Fiction: Group 4
365 Days
Harrow International School Hong Kong, Cheung, Zoe - 14, Fiction: Group 4
1960
May
I live in Huizhou, a village that cowers under the looming shadow of Guangzhou city. I tell my baby
brother that Guangzhou is like an owl. It sleeps in the day and comes alive at night, opening beady neon
eyes that stare at us from across the Pearl River.
There, the streets are packed with freshly-painted red double-decker buses, and shiny Western sports cars
that whirr like hummingbirds; I know because Father always talks about those cars when he think we’re
asleep – he speaks in hushed, excited whispers.
I know Father would like to move to Guangzhou someday.
I see him sit by the riverbank just after work, squinting over with his sad, tired eyes at those dancing neon
lights … and, just for a moment, those sad, tired eyes ignite with the flicker of aspiration and desire, only to
be dimmed seconds later by the dullness of reality.
I like Huizhou, though. It’s quiet, simple, and isn’t any more than meets the eye –like me.
Early this morning, Father and Mother headed to the pastures with wide-brimmed straw hats on their
heads. I’ll have to start work soon – after all, it’s my ninth birthday today and I suppose being nine is quite
old. But for today, I take my baby brother and we sit by the waterside and play with long blades of dry grass,
letting them twist and slide between our fingertips.
I look down into the Pearl River, with its water so clear and still that it resembles glass, and I see our
reflections; we are both round-faced and innocent, with wide curious eyes.
December
My baby brother died today.
Huizhou froze over and turned cold and blue - so did he.
I am sitting by the riverbank this morning, because I don’t want to hear Mother crying anymore, or Father
saying if we had moved to Guangzhou this wouldn’t have happened. In my hand is a photograph; the only
photograph we ever took of my baby brother. He sits in his cot, a soft head covered by only wisps of
smooth hair, and the same wide, curious eyes. Today, mine are red and brim with tears.
1961
May
It’s my tenth birthday, and Mother made me her special pork buns; I was surprised that she did, because we
haven’t been able to afford any meat in two months - it grows more expensive by the day.
Even though it’s my birthday, I still have to sell rice and vegetables in the market, and my voice is still
hoarse as I head into the house for dinner. Father isn’t home yet, so Mother and I sit down and start to eat;
her voice sounds hopeful as she tells me that spring is on its way, so we should be able to make enough
money to buy pork and beef. We both sneak anxious glances at the clock as the sky begins to bleed from
blue to purple and eventually, a shade so dark that we can’t even see the huge banyan tree that towers just
feet from our house.
An unanswered question is thick in the air: where is Father?
At eleven o’clock, I grow tired of waiting and retire to my room. Mother tidies the dishes, and I can hear
them clanging angrily against the sink – she is usually quiet and careful, and hums to herself as she carries out
her chores. I listen to her as I lie awake - my bed is narrow and hard and I am growing quickly, so I barely
fit in it now, but I remember a time when it was big enough for both my baby brother and me.
Hours later, there is a pounding at the door, and a slurred voice bellows from outside.
