korea: it's unbelievably backwards, and he's not sure whether the foreign names are a defense ("it's alright if i don't fit in because i'm not from here, anyway") or just another way to make him feel othered.

"no, my name is mouse," he says. a nickname he hasn't outgrown yet, never will outgrow. but this is when his new classmates laugh and his homeroom teacher clears her throat behind him, says something that ilseong doesn't quite understand but he catches 'name' and 'what is?', so he tries again.

"nobody calls me isaiah. my name is ma ilseong, but i'm called mouse. mouse." (no, he's joking, he has to be joking / what kind of name is mouse? / what's up with his pronunciation? he can't be korean.)

at ten years old, he still falls short of a graceful exit. hands tremble as he stands up from his desk and his elbow slams against cheap wood, but he doesn't show that it hurts. he disappears faster than everybody else, fast enough that by the time the motion sends that glass milk bottle toppling from his desk, he's already halfway down the hall. the glass breaks, but he doesn't hear it. can't hear anything beyond the blood rushing in his head, always embarrassed to be alive.

/

flights are emblematic of rainbows, with mom and dad always promising that there's gold on the other side. when he was younger, ilseong believed it. sort of, anyway — naivety and wishful thinking had stood with fingers intertwined and he'd gazed on longingly, waiting for 'better'. believing it would come.

but he's just a kid and he doesn't need 'better', doesn't need 'adventure', he needs stability. a home that doesn't feel like a hotel, a photo album of backyards and best friends instead of tourist attractions. sometimes he pleads and sometimes he's humored, but a promise made to appease is almost always sure to be empty and there's nothing beautiful about italy when dad's always gone and mom's methods of distraction have long grown predictable.

"your dad and i are thinking about getting a divorce," she tells him one day, disposable camera in her hands. a kind of hope-shattering confession that steals the beauty from lake como. "but i don't want you to worry about it too much, il, okay?"

she never talks about it again, and dad never brings it up either, but ilseong never stops thinking about it. sometimes he wonders if he can still be loved when the connection he was born from has died, other times he wonders if that's why his parents never look each other in the eyes. most of the time, he blames the military. just like how he blames it for everything else.

/

korea doesn't feel as threatening in 2015 as it did in 2008. maybe because he's older, maybe because he's bolder, maybe because his expectations are low—whatever the case, he doesn't go home much anymore. "studying," he says, always. "you know exams are coming up soon." but there's not much truth to the story, no real interest in his future. internet searches call it a sophomore slump, but his dull mindset extends into every aspect of his life and what he needs is a distraction.

so he says he's been studying, but he's really been at the ctrl show scrubbing x's off the backs of his hands in a public bathroom. word of mouth carries him to the gig, but real interest keeps him around and before he knows it, it's a routine. one of the first self-made ones he's ever had.

he talks too much. he talks to bartenders, he talks to attendees, he talks to the band after the show. finally, someone asks him what his name is. "mouse," he says, and there's no hesitancy, no judgment, just some humored quip: "like the guy from the matrix, i guess?"

/

2017 comes and ilseong barely graduates. he goes down in flames as a first-year honor roll student with a trashed gpa, and all his teachers can do is shake their heads. "we're not sure when he started slipping," they say. maybe they hadn't been paying attention, either. there's a short stint in which every note feels sour, every day feels like a threat and ilseong starts to think that the embarrassment of claiming him as their son might be what finally does his parents' marriage in. (again, the end never comes. by now, he almost thinks it'd be better if it would.)

september, mom and dad move back to indiana. they promise that it's permanent this time, but he hasn't trusted their word in years and he's tired of always leaving. for once, he wants to stay.

they say goodbye, ilseong doesn't. while they're on their way to incheon international airport, he's on his way to the pretty and boys show. he's got a feeling it'll be a while before he hears from his parents again, but when he's dancing with hardly-strangers in the back of a crowd, he doesn't feel lonely.

