Annual Journal 2017

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Editorial Foreword “Life is a matter of choices, and every choice you make makes you.” – John C. Maxwell As a timid person, joining English Society was a bold decision for me. I often feared that I would not be able to get along well with my jongyaus. With time, we grew closer, and I knew my worries were meaningless. We’ve made mistakes, and we’ve worked together to overcome challenges. Most importantly, we know that whatever happens, we’ve got one another. Now, I can proudly say that it’s the one of the best decisions I’ve made since I’ve become a university student. It has shaped me into a better person, one who is willing to step out of the comfort zone to embrace new challenges. Through this Annual Journal, we would like to share our feelings as an Exco, and invite you to witness our growth for the past year. Apart from our sharings, winning entries and Editor’s Choices from our Annual Creative Writing Competition 2017 were featured as well. Don’t forget to take a look at what our talented writers have to say about “Faith”. Lastly, we would like to thank our judge, Dr. Page Richards, from the School of English for her help in our Competition this year. The event would not have been a success without her generous support. Editor, Shirley Yau


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About Us

Our Motto

“From little sparks to eternal flame� Our motto this year is inspired by a quote from an Italian poet, Dante Alighieri. It is not only the belief that we have been upholding since we became the Executive Committee members of English Society, but also a promise we have made to ourselves – to grow from a dim spark to a mighty flame. Little sparks represent all eleven of us who give out faint shimmers of light separately. We all aspire to blaze luminously, but with only our own efforts, we alone are not capable of igniting a flame. Fortunately, the eleven of us with the same ambition have come together. We realised that only with our combined efforts will we illuminate as a roaring flame. Throughout the journey, we have overcome many hindrances together. We have made a lot of precious memories together, and most importantly, we have grown up together. We have lived up to our promise. With our undiminished determination and enthusiasm in mind, we will continue to serve our members wholeheartedly. We are English Society, A.A.H.K.U.S.U., Session 2016-2017, the flame that is mighty and everilluminating.


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Our Executive Committee Members

Owen Leung Chairperson

Prospective majors: English Studies and Counselling Favourite book / movie: All the Light We Cannot See / The Hunger Games (seriously it took me half an hour to come up with the answer) One thing you cannot live without: Ideas Dream place to live in: England, cause I want to watch live soccer games at different stadiums in England Fun facts about yourself: I can’t order grande size in Starbucks because I think the word sounds really weird, I’ll lose my inspiration when writing essays if I’m not using Times New Roman, and I get addicted to putting stickers on my computer 3 things that make you happy: The moment when I see the name set and badge get printed on the jersey, playing football and surviving a deadline successfully One thing on your Bucket List: Nothing in particular, just live with no regret

Prospective major(minor): English Studies (Fine Arts) Favourite book / movie: Confessions of a Shopaholic / Love Rosie One thing you cannot live without: Food (any type) Dream place to live in: Still searching for it Fun fact about yourself: I’m bad at taking pretty pictures of food, although I would really like to open a foodie account on Instagram 3 things that make you happy: Being able to eat all the food in the world without getting fat, nail polish that never gets chipped, holidays One thing on your Bucket List: Opening a foodie account on Instagram

Nicole Tsang External Vice-chairperson


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Prospective majors: English Studies and Psychology Favourite book / movie: Eat, Pray, Love (actually it’s a recent favourite...it’s hard to choose just one particular favourite book) / Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (to be honest I’ll put down “the Harry Potter series” if I could) One thing you cannot live without: Earphones (well, of course along with a portable music player) Dream place to live in: A duplex penthouse Fun facts about yourself: I have vampire fangs like canine tooth, I repeated kindergarten 1 (for a reason that’s too complicated to explain here) 3 things that make you happy: Christmas, a blue sky, a chill, breezy and sunny Saturday afternoon One thing on your Bucket List: Having my own walk-in closet

Melody Yan Internal Vice-chairperson

Prospective major: Translation Favourite book / movie: What If? / T2 Trainspotting One thing you can’t live without: Sneakers Dream place to live in: Vermont Fun fact about yourself: I’m still single Three things that make you happy: Eating, sleeping and listening to music One thing on your bucket list: Skydiving

Anthony Tai General Secretary


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Natalie Wong Financial Secretary

Prospective major: English Studies Favourite book / movie: The Little Prince / One Day One thing you cannot live without: Coffee Dream place to live in: Anywhere with my loved one Fun fact about yourself: I’m extremely emotional and always have mood swing 3 things that make you happy: Jokes, hugs, playing computer games with friends One thing on your Bucket List: Travelling around the world

Prospective majors: English Studies and Japanese Studies Favourite book / movie: The Kite Runner / Spirited Away One thing you cannot live without: Lipstick Dream place to live in: Switzerland Fun fact about yourself: My eyes disappear when I smile 3 things that make you happy: Boyfriend, ice cream and Winnie the Pooh One thing on your Bucket List: Bungee jump

Gigi Ling Promotion Secretary


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Prospective majors: English Studies and Geography Favourite book / movie; I guess it’s still Harry Potter! / Logan (I love all Marvel’s movies) One thing you cannot live without: Dramas! I love cliches! Dream place to live in: It could be anywhere as long as I’m with my family Fun facts about yourself: I’m dark and freaky sometimes for no reason! 3 things that make you happy: Music, dramas and food One thing on your Bucket List: Skydiving

Shirley Yau Publication Secretary & Acting Academic Secretary

Cathy Tse Promotion Secretary

Prospective major: No (because I’m not a BA student) Favourite book / movie: Harry Potter (After all this time? Always.) / I just couldn’t choose one – I love basically every single movie I’ve watched One thing you cannot live without: My bed Dream place to live in: For now it’s still Hong Kong Fun facts about yourself: It’s really hard for me to hate something, I can’t make a decision when there’re too many choices, and I look nice and quiet but I can be mean and talkative when I feel comfortable to do so 3 things that make you happy: Music, good books and people who make me laugh One thing on your Bucket List: Travelling to peculiar places on my own


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Yuki Wong Social Secretary

Prospective major: American Studies Favourite book / movie: Lord of the Rings – The Fellowship of the Ring (No kidding, its my all time favourite!) / Lord of the Rings – The return of the King One thing you cannot live without: My phone...obviously. Dream place to live in: Middle Earth (Rivendell, to be precise) Fun fact about yourself: Some people asked me whether I’ve undergone plastic surgery after I did my makeup 3 things that make you happy: Movies, books, dancing One thing on your Bucket List: Getting completely drunk

Prospective majors: English Studies and Music Favourite book / movie: Harry Potter / The Lion, the witch and the wardrobe (which is the theme of our Ocamp) One thing you cannot live without: My iPhone Dream place to live in: Sweden Fun facts about yourself: I’m a ‘sleepaholic’, I’m just a little bit chubby but not FAT and I’ve got a driving license! 3 things that make you happy: Music, food and being mean to my jongyaus One thing on your Bucket List: Enjoying every type of cuisine around the world

Timothy Wong Programme Secretary


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Prospective major: Translation / English Studies Favourite book / movie: Difficult to choose one but if I have to, it’d be Facebook / The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh One thing you cannot live without: Air or Winnie the Pooh who gives me an artificial respiration (CPR) when there’s no air Dream place to live in: Hundred Acre Wood Fun facts about yourself: Talkative as I am, I enjoy being alone sometimes. I like to inspire others and at the same time, be inspired. As such, I can keep reflecting on myself and become more mature. 3 things that make you happy: Pooh, sun and beach, playing sports One thing on your Bucket List: Have a solo flight

Matt Kwok Marketing Secretary


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Reminiscence 23 Nov 2016 Inauguration Ceremony The Inauguration Ceremony marked the commencement of our Session, and the beginning of a year filled with opportunities and challenges. We were honoured to have Dr. Lisa Lim and Professor Adam Jaworski joining us that evening. We also had the chance to acquaint with student societies from other universities.

13 Feb - 3 Mar 2017 Bazaar

Bazaar was a fundraising event for our Society. A wide range of vintage products was sold along with our Society Products. It was definitely not an easy task for us to transport products from our Society room to our booth. Nonetheless, these three weeks have surely made us closer, and we will never forget the funny moments we had with one another.

27 Feb - 3 Mar 2017 Welfare Week Welfare Week is an annual event of the Society aiming to provide welfare benefits for our members. Hundreds of welfare packages containing a variety of products were distributed. Satisfied smiles of the collectors signified their recognition of our hard work, which had a great deal to do with our passion and perseverance.


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20-24 Mar 2017 Book Fair The theme of our English Festival this year was dystopian fictions. A wide range of books from The Commercial Press and secondhand books from BooksMart were offered. Besides dystopian fictions, other popular novels were also available.

27 Mar 2017 Film Appreciation Our featured dystopian film – Equilibrium is set in a futuristic society where people are not allowed to have any feelings. Everyone had a great time watching the film, and we all shared our feelings after the screening.

