Fiction: Group 4
Before I turned eighteen, I used to live in Hong Kong, the so-called Pearl of the East, a spot in a great map
called the China. Or rather, a part of the infamous Pearl River Delta. Those were the good old days, I
suppose. That sort of life before high school was always taken for granted, then I went to America for the
sake of my university education. The memories in this city are faded and had missed some pieces, but the
salt of the Hung Hom’s sea never left my skin when I went to study in the University of California. Big city,
West Coast. The oceans were always around somehow.
Seeing my sister slip around the small alleyway that connected my house to the town centre, I trailed after
her as she expertly glided in between the maze of bicycles parked along the shops. The warm light seeped
through rails of hanging clothes and signage boards from above. Patches of light were cast on the girl as her
hair caught the glow as well. Siu-Yuet was much faster than a man in his forties like me, so by the time she
stopped in Dad’s textile factory in the street corner, I had already ran out of breath.
I remembered Dad’s factory very well. It was cramped like a can of sardines that Mom would serve for
dinner, and your ears would thrum with the the constant clink-clank of machines. It was kind of unpleasant
to be there, and every day after school, Me and Siu-Yuet would race each other all the way from school to
the factory. Then, we would do our homework in the small wooden table in the factory store room, then
when we were done we would help with moving rolls of cloth around in the building. Sometimes, it would
be squatting next to a bag of beads as we made little bracelets that sold for a cent. And on some days, we
would just hang around on the rooftop of the factory with a few friends from school that we brought along.
There was Chung, Ming-Zai and Mei-Ling who always brought things to play with, like limited edition
stickers or a tin box filled up with grasshoppers or bugs of any kind.
My favourite bug was a particularly large beetle I found in one of Mom’s plants. The funny thing was, I
named it after John Lennon after listening to Mom’s records of the Beatles. She loved to tell me about how
she was there when they visited Hong Kong in 1964. She was one of the ecstatic fans that attended their
concert while screaming with all the air in her lungs, and I giggled as she described the scene when I
I continued to follow my sister up the narrow stairs that were sandwiched by the peeling painted walls.
Workers scuttled about the corridors as they carried goods to different rooms, their loud chatter
accompanied with the loud hum of the textile machines. Rows of equipment along with boxes of fabric
piled against the wall, and Siu-Yuet halted to a stop as she knocked on the door at the end of the corridor.
That was my Dad’s office, and a “Come on in!” came faintly from behind the wooden door.
That was strange. Dad never let us children into his office.
Siu-Yuet turned the handle and went inside followed by an unnoticed me. Father was sitting in his office
chair along with Mother, who sat in a wooden chair at the end of the cluttered room. Box files and folders
filled with papers stacked on top of each other on the shelves, and family photos were seen on his desk. I
moved my vision to the man sitting before me.
My father looks pretty much the same His gelled up black hair matched the colour of his suit, and the
familiar smoke that came out of his cigarette smelled exactly like home. With the same stern expression as
always, he breathed out a cloud of grey into the air as Mother stared in disapproval.
“Oh stop it, you stupid man, you’ll poison the children one day!” Mother exclaimed as the smoke turned
into a wisp as it flew out the window. Siu-Yuet stifled a cough.
“Where is Wai-Shing?” asked Father as he pressed the cigarette bud into an ashtray and glanced at my sister,
“Didn’t I ask you to bring him over? I have news to announce.”
“I couldn’t find him anywhere. He’s probably playing with Chung or Ming-Zai again,” came the reply.