/

he always sticks around a little too long after the shows & he starts bitching about his day job when he's had too much to drink, but anyone who really, truly knows ilseong—and most people in the scene do by now—also knows of his passion, his resolute nature. a twenty-two year old who just hasn't gotten a chance to make anything of himself yet (or a man who's missed all his chances, depending on who's asked) might not be the best option to promote a gig, but someone has to do it, and besides, there's always someone in the crowd citing 'mouse' as the reason they've shown up. ("i thought he worked for you," spoken through laughter, met with even more. "yeah, no. he's just a friend of mine.")

so, he gets the job. it's referred to as an opportunity to prove himself, so he's expected to do his best. but then his best falls short, and not enough tickets sell in order for the openers to break even. his fault. and yet the path continues on: forgiveness applied as a band-aid on his ego. "i'm not mad. i told you to do your best and i know that you did, so don't worry about it."

right—forgiveness. the reason that shame withers and he buys rounds at the bar with money he ought to be giving to performers, dances in the crowds like he's not in debt. a year and a half in and still fucking up on the daily, anger is inevitable, but at the end of the day, he's still just mouse: the guy whom everybody knows, the guy who means no harm, the guy who owns his mistakes.

he expects forgiveness and his attitude reflects it, but he's not as ignorant as he seems. toothy grin in place, even ilseong knows that he can only walk on a thin line of 'oh, he's always been like this' tolerance before he's all lucked out.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D.... ]

Name: Hwang Yena Pronouns: She/her Age: 26 Occupation: Staff Writer at RiTZ Magazine Canon: RITZ_03

Freeform:

Rumour has it she only dates musicians. (It’s not true—she dates anyone that can give her what she wants. Musicians just happen to have it, whatever it is.)

Growing up, Hwang Yena was the type of kid that would restart the game if she lost a round. A perfectionist that settles for nothing less than; an idealist that dreams to covet them all. She has always known what she wants and how to get there, the only challenge being how—or when—to stop. If you saw the way she spoke at the mere age of eight, you’d think a girl like her would end up doing something remarkable. Be a lawyer, politician, president maybe? Well, at least her parents did, and they weren’t very happy when she enrolled herself into a philosophy program in college. After all, what can you do with a degree in philosophy? But they knew better than to try and stop her. Yena never listens; it’s both her vice and virtue.

She spent her first year in college partying, for the most part. Her days either began with a hangover or the walk of shame, sometimes both. At first, it was an attempt at fitting in, acting like every other freshman she knew, because college is all about getting out there and living your best life, right? (Doesn’t help that Hongdae and its bustling nightlife was just a couple streets away from her university.) It made her feel like an adult doing adult things, if liquor and sex is what you call that. Then one day, it stopped being about the booze, or the boys. Something else got her attention.

It started being about the music. She loves the way she forgets everything when her favourite song fills the room, or the way her heartbeat amplifies when loud music blasts from the stereo. She loves the way the same song can hold a million different meanings, unique to every person in the room. It roused the romanticist in her, the dreamer she always tried to keep grounded. She lived life trying to extinguish that side to her, believing it wouldn’t take her far if she only listened to her heart. But none of that mattered when she was amongst the crowd at a music show. She felt alive, and for once, she was glad she is.

It was during one of those nights when she was handed a copy of RiTZ, flipped through it expecting to trash it on her way out (if she doesn’t lose it on the dance floor first). Instead, she ended up hooked to it from the first page to the last, and sat by the bar reading through the whole magazine until the very last song of the night. Cliché (which is why she doesn’t tell people this version of the story), but it was then  she realised what she wanted to do—to write so well she would command the attention of anyone, anywhere, even if they were in a noisy underground club with hiphop pumping from the speakers, just like she was. That night, she restarted her game once more, but this time, she thinks she’ll be in it for life.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Han Duri Pronouns:  He/Him Age: 23 Occupation: Clothing Shop Employee Canon: THAN_04

Freeform:

01. She wasn’t really built for motherhood but she loves him with all her heart regardless— he’s the man of her dreams; it’s love at first sight. Especially when she’s married to his father: cold, distant. She spoils him rotten, much to abeoji’s disdain. (He’ll grow up to be soft, he says, and maybe he was right. He is much too soft). Honestly, she treats him more like a pet than a child— leaves him for weeks at a time with the nannies as she jets off to one of her filming schedules in some exotic place that was much too far from Seoul. Much too far from him. But like some puppy he waits for her, and when she comes home he forgets about the loneliness he felt waiting for his mother with his little nose pressed against the window pane. He’s simple like that. Really, he likes that eomma lets him play dress-up. They’d giggle like school girls as they’d smear on lipstick at her vanity— secret, eomma would whisper between giggles. Don’t let abeoji find out. (He starts painting his nails in high school, and abeoji finds out. He can’t hide his disappointment). One day in middle school, he waits for her like he normally does— with some 80s pop ballad his mother always had spinning on the record player, tapping his foot as he doodles his desk mate’s name in his text book with ieung’s shaped like hearts. He wants to ask her about butterflies— how do they get in your stomach, eomma, or are they always there? It’s like a garden blooming in my chest— But he doesn’t get to tell her about his day because eomma doesn’t come home that night. Or ever, really. And she wasn’t there to litter him with kisses, to take the loneliness away anymore. (He grows up like this: starved for affection, for love). He channels that energy into all things creative, much to abeoji’s disdain— not that Duri is surprised. He was born a disappointment, after all. The only son of his second marriage. A failure from the start. 02. Despite the loneliness, he doesn’t let the garden in his chest wither away. There are other ways to feel happy, he finds— like when he first touches a bass guitar and strums, or when he first puts paint brush against canvas, or lined brown eyes with kohl until they shined amber. His self-expression is eclectic, much like the mess in his head. And there’s also confusion when he’s younger, so much confusion. “I think I love you.” “Think?” (He doesn’t love her but he loves how pretty she looks in the summer sun, her toenails painted red— doesn’t love her how he knew he should). 03. His oldest hyung is a surgeon, and the second is a swimmer for the national team. Noona is the youngest prosecutor at the supreme court in Seoul. Abeoji looks at them with a look he’s never looked at Duri with— he thinks it might be pride, but he’s not so sure. His very existence is insolent, apparently. Out in public, he’s incandescent; shines in social settings. But he finds himself closing in on himself during his father’s events, the small talk with businessmen and politicians dulling his light as he nervously scrapes off the bit of nail polish he’d missed, hoping nobody noticed. Eventually, he retreats to his room to drown out the sound of the party with music eomma used to play. He figures that abeoji prefers it this way, too. “Hey kid, you’ve got a pretty auspicious nose bridge— wanna join a band?” Maybe that’s why he’s so fond of the stage, he thinks, blood rushing through his ears when he hears the screams and cheers of the drunk club. Up on stage, he’s not lonely, he thinks.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Seo Mirae Pronouns: She/her Age:  27 Occupation: Communications Strategist Canon: PROM_01

Freeform:

In the grand scheme of things, they hold little relevance. Nothing but small fry in a smaller pool of big fish. Nowhere close to even making it on the back pages of a business magazine let alone the Forbes 50, a far cry from being a household name among the true crème de la crème of the city.

Not that it matters. It never has, when being around regular folk makes all the difference. Suddenly the two beach rentals in Jeju (instead of seven), the Banpo-dong zipcode (instead of Hannam-dong), and three bullet silver Mercedes that's at their disposal (instead of a whole car gallery of Jaguars) means something and cements a status—one that guarantees no print value whatsoever, but catapults them to a be known as loftier, better off than most.

When you're born into a position spent looking down at the rest, stooping anywhere, for anyone, is foreign. Mirae's no exception to the inherent, almost biological arrogance. A spine set straight, knees nowhere close to buckling. Where the Seo family lacks in 24 carat-champagne shower extravagance they make up for it with a cool, calculative sort of practicality. A never-ending surge to the top, because hitting rock bottom will always be a careless slip away. Call it being on the defense, call it being precautious to a fault. Only the fault will be none other but theirs if they were to lose it all.

