Fiction: Group 4
1925, Britain. The war ended ages ago, but the aftershocks live on. At a fish’s funeral, I stared at the coffin in
the ground. A bird flew over my head. I thought of Cheung and his song.
“Little bird, little bird, how free and pretty you look in the sky. Soar high, and if you’re ever hurt, don’t cry,
don’t fret, you’re not alone, you’re coming home, home to the Pearl River where you belong…”
