71 posts tagged with "Fiction"

April First hadn't arrived yet, but the air was already permeated with a scent of uncertainty. Like accidentally knocking over a pepper shaker, fine particles hung everywhere, ready to make you sneeze abruptly. My cat had been missing for three days. He wasn't the type to run away from home; he always slept in his fixed spot on the sofa or, when I listened to Bill Evans records, tapped the floor lightly with the tip of his tail, marking an almost inaudible beat. This time, he just vanished, without even a farewell meow.

I made coffee as usual, watching the hot water slowly seep through the coffee grounds, dark brown liquid dripping into the glass pot. Outside the window, the sky was that typical, characterless city grey. Maybe the cat just got tired of this grey and went looking for a patch of real, green grass. There was no basis for this thought, but it was better than nothing.

Spring in Beiping, the wind was still stiff, slapping against the face like a stepmother's hand. But somehow, the streets exuded a certain bright energy. Take the newly opened "Butter & Bread" on the corner, for instance. Its glass was polished so bright, like newly fired porcelain teeth, gleaming almost blindingly white. Old Li stopped right there, at the shop's entrance.

Old Wang, the third-generation owner of Wang's Fresh Tripe, had spent his entire life dealing with beef offal. He prided himself on having seen more of the world than the varieties of tripe simmered in hotpot. His shop was tucked away deep in the city's alleys, the neon lights barely managing to dampen his faded sign. The shop wasn't large, and the air perpetually carried an honest, coarse smell – a mix of spices and raw freshness. Regulars knew Wang's tripe: dipped briefly, it came out perfectly crisp and tender.

Wang Laowu, known as "Old Man Wang," wasn't ancient, just past sixty, his back a bit stooped, like the old walnut tree at the village entrance—looking withered but still sturdy-boned. He'd spent over half his life scraping a living from this yellow earth in eastern Henan, knowing the dirt clods better than his own kin. The village, Wangjia Gada, wasn't large, just a few dozen households where chickens and dogs were familiar sounds. Life flowed like the river at the village edge—seemingly moving, yet always the same old routines, undisturbed by waves.

Beijing was still Beijing, just with more cars, taller buildings, and perhaps a little less of that leisurely vibe under the old locust trees where people used to walk their birds or play chess. Ma Liansheng, forty-five years old, was doing alright, not great, crunching numbers in a company that was neither big nor small, decently managing the mortgage on a place still a couple of miles shy of the Fourth Ring Road. His physique, much like his life, had decently put on a bit of timber.

That sidewalk, it's kind of interesting. Right on that old street near my place, next to an old wall covered in greasy ivy. At first, nobody paid it any mind. People just hugged the wall or walked on the curb, tiptoeing around bikes. Later, some busybody measured it and announced, "Hey, this thing's only ten centimeters wide." Ten centimeters, comrades, what does that even mean? It means my size 42 worn-out leather shoes, the ones I've worn for years until the soles are almost gone, couldn't even fit sideways. Placed vertically, you'd have to twist your ankle at a bizarre angle.

Old Wei stopped the car under a lamppost and turned off the engine. Not to pick up a fare, but to take a breather. Dusk was just settling in, the evening rush hour hadn't fully died down, and the car headlights on the street merged into a dazzling river. He leaned back against the seat, neck tilted up, eyes fixed on the patch of worn-shiny velvet on the car's ceiling. After driving all day, his back felt too stiff to straighten.

Early morning, the sky was off.

Here in Yunnan, the sky lightens late. It was past Mao hour [approx. 5-7 AM], but still dim and grey outside the window. Old Man Zhou got up, shuffled into his slippers, thinking of going to the well in the courtyard to fetch water and wash his face. He pushed open the door and froze.

The way my husband disappeared was like a drop of water falling on scorching asphalt on a summer afternoon – a sizzle, then evaporated without a trace. No argument, no warning, not even a hastily scribbled farewell note. He just vanished, along with his running shoes by the entryway, a few neatly ironed shirts in the closet, and the seven years we had shared. That was four years ago.

Let me tell you, that day was hot like a giant, clammy hug. The air was thick enough to paste up your throat. Fatty and I were walking down the road to the border, feeling like two slabs of melting butter. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst was, we were covered in "things". Not pimples, not tumors, but live, hard-shelled, still-wriggling turtles. Twenty-eight in total, no more, no less, strapped tightly to our bare chests and backs with wide tape and strips of ragged cloth. Fourteen on me, fourteen on him, like some kind of bizarre, symmetrical torture.