8 posts tagged with "Social Allegory"

Alonso, or let us call him Alonso for now—for his real name had long since worn away in the endless archives and atlases, like the emblem on an old coin—spent nineteen years searching for his missing daughter. These nineteen years did not pass linearly, but rather meandered across a map repeatedly folded, riddled with creases and holes. He claimed that for this search, he had traversed "a million kilometers." This number, initially just a hyperbole born of grief, gradually acquired a terrifying, almost metaphysical precision.

It was in the vast, sea-like archives of the Port Authority that I first noticed the ninety ships. Not because of their number—countless vessels ply the Pacific—but because of an almost perfect, unsettling symmetry. They numbered exactly ninety, no more, no less, forever maintaining this count like fixed pieces on a chessboard, traversing nearly identical routes from some colossal port in the East towards the distant West Coast of America. Then, with hardly a delay, they returned along another precisely calculated, slightly different course. Day after day, year after year.

The city, a behemoth crouching beneath the grey expanse, its bones steel, its blood the crowded streets. But recently, an invisible plague, more suffocating than any visible calamity, swept through its massive form. This plague was the wind. Not the gentle caress of the fields, nor the majestic roar of the ocean, but a shriek from the depths of hell, a fury potent enough to tear souls, to shake existence itself.

When Mr. K received the document, he was scraping the last bit of oatmeal from the bottom of his bowl with a spoon. The postman hadn't even knocked; the thick, beige envelope, bearing some sort of official seal, seemed to have materialized out of thin air on the doormat, exuding a characteristic archive room scent – a mixture of stale paper and dried ink. He couldn't even recall if he had heard footsteps.

In Beijing's spring, the wind is still the same old story – not too strong, not too weak, but it loves kicking up dust, getting in your eyes. Old Liu hunched his neck, pedaling his 'Flying Pigeon' bicycle – the kind where everything rattles except the bell – towards that newly opened 'He-something-Ma' supermarket. His wife had mentioned yesterday that their neighbor, Old Mrs. Zhang, had bought some kind of 'imported, especially soft' bread there. She told him to go check it out too, and while he was at it, grab a couple of slices to try something new.

When Wang Wei first heard his passport had been "buried," he thought it was a bad joke, or perhaps a mistranslation. He was standing outside the leaky tent at the temporary settlement, trying to glean some news about returning home from the official distributing relief supplies. The earthquake in Myanmar had struck without warning, collapsing buildings and shattering the already fragile lives of many.

Old Wang, or perhaps, let's just call him Old Wang for now, because his story could happen to any ordinary person named Wang, Li, or Zhang. He had lived most of his life in Shanghai, this enormous, ever-changing city, and possessed a habit as natural as breathing: smoking while walking.

K. acquired the jacket on an ordinary rainy day. Neither bought nor gifted, it simply appeared in the hallway of his cramped apartment, hanging on the sole coat hook, as if it had always been there. The jacket was dark gray, a kind of lifeless gray that absorbed light. The label bore some indistinct symbols and a line of small text: "Highly waterproof, isolates everything." K. didn't think much of it at the time; the city was rainy, and a functional jacket was always useful. He even felt a secret delight, as if it were some anonymous favor.