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6 posts tagged with "Lu Xun"

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Digital Ghost

· 6 min read
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When I got the call, I was debating whether to eat dinner at the malatang joint downstairs, the one likely using gutter oil, or go home and boil myself a bland bowl of instant noodles. On the other end, my mother's voice sounded like it had been sanded down – rough, dry, carrying an unnatural calm. She said, "Your brother... he's gone."

The Stone Man in Town

· 7 min read
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The weather in Sang Town, lately, always seemed covered in a layer of unwashable gray. Not that there wasn't sun; the sun was there, hanging brightly in the sky, yet it couldn't penetrate that invisible haze. When it fell on people's bodies and faces, it was merely tepid, unable to stir the slightest vitality. The townspeople, too, were much like the weather; their eyeballs were alive, able to move, to see, but looking around, there was nothing novel to behold, so they retreated back inwards, hidden beneath half-closed eyelids, as if this could conserve some energy.

The Cost of Eternal Rest

· 5 min read
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Old Zhao Si emerged once again from that grey, dusty building; the sky too was grey and dusty, as if coated in five years of grime. The poplar trees lining the street, however, shone with a vibrant green, seemingly shameless. It was already the fifth year. His daughter, the one whose name he now scarcely dared to whisper even in his heart, still 'lived' in that row of buildings behind the main one, cold and waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for him to settle that 'cost of eternal rest'.

Beijing on the Scales

· 7 min read
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At half-past four in the morning, the sky wasn't fully light yet, murky grey like the cooling embers in a hearth. Old Zhang rubbed his bleary eyes, shuffled in his cloth shoes, and carried his chipped enamel mug out to the courtyard tap. The faucet sputtered twice before reluctantly spitting out a thin, ice-cold stream of water.

The Starry Sky at the Bottom of the Well

· 8 min read
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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.