30 Mar 2017 Academic Dialogue We are honoured to have Dr. Jessica Valdez and Dr. Christopher Patterson as our guest speakers. We had an interesting discussion on genres of dystopia, speculative fiction, and the wider political and social context. Participants actively voiced their opinions on how dystopian fictions may affect our society.

7 Apr 2017 Academic Talk We have invited Dr. Paul Fung to be our guest speaker. He shared with us common themes in the genre of dystopia, with specific references to the Russian Novel, We. Dr. Fung shared with us a list of quotations from this novel. Reading these quotes enabled us to have a deeper understanding of the dystopian world this novel is trying to depict.


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Myths about English Society After meeting our Executive Committee members and knowing more about the events we’ve held so far, it’s time to hear about the life of an Exco of English Society!

Will you be able to make more new friends after “seung jong”? Short Answer: A big yes! Long answer: Still a big yes. But there’re reasons why I gave such a definite answer. First, you’re going to meet jongyaus who’ll accompany you during your university life. My jongyaus are friendly, cheerful and at the same time super crazy. They’re the group of people that you’ll work with for the entire year, and I can promise, they’re going to be the group of friends that’ll last a lifetime. Apart from wonderful jongyaus, you’ll also get to know people from other societies through going to different activities. Seung jong is definitely a chance for you to make new friends.

Yuki Wong

Definitely a yes for me! I’ve met my (in some ways) lovely jongyaus after being an Exco. This year, we’ve been through a lot of enjoyable times together, like having a dignified Inauguration Ceremony, and staying at the booth of our Bazaar all day. All of these memories are precious and memorable to me. Although my jongyaus seem to love making fun of me (like claiming I’m fat, putting a lot of wasabi on my sushi without letting me know), I know this is a way that we build rapport with one another. Undoubtedly, seung jong is a good way to expand your social circle!

Timothy Wong


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Gigi Ling Being one of the Excos of English Society has definitely expanded my social life (at least I get to know my other 10 jongyaus). Due to the nature of my position (I’m one of the Promotion Secretaries), I don’t have many chances to meet Excos from other societies (though Adobe Photoshop is a pretty good colleague of mine during my jong life). Although I haven’t made many new friends after joining the Society, I appreciate having my partner (another Promotion Secretary) with me. She’s always the one who understands and comforts me when I got stuck with my work. She’s always the one I resort to when I need help. She’s always the one who stands by my side when I encounter problems. Perhaps seung jong is not for making more new friends but for meeting your second self.

Will your GPA suffer if you’re an Exco? Inevitably, as an Exco, you’ll have to spend a lot of time and effort to organise different activities at the expense of your time for assignments and revision. However, your GPA won’t necessarily suffer as long as you can manage your time well. Do make good use of your schedule book to organise your tasks systematically. Even if you suddenly get messed up and can’t manage to meet all those deadlines, I’m sure your jongyaus will be willing to share your burden. Choosing courses wisely is also vital. Sometimes if you enrol in those “leng grade” courses, you can get a good GPA with mere effort.

Owen Leung


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I don’t think so. Your GPA depends on so many different factors, like whether your course is “leng grade” or not, whether your professor is nice, or whether you have smart classmates that can “carry” you. I can guarantee that even if you don’t spend your time on doing various jong duties, you still won’t spend much time on your studies because you will find better things to do (i.e. eating out, going shopping, etc.) People who say that seung jong will lead to a poor GPA are just trying to make an excuse for having poor GPA, so don’t believe them.

Nicole Tsang The question can be changed to ‘Will Donald Trump be elected for another term if you’re an Exco?’. This shares a similar answer to the original question. We cannot see obvious association or causation between the given condition and the potential result. That said, everyone will try to avoid it. Referring back to the original question, there’re times in life when you have to lose something in order to gain something. I’m not saying there’s no way to strike a balance, but this is solely the optimal scenario. All we can do in reality is to try our best to control the uncontrollable future. Prioritising plays a pivotal role in avoiding bad grades. Time management is crucial in that it allows you to get the most out of 86400 seconds every day. Hopefully this can lower the chance of Donald Trump being re-elected.

Matt Kwok


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People always have a misconception that seung jong means “larn grade”. I can’t say that seung jong has no direct influence on my studies, but more often than not, it really depends on prioritising and managing your time. There may be times that you have to sacrifice your revision time to do your jong mo, like going to school for packing welfare packages and stocktaking outside our Society room after Bazaar. But I believe every time you lose something, you also gain something. It’s hard to forget the sense of achievement we feel when we’ve successfully accomplished something great (like organising English Festival), and the great memories we had this year. Plus, I know my jongyaus will always be by my side whenever I feel stressed about my studies or jong mo. So, there’s nothing to worry about.

Shirley Yau

What is it like to be an Exco?

Melody Yan

Okay, let me get this straight. Even though I always joke about how I shouldn’t have had seung jong (ask my jongyaus, I honestly quite often said that), however deep down in my heart, I know that this is the most accurate decision I‘ve ever made in my university life. As much as I enjoy studying Bachelor of Arts (oh, yes, I study BA, in case you don’t know), the huge number of undergraduates in BA is something that keeps you from bonding with people, which means you don’t have a lot of opportunities to make friends. That’s why being an Exco is so crucial for me. I’m not particularly sociable, and I’m sure that if I hadn’t become an Exco, I would not have had a group of friends, a group of jongbabes to share the ups and downs in my university journey.


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Being an Exco is fun and happy. Well, it’s a bit different from what I expected before I became an Exco. I thought it would be tough and torturing. But I’m glad that my workload as a Financial Secretary is not demanding. Hanging around with my jongyaus is happy, and they’re all very nice and easy-going. You might think that being an Exco is “chur”. But it’s not the case actually, at least for me. Most of the time I only need to deal with paperwork. Sometimes I need to help my jongyaus, which gives me a chance to get closer to them. Overall, I enjoy my life as an Exco.

Natalie Wong After being an Exco for almost a year, I would say it’s one of the most memorable and amazing experiences of my life. Throughout the year, all the activities we held and all the meetings we had have become my greatest memories. Not only did we realise how much we had to dedicate to organising a successful event, we also learnt the way to sustain our friendship in this long journey. I guess everyone has different expectations of being an Exco, but I think what matters the most is our friendship. I’m so grateful to have 10 jongyaus going through all the ups and downs with me and supporting one another. After all, the journey of being an Exco only lasts for a year, but our friendship lasts forever.

Anthony Tai


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As an Exco, we have to work as a team to make what seems impossible possible. Each of us specialises in different areas and we’re allocated different tasks. It could be overwhelming and daunting sometimes, but we’re not alone. We share our duties and transform ourselves ‘from little sparks to eternal flame’, just as our motto says. What’s more, being an Exco allows me to harvest the invaluable friendship with my jongyaus. At the very beginning, it was just 11 strangers who barely knew one another. Yet, we got closer and it’s not all about jong duties anymore. We are friends! When we don’t want to eat alone, we’ll send a message in our Whatsapp group, asking for a lunch buddy and someone will pop up. We gossip and we hang out. I’m really glad that I have the opportunity to meet all my jongyaus and spend my precious freshman year with them.

Cathy Tse



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First Place

Jessica Wang Mine

Vehicle horns blare along Causeway Road as the traffic comes to a near-standstill, trumpeting an indignant motif against the background bustle of Causeway Bay at eight pm. “There are far too many people here,” my friend mutters as we squeeze our way through the throng. “I can hardly breathe.” “You wanted to see Hong Kong,” I remind her. “Well, this is Hong Kong.” Yet, I remember an echo of the same feeling many years ago: a child displaced, struggling for space in a place that felt too cramped, too rushed. There were too many people, too many buildings, too many cars and trams and buses; there were too many signs and lights at night, glaring neon red and green and orange and blue. I catch hold of my friend’s arm, pulling her out of the relentless rapids of the crowds and in through the door of a small local restaurant. “Let’s get dinner here.” It isn’t much better inside. The two of us cram into a corner, sharing the table with a group of young adults out for a meal together at night. I glance at my friend; she looks uncomfortable, perched stiffly on the edge of her plastic stool. Since when have I become accustomed to all this? Hesitantly, she asks, “Are there always this many people?” “Here, yes. We are in the heart of urban Hong Kong.” I pass her the menu. “But there are mountains as well, and the New Territories are less metropolitan. We can go hiking tomorrow if you don’t have any other plans. There are many lovely trails even on the island itself – I spent a lot of time exploring all the paths when I first came.” It is true. I learnt the mountains first: the shape of them, their trees and shrubs, the ragged trails that cut across their sloping shoulders. I learnt the bushes, the streams, the gritty dust and the soil beneath my feet – all the things I missed. I returned to the mountains, weekend after weekend, until I had them all mapped out by foot. I sketched the twisting paths into my memory, breathed in air that was not smog, and gave myself to the quiet freedom of the land. As the years passed, I grew up and grew apart from the mountains that granted me solace in an unfamiliar country. But I still return to its tranquillity from time to time, in darker moments, when I am hurting or fuming or simply overwhelmed. The mountains always welcome me back. “Sure!” my friend responds enthusiastically. The excitement soon melts into bewilderment as she looks down at the menu. “What is all this?” I translate for her the names of dishes that my local friends had translated for me in the past. They had passed on little bits of Hong Kong to me during every outing: guiding me, teaching me, accepting me into their culture. They had opened the door