So imagine no one's surprise when her eyes are set with the same lean, hard look like the rest of them. There's no second skin for ambition, when it resides in the pulse of every ticking second. The first twenty years of her life are burned through without so much as an exhale—all the ritualistic firsts up in smoke, view framed by horse blinders. There's no looking back when there's nothing to miss. She's never had the stomach for nostalgia, anyway.

Imagine her own bewilderment at the list of other properties under Dad's name—not galleries, vacation homes, nor hidden penthouses for would-be mistresses. A finger runs through the names, eyes squinting smaller and smaller in recognition. She almost wishes it'd been the last scenario. Those would be infinitely easier to be inclined to keep—or sell—than a line of dingy clubs.

There's an untold story here on one's salad days, washed over in a rose gold hue that have yet to lose their glow. Memories that no one but he knows best. Only Dad has never been one to elaborate.

He holds up three fingers. “Raewon’s a knucklehead,” One finger down, “Minseok’s got asthma,” followed by another, “Miryeo’s only twelve.” The last folds into a knuckle.

“Everyone’s got to start somewhere, don’t they.” It’s not there verbatim, but what’s read between the lines is clear enough. No handouts.

Even if the receiving end is none other but the capable one of the bunch.

Mirae stares blankly. Contrary to what it doesn’t look like, the feeling that’s starting to sink in is very much dread.

“Well?”

She knows the pause after isn’t room for questions or doubt. Just an equally unspoken demand if she wants to keep her stake where it is on his will.

Well? It leaves her with no choice but to let action speak volumes.

The following years are no different than her typical mode of operation: that same lean, hard look, a spine straight, standing where she stays looking down at the rest. Age has helped her become a touch more graceful in conduct, learn what it means to have an “off” switch and shed that steely snakeskin after 5:30. With a day job that’s all about propriety, it’s practically a given.

Only the smoke here comes with the smell of nicotine, pit stains, and a distasteful lack of personal space. Not the clean air of the office, the pressed suits, or the floor-to-ceiling windows of her apartment.

Small fry, smaller pool, big fish caught with the dream bait. Whatever it is that keeps these idiots coming here, again and again, with their shrill, tinny songs and off-beat kilter.

In the grand scheme of things, they hold little relevance. All of it.

A stage where anyone pours their all into the night is reduced to the cost of lights and hourly rates. A sheet of net gains and losses.  She’s counted on for her consistency, at least. A prompt payroll, effort where it’s needed the most, the intolerance for empty excuses, possible repercussions if you try your luck at them anyway. No exceptions, friend or stranger. She’ll only be nice about it if you’ve earned it.

Serious business here, even if some might argue she has no business herself sticking her nose into this space. Even if she doesn’t have a damn clue on what’s an augmented chord versus a diminished, what makes for a half-decent show. Even if she feels this whole scene is just one big whoop filled with has-beens in the making. Even if this is the equivalent to a small, grubby stepping stone that she’ll cast out in the long run.

It’s nothing personal. It shouldn’t be.

Not when there’s money on the line. Theirs and hers, in equal parts.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Yong Jaesun Pronouns: He/Him Age: 27 Occupation: Photographer Canon: RITZ_05

Freeform:

cold metal. smooth plastic. the scent of raw technology– one of his earliest memories. jaesun was only nine years old when he first properly handled a camera, finding its textures seamless and sleek. not to mention that it was simply “so cool” to explore a subject of his uncle’s camera repair store, a place he frequented and observed the older man dissect devices of varying sizes and styles. he couldn’t resist it back then, pressing the button. the whir of the shutter had him blinking in wonder until his uncle had stepped in and stopped his nephew’s clumsy fingers from smudging the lens further, from dropping it against the floor into pieces. he can still remember the man’s patient sigh and low voice offering, “do you like it? i’ll show you how it works, it you want. just not this one. this one’s not for play, alright?” rich. deep tones. punchy beats. it was, as he had put it at the time, “so awesome” to have thirteen-year-old fingers round the edges of fraying vinyl record sleeves. he would watch how his mother would mount the discs that were larger than his torso and describe the process when he had asked: ‘the tone arm is pulled over like this, the stylus with the cartridge here sinks into the grooves like this.’ it was almost as hypnotic as the melodies that would then fill the room. “let me try,” he had asked one day, intrigue followed by confidence curling around the rounded features of his face. he could remember it just as though it happened yesterday– his mother’s “certainly” predestining the title of the song that flowed at his own hand. when he had looked up expectantly, he saw her lean back before placing a cigarette against her lightly curved lips. it was the first time the acrid smoke invigorated him. there were only these two constants in jaesun’s life growing up that kept him grounded throughout his youth: photography and music. what sprouted from helping his uncle at his store was a bolstering interest in understanding all of the intricate parts that came together in a device that would archive a moment in time forever. and being able to use his hands allowed him to stay distracted, allowed him to use his skills to eventually move out of living with the same mother who had introduced him to what ultimately kept him sane. “you’re really leaving, huh?” he could remember her asking as he had loaded his remaining possessions into a duffel bag. “the world is going to eat you up and spit you right out, you know. and i’m not going to be here to save you when it does.” but it was never as bad as she had made it seem. not until jaesun eventually learned that heartbreak could do that to the soul; at the ripe young age of twenty, he would fall in love all too easily with a regular busker that frequented hongdae. when fingers moved from internal parts to external shots, she had been his first subject he shot for a college cultural publication while attending a local university. thoughts of marriage and family were concepts that appeared as real possibilities for the first time in his, albeit short, life, and his naivety nearly caused his mother’s premonition to come to full fruition. but it was the end of this tumultuous relationship that sparked how the rest of his life would go, the hardening of his heart, how he would approach all things from then on. as the man behind the camera, he is one that blends well with the background and prefers it that way. to not get involved with the complicated logistics of socializing and human relationships, jaesun keeps his circle to the bare, functioning minimum. just as the cameras and tools he wields, his goal is to stay on task, to snap some photos, enjoy a cigarette or two, and listen to some good music while he does. with a relatively expansive portfolio under his belt consisting of work he’s done with various print and online publications focused on culture and music, being RiTZ’s photographer is the first consistent and longest job he’s held. and with their allowing him all of his preferred terms listed above, he shows no signs of leaving any time soon.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Kang Siwoo Pronouns: He/Him Age: 24 Occupation: Drummer Canon: SBP_04

Freeform:

life has always passed kang siwoo by. as he reaches double digits, the idyllic happiness of childhood gives way to emotional inertia. maybe it’s the absent parents - they’re bigshot lawyers who hardly have time to think about their son - or maybe it’s the bullies at school he inadvertently gets caught up in, who introduce him to the world of fistfights and bruises, localized within the alleyways behind their school. (siwoo is on the receiving end, most of the time. apparently he’s too quiet and nerdy, and his face is just asking for it, and he gets in the way all the time — he’s heard every reason under the rainbow to get punched.)

it’s not long before kang siwoo becomes a breeding ground of bad habits. he gets out of high school mostly intact, and stumbles his way into a college he is underqualified for, bolstered by his parents’ starry reputations as criminal defense lawyers. siwoo sleeps during his classes and spends his nights awake in the dark, sprawled out in his cramped dorm bed, or trampling over the streets of seoul dizzy-drunk with a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. he becomes an unanchored ship - the wind blows him back and forth, waves bashing against his sides, and he lets it carry him wherever it pleases.

the one constant connecting his selves over the years are the drums, all of his banging away on plastic toys turning into naps hunched over school-owned acoustic sets. he enters the music room far too early and stays there far too late, laying on piano benches, eating sandwiches behind the instrument cases, and playing the drums alongside miscellaneous songs that come up on shuffle. but there’s only so much time he can spend there, because kang siwoo isn’t studying music. like his parents, he takes law classes, and dips dangerously close to failing just about every single one, but during the day an immeasurable fatigue grips him, and for all his efforts spent trying to get things done, he sinks deeper and deeper into a pile of unfinished work. at night, he’s too distracted to concentrate. he’d learned early on to express his feelings through bruises and fistfights, and he turns that on himself as he stumbles further down, a chasm forming in his head and heart.

