FEBRUARY 2021
FESTIVITY
FEBRUARY EDITION ENGLISH LITERARY MAGAZINE
“NEW IS THE YEAR, NEW ARE THE HOPES, NEW IS THE RESOLUTION, NEW ARE THE SPIRITS.”
FEBRUARY 2021
Contents Cherry Wong 3G
A SERIES OF HAIKUS
Ivy Wong 5G
FAMILY HAS A HAND IN EVERYTHING
2
Matthew Kwok 5I
Ambrose Leung 4C (winner of the
PACKET
folklore section of the horror story
Gloria Mak 2F
competition)
MOTION(LESS) BLISSFUL HARMONY
Valerie Kwok 2G (winner of the nonJade Duong 5G
folklore section of the horror story
ZHANGBEI
competition)
IN
A SERIES OF HAIKUS CHERRY WONG 3G
JOIN YOUR FAMILY A LOVE OF LONGEVITY HERE’S THE STORY: LUNAR GLOSS IN SIGHT KONGMING LANTERNS TAKE THEIR FLIGHT FESTIVE GOLDEN NIGHT FAMILIES GATHER CHILDREN TILTING COLOURED LANTERNS CHASING IN LAUGHTERASCENT TO HEAVEN DESCENT INTO THE GARDEN ENCIRCLE THE TOADELDERS PEEL FRUITS - PEARS, PERSIMMONS AND STARFRUITS GRAPEFRUITS, (LEAVE THE REST… ) FLAKY CRUSTS THIN GLOSSY SHEEN AND TENDER SKIN ROASTED COATING SWEET ROUND PASTRIES ARE BAKED KERNELS, BEAN, LOTUS SEED PASTE FILINGS INTERLACED SLICED INTO PIECES GILT SALTED EGG YOLK IN BLOOM REFLECTING THE MOON JOIN YOUR FAMILY A LOVE OF LONGEVITY A MERRY STORY
FAMILY HAS A HAND IN EVERYTHING IVY WONG 5G
WARM HANDS, CRINKLING WITH AGE, EYE-CORNERS CRINKLING WITH LAUGH LINES, THE SMELL OF MEAT-RICE-FOOD-WARMTH IN THE AIR. WARM HANDS, SLENDER AND AGILE, CHOPSTICKS CLICK. YOU LOOK DOWN AND YOUR BOWL IS STACKED HIGH WITH FOOD. WARM HANDS, ADORNED WITH JADE RINGS, PRESSING GIFTS INTO YOURS, RED PACKETS RED BANNERS RED JACKETS, GREETINGS AND WELL WISHES FALLING FROM YOUR TONGUE. WARM HANDS, TODDLER-SMALL, TUGGING ME ALONG THEIR PITTER-PATTER FOOTFALLS, THE SOUND OF MAHJONG AND LAUGHTER-CHEERING-CHATTER IN THE AIR.
WARM HANDS, ROUGH AND TOO LARGE TO MAKE LANTERNS, STILL FOLDING PAPER AROUND WIRE FOR 5-YEAROLD-ME, STILL WORRIED FOR MY EARS, YOU PULL MY FINGERS AWAY FROM THE FULL MOON. WARM HANDS, MY MOTHER’S IN MINE, THE WORDS ARE WARMER: HAVE YOU EATEN YET? CARE FLOWING FROM EVERY SYLLABLE. WARM HANDS, BONES CREAKING WITH ARTHRITIS, BARELY TREMBLING, THE INCENSE LIGHTS IN THE SHRINE. HONOUR YOUR ANCESTORS. BOW YOUR HEAD.
PACKET MATTHEW KWOK 5I
GREASY GREENBACKS, SEALED IN CRIMSON CASINGS. PASSED TO THE ENTHRALLED, UPON EACH NEW DAWN.
THE EMISSARY OF PROSPERITY, OR A RITUALISTIC RANSOM? A CULTURAL CONVENTION, YET STILL GREED’S ADVOCATE.
BLISSFUL HARMONY GLORIA MAK 2F
CLUTC H I N G C O L OURFUL LANTE R N S L I T WITH CAND L E S , I H OL D H A N D S H E ARTILY WITH C L O S E COMP A N I O N S . POLIS H I N G O F F MOON C A K E S T I L L I ALMO S T C A N ’ T HANDLE, CHAN G ‘ E A N D H ER JADE RABBI T A R E A L L I CAN I MAGI N E .
zhangbei JADE DUONG 5G
first over a decade sixteen from null crossed toe flesh, ink against scabbed and torched on velvet plush of burgundy wine forever since birth seconds to death exhale centuries napalm, feel golden dust on soft tips red after blood, cut after paper finale at dusk prelude after dawn esurient eyes at round table, hold curses of insincere blessing chew sticky coconut, glisten green fifteens of nothing add to one lie of everything spots of gunfire, embrace whole of halved heritage souls skin tangerine on your grave.