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of their shared home to me. We order quickly, and the food arrives just as promptly. There is a clatter of chopsticks and bowls, elbows jostling for space – “sorry, I didn’t mean to poke you!” – and a general flurry of movement and minor collisions. “Eat quickly,” I advise my companion. “Lots of people come here, and they’re going to want our seats.” The restaurant is already packed and the staff hurry to and fro, delivering fresh plates of food and whisking away the remains of finished meals. Customers come and go. The rush of activity never stops and it never slows down. It mirrors the rush in the street outside, the rush in this district, in this city. When I first came, I felt like I was drowning in this place, among these people living at breakneck speed. Now, I am part of the current. “But it’s not all like this, is it?” My friend frowns at her chopsticks for a while longer before giving it up in favour for her spoon. “I saw many places to eat on our way here. There are some that don’t seem that crowded.” I shrug and pick up some rice with my chopsticks. “You can find pretty much anything here. But the less expensive restaurants tend to be pretty busy.” I pause for a mouthful of food, before continuing: “Hong Kong is a patchwork of lifestyles and traditions.” I recall out loud for her a portrait of my city: wet markets juxtaposed against high-end retailers, a jewellery store only a few paces away from a seafood stall; fast-food restaurants and office buildings; towering skyscrapers. There are shops and advertisements everywhere, and everywhere there are people and noise and movement. But I paint a picture of gentleness as well. I tell her about the quiet kindnesses tucked away in the pockets of this city, the little joys that warm each day. The guards greet me every morning when I leave my flat; the market vendors remember my favourite fruits. I have my friends by my side and my neighbours around me. I have my family, always. While I am speaking, the door opens again and again. New customers crowd into the restaurant. There are more outside. A couple moves towards our table, eying our nearly empty bowls. They stop and stand right next to us; we finish quickly as they wait impatiently for the scarce space we are occupying. As soon as we are done, we are hustled out of our seats. We wander in Victoria Park afterwards, walking slowly under the orange glow of the streetlights, the steady sentinels of this sleepless city. “Do you still remember Australia?” she asks in genuine curiosity as we meander down an old, paved lane. “Do you miss it?” I remember. I remember lavenders spilling out from the gates of front-yard gardens, tiny daisies dotting the lawns, grass everywhere. I remember the wide skies and the quiet streets. I remember the playgrounds with their woodchips and tyre swings and


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metal slides taller than any that can be found here. I remember, but the memories feel like dried flowers pressed between the pages of an old album: well-preserved, dearly cherished, but faded. They are part of a past that no longer intertwines with my present. “Yes,” I reply, after a long pause. “But I have grown to love Hong Kong as well.” It is a reluctant love, dragged out from the depths of my initial antipathy: this is not where I belong; this is not the tongue I speak; these are not my people. Except they are, these people I grew up amongst: the sellers in the wet markets with their loud voices and brazen manner, the stressed office workers cramming into the MTR every morning and evening, the elderly that rise before the sun and practise taichi in the grey predawn – they are my people. I cannot renounce them. This is my home, and my responsibility. I was bred in this city, raised in the world’s leading metropolis. I have struggled to grow into it. I made my way through crowds until I no longer felt confined; I walked along the roads until I could ignore the cacophony of the perpetual traffic; I lived in this city until it felt like mine. I made a promise when I chose to stay: I am now yours, and you are mine. You have nurtured me for all these years, and I am now grown. It is my turn to take care of you. “It’s midnight already!” Shocked, my companion turns and thrusts the face of her watch at me. I laugh a little at her alarmed expression, as she adds in a somewhat amazed tone: “It really doesn’t feel like it at all. It’s still so… There are still so many people around.” “The night is alive,” I agree, still grinning. “But I’ll walk you back now, before your aunt accuses me of kidnapping you.” Here, things happen at midnight. I learnt how to play mah-jong with my friends at midnight. “How did you ever get used to this?” she wonders. “Just from living here for all these years, I suppose.” We lapse into a thoughtful silence. “Although I do miss the peace sometimes,” I add wryly, as we turn onto Causeway Road and enter once more into the blazing symphony of the city. My friend winces slightly at the din. “You can always come back to Australia, you know.” She nudges me, and I can sense the promise of quiet lanes and wide lawns in her suggestion, the idyll of my earliest memories. I smile. I am not done here. I have not yet fulfilled my own promise to the city that has adopted me. “Later, perhaps.”


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Second Place

Monty Law Faith

I arrived in Milan about three days ago. My university seldom had classes, so instead I bounced around Europe between my few days in France. I found it difficult to coordinate travel plans with friends, especially since discussing travel plans meant endless meet-ups and passive aggressive bickering on the smallest of issues, so I decided to travel alone instead. Faith was an important part of my mother’s life. Around the age of ten, when I was still learning independence, she began to withdraw from our family and practiced a form of Buddhism intensely. She found a spiritual guru that she greatly respected and admired. The guru was old, nearing ninety, and she felt it was her duty to serve him. The guru, or her sifu, faced a dwindling amount of students, due to the complicated power struggles that boiled underneath the calm and quite often boring temple life. My family had been through a difficult fall from grace, from a huge apartment in Mid Levels on Hong Kong Island to my aunt’s flat in Sheung Shui, in the peaceful suburbs of the New Territories. I had always suspected her faith was a form of release, she would speak of memories of having breakfast at the Ritz Carlton fondly, but then with renewed vigor announce that her faith was now the correct path. I stayed in a hostel called Carpe Diem, about a ten minute walk from the city centre of Milan. The hostel had a sociable atmosphere, as guests and regular Milanese shuffled in and out of the main restaurant and bar area. Guests had a small table to themselves, and our lovely hostel hosts encouraged guests to sit together and interact. A buffet dinner was included in the price of accommodation, so every hostel guest, aware that the dinner was not truly free yet perfectly willing to claim satisfaction for having free dinner, would come around the same time and engage in light conversation. When I walked into the common area, I saw a cute girl with white streaks in her jet black hair. She sat at the hostel guest dinner table, speaking in rapid French with two other guests. I mustered up my courage, sat down next to her and introduced myself. My secondary school taught us theology in my junior years, usually during a short forty minute session after a double lesson but before recess. It wasn’t a class on the merits of each individual religion, but rather a platform for our school’s Christian teachers to preach the word of God and Jesus. The strand of Protestantism they preached was strict and condemned false idols. If you did not believe in their religion, hell awaits. I refused to believe my mother was condemned to hell, so I gathered up my courage and raised my hand in class. Sir, could it be possible if different religions were all valid deities, but they simply preached to different cultures and people? It would be like a school, where each teacher taught their own subject, but it would all be towards knowledge. No. Think of God as your Father, and one can only have one Father. But Sir, if people who don’t believe in God go to hell, then if a baby does not hear the word of God and dies before he or she can, what happens then? Oh, thats easy. They go to hell. Her name was Oceane. She came from Quebec and was on a holiday trip in Italy for two weeks. She had a disarming naivety mixed with a few traits of sophistication, both


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most likely stemming from a sheltered childhood and parents insecure in their own achievements. She studied Art History at a small college in Argentina, spoke fluent French and Spanish, but her English carried a slightly Latin twang. She had just been to the Prada Foundation Contemporary Art Museum and claims she enjoyed it thoroughly. One wonders if naivety was required to appreciate a painting consisting of three strips of blue on a red canvas. Soon the wine was flowing semi-freely, and the conversation acceptable. Oceane suggested our table of fast friends go about the city in search for adventure, alcohol and good vibes. What was there to lose? What do you believe in? Why are you asking such a question Oceane, this isn’t the time for such questions. Why not? Because we’re having fun here on the streets of Milan. To answer her in retrospect, when we think of faith, you might conjure up valiant tales of Joan of Arc or Winston Churchill, how they conquered insurmountable obstacles by sheer force of will and utmost belief that they were on the side of destiny. Faith is not a virtue for someone meek, someone who just wants to carve out their little corner in the world and have some fun whilst doing so. But I propose we reclaim faith, not only as a virtue for the greats, but a calmer, small optimism based on nothing. You might shout that by doing so, we would be downplaying faith as a crutch for weakness, rather than a call for greatness. True, but who’s to say these legends of old were not also using faith as a crutch? The Argentinians suggested we head to the canals of Milan, where a street of bars and club waited for us. They insisted on taking the tram to the canals, and in my youthful stubbornness I suggested we go by foot instead. It was my last night in Milan, and I would rather experience the night of Milan once more than ride a creaky tram. Oceane was torn between allegiance to her adopted countrymen and our possibly budding something. The Argentinians threatened her with exile, and in the end she opted to ride the tram. Wanting to seem independent and a critical thinker, I told her I’d see her at the canals. She grinned and in a jubilant voice declared we shall meet again soon. Can you have faith based on nothing? Yes. Possibly. Such questions were daunting, more a search for a slight boost in confidence than a genuine philosophical inquiry. It had been sixty minutes since I had seen Oceane. I was at the canals but saw no sign of her or the Argentinians. I wanted to resign myself to fate. Yet a small nagging voice told me to continue. What if she was around the corner? She could be standing alone on a quiet and melancholic bridge, disappointed with me. I would appear softly, maybe with a touch of jest, and she would feign anger at my delay, glaring at me with make believe rage and whacking me gently on the elbow. I could then deliver my perfectly calculated apology in a heartfelt stammering way, and the night would still be on. I did not have the unquestioned faith of the believers, but the small, tiny faith of a hopeful romantic. The next morning, I see an Argentinian comrade having breakfast quietly at the table we met last night. I tell him of my story last night, and he smiles gently. I did not find her, and out of fatigue returned to the hostel and fell asleep without even showering. He was also present at the table last night. He is still wearing his orange worker uniform, his facial hair unshaven, his coarse English which betrayed hints of wisdom of an uneasy life. Oceane would have left Milan already, and I can’t believe I threw away my chance. My brother, why not leave a message with the hostel. But there’s no way that’s going to work. The hostel would think I’m a stalker. Maybe, but why not? You have nothing to lose. Have some faith.