he drops out by year three. classically because he was too much of a coward to do it earlier - to have to face his parents and tell them that he has no intention of becoming a lawyer - and because he isn’t strong enough to stick it out and fake it just enough to finish. but when he does, an odd sense of freedom comes along with it. no longer are several hundred deadlines hanging over his head like knives - no longer is he trapped into studying something he hates out of guilt. siwoo regains a little bit of himself.

he picks up the drums again - the only thing he is consistently good at, so it seems - and bangs away at them during the nights he can’t sleep. he chases after places that need a soundtrack thrumming in the background, landing himself small gigs here and there as a backup drummer, managing - for a while - to stay one shaky step ahead of a gaping edge.

eventually, it leads him to a band.

it’s called strawberry paris, the name oozing the kind of elegance and glamor that he doesn’t have, but any band he can get into means more chances to play the drums and get paid for it, so whether it’s called strawberry paris or dirty shoes or whatever doesn’t particularly matter to him. it’s the music that does. he likes anything from any genre, as he proclaims to his band-mates, so he’ll play anything, and he dives into the new work with vigor and enthusiasm.

but kang siwoo’s bad habits have a tendency to cling and stick even when he tries to shake them off. he skulks into practice hours late, dark rings around his eyes, picking up his sticks and asking for the time signature without shame — and he knows he deserves the ire of his band mates for his unreliability, he really does. perhaps it’s solely because he practices so late into the night, alone, that he grasps and holds firmly onto his position, that he just barely manages to fill the gap the rest of the band leave for him.

but it’s their performances where he really comes alive again, where he becomes the unburdened kang siwoo of his childhood. moving with the sound, he breaks free from inertia and leaves no room for the unwelcome pulse of his thoughts.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Kang Mun Pronouns: He/Him Age: 28 Occupation: Vape Shop Attendant Canon: SOLO_02

Freeform:

