Pure heirs of the ruined day

Wong Chun Ying

Pure heirs of the ruined day

It’s one of those days where I see seams in the skies and you tell me bravery is for show but not for use. We write shopping lists in the diary because they did happen. I need my cat to understand me when I say: if I die in my most talentless years I will have love. Mekas, Lispector—what are they saying when they say everything? The wind is so hungry it forgets to chew. I opened most things with an opinion such as: it’s not a promise if you have always meant to stay. Boars don’t have fangs in this city—their ancestors were pigs, their people are mobs. The person who told you about their aquaphobia under a stinking banyan stopped responding to your messages. The weather is so shitty, you must have envisioned an ending to it all. The golden is large, the field forever. Younger girls wear slim rainbows around their wrists, those stones have names, which, in Cantonese, sound like big vagina. We find it funny because we are women. On the street, daughter and mother are blocking each other’s way. Why the crooked fingers, mum? Just relax okay. My Notes of the Crocodiles is still with her; all this time I have drawn conclusions like a baby sketching sky. A student asked me what endure meant, I said it could mean to suffer, to last, and/or to bear through. There’s no equivalent in Chinese but you can always rely on something close enough. Keep your knowledge. Keep parts of the mesh watch strap this Indonesian woman in Shum Shui Po cut off for you. Would come in handy if you ever gain a few pounds again, is what Dad says when he starts eating the Sugus inside the white envelope before the funeral even starts. His childhood friend lies in the coffin, his face painted too white even for the satin. If we want someone to cut their bullshit we tell them to 咪撚講耶穌, stop talking Jesus. The priest shuts up and eats his food. He’s not here for the dead; he’s here for the aftermath. In the realm of expressing pain, it’s a privilege to liken yourself to a dog. Make things nice again: The ability to be talented and the ability to witness talent are equally important. What did I say? This day has to stop being a test. I dig my nails into the sand of your hand.

Wong Chun Ying

Wong Chun Ying is a bilingual writer from Hong Kong. Her Chinese writings appear in publications such as p-articles, SAMPLE, fleurs des lettres, and the Taiwanese cultural magazine Fountain. Her English writings have been published in Redivider, Cicada, Asia Art Archive's online journal Like A Fever, and The Oxonian Review (upcoming). Her short film, Overflow (2020) won Special Mention at the 15th Fresh Wave International Short Film Festival. She is currently writing her first Chinese short story collection. She is on Instagram @wongchunyingg.

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