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Third Place

Ona Wong The Last Cry

CHAPTER ONE His chopsticks strike the dining table. “I don’t like the way you complain about me. I have done nothing.” The water droplets dripped from air-conditioner, a slight aftershake of the silverwares and the comedy television from the neighbor. All became distinct within the cold air. The classic ceiling lamp sways, when he stands, from side to side. His bowl of rice, the dishes of fried salmon, broccoli, and minced pork that Anissa has cooked left half-finished. Her eyes turned red. Lying on the sofa, looking up at the ceiling, she shuts her eyelids, forcing water backward. “Usually he will be back in two hours…” she thinks. Everything goes back to the fridge except the hot chicken soup with sliced oranges on the table. The fourth hour comes. Her phone rings. “Mom? Why so late?” “Hey girl. One of the lightbulbs is out just now. Just in case I forget.” “Oh okay. I’ll tell Mike to help you fix it this Sunday when we come.” “Thanks honey. Goodnight!” It is two a.m., the rain is falling heavily outside. Clouds are flowing around the dark sky. His string of home key lies on top of the shoes cabinet. She tidies up. She lies on the double bed, they used to spend their mornings and nights together. She hugs his pillow. Christian Dior cologne goes directly to her nose. He will be back. Her speaker plays the song that Mike sang to her. Her heavy eyes open. Her hands cover the harsh sunlight coming through the window. The soup and oranges are still in the living room. “Morning.” She messages him. She decides to turn on the last-seen notification for her very first time. “Hi? Shall we talk? I know you are here.” The conversation screen does not move for long. The phone is as still as the house. The bowl of soup oil has already floated on the surface and the sliced oranges have already dried to half-white. Ambling along the Tsim Sha Tsui Waterfront Promenade downstairs, she misses the dry cough that Mike has when he picks her up from work then walk back home together. The neon advertising signs on the rooftop of the buildings located opposite to the promenade, Mike promised that he would buy her a bigger flat in Hong Kong Island when he earned enough. There is now an empty space around. She arrives at the American steakhouse in Knutsford where they celebrate their anniversary. Her stomach growls. “Hey Anissa! It is nice seeing you again. Oh where is Mike?” “Hey yeah, Mike, he is busy.” She looks around the restaurant, glances at her phone. “Oh right, this is our new menu. Just an update, we have changed our chef.” “That’s sad! We have been eating here for five years. I’ll miss the food we used to pick!” The beverage page looks familiar to her. She points her fingertip from the top and scans.


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“Luckily. One glass of Mouton Cadet red wine please. And, a special of the day is fine.” Mike is online. She offs the screen. “Wait. Why do I have to do this? I am his wife!” She unlocks the screen again. A newly blank profile picture and WhatsApp status of him pop up. She stops her finger from moving on the screen. A salty drop falls down along her chin, then to the wine glass. Mike’s favourite vintage, a bit salty, a bit sour and sweet. The taste remains across her tongue from front to back and side to side. He will be back. She orders one more glass before leaving. CHAPTER TWO Mike takes a day-off from work. He takes a suitcase with him, walking up the staircases to their flat. He has forgotten the key the day he left the house. He steps on something beneath his feet. Bends down to turn over the door mat. It is a door key. Anissa is smart, and thoughtful. The cold oily soup with lines of ants around sits next to the mouldy black oranges on the dining table. He starts packing his personal stuff. Before leaving, he does a first-time-ever tidying up, to clean the bowls and plates, to tidy up the magazines spattered around the teapoy, the messy bed, and the floor full of tissue balls which some are still half-wet. Their wedding photo stands in front of the television, Anissa was with a delicate gold rhinestone bridal headband and the elegant Chinese red cheongsam with detailed hand-sewed rose peony flowers. Such close sight makes his hands warm. He kisses her forehead, whispers a word. Anissa opens the door. The empty dining table, her room, the toilet, no one. She picks up the phone, “Hey silly bae. I have already forgiven you. Wait for you to come back tonight. xx” Her sterling silver earrings are sided next to her bath. Her see-through lace striped sleepwear is stuck. She has mistakenly opened Mike’s drawer of boxers. Another drawer below – the singlets, socks, t-shirts, gone. She stretches her hands to his bedside cabinet. Boxes of condoms. Her palm touches a plastic bottle with Mike’s full name, and written “Azithromycin (2g)”. She types the words to Google. “Scientists found that a single, 2-gram pill of the antibiotic azithromycin worked … at treating early syphilis.” Tears drop on the phone screen. She uses the edge of her cotton t-shirt to wipe it, “Syphilis is not as common as some sexually transmitted infections but if left untreated it can cause very serious health problems in both men and women.” The downpour begins. She presses her forehead against the wall. For a moment, everything stops, even the wind. A stillness falls on the windows. Anissa opens a line of her swollen eyes. The sky is a blanket of grey. She falls back into dizziness. The phone rings and the world M is sparkling. She takes a slight cough within her throat. “H-al-o?” “Hey daughter. When are you two coming today? It is already five p.m.!” “Oh-shit.” Anissa looks up at the window. “Yeah, coming coming. Before seven!” CHAPTER THREE She chooses a long red dress and puts on a simple twisted-bun that is pulled low to the side, brightly energetic. “Where is Mike? My lightbulb is…” Anissa taps on mom’s hand, and cuts in.


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“I will come over tomorrow again and help you fix it. No worry mom.” Her bare neck and ears, her fingers, her puffy eyes. Mom pauses a moment. “Okay. Come, I prepare soup and oranges for you. Eat it before dinner.” Sitting in front of the dining table, she takes a deep breath. Still, tear slides down, drop by drop. She takes a bite of orange. She rushes to the washroom, bends down to the sink and retches. She wipes her cold sweats on the forehead in front of the mirror, slaps herself lightly on her cheeks. Her lips are closely stuck; she opens the door. Mom gently rubs Anissa’s shivering back, let her sink into the warmth of mom’s shoulder. After the dinner, she moseys along the pier where they used to stay until the last ferry had left. Anissa turns the diamond ring round and round in front of the eyes. “Anissa and Mike. Forever Love.” She faces towards the sea. What is love? It is like me and Mike… What is forever? I tried to work it out, but no one is with me… Tell me, what is forever love? Just bullshit. What is promise? A promise. Yeah. Promise. So, what is marriage? Say it, Anissa! You such a fool! The ring is right in her palm. Her hand keeps hitting the spinning head. She picks up her long dress and step onto the last ferry. CHAPTER FOUR All of a sudden, a guy gives her a pat on her shoulder. “It’s really you, Anissa!” “Hey dude why are you here?” “I am heading to Lamma Island for an event tomorrow. You?” Anissa embarrassingly asks “Lamma Island?” Her eyes look around the whole ferry, stretch far to the horizon beyond the sea. “Yeah. How are you doing these years?” “Anissa?” She gazes at him. “Anissa, how are you?” “I think I’m good.” She slides the ring into her pocket stealthily. Anissa sits beside the window, plugs her ears with headphone, listening to the song list that she and Mike used to play together during travels. “Cause all of me… loves all of you…” the sea waves outside suddenly flap over half of the window. She queues for the first one to leave the ferry upon arrival. The ferry stopped. She rushes to the counter and asks if there is a ticket for returning right now. “Sorry Miss, the last ferry has already left. Maybe you can wait for the first one at 6 a.m. tomorrow.” After days of rainpour, her long and thin shadow is clearly seen under the bright moonlight. Some