ABOUT

TRACK 01 — YOUTH ft. the family “It’s not fair.” Moon whines it out plaintively, but it builds in emotion the longer he’s ignored. He dallies in mournful, in dejected, until he decides that it will no longer work. Calculation in play, as much as a nine year old can scheme anyway, and it reads behind his eyes as he watches his family move around their small house. They look like actors in a play. From point A to B his mother wanders the kitchen, stops by the table to dote on his brother, back again to stir the stew simmering away on the burner. His father set to the side, glasses balanced at the edge of his nose, pours over a newspaper. Occasionally his eyes spill past an article, but it’s only to land on his brother too. That’s how it seems. That’s how it’s always seemed. Everything revolving around him, Jun. This exalted main character as Moon loiters the edges, hands balled up into tight, angry fists. An audience member forced into his seat, conned into a ticket. “It’s not fair,” this time it strikes up angry and hot, the volume pitched up. He won’t be ignored. Moon hates it. Hates it more than near anything else. His mother blocks her way back to point A, mixes with the same tired push of an elbow. It bubbles up in a bright red before she sets the lid back on. She’s started to get used to it, this tactic, where Moon pitches himself forward into a fit. They’re all used to it, visible in the way they all do their best to uncomfortably ignore him. Stiff shoulders and gazes trained pointedly in front of them, pupils wobbling around in their heads, fighting that impulsive urge to glance over. But that’s the mistake they’ve learned not to make, because as soon as Moon’s fed that scrap of attention he bites and shakes and refuses to let it go. “I said it’s not fair. Why does only Jun get lessons? I want to play the guitar too.” A sigh, weary and hollowed out. His parents had only ever had the energy for one child, it seemed. They started their family too late in life. His mother’s eyes stick to the pot, the only one that bothers to look up is Jun. But he hates that more, that makes it all worse. Moon lashes out, a foot jammed in at the edge of the table, an avalanche of books clattering with heavy spine-cracks to the floor. That makes everyone look. That makes everyone just as angry as he is. His mother yells, his father shoves himself up, and Moon clenches his muscles with such a tight fury that he forces himself into a shuddering sort of tremble, molars fit together hard enough to make his skull ache. His skin burns, it matches the stew leaking out from under the pot lid, an oily ooze as his mother’s attention is yanked away. A mess. There’s always a mess. But it soothes over some part of him, that part where he feels like he’s set back from the stage. Forced to observe, written out of the script. A lonely sort of onlooker as he watches the life of his brother grow out into a story. Anger is better than nothing, and so is disappointment. He’d rather feel his father grab too hard at his shoulder in reprimand than to stare at him in profile as he reads, the eighth page of the paper more intriguing than a second son. A mess, that way they all match him. It’s the only sort of solution that Moon’s figured out works. Not streamlined, or even particularly enjoyable. But being difficult gets him what he wants. A guitar to match his brother, lessons to keep him out of the house. He tries his best to become Jun, a clumsy imitation. Shadows along behind him, equal parts annoying and sad. But he’s smaller, every part of him. He never matches stride, can’t seem to find the same end points. Can’t keep up with his accomplishments. He can’t become Jun, he’s not his brother. He can’t find a way to steal and keep all that attention his brother receives so freely. He doesn’t regret his outburst. He never does. TRACK TWO — ADOLESCENCE He wants to be Jun and he wants to be himself. He plays guitar, but not as well. He has friends, but not as many. Following his brothers footprints a size too big doesn’t help him become his own person. It all fits wrong and uncomfortable. He drowns in these self-induced expectations, but he forces it anyway. His brother likes music, so Moon does too. He learns the guitar, and he learns piano. His brother takes English classes and likes to read, and so does Moon. A fraying interest he only continues to uphold out of a stubborn, forced drive. His brother thinks he’s annoying, his mother’s tired, and his father looks at him like he’s constantly making too much noise. Alone in his room and all that anger has time to seep out from him. A full-bodied drain of emotion that always leaves him feeling a little too empty. Like he should find all those holes inside and plug them up. Anger is better and anger is familiar. He hates the emptiness that comes packaged with being alone. Being Jun is tiring, difficult, and eventually Moon gives up. He stops pretending he can keep up, it had never gotten him that affectionate sort of attention he’d always been chasing anyway. Locked in his room and Moon fixates on a new brand of attention. The musicians that bounce and bobble around on stage, guitar in hand and voice projected loud, impossible to ignore. It must feel powerful, like acceptance. He’s starved for it, starts running after a new unattainable target instead. He wants that. Wants that undivided attention. Hero worship. At sixteen, the tips of his fingers are rubbed raw and broken guitar strings snapped off in coils decorate the corners of his room. He writes songs between gnawing at the back end of his pen, until the ink smears across his lower lip and betrays an anxious hobby. They’re not good, the lyrics. Not right now. Misshapen experiences and raw emotions that he tries to force into the shapes of sentences. Chase your dreams, a saying they sell to youth. Something pretty and dissolvable, powder-soft cotton candy that slips beneath the tongue and disappears. It’s sweet, addictive, and it makes Moon