My short story, The Human Child, was published in Busybird Publishing’s [untitled] Issue 6. It won second place in their annual writing competition.
The Human Child
In my dream, I am a child again, no more than eight years old. I’m back at home, in the village, standing in the yard behind the family house. Everything burns with colour. The sky is a rich indigo. The grass is as green as my mother’s emerald ring.
But the woods at the edge of the property are a monstrous black. The baka trees seem to be creeping forward, eating up the ground as they move towards me. I want to run into the house and bury my face in my mother’s skirts, but my feet are rooted to the spot. The sky is growing darker now, and all the colour is leaving the world.
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A Short, Short Story:
Abigail Bright has the prettiest love sign I have ever seen. It sits starkly on her face, the panther’s body curled over her left eye and down her cheek, etched in black and red and gold, tail forever mischievous. From the back of the classroom, I sometimes catch the glint of her love sign as she turns her head, softened by the sunlight coming through the window next to her. It makes my heart ache.
Abigail is one of the lucky ones; she found her Other in the Love Directory six years ago, when she was just eight. She and her Other email and talk all the time, she tells us. His name is Jonathan. She shows us a photo of him. He has dark hair and dark eyes and a wide smile. His love sign is as beautiful as hers, curled around his right eye, a perfect mirror match. Continue reading
Repost of an old blog:
When I was young, Chinese New Year meant more to me than the ‘Real’ New Year ever did. Never at a particular date (because it’s based on the Chinese calendar, which is in turn based on the phases of the moon, or something like that), Chinese New Year was always a surprise when it came along, and I was always delighted – remember how it felt when you were childishly delighted – by all the noise and mayhem.
Chinese New Year meant fireworks and dragons, red packets and moon cakes, costumes and dances, and that slow, sad Chinese melody played on the pipa. Continue reading