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mosquitoes are winding around, few people walking up in the dark. She looks back, no one. She immediately follows an old woman with a straw hat in front of her, stepping on the staircases, looking around for signals of triangles, circles and numbers. She takes out her phone, opens Google Map and finds a nearest inn, or any lodge will do. There is one around fifty-meters away. But the upper she walks, the weaker the internet signal, finally the internet connect fails to load. Heads up, she finds a neon arrow pointing to the left. A high-rise building stands up among the flat cubes. The signboard “Concerto Inn” is shining at her. She is offered the last superior room for the night. She locks the door, takes off her low twisted-bun, lies on the bed with both hands surrendering over her head, her shanks with a pair of black high heels are still out of the edge of the bed. “It’s always a good time Woah-oh-oh-oh…” Snoozed. “It’s always a good…” Snoozed. “It’s al…” She opens her eyelids and stretches her muscles. “Oh-no. It is Monday.” She stares at the pure white ceiling, the shiny gold-squared pillow on the sofa alongside her bed, the bunches of Gerbera in the balcony, the wooden floorboard in the balcony… she grasps the creases of her dress. She scrolls down the contact book in the phone. “Hi Joyce, this is Anissa. I am a bit…” “Hello? Hello?” “This is Anissa. Do you hear…” “Hello? Anissa?” “Yes. I am a bit…” Anissa goes down to the reception and asks for Wi-Fi network. She comes across a sky-blue long V-neck dress in a floral pattern with printed lace, blowing along the soft wind at the door of the inn’s gift shop. She sends a sick-leave message to Joyce, then takes a shower and puts on the new blue dress and the new beige flats. No phone network, no ideas, no plans, she sits on the sofa with her mind all empty. The sun shines on the diamond ring she puts on the table. A glittering, silver star shape is reflected onto the wall. She fixes her gaze on the long shadow, what in front of her is only a sheet of blur. Her head lies backward, with her long hair falling out of the sofa, stretching her neck and shoulder. She slowly closes her eyes, listens to the singing birds and the gentle wind whistles in the balcony. Time has paused quietly. All memories freeze. She checks out from the inn, wandering up and down the hill. The night with hundred staircases and scary darkness become a nice painting filled with marshland, tall vegetation and the dilapidated village of Long Tsai Tsuen. She is back to the pier. Standing at where she starts in the beginning, she chooses the narrow and congested main street on the right. She walks into a small shop selling handmade accessories. She puts on a long brown dreamcatcher necklace and a hairband with strings of furs aside. Swinging her bag backwards and forwards, striding with her toes, spinning around on the street like nobody is watching her. Finally, she jumps onto the sand in Hung Shing Ye. She lies on the beach chair partially sheltered by trees, gradually falls asleep. “Mike, this is mom. Are you with Anissa now?” “Hi mom. What’s the matter?” “Gosh… where did she go…” Anissa’s mom whispers through the phone. “Oh right I thought you are with her so I called.”


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“Her phone is always engaged or anything. She said she would come to settle my lightbulb. Right, did she tell you about this? I told her to…” “Um…” “Take her home if you see her Mike.” CHAPTER FIVE Mike knocks then slaps at Anissa’s door. Relieved to smell nothing out of the door, he opens it slowly with the key hiding beneath the floor mat. His eyes go in first, and only finds a crew of flies circling around the dining table. He closes his opened drawers and pulls out Anissa’s. All bras and panties are still there, including the leopard printed thong he bought for her in last anniversary. A light-paced tread comes into the house. Mike glances at a shadow on the floor. “Mike?” Anissa looks at Mike’s hand. “Hell…o.” Mike takes off his hand on the handle of the drawer. “Your mom called me and asked where you were. I helped her to find you.” He takes a peep on her furs banded around the head, the dreamcatcher and the gorgeous floral pattern. “Sorry that I not yet tell my mom about… us. I’ll reply her voice messages soon.” “Right, do you need any water?” Anissa walks towards the open kitchen. All the flies chase the smell of her new perfume. “Let me do it.” Mike takes his own cup. Anissa plugs her phone to the charger. His face is still round and hair is still that sparse. One thing, he has shaved the beard. “Thank you for the help. I’ll wipe it later.” Anissa stands up. “Are you free now?” Mike looks at her. “Why?” “Do you want to have a walk?” “Okay.” Tonight, they take a stroll along the waterfront promenade downstairs. Mike still coughs a bit. He takes a pack of tissue with him. “I know you saw that already.” Mike looks at her eyes. “That bottle.” Anissa does not say a word. She turns towards the harbor view. Mike touches her arm. “I’m sorry Anissa. Sorry! I’m really…” “That’s fine.” Anissa cuts in. “Anissa. I truly apolo…” Anissa takes off her dreamcatcher necklace, puts it in Mike’s palm. “I’m fine now. I wish you will be good, too.” She moves Mike’s fingers to wrap the dreamcatcher in his hand. “I gotta go. My phone is left charging and mom is waiting for my call.” She steps ahead. “Anissa…” Her eyes roll skyward. Her long hair is flying in the air. She raises the corners of her mouth, lets the power of life rain on her soul. “I am set free.” Her heart shouts out the genuine cry of peace.


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Third Place

Gigi Leung This Fairy Tale Hole

I do not know how to begin. But days do. They begin and drag me with them. Bleary eyes opened, elevator doors opened, closed. Read somewhere, or watched somewhere, in story books, movies, TV broadcasts, or newspapers, that sometimes elevators just plummeted. Straight. Down. And in that three or four seconds before your death, the elevator would be in a free fall, hurtling towards the ground at exactly the same acceleration rate as you would be. You would be weightless. For the first (and perhaps last) day in your life, you would be falling and not falling at all—but then—but then? Full stop. Hypothetical, of course. But could today be the day? Something settles more quickly than the question does, something. My nerves, they sink slowly, curl themselves into a collective ball, burrow into my stomach, and purr. Its whiskers tickle a bit. The skittish kitten that is afraid of the chill, hairs standing like quills, is like me who is nervous, just a little, while a plane is pushing off from the ground, coiling and ready to snap as it gains potential energy defying gravity. Defy it more still, defy this messy trepidation I will. Because in 2013, fewer than one flight in 300,000 had an accident, and travelling in a car or a truck is approximately 100 times more deadly than flying. I take the bus to and from school every day, and I am yet alive. Unless I am dead and still too shocked to realise it. Other than that, I am fine, I will be fine. Fewer than one flight in 300,000, 1 in 300,000, 1 in 300,000, 100 times more, 100 times more, 100… Because when in doubts, look to the numbers—the confident stroke of the straight 1, and the perfect curve of the 0, look to the— Numbers. The red dots forming the numbers like constellations, and the constellations keep transforming, forming, deforming, forming. That kaleidoscope enwrapped in mists of a Boggart: (sotto) riddikulus! (echoes of laughter) And the vision is gone. I straighten the half-turned-up corners of my lips inside the caved-in, crowded elevator. Floor after floor, down, down, down: the steel and iron and glass creature carrying us in its strong, metallic bear-hug. I can almost make out the sinews in its biceps, ropes made of steel wires entwined. Ding and a little jolt—G for Ground Floor. Preferable to crash-landing, but I can still think of better ways of going down. Stairs, maybe. One very specific set of stairs. Sunlight slanting through the little canopy layer with loose waxed feathers of leaves, and through the window, obscured by dried droplets. White concrete walls, slightly cracked and peeled with age, properly punctuated with scratches from the sides of schoolbags, giving way to light coral, marbleised surface just below the waist, offset the burnt umber bricks tiling the floor, step after step, down to terra firma, and, as a finishing touch, delineated by a plain, black plastic banister. It led the way to our classroom (a dry brush of occasional boredom, but endless trickles of comfort and camaraderie radiating, somehow, from the wooden chairs), or the hall (assemblies, suppressed giggles or heroic battles against nodding off), or the canteen (rush signalled by the bell, soya sauce, curry, stickiness, chatters). Those days were so easy, elementary. Step after step, sure, firm, familiar. The one fixed point in a changing age. Sure as burnt earth turning into terra-cotta, and burnt hearts into ashes.