hungry for more. It makes him want to chase and to hoard. That singular, pin-pointed focus that only a sugar-crazed child can obsess upon. Chase your dreams, but adulthood comes with clauses. An adulthood that Moon doesn’t comprehend fully. Not when he’s a mess of gangly limbs and a teenaged disposition of rebellion. Those dreams melt into a sticky-puddled mess. And it tastes too sweet by the time you’re old enough to figure it all out. TRACK THREE — TEEN SPIRIT The summer makes him want to shed his skin; a fat snake coiled up and uncomfortable in shifting layers. Baking in an unending humid heat. An itching desire to shrug out of himself. Leave a shredded impression of who he was underfoot, an identity he could walk away from. “What if we trade parts, near the ending?” Moon doesn’t like the sound of his band mate’s voice, it’s too nasally. Every time they open their mouth to sing, it scratches away at his patience. He’s starting to wonder how they even have fans. They repeat themselves, and Moon slides his tongue back behind a tooth to keep himself from snapping. Then they repeat it a third time, like a parrot latched onto a new phrase. Moon bites. “Don’t you already have enough fucking parts?” It’s not fair, that mantra from his youth. He writes their songs, he feeds those lyrics into his mouth for them to regurgitate back up. Vomits out all his hard work and earns back the wobbly attention from the small clusters of their fans. It should be Moon’s; that’s what he convinces himself. Anger wells up as easy as water within the marshlands of his body. Familiar, reliable. It matches his envy well. An unwieldy emotion, destructive and violent. The band fractures apart, and Moon slips out of that stifling old skin. Sheds away that persona, those people, leaves them behind. Keeps searching for that attention, that affection, the value he’s now convinced he deserves. Two years later with a new guitarist and they blow up. They’re still using the same sound he’d produced for them in the beginning, his lyrics torn apart and co-opted out into different songs. He pretends it all doesn’t matter. He pretends that he never wanted all that fame, that it had never been his singular goal. Not that he would have fared well anyway. The front man’s the one with all the attention, and Moon can’t cope with anything less. TRACK FOUR — GROW UP A new band, a new start. Young in formation, and sloppy still. They all fit time for practice around their university schedules or part-time jobs. He sings at first, with his feather-light voice layered across their low grind of instrumentals. He sings until they all sit down one day like they’re having an intervention. “Your songs are great, we love them. You know that, we just…” The start to a conversation that reads like a mauling. Their drummer’s voice rises like teeth to the throat. This is the fifth time Moon’s wanted to punch him in the face since they’d started playing together. “Your voice doesn’t really fit what we’re going for, you know? We’ve all decided that we should find a new vocalist.” Their necks snap up and down like bobble heads as they all agree with each other, conspiratorial and done without him. Moon presses nails to his palms like an anchor, keeps himself from screaming and yelling and pitching a fit that he’s long outgrown. When he answers, it’s snide. “Fine,” is kicked out bitter and coated in bile, stalks out with an overdramatic slam of a door. It’s a flimsy cardboard-wood, and it doesn’t sound like it should. He writes songs and pretends he likes the sound of their new singer. Moon lasts half a year before that jealousy inside him starts growing heads. Eating away at flesh and desire until it’s all he can feel. Snakes under his skin, a writhing mass of them now. Too big for their own bodies, too big for his. He tries to soothe it over, to placate his hunger in vindictive pieces. Steals the lead singer’s girlfriend out from underneath him and sees her in secret. Moon doesn’t even like her particularly, but he likes that he can use her as a tool to hurt him through. He likes the way she looks at him like he might be better. Likes the way she touches him, nails like claws and marks ripped down his back in evidence. Irrefutable, that someone had wanted him. Picked him, even when it wasn’t allowed. Attention is cruel and wicked and lovely. He’s never satiated. The snakes keep writhing, and summer comes. He swelters and rips at those peeling layers. When he leaves, he takes with him all his half-finished songs, still seeped thick in the sound of the band. He tells them who he’d been sleeping with, and he hopes it’ll shatter them all apart. They get Moon back by becoming famous too. He pretends again that he doesn’t care, pretends that he likes perpetually almost making it. TRACK FIVE — LOOK AHEAD “Stop drinking, you’re next.” The glass finds Moon’s lips anyway, and the liquor slides strong and thick down his throat. He likes the feeling, and how his skin fizzes like pop-rocks are embedded underneath. Likes that he’s the headline act of this tiny, cement-cube club. Likes that it’s only his name splashed across the poster, that he’s not sharing with four other people knocked together to make some frankensteined act. It’s him. They’re there for him. They look at him, with those big, round eyes. They take pictures of him. Want him. It’s still not enough. He’s a fool to ever think it would be. But he pretends, because he has his pride. He has all that brash anger. Pretends he hadn’t wanted that fame. Pretends that walking away from it all hadn’t stung, hornet-bitten memories of a past he’d stepped away from. It’s shameful isn’t it, that secret? That acknowledgement? That he’d walked away from fame because he couldn’t be square in the middle of it. Like a child pitching a fit. But he’d never learned to correct that behavior. Moon takes and takes, an effort to find his fill. Steps out on stage and demands for that attention. They give, but it’s not enough. It never will be.