The Life and Death of a Fish

You should go to a wet market. It makes you feel alive. You see all type of fish there. Real fish, big breams, beautiful bass. They arrive in foam boxes wrestling, spilling out their own life source in desperation. Goldfish watch from their plastic bag balconies, pacing around like concubines in their Hanfu. Amongst the chaos, hands in gloves like midwives before deliverance. Knives glide up and down releasing scales in sprays of white and silver confetti. The climax of an ending. Blood follows, trailing down their bodies. A shower head clears the act, a crimson river runs down the drain. They had swum freely like gods, only to spill their guts on the day of judgement. Honesty never looked so gruesome. They will take their final resting place on our dinner plates – dressed in whatever satisfies us. Their bones will be gifted to our pets. Remembrance won’t take place, it never does, as we will journey the very next day to pick another. After all, we have become the gods.

Breaking Traditions

Pieces of porcelain splashed against the kitchen floor like sharp frozen waves. I had awoken the house, and most importantly, my father. My father was a kind and gentle man, until you broke something of his, which was a common practice of mine. I would break his heart ten years later. Not intentionally, but I had to tell him the truth. Now I was on my knees, picking up tiny shards with my chopstick fingers. Fiddling with pieces like those westerners I’d serve at my his restaurant. Nervously I looked up and there he was, holding a broom. Whereas my mother would have hit me, my father herded me aside like some shepherd. He began to clean my mess. My siblings watched from the stairs, sauntering around the pieces, dodging injury. Adult arms glided down like necks of cranes. Their beak-like fingers reaching the surface of the kitchen floor, effortlessly plucking the last of the shards. I pushed myself against the wall with my childlike shame and watched my family clean as I tucked away my bloodied toes.

Grandfather’s Return

It was seven days after his funeral. My grandmother had adorned the living room table with crowds of pastries, bao and duck – all of his favourites. We were not to enter the house from midnight until the next morning. The funeral had been a long procedure. I could still smell the smoke and hear the chanting ringing in my ears days later. I had never seen so many of us return at once. The elders  wept and gripped onto their father’s coffin. My stoic grandmother revealed everything during those three days. But she was calm tonight. Then it happened, the dogs erupting with their barks. Our phones buzzed with excitement, messages from cousins traveling throughout the village. Did you hear that? what’s going on ? Who’s here? Then silence.

The next morning, we came in and everything was as it was. The food was undisturbed, not even a fly dared to touch what was his. She sat peacefully on her bed. He returned,  he touched my face and left.