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Burnt morning sky, ashes are the clouds. I am slowly learning that clouds always close our eyes. “Hey, morning.” A shoulder, a bit brusquely, bumps into mine. What happens when a cloud bumps into another one? I start infinitesimally at the imaginary thunder. The coffee spills a little, burns like a late lightning. “Morning to you too.” Is my reply late as lightning? Does she think me slow as those distant overcast, weighed heavy by the grey? Letting loose a smile, I lift my eyes to search her gaze, only to meet a maze. My eyes framed by black crescents, pulled tight at the corners, are covered by clouds again: how does one ever see anything? “Got to rush, see you around!” “Sure, see you!” Words, expressions and gestures stripped to the minimal, the bones turned glassy as the French window behind her, now devoid of her shadow. Navy jeans, aubergine shirt, black leather boots, oatmeal-beige jumper, all moving past, past, and reflected along with my own countenance, still humid from the cotton-white confusion. how do I ever know anyone? how do I ever know (how I stand with) anyone how do I ever see Colours, of people crossing, blend, swiping with broad brushes, swirling, swirling back, back to where there was certainty even in— Whirlpools of the whole world. Light brushes over the rim of our cart, speeds so fast that the traffic cop could give it a ticket. There was not much light, though, in that cavernous tunnel enveloping the rollercoaster track. The shadow howled past the shells of our ears, intermingling with the mimicries of bear roars. The decorations resurfaced: lurid mimesis of gold mines, rifle shots, the wide desolated west, of taming wild life—but still, could never, never tame adrenaline rushing faster than light and shadow and the rollercoaster galloping, blurred along with my myopia, with a sudden twist to the left, a jolt—where were you going? —up, up, uphill, and still. Just went on a little bit more and off we pop? Went on a little bit, a little bit more, went on beating, my heart beating, went—back and down, down, down backward it dived, my body the elevator and my heart the passenger, both weightless, both free-falling. Terror, I half-turned, felt you half-turn, laughed. Saw the sparkles and delirium in your eyes (you must have seen mine too) even without my glasses, without seeing. This, this was (is) one of the pictures I would (will) remember, always, all through my life. Always. Engraved snapshot. I knew, I knew. I know. Diamond-cut vision in a world of pixilation. The golden pin in an oscillating ocean of blue ribbons while we were singing ama me fideliter / fidem mean noto. The one fixed point in a changing age. The earth that stood still—let your heart be staid—in Aristotelian two-sphere universe, with prickling pinpoints of light ambulating around it, weaving a web for Helios and Artemis’s dance. When I was small, I wanted to be an astronomer. To map the stars. Those little fairy lights underneath the covers of the world, trying stealthily to read after Mother has turned the bed lamp off. But Mathematics intercepted my rocket’s trajectory, so I fell. But that was fine, because falling was just changing my course, diving right back into this river course. River of words, river of sand. Words are just like sand. If you squint until your vision turns hazy, the sand grains glow like stars too. So I did. I squinted, and convinced myself: words are stars, so I can still do it. I can map the stars in the black, black sky, I can map the words on the white, white paper. There were so many, so many of them. As numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore.


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As Abram’s descendants. Abraham, who took God’s words and just went. I started wielding words. It started small. It was not even my own words at first, but quotes. Quotes on memos. When the class bells trilled and classmates started meandering to different classrooms for their electives. When the (my; our) classroom dimmed, and when there was hardly a breeze at all. When I had my free lesson because I had ditched Geography to keep my History, Literature and Art, after doing the units on rivers, coasts and rocks—the interesting part—since, perhaps, perhaps, I was so convinced that sand and soil are too just dust of stars. In that cocoon of gloom, I lost my head (and heart and soul) to the words that had sifted through the rocky terrains of my mind, carried by the surface runoff of summer showers, and somehow got trapped in the crevices and decided to stay. I bent to pick them up and cradled them in my palms. Almost like telekinesis, my pen started scrawling on the mellow yellow sticky notes so tiny, tinier than my hands. I try and try / to understand / the distance in between / the love I feel / and the things I fear / and every single dream Alone is what I have, alone protects me. No, friends protect people. I cannot carry it for you, but I can carry you. The universe is big. It’s vast and complicated and ridiculous. And sometimes, very rarely, impossible things just happen and we call them miracles. I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead. I heard you. Some flourish here, a full stop, right, there. Maybe a little doodle as well. I got up from my seat, and, while the rattle of the chair against the floor was still resonating, I stuck the notes onto somebody else’s desks and went back to my own seat (to finally start working, perhaps). The memos were tiny from there, one end just barely adhering to the wood and another flying loose. Scintillating, dainty in the dim. They glittered (because words glitter). And there were so many, so many of them. But there are so many of them, so many of them! I pirouette on my heels in the library. Dark, matt, wooden shelves tower over me, taller than high-rise buildings—I would need an elevator to reach the top—and growing and growing, all lined with books. Words, words, words. I can never finish the– never— The sea surface reflects the stars, but the waves break the glass. Words, words, words, slowing paling into sand, are washed downstream. I watch them go. All lost, tied to the tide, dragged out, out into the open oceans. Stars are just dust, words are just sand, after all. After all has been drowned, I return to the stairs. The one fixed point in a changing age. But there is only a cascade. Somehow, the sea must have decided to pour back upstream, ambitious to swallow up the concrete and brick. The saline suds hit the shore of steps, eroding edge by edge away. I stand at the foot of the stairs, and stare in a trance, my white socks soaked to the last stitch. I was warned, that nothing is fixed but everything is in flux. I did not—why did I not listen? “Look at that staircase,” our retiring vice-principal with her ever cutting note threw the conundrum at us with glee, “you walk up and down those steps every day. How do you know it will not crumble? Have you counted the number of years it has stood here? Have you measured the length and width of the cracks? Have you calculated its maximum load capacity? No? Then how do you know if your next step is the last step you will ever take?” How do I know? How do I, how did I know? Have I ever? How did I ever think


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I knew once? Ever? Ever, the water carries bit by bit away, disintegrates brick after brick, un-builds step after step, unravelling time unwind, un wind, rewind, re rewind that rollercoaster, forward, for-backward, backward, heart pumping, terrified, we laughed, heart pumping through your/my/ our veins, terrified, we laug- did we? Rewind, unwind, reel backward, terrified, heart pumping through (your)/my/(our) veins, we/I laughed. Reel, re-wind forward, terrified, heart pumping through my veins, I laughed. I lau- I—I (the water at my kneecaps now) take a step forward and upward. Will it fall will it fall? Will it collapse and memories lapse? Will it fall? Did you laugh, with me? How did I, how do I, how will I ever know? One more step (water rising), one more. Will the next step be the step where the brick cracks open and I take a tumble down a black, black hole? How— “—are you? You look a bit pale. Anything the matter?” “Oh, fine. It is nothing.” Nothing. Nothing can escape from inside a black hole. Gravity so strong that it eats and eats and eats, even light (how do I ever see?) and time (did I ever? Will memories falter and lapse?). The way that gravity pulls on you and me, the way that gravity pulls, pulls, pulls—what if I fall? Will there be nothing left? No light, no l– night, no night (because there should be stars at night). So—a lemon-yellow memo flowing downstream, like a little boat about to, but never going to, drown, haloed in gold, I pick it up, words, words, words—so what if I fall? Oh but my darling, what if you fly? Because it is in every step—one more step, it will hold, and one more—every feedback of vibration curling into my soles—it still holds, and you have not fallen, you do not, will not f– or if you fall, you will fly, a gasp suspended in no gravity. It is in every step, every breath, every exhale of the stories we tell, enunciate for ourselves, of the glitter—of pixie dust or stardust, it does not matter—because all that is gold does not glitter, not all that is gold does glitter, gold, that is all. And are not we all, are not we all? Abraham’s descendants, who took (take) the words and just went (go)? As numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore. Are not we all? Stars and words and sand and fairy tales, page after page and step after step, believes we make for ourselves. And I reach the last step, the summit and—it gives. The fabric of solidity gives way to fragility, and I fall—black hole or rabbit hole? —Falling is just like flying, except there is a more permanent destination. Falling is just like flying, except there is, there is, Falling is just like flying,


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Falling is, falling— flying– except there is, there is, a more permanent t d e t

n si

i de i s n ot

d es t i n

a ti o n

ot a i n a n

, but teetering on the

tide is not an end, never end, I never land, fly– ing open-eyed Vertigo swirls my sight and I do not know, I do not know still, do not know yet—all that I do know. So I do not know, I do not, do not know. I do not (need to) know, and fall/fly into


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Editor’s Choice The following works, though not in top 3, display brilliant techniques and creativity. We would therefore like to award these talented writers the Editor’s Choice prize for their excellent works.

FAITH

Magdalen Chan

CHAPTER ONE “Begone, Satan, inventor and master of all deceit, enemy of man’s salvation—” Father Abney stood over me, holding the wooden crucifix in front of my face, his eyes so intense they burned right through me. Floods of prayer tumbled out of his mouth, spit hitting my face as he screamed the last of his words, his whole body shaking with emotion and hatred for the evil Being within me. “…save your servant from every threat or harm from the evil one, and protect him by raising him above all evil—” Tears pooled in my eyes. Nothing had changed. It was still within me, I could feel it. It wouldn’t budge, no matter how many times the priests came and said their prayers. Then it was over. Father Abney fell back, exhausted and wild-eyed. Mother’s sobs escaped from behind her hands. We all knew. It didn’t work. _________ My mother used to read the Bible to me when I was small. She would cradle me in her arms, her gentle voice giving shape to the wonderful stories of Jesus and his miracles. There was one that I didn’t particularly like. In that story, Jesus exorcised demons out of a man and into a herd of swine, after which they rushed downhill and drowned themselves in the water. It was a horrible image. Mother stroked my head when I hid beneath the duvet. “Demons find it hard to invade a strong and faithful soul,” she reassured me. “Christopher will be safe if he is a good boy.” I remember looking up at her, doubtful, “What do I have to do to be a good boy?” Mother smiled, “Have faith in God, and always listen to him. Do you have faith in God, Christopher?” I nodded enthusiastically, “Yes.” Later, I learned that this was what I had to do, in order to enter Heaven and live a meaningful life. _________ Later that night, I was lying in bed. The exorcism had left my parents and the priest exhausted, but I was as awake as ever. The Thing was clawing its way out within me. And it hurt. I could hear muffled voices from across the corridor. Mother and Father were having a row. “…so you’re blaming me now, are you?” “I did not say that. I was just saying it was me who took over the job of teaching him when you weren’t even at home every single night—” “And look where your teachings got him.” “I tried so hard, John, I tried so hard to make him a good person, but he just went and—” More sobbing, then silence. My father sighed. “I’m sorry. Let’s just talk this over…” The door clicked shut, and there was not a sound. I had a dream before Mother woke me up. She stood gingerly at the far end of my bed, her hand clutching a small crucifix. The room was dark, save for the moonlight streaming in from outside the window. I could not decipher her expression. “Christopher, I have


