Another Village Nostalgia’s Watch Travellers

baoyan

Another Village

KYLIE WANG

Where distant mountains of faded green can be seen through the gaps in between assorted buildings and low-hanging trees, I remember that antiquated apartment On the smeared coral bricks arranged in a street.

Through iron gates the worn path goes and meets grainy walls of bleached rose Decades ago untarnished, square and grandiose, Now tinged with sun-muted yellows. Carved windows, curtain-laden and dark offset the arced blades on their skeletal frames— The electrical fans’ whirs sliced the summer stillness. Pipes navigated the vertical terrain, its leaks staining the surface with mossy tears of age.

Corrugated sheets of rusted metal lined above, Like rigid, rasping pages overlapping to form a shelter when sombre clouds blanket the land on tranquil days over rooftop gardens where the wizened dwellers gaze —at the blooming pines on rippling hills among the miniature dollhouses— A pincushion of skyscrapers faraway.

I remember that quiet nook amidst the ceaselessly buzzing city. Another antiquated apartment, in 又一村 Yau Yat Chuen—Another Village, they named the modest town of assorted buildings and low-hanging trees, Through the gaps of which distant mountains of faded green can be seen.

Davdeka

Nostalgia’s Watch

KYLIE WANG

Tick. Tock. The gold-coated clockwork hung above the enfolding waves, its polished needle approaching North in even increments. The Hand stretched, pinched with two fingers and rewound the clock.

Darkness cloaked the horizon for the minutes after, The water swished endlessly, and above, the clockwork ticked, until at 11:30, the warped image of a beige room appeared in the black ripples: Metal bed. Plastic-sticky furniture. Sterile light from inset fixtures carved indifferently into the ceiling. Beneath the frequently washed sheets, a shrivelled body…

At 9:45, a second-hand table emerged in the waves, propped with a rusty lamp. Strewn envelopes littered the floor, like leaves fallen from a withered tree. Stark white against rotten floor planks, Papers printed, with ant-like words, and impartial numbers. The view tilted precariously. In the swirling eddies, there was almost the sound of heavy, laboured breathing, and suffocating pulses of heartbeat.

The Hand kept turning. It passed eight o’clock. Six o’clock. Scarlet wine trickled into a clear glass. Thin dresses, plain suits, sugary smiles and strained laughter. Their lips mouthed silent words meticulously designed not to anger. The needle pointed now to five, now to four. Scenes dashed by, a blinking city, a feast in snowy lace, A brick school, stained with wallpaper mold and outside with moss.

Above brew a witch’s storm, as morning faded to twilight. Flashes of lightning caught snapshots of splintered reflections. Lithe fingers waltzing on ivory keys of a glossy ink piano. Huddling in the bushes, splattered with mud, twigs stuck in boots. Looming figures, a gentle caress, turned into a pointing finger—

The Hand passed 1:00. The images dissolved. The water calmed. All that remained was white sand, soft as sunlight, wishing, as always, that gravity would reverse, to fall upward, and return to the crystal curve at the top half of the hourglass.

Midnight. The delicate line had looped and snaked back to where it began. The Hand plucked the clock as payment, pressed the cool glass into the palm. The vortex gurgled, and sunk into a small, round drain, Droplets that turned into iridescent pearls. Tick. Tock. as they fell.

CYC

Travellers

KYLIE WANG

In the echoes of history, embarking from the harbours of China And washing up on the cliff shores of a typhoon-ravaged island, We forged an emerald haven amidst rocking hills, where buildings sprouted, Draped with lanterns and paper like jewellery of red and gold.

A gem lurked in every corner of labyrinthine night markets— a shabby stand— across generations, serving pearls of sweet potato, or noodles in thick, scalding soup. In the remote building camouflaged among grey apartments with aching joints, I would gulp down the treat, then curl up in the moisture-laden summer atmosphere, Listen to the documentary on television, in murmured Taiwanese: A lullaby I don’t understand but always recognise, weaved into an ancient, homespun song.

Again fifteen years ago, my father marched off a plane, returning to the origin, Bare but for a suitcase that packed his unerring diligence. Hong Kong, too, is assembled from skyscrapers, a striking cadence in ceaseless evolution. I grew up there, among the old, stained buildings and criss-crossing streets Veins of underground trains overflowed with students and businessmen, both crisply dressed, Swaying alongside aunties hugging their pot of orchids for Lunar New Year. They ride to young towers spiking towards the clouds like the prongs of a glittering crown. At night, a collage of shop signs glow in neon colour, And from our balcony I watched the sleepless car lights wind around roads etched in memory.

Finally, the plane ride to America on a rainy morning two years ago, Through the clouds, the sun stubbornly beams, like arrows pointing A sweet whisper to a fresh melody: “this is where you come from, this is where you’ll go” As fluorescent lights shine in descending nightfall from across the ocean.

Kylie Wang is a Taiwanese writer (she/her) who grew up in Hong Kong. She is now a high school student in California. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Arts and Writing Award, Bluefire 2020 Journal, Mt. Diablo’s Young Writer’s Contest, and Creative Communications. She spends her free time reading on my Kindle, coding or playing with her four-year-old brother.