Excerpt from a war story I’m not writing, translated from English to Korean and back using Google Translate

Before:

Branson tells me nobody’s girl is waiting around for their man to come home in a flag-box. He tells me he left his girl before he went to basic. Unceremonious as he is, he’d slept with her best friend three days before delivering the bad news.

“Always need to give her a reason to hate you,” he chuckled. “I’m coming over here expecting death. Ain’t nobody’s chances are good these days. Where she would’ve felt sadness, now she’ll feel redemption. Hell, I’m a fucking martyr. Not a fucking martyr, but a fucking one!”

We all aspire to be real fucking heroes like Branson. He speaks with an extinguished cigarette hanging limp and wet between cracked lips. The silence that follows his sermon is broken by the secretary-bell from the other room. His whore was finished with the previous customer. He rises and walks quickly through a beaded-curtain doorway.

“Name on list?” The large Slavic woman shouts at me from behind a plexiglas window. I shake my head no and leave the shadowless halogen waiting room to try my luck at lighting a cigarette in the cold, early-winter damp.

Branson was not my first choice in friend, but he is what’s left. Death passed around the company like kindergarten strep this September. The moral ones went first. They were the ones who believed in the cause — maybe in war itself. I guess that’s why I’m still around.

I see a weeping mother carrying a legless boy across the street, and I think about how everything is shit.

After:

Branson says no one is waiting for her man to come home to the flag box. He tells him that he left his daughter before he went to base. He was not embarrassed, and he slept with his best friend 3 days before the bad news.

“I always need to give her a reason to hate you.” “I will come here in expectation of death.Isn’t anyone good nowadays? Where she felt grief, now she will feel redemption.Damn it, I’m a damn martyr.Not a fucking martyr, Person! ”

We all are eager to become a true fucking hero like Branson. He talks about an evolved cigarette that has torn or wet legs between broken lips. The silence following his sermon was broken by the secretary in another room. His prostitute finished with the previous customer. He ascends and walks through the beaded curtain doorway.

“The name on the list?” The big Slavic woman yelled at me from behind the Plexiglas window. Instead of shaking my head, I leave the shadowless halogen waiting room and smoke in the cold early winter dampness.

Branson was not the first choice of a friend, but there is something else left. He died in a company like Kindergarten chain sterilization in September this year. Moral people went first. They were people who believed in the cause – it would have been in the war itself. I guess that’s why I’m still around.

I see a foster mother burning a legless boy across the street, and I think everything is a shit.

An excerpt from a romance novel I’m not writing, translated from English to Korean and back using Google Translate.

Before:

Awaiting his touch made Madeline feel like a child expecting punishment. The anticipation manifested itself physically before mentally, her tongue swollen in her throat, swallowing only with a concentrated persistence.

Theodore undressed across the room, between them a sea of plush berber, her toes sinking in and curling, thinking myopically of the amorous exercises to follow. She thought how long it had been since she’d felt the rush of blood accompany the pulsating thrusts of lovemaking. A marriage gone awry and an imprudent brush with online affairs hadn’t summoned the same atavistic urges from her youth. Only now as she stared at the naked, muscular back of her younger lover could she feel, deep within her fleshy core, the heartbeat below her waist.

Her silken blouse felt cool, delicately resting on her bare breasts, and the mysterious man from the coffee shop, previously only a name and gentle face, now walked toward her, steady, surely, entirely in control of her body and psyche. And it was with a gentle brush of his fingertips that her top rested in a tiny crumpled crescent around her white, moonlit hips. And it was with a whisper of his lips, which gently grazed her areola, that made every follicle on her body stand despite the early summer heat.

Like the velvety geranium petals littering the floor of her open hotel room balcony, she lay pliable and light, passively waiting to be moved by the whim of some larger entity than herself. And when his spectral form hovered close to her face, she could feel their breath occupy the same space. His torso sliding effortlessly atop her own.

The cars on the boulevard beyond, the voices from the cafe below, and the wind now streaming through the curtains would serve to cover what was not to be a silent affair.

After:

Waiting for his touch made me feel like Madeline child expectation. Expecting to awaken herself physically and mentally before, swallowing her tongue, concentrating persistence and swallowing her neck.

Theodore follows the thought of myopic and sarcastic movement, the sea of Bon Berber among them, her toes and curling, sinking, and clothes across the room. She thought how long it was because the rush of blood seemed to have felt the throbbing pulse of throbbing. The marriage did not recall the same extravagant impulse from her youth as an imprudent brush with an online job that went obliquely. Only now she could feel her heartbeat deep within her heartbeat, within her heartbeat as she stared back at her young lover’s naked, muscular.

Her ponytail blouse delicately resting on her naked chest, feeling cool, and previously a mysterious person in a coffee shop with a name and a soft face, now walked towards her, steadfastly, surely controlling her body and mind completely do. And it was with a soft brush of his fingertips, resting on her white, moonlight hips on her small, crumpled crescent moon. And despite the gentle early summer heat, she made all the roots of her body stand and made her lips whispered over her shoulder.

The floor of her open hotel room balcony is so much like a velvet purple petal, she passively laid a flexible light, waiting to move by the whim of a slightly larger enterprise than herself. When hovering close to her face in the form of his spectrum, she could feel breath taking the same space. His torso slid easily on top of himself.

Beyond the car on a broad street, the cafe below, now plays a role of covering what could be silent voices streaming through the curtains.

Concept by Daniel Weiss and John Fraze