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talked to your father about this. You will be going to the local church starting from tomorrow.” I blinked, “W-Why? What for?” “Conversion therapy. Soon, Christopher, you will be yourself again, as long as we put our trust in Him… Do you, Christopher? Do you trust that He’ll make you better?” I nodded silently. She then left the room, quickly closing the door behind her. This was when I realized that she was scared of me. Of all the demons within me. But I had been lying. I didn’t believe that God could make me better. I could not get better, no matter how hard I tried. Because I dreamt about Andrew again. _________ Middle school was not kind to me. Every day was like a trial, with the same people as prosecutor, judge and jury all at once. Whatever I said became the butt of their jokes, and soon I learned to keep my mouth shut. They stole and hid my belongings, taunting me all the way; their teeth bared, ready to strike. Andrew was different. He was one of those quiet, thoughtful ones, too clever to be mingling with the crowd. He always had a book in hand, his longish brown hair falling over his eyes as he turned the pages, alone in the empty, sunlit classroom. He looked up, caught me staring, and smiled that little knowing smile of his. My heart turned over. We were friends from then on. With him, the bullies didn’t matter anymore. My favorite memory of him was on a late Tuesday afternoon. We were alone in the school courtyard, a small corner behind the shed. The late afternoon sun painted his lashes a dark gold. I was crying because they had thrown my bag into the pond. He just sat quietly next to me, watching the clouds come and go. “It’s us against the world,” he said finally. “Christopher, are you with me?” His voice was trembling, his eyes glazing over. “But they hate me—” I began, then he leaned in and kissed me ever so slightly. His hazel eyes held mine for the longest moment, then, in the far distance, someone screamed. _________ Mother took me to the local church next morning. My breakfast churned in my stomach. Father Clark was waiting for us at the front door. Before she left, Mother pressed her crucifix into my hand, “Have faith in Him, and you’ll be better.” Father Clark was stonyfaced, dragging me by the arm as he led me down the stairs into the basement.

“Sit down.” he commanded. I sank into the little wooden chair in the middle of the room, chewing on the inside of my mouth the whole time. “Christopher, is it?” I nodded. “Do you know why you’re here?” More nodding. He paused, fixing his black, unblinking eyes on me, waiting for an answer. I looked down, “Because I committed a sin against God.” He breathed in, “A mortal sin of the most repulsive kind. You should be ashamed of yourself. But God is benevolent. He will forgive you, if you repent, and vow that you will never commit such a sin again.” I hung my head, “I do repent.” He narrowed his eyes, “Do you still love Andrew?” Something unraveled within me. I knew the correct answer to his question, but I couldn’t say it. Father Clark slammed his fist so hard on the desk I jumped. “I knew it. You are lying. You are nothing but unrepentant and self-righteous even in the face of God. There is no other way.” He pulled me from the chair and into another room.


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_________ The boys snickered and kept eyeing me and Andrew during Bible class. The topic of that lesson was the Destruction of Sodom. “Does anyone know why God destroyed the city of Sodom? What sins have its inhabitants committed?” Sister Osbourne scanned the class. Jeremy who sat in front of us raised his hand, “Because the guys were shagging?” He turned around and flashed me the nastiest grin. “Just like how Andrew and Christopher were.” Another boy piped up, “We saw them do it behind the shed!” Suddenly everyone was talking all at once, features twisted, fingers pointing. In the midst of the chaos, Sister Osbourne dropped the piece of chalk she was writing with. The room started spinning— “We did nothing of the sort.” A clear voice abruptly ended the mindless chatter. “I kissed Christopher. We did nothing wrong.” Sister Osbourne’s mouth dropped open in horror, struggling as she tried to find the words to say, “Andrew, a-apologize right now. Why on earth would you—” “Because I love him. Haven’t you been teaching us about love? Isn’t that what God is all about?” His jaw trembled slightly, emotion breaking his voice, as if he had been holding all this in for a long time. “Christopher…” he turned to me. “I’m sorry, Sister Osbourne, I’m so sorry—” I chortled, tears streaming down my cheeks. “I didn’t mean to, I-I wasn’t in my right mind—” The class watched, amused, as I begged her not to tell my parents. I forced myself to look away from Andrew. I didn’t want to see that wounded expression on his face. _________ The pain took me back to the present. Father Clark held my nose and poured a clear, pungent liquid down my throat. He switched on the television and left the room. Tied to a chair, I was forced to watch hours and hours of gay pornography, retching all the while because of the nausea-inducing medicine that I drank. Between waves of overwhelming sickness, I thought of Andrew’s kiss. He was so gentle with me. He always held my hand when I felt sad. He was the only one whom I could entrust with my deepest, darkest secrets. But soon… but soon he would grab me and force himself upon me, just like those men on the screen. My stomach lurched again, cold sweat soaking my shirt. Vulgar. Vulgar. Vulgar. It was immoral. No, it was evil. It was blasphemy of the most outrageous kind. Only God could save me from this excruciating pain. I closed my eyes, heaving. Slowly, I began to feel the Thing inside me fade. I was finally getting better. But why does my heart ache so much? “The Royal College of Psychiatrists have recently issued a report, stating that no evidence suggests that attempts to alter the sexual orientation of homosexuals are possible. Conversion therapies have now become one of the most fiercely debated issues. Research says that it could cause permanent damage to the body and harm self-esteem…” The news on television blared on, but the boy on the couch was deaf to every word of it. He sat quietly, a limp and lifeless doll, eyes staring into space, body twitching now and then, hands gently fingering the small crucifix his mother gave him three years from today. They all say that it is the symbol of faith.


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A Diversion

Arthur Lewis Thompson

We suspected the captain would go down with his ship. But at first it was uncertain because he was so drunk. The captain was known to be especially reckless when drunk, which was most likely why our ship ran aground in the first place. We thought he might trap everyone aboard and steal away on one of the lifeboats by himself, laughing as he paddled to safety. This was only my second voyage with the captain and I already knew this much about his character. The trouble started after Amoy when the Captain ordered me and one of the other cadets to string a zip line from one smokestack to the next. Our rig’s smokestacks were at opposite ends of the upper deck and looked like those on the Titanic—that should have been a sign for what was to come but, stupidly, I ignored it. If you rode the zip line from one smokestack to the next you’d zoom right over a three-story drop, to the lower deck, and then you’d have to figure out how to stop before slamming full-speed into the second smokestack at the end. The crew who obeyed even the craziest of the Captain’s orders were all strong men, so they held on past the three-story drop no problem. It was the second smokestack that almost killed them. You gained so much speed you thought you were going to crash right through the smokestack and fly ass first into the big blue. Each guy would panic and stretch his legs out while the Captain guffawed over loudspeaker from the bridge. Six guys wound up with sprained knees and ankles. And Joseph, the skinny Filipino engineer, nearly broke his left leg. Joseph stayed below deck resting his leg all the way to Vanuatu. We were bunkmates. When I wasn’t on watch, I’d keep him company painting. That’s what I came aboard for, to paint. Mostly I painted the sea and the sky but sometimes Joseph let me do a quick portrait. He was aboard for different reasons. Mostly for the money though he said he’d always loved the sea because his father was a fisherman back in the Visayas. Joseph was Catholic and sometimes spoke as if the decisions he made in life were not up to him. Yet everything happened to him for a reason. It gave his life a sense of purpose that I could only admire. He liked to talk, which is why I liked setting up my easel beside his bunk. Endless stories about his family, which also seemed endless, his aunts, his mother, his brothers, his cousins, his sisters, what they cooked, what they fought over, who got in trouble, who behaved, who worked, who was lazy. He went on and on. Even when he’d run out of meaningful things to say, he’d fill the pause by bowing his head in prayer. He was younger than me, but his voice rustled in your ears with that grandpa-ish quality, so soft and soothing that it threatened to lull you right up to the precipice of sleep. It was positively hypnotic and perfect for painting. In the middle of one of his stories, Joseph stopped and asked me why I’d taken the job as cadet. It was the first question he’d asked me and I was taken aback, not because I didn’t know the answer, but because the room swelled with silence and thick summer heat, not to mention that I’d grown used to the one-sidedness of time spent with Joseph. How was I supposed to tell a devout Catholic that my parents were missionaries? Let alone protestant missionaries! And that escaping their evangelical escapades was precisely why I’d responded to the ad in the paper. DECKHANDS WANTED, BOUND FOR PORTS ACROSS THE PACIFIC. No, that would be tantamount to telling Joseph that I didn’t believe in God. I could not be so direct. We would no longer be friends. Were we friends? We would no longer be bunkmates. Instead, I told him that I’d come


