A Thousand Finer Foldings

By Claire Jia-Wen

1.

Phoebe’s mom calls her while she’s in the self-checkout line at Safeway. “I’ve found a solution for your apartment problem,” Mama says.

“I told you, I’ll just commute to San Francisco on the weekends,” Phoebe replies, stepping out of the warpath of a kid barreling a shopping cart towards the snack aisle.

“Aiyah, San Francisco is so far from Berkeley —”

“It’s not really —”

“Anyway, Sagan Liang is renting an apartment in San Francisco and he doesn’t need it on the weekends. I already talked to his mom, she said you can stay there then.”

Sagan and Phoebe’s mothers go to the same church and play pickleball together three days a week. Sagan and Phoebe don’t really talk anymore. “And what did Sagan say?”

“He listens to his mother. You should listen to your mother more. The Liangs won’t even ask for money. He makes so much money now, not like you. You could still go to medical school like him if you wanted.”

Phoebe sets her basket next to the checkout. “Sure.” (Continue Reading…)

Revolutions, as Told by a Humble Rice Farmer

by Lia Lao

When the Azure Dragon Emperor, conqueror of the nine lands, abhorred tyrant and most exalted strategist in the history of Jiuzhou, dies, Li Shen is farming rice.

On the other side of the country, there is great upheaval. The Dragon Empress sobs so ardently her tears turn to pearls, and she throws herself into the ocean. The White Tiger Emperor — newly anointed and soaked in silver blood — lets out a cry that will reverberate through history. His men hoist him above their shoulders, stamping on the Great Dragon’s corpse, crushing cyan scales underfoot.

And all around Jiuzhou, scholars write furiously, their brushstrokes turning, twisting, contorting. Trying to capture the tale unfolding as they breathe.

None of which means anything to Li Shen. (Continue Reading…)

The Grief Eaters

By Erin Keating

There was a time when grave dirt could summon grief eaters from the Isle of the Dead. As the midnight bells tolled across the lagoon, they’d fly on ravens’ wings to mourners’ windows. With hands of bone, they’d clear minds of sorrow, feasting on memories until there was no remembrance left to mourn. But not all who called them to their side left with the dulled edges of forgetfulness. Grief eaters were hungry. Call them on a night when they were famished, and they’d leave you without so much your name.

Nunzia knew this. Still, she stuffed her pockets full of grave dirt before the priest had finished reciting the “Ave Maria.” Heads bowed beneath fluttering black veils, as though death were a kind of wedding: a marriage of body and earth. As they lowered her grandmother into the soggy ground, the priest spoke of ashes, and dust, and of rest so peaceful, Nunzia was half-tempted to follow after her.

After the funeral, the procession rowed from the Isle of the Dead back to the village. Cries of grief echoed through the settling fog. Voice called to voice, letting them know they were still there. Nunzia’s stomach roiled with the bobbing boat. Beside her, her mother, a pillar of black lace asked, “Are you well, Nunzia?”

Nunzia, never skilled at lying, managed, “Yes, Mamma.” (Continue Reading…)