MOTION(LESS) AMBROSE LEUNG 4C
WINNER OF THE FOLKLORE SECTION OF THE HORROR STORY COMPETITION
The building was rebuilt. They preserved the granite facade which was there since 1892. It was repurposed and now called a Complex. Moonlight filtered through the arched verandahs, picking out the ornamental wrought-ironwork like silver filigree. The building, standing on the outskirts of High Street, was hushed in silence, motionless. Nothing unusual would happen for these few hours. Time seemed a luxury I couldn’t have. Gingerly, I went down the stairs and turned left. It was a long, low, rambling old L-shaped corridor. I was so familiar with this structure. I stood in front of the grey stone facade and started counting. One… two…three…four, here it was. The stone had my name engraved upon it, though subtle. Yue Wah. Memories suddenly flood through me. I remembered him using his guntō to engrave a vague outline of my name, grinning. Under my name, he put December 1941. It was the year of World War Two. It was also the year we met. ‘Tarō…’ I hissed. No words of mine can convey all my sensations. That night, he knelt before me in breathless silence and his tears rolled down his face. Love was nothing but blind, infatuated. He never came back to visit me after that night. After midnight, all of us, men and women, who were labelled as rebellious locals, gathered at the hall – our thrill of curiosity has risen to the highest pitch. It was a bitterly cold night. I was the first of the line. Many Japanese soldiers were there except Tarō. Their morale was magnificent. In an agony of terror, I waited patiently, motionless. Yue Wah.’ someone called out my name. One of the soldiers asked me to thrust half of my body in a half somersault.
‘Their swords were ready. With a cry of dismay, I momentarily lost my consciousness. The next instant, loneliness got on my nerves. At first, I was afraid, only afraid. Then, Tarō came. I smiled at him – devilishly. I opened my mouth and found my throat was paralysed and not a word would come. Strange. I noticed that there was a body, which was not too far away from me, collapsed, curled, bathed in blood. On its startlingly white neck, there was a big, gaping cut. Wait. That was my body, motionless. I could not remove my gaze. My fears turned into a wild, mad and helpless panic. A curious feeling, with which I was unfamiliar, compelled me and a pang of discomfort swept through me. I forcibly withdrew my gaze and slowly, only very, very slowly, wandered around, here and there, floating. I came stealthily towards the soldiers. I could still see them; hear them. Finally, I was in front of Tarō. He met me with his eyes – eyes I recognised at once – but they were pale and lurid. A terrible and unusual silence predominated. My blood ran cold. The night was still. There was no swaying of trees, no rustle of leaves, no breath of wind. The soldiers left, Tarō left, together, leaving me alone in this building. Remembering. Two, three and four o'clock struck. I stopped remembering. I floated back and forth, back and forth along the corridor, gazing into the gloom. The blackness burned my eyes. The loneliness got on my nerves. The familiar creaking of the floorboards comforted me. The prehistoric patients slept tranquilly, motionless. I pictured Tarō and I strolled across the High Street or the Eastern Street. How young we had been. Four-thirty. As usual, the female patients woke up, screaming. They moved in before the 1940s and were all mentally ill.
They died here. The shrill scream of these crazy women, in their greatest distress, penetrated the entire building, deep into my skull. It usually started in a low key and ended in a blood-curdling shriek. Their scream in terror destroyed my vague fancies, haunting me. I was forced to listen to the moaning and groaning of these women every night. I went up to the stairs and went strictly to the wards for these annoying patients. ‘Stop...’ the word in my throat was turned into a gurgling groan. I forgot my ghastly wound again. I turned right, opened the door of the nurses’ dormitory. The senior nurse, with a dead white, gleaming face, who was in stiff white cuffs on her sleeves and a dark red cape, immediately knew what I wanted. She tiptoed to 10 and 14 and calmed the patients. The moonlight was dimming. The same unbroken silence prevailed again. It’s good that they rebuilt the building and named it as a Community Complex some 20 years ago. It's even more perfect that the authority declared the facade a monument five years ago so that my poor distracted spirit could remain with the building without any fear. Going on without Tarō seemed impossible, and I was still here, in Sai Ying Pun, after how many years? 70 years? Or 80 years? I wanted to have a mate, desperately. I needed someone who wouldn’t leave me bereft. I needed someone who would find where they buried my body. I needed someone who would be mine forever. I have tried hard over the years and failed many times, but I grew stronger in many ways. I could make my presence felt to the young men. I could whisper in their ears, giving them cold chills of apprehension down their spine. I had the power to move or articulate a sound. I could spring up the staircase and disappear in the gloom. It must be funny. In this nine-storey building, there were so many people coming in and out every day. I would be able to find a new, right mate to replace Tarō. Sunlight filtered through the arched verandahs, resting on the wroughtironwork of this Baroque architecture. The birds awoke. People came to work. Nothing was motionless. I smiled. This time I would make it work. I would not be left bereft again.