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aboard to save money for art school, which was also true. My parents would rather set fire to the cross than pay heretics to teach me to paint. To them, my painting was nothing but a distraction from God, and serious, non-religious paintings, so-called art, was not a profession—it was an abomination. Perhaps Joseph would think so too now that I’d laid my life plans before him. But he changed the subject. Of course my parents had been upset when I showed them my letter of employment from Savoy Shipping. Father especially. He’d wanted me to accompany him further up the Pearl River Delta on his latest mission, deep into Canton, un-saved territory. But eventually they conceded. Father said time at sea was not solitary at all but quality time spent with God. Perhaps I would find Him. I had visited my father many times on his missions. Every Christmas, since I was small, mother and I would take the steamer up to whichever village he had been posted to. The first visits were smoky green blurs spent shivering in a draughty village-house, stinking of manure, lent to my father by a new convert, with our Ayi standing in the doorway shooing stray dogs and curious children away. Later, as I grew older and into a more conscious being, I started to hate these visits. The way father pandered to the wide-eyed villagers, flaunting his exotic complexion and his passable Chinese, doling out free clothes and food with a smile, luring the villagers closer and closer to salvation. He made it look easy which is precisely why the Fellowship sent him. Did the villagers ever realize what he was up to? And did they regret accepting him, welcoming him, irremovably stitching him into the fabric of their lives? To change their lives through kindness, and how our family lived off what could be bought in exchange for that kindness, a kind of performance, in which my father played the lead. Well, I was having no part in it. I resisted as many of my parents’ requests as possible during these visits to “father’s village” (Would you write this letter to so and so to ask for more hymnals? In a minute, would you mind helping me patch up the wall? Could you drag those sacks of rice into the kitchen?) and quietly venture out into the landscape. This was how I began to paint, to fill the hours. How my parents would loathe to think that this is how I was “led astray”, so to speak. All of this, these smoky blurs, these thoughts, flew through my head, projected before my eyes like a motion picture, while the others panicked and our ship sank. What was I to return to once she was below water? Should I be afraid? The Captain had nothing to return to. That’s why he drank, we guessed. That’s why he’d play Carmen on the gramophone in the middle of the night, alone, in the bridge, we guessed. Our Captain was a true captain in that sense. His ship was his everything and most of us aboard feared him. So when he asked me, “Should I jump?” I hesitated, glancing overboard. As I shouted my reply, pillars of black smoke erupted from below deck. The kitchen had caught fire. Chan, the cook, emerged clutching his prized possession: a cricket in a bamboo cage, his only company in the galley. I lost track of the Captain after Chan came sputtering out, face blackened. He was not upset. Through the commotion, his cricket continued chirping, sounding the alarm, or perhaps celebrating its liberation from the depths. We ran to help the others ready the lifeboats. The air smelled of


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smoked salt. It wasn’t until I was on the lifeboat watching Joseph launch flares that I considered what I’d said to the Captain. Nobody had seen him since the kitchen blew up. Some guessed he was on another lifeboat. What was it I said? “The jump won’t kill you.” His beard was dripping. Whisky? Gin? People imagine night as a time for shipwrecks. Ours happened in broad daylight. Not long after lunch the Captain steered us into an atoll. Reef snarling on the metal hull which moaned like a cow going hoarse in labor, of all things. The ocean was crystal blue, almost white. We would sink in the shallows. Who did the Captain think he was, asking me, a cadet, whether he should jump? What did he want? To kill himself? To swim to safety? To let the crew have the best of the lifeboats? Of which there were not many. I don’t know why I told Joseph what I said to the Captain. I regretted the words as soon as they slipped off my tongue. Too late. I had succumbed to anger or panic and told the Captain to jump. What good would confiding in Joseph do me? It reminded me of something I might say to my father as a child. It was as if I wanted his approval. “Daddy, did I do the right thing?” Joseph looked at me long and hard. “We should pray.” That was all he said on the matter. Did I pray? Was it because I actually felt guilty or was it Joseph’s unusual silence, his gaze? Or was it the fear of death itself, our missing Captain, the smouldering of our ship? It would have made a pretty picture. * Hours later the ship had settled on the ocean floor but was not yet totally submerged, the bridge bobbed like a swimmer treading water. There was some hope for our Captain until the whole rig finally flipped sideways. Where the bridge had just been, the crack in the hull was now fully exposed, sitting right above the water like the mouth of some metallic sea monster waiting to catch its prey. It was not possible for us, as men, to express our distress, but you could taste it, as salty as the air. Chan’s cricket started chirping again as soon as the wreck fell silent, its swan song finished. “Jacob, tell us about your paintings,” Joseph said as he launched another flare. The men aboard turned to listen. “You paint good,” Chan said, nodding. The others murmured in agreement. My paintings were no secret though I never


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spoke of them openly. I told the men the truth about how I started painting, about my parents being missionaries. Most were sympathetic in ways that only sailors can be. They were superstitious, not religious, as most seafarers are, except Joseph. He said nothing, fiddling with the flares and charts. He pretended to check when the next ship would pass through, to our eventual rescue. After I was finished, the other men, even Chan, shared their stories one after another. The first mate, a South African, blubbered about his girl back home. A few deckhands, Portuguese, were angry, their lives more stagnant than they’d hoped for, stagnant for sailors whose lives drifted from port to port. Chan said he’d be happy as long as he got paid despite the wreck. He held up his cricket, as if to explain. We all agreed that his cricket did make nice music over the waves. It was funny to hear something so land-bound sing so freely for the sea. We talked through the night. It seemed a shame that we hadn’t done this until our ship was sunk, our Captain gone. After we finally docked in Hong Kong, aboard an unfamiliar ship, Joseph tried to have the port authorities arrest me. It had been two months since the Captain’s disappearance and Joseph hadn’t shown any hostility towards me. He still talked constantly, though not as cheerfully as before. In fact nobody blamed me for whatever happened to the Captain. But was it even my fault? I didn’t think so. In the end, it was Chan who tipped me off. He overheard Joseph talking to the customs officials in the cargo bay. So I made a run for it. I paid a porter boy to roll me off the ship in a crate and as soon as we past the authorities, I bolted. Why did Joseph turn on me? It was all I could think about as I made my way to the star ferry. Did he really believe I was responsible for the Captain’s death? Or was he merely diverting the blame to me in order to protect himself? And who better to choose for a scapegoat than a low-life painter? It surprised and hurt me because we had gotten along so well. It was as if none of that had happened. As if. Mother was reading on the sofa and Ayi was helping Father pack bibles when I walked through the door. They couldn’t believe it. It was as if I’d come back from the dead, which may as well have been true. Word about the accident hadn’t reached home yet, but, according to my contract, I was home three months early! I told them the sea wasn’t for me and it may have taken two voyages but in the end I decided to quit. They were happy to see me and not another thought crossed their minds. They didn’t ask why I hadn’t brought home any paintings. The next morning Father left for a new village, the furthest up the Pearl River he’d been yet. He was to leave before the morning paper was delivered. So I went with him and missed the headlines. CADET EVADES PORT AUTHORITIES. RECKLESS SAILOR – MURDER SUSPECT ON THE LOOSE. I didn’t have the courage to tell him the truth about why I suddenly decided to join the mission. He almost keeled over with delight when he saw me that morning waiting for him in the kitchen, when I asked to go with him. With God, he corrected me. It was the happiest I’d seen him in a long time.

A week or so passed before Mother sent the clippings. Another two months passed before we received them in our remote outpost. There weren’t any pictures of me, of course. But Father put two and two together. Though the newsprint was damp, the ink smudged, there was the Captain looking dapper and beardless in his uniform, fresh from some Mariner’s academy, a portrait from another era. I was painting a villager’s portrait, an activity I was allowed to indulge in ever since my newfound faith, when Father walked in. He smoothed the clippings out before showing them to me. The look in his eyes when he asked “Jacob, do you know anything about this?” nearly killed me.


Glossary Exco: jong: jong mo: jongyau: seung jong:

Executive Committee member The cabinet of a Society / Association / etc. Preparation work for events held in a Society / etc. Fellow Executive Committee member of a cabinet Becoming an Executive Committee member of a Society / etc.

Editor Shirley Yau shirley.hkuengsoc@gmail.com Publisher English Society, A.A.H.K.U.S.U., Session 2016-2017 Address Room 2A01(1), Fong Shu Chuen Amenities Centre, the University of Hong Kong Email engsoc@hku.hk Facebook www.facebook.com/HKU.English Instagram @hkuengsoc The graphics used in this newsletter (apart from our own original photos and posters) are in no way owned by English Society, A.A.H.K.U.S.U., and assumed to be of public domain.



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