Fiction: Group 2
Home Sweet Home
Kennedy School, Chan, Kylie - 10, Fiction: Group 2
drop of rain landed on my wrist as I looked up at a blanket of grey clouds settling above us. “Look,
my dad’s friend sent us some pictures of life in Guangzhou.” I showed them to my best friend Su
Yang as we walked hastily home after a long day of gathering rice crops.
We parted into the narrow stone alleys that led to our homes in the village of Licha Cun. While walking
across the center point of our village where the Bagua symbol was positioned, I murmured to myself, “I
wish I could live luxuriously like Uncle Cai.” Soaked in heavy rain, I suddenly saw a bolt of lightning shoot
down from the sky, then crashes of thunder sounded, “BOOM!” The shabby brick house in front of me
faded away and everything turned black...
I opened my eyes and found myself hurrying down Linjiang Avenue on my way to a business meeting.
Tall buildings loomed over honking vehicles on the busy roads and crowds of people, talking on their smart
phones, dashed left and right in front of me. I could hear sirens blaring in the distance and drilling noises at a
construction site. Across the Zhujiang River stood the Canton Tower, a skyscraper displaying an array of
colourful lights. I was bewildered. Oddly, I seemed to know this place really well but I didn’t feel like
myself. Across the street a huge screen flashed repeatedly, “2014, Happy New Year!” I stumbled back in
shock. “Zhou Wei, you are 37, not 11!”
For months I lived the high life in this thriving city. I drove to work in my Mercedes and lived in a
spacious apartment in Zhujiang New Town. I dined in the best western restaurants. But every day, I rushed
to work in the hustle and bustle of the city, inhaling the smog created by giant factories and construction
sites and frantically working late into the night in order to meet deadlines.
I was becoming weary of city
life, utterly drained, and very homesick. I missed my mother’s sun-dried vegetable soup and rice dumplings,
my dad’s Chinese folktales, and most of all, playing with Su Yang.
One Sunday in August, I went to play golf with my colleagues and as I stepped up to the 8th tee, I found
it rather bizarre that the ground had an impression of the Bagua symbol. Unexpectedly, a gust of wind swept
across the course, followed by a rain storm, “KABOOM!”
Blearily opening my eyes, I heard familiar voices. I was back in my humble stone house in Licha Cun. It
felt wonderful to be home. Never had I appreciated so much the tranquillity and beauty of our old village.
That night, my father told me my favourite folktale "The Legend of the Four Dragons" down by the old
oak tree under the glowing moon, surrounded only by the sounds of rustling leaves and chirping crickets.
A