IN VALERIE KWOK 2G
WINNER OF THE NON-FOLKLORE SECTION OF THE HORROR STORY COMPETITION
15 years old : I had no idea what I did to them, to end up here. I suppose, as they say, I’m lucky to be sent here, where I have food and shelter. At least I have one slice of bread crust once a day, and bars to keep the evil of the world away, and imposing stone walls to block the vengeful forces that threaten humanity. That’s what they want me to believe. And I fancy they’re right. I’ve been here as long as I can remember, ever since I was ten, maybe? What I remember of the outside world was starvation. Not much better than here. The whips are more of a threat than for real punishment, unless you ‘behave out of line’. But then, one more scar or one less scar doesn’t matter, my mama used to say. 20 years old : Today, someone else moved into my cell. An old man with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes like me. As the days stretched on, I found myself leaning on the great stone walls, wondering if the outside world was really that bad, worse than this place. At least I remember being able to go anywhere I wanted outside, at least I remember having a family, a home, a mother. I decided to ask the old man. Surely he would know. That night, I squatted down next to him, genuinely curious.
“Uncle, do you remember how the outside world was?” He glanced at me, startled, then narrowing his eyes, staring resolutely at the wall in front of him. “No.” he spat out curtly. “Surely you must, you’ve just came in here. Please tell me.” He glanced at me, a shadow of pity and sadness in his eyes. “It was a saddening place, but at least - ” he cautiously looked around before continuing, “it was a free place.” “So it is a better place than here?” I pressed on, mingled feelings swirling. He gave a stiff, nearly undetectable nod. “But be careful, you could be killed for saying things like that.” Then he turned over and said no more. I was vaguely shocked. Killed? Better place than here? Yet I somehow understood. This place was built to keep us in, not keep things out. 30 years old: It was lunch break and I got my meager portion of bread crust again. I grumbled softly under my breath, “ Can’t they give us more?” As soon as that sentence left my lips, a heavy blow from my back knocked me off balance, slamming my face into the cold hard cafeteria floor. The whisper “ no ” then the familiar fiery pain of the whip cut into my skin, biting into my flesh, eating into my brain. Again and again the lashes scarred my back; but my body no longer recognized pain. Again and again the lashes scarred my heart?. It didn’t stop until my back was a mass of tissues, until I was lying in my own blood. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my cellmate wince and quickly turn away.This wasn’t the first time, but I swore to myself that it would be the last time.
Night came and shrouded the sky, a never-ending sea of black, with no star in sight. Normally, I would find myself lost in the darkness, this endless maze that life presented, no exit, no escape. But not tonight. I had a plan, and a plan meant hope. The darkness was no longer my foe, instead my friend, silent yet understanding, and sympathetic. Like me, the night was a slave to dawn, forced to flee for the sunlight to shine and be praised. I trudged back to my cell and started my work. I had no tools, my hands, my determination and my dreams were enough to drive me on. I barely had any nails left and my skin peeled. Yet I dug. The tread of boots faded away, as the guards left the posts. It was midnight, one shift was almost over. It was now or never. Getting up, I walked towards the hole. Time had never seemed so slow, my footsteps had never sounded so loud, my cell had never been so large. My cellmate woke, his eyes wide in understanding of what I was about to do. Yet he did not call for guards. But they still found me. A beam of light hit me. A rough voice yelled. A leash fell over my neck. I struggled in vain, tugging and fighting with all my might, knowing just as well that it might be the last time I would resist, as the leash tightened around my windpipe. They were killing me. Then the rope loosened as swearing and cries of fury sounded behind me, shots ringing out. I gasped for breath and clawed for the hole, glancing back with dread pooling in my stomach.
A silver blur I recognised as my roommate's hair was clawing and kicking at the guards, distracting them as they shot blindly. The guards were subdued, but not for long. He was weaponless and alone. My heart ached but I told myself that I had to make it. For my roommate. “Go.” he rasped as the bullets rammed into him, piercing his body in spurts of blood, and his limp body fell gracelessly, twisted, sprawling across the ground. I scrambled into the hole, breathing shallowly. The adrenaline coursing me slowed, and grief settled in. I felt no joy, instead a heart-breaking emptiness. I didn’t even know my roommate's name...I rubbed my hand across my face, smearing tears and sweat alike. I would mourn the dead later. My sorrow turned into anger and determination, and I got on my knees. I panted a little, licking my lips. Beads of sweat rolled down my neck, the tunnel seemed to stretch on for miles. Feeling uneasy, I paused and glanced back. The tunnel behind me had collapsed.
HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR! FOLLOW @SPCC_ENGLISHSOCIETY