Showing posts sorted by date for query huina zheng. Sort by relevance Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by date for query huina zheng. Sort by relevance Show all posts
The Birthday Gift
by Huina Zheng
“You waste money,” Old Li said, pointing at the blue-wrapped birthday gift in his son’s hands.
“You spent far more on my education,” Ming replied.
“That’s what parents are supposed to do,” Old Li said, weighing the box with a satisfied smile.
“Then I made sure today’s gift follows the proper path,” Ming said.
Lao Li laughed as he unwrapped it.
“Thanks to your year-round drills, no days off, and the countless belts you broke on my back, I finally got into medical school,” Ming added, his tone as casual as discussing the weather. “You always said studying is the only proper path.”
Old Li’s smile froze.
A brand-new smart study tablet lay on the velvet lining.
“Latest model. Complete parental-monitoring functions,” Ming said, leaning in to power it on. The screen lit up with course lists. “I’ve enrolled you in a senior-college intensive program. Daily check-ins. Weekly exams…”
Old Li stared at the notification flashing: Today’s Required Lesson: Algebra I. His fingers trembled.
“You always said one should learn for life,” Ming said, gently pressing the lock button. “Now it’s my turn to keep you on the proper path.”
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng is a writer and college essay coach based in Guangzhou, China. Her work appears in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other journals. She has received multiple nominations, including for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction.
“You waste money,” Old Li said, pointing at the blue-wrapped birthday gift in his son’s hands.
“You spent far more on my education,” Ming replied.
“That’s what parents are supposed to do,” Old Li said, weighing the box with a satisfied smile.
“Then I made sure today’s gift follows the proper path,” Ming said.
Lao Li laughed as he unwrapped it.
“Thanks to your year-round drills, no days off, and the countless belts you broke on my back, I finally got into medical school,” Ming added, his tone as casual as discussing the weather. “You always said studying is the only proper path.”
Old Li’s smile froze.
A brand-new smart study tablet lay on the velvet lining.
“Latest model. Complete parental-monitoring functions,” Ming said, leaning in to power it on. The screen lit up with course lists. “I’ve enrolled you in a senior-college intensive program. Daily check-ins. Weekly exams…”
Old Li stared at the notification flashing: Today’s Required Lesson: Algebra I. His fingers trembled.
“You always said one should learn for life,” Ming said, gently pressing the lock button. “Now it’s my turn to keep you on the proper path.”
Huina Zheng is a writer and college essay coach based in Guangzhou, China. Her work appears in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other journals. She has received multiple nominations, including for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction.
The Laughing Class
by Huina Zheng
At 8:20 a.m., just as the first-period bell faded, Teacher Chen’s piercing voice filled the classroom. Since becoming their homeroom teacher in fourth grade, she had called them “stupid,” “disgusting,” and “brainless,” though to parents she insisted that “strict teachers produce top students.”
Lan, as class monitor, sat upright with a serious expression. It was her duty to set the example. Yet inside she bristled. She disliked this teacher, and even more, the endless scolding.
Let something happen. Make her stop, she shouted in her head.
She kept her back straight, for lowering her head was not allowed; she kept her hands on the desk, since hiding them below would only invite more fury. Teacher Chen, gesturing as she lectured on discipline, knocked over her water cup. Tea spread in widening circles across the podium and dripped to the floor. Lan pressed her lips tight, but her deskmate Ling let out a snicker. Instantly, the room caught fire: muffled giggles swelled into loud, unrestrained laughter. Lan joined in, her voice rising until it drowned out Teacher Chen’s scolding.
Teacher Chen’s face darkened. “Quiet! Be quiet!” she shouted. But the class only laughed harder, their voices rattling the desks and spilling into the hallway, storming into the next classroom.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.
At 8:20 a.m., just as the first-period bell faded, Teacher Chen’s piercing voice filled the classroom. Since becoming their homeroom teacher in fourth grade, she had called them “stupid,” “disgusting,” and “brainless,” though to parents she insisted that “strict teachers produce top students.”
Lan, as class monitor, sat upright with a serious expression. It was her duty to set the example. Yet inside she bristled. She disliked this teacher, and even more, the endless scolding.
Let something happen. Make her stop, she shouted in her head.
She kept her back straight, for lowering her head was not allowed; she kept her hands on the desk, since hiding them below would only invite more fury. Teacher Chen, gesturing as she lectured on discipline, knocked over her water cup. Tea spread in widening circles across the podium and dripped to the floor. Lan pressed her lips tight, but her deskmate Ling let out a snicker. Instantly, the room caught fire: muffled giggles swelled into loud, unrestrained laughter. Lan joined in, her voice rising until it drowned out Teacher Chen’s scolding.
Teacher Chen’s face darkened. “Quiet! Be quiet!” she shouted. But the class only laughed harder, their voices rattling the desks and spilling into the hallway, storming into the next classroom.
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.
You're Here
by Huina Zheng
It started by accident. The first strand of hair was tangled around my toothbrush. Stretched across the bristles, abrupt and silent. I pinched it between my thumb and forefinger. It was longer than my short hair, split at the ends, still carrying the cheap floral scent of her shampoo. Mom’s. I curled it onto my tongue and swallowed. The second was caught in my backpack zipper. Stiff and stubborn, like the tight line of her mouth when she scolded me. I tugged. It snapped in two. I swallowed it too.
Soon I started searching. Strands clung to the underside of her pillowcase like cobwebs; a few were buried in the couch, tangled with crumbs. At the collar of her black sweater, I pressed down clear tape and peeled it off, zzzt, my favorite sound. I even knelt by the bathroom drain, digging out a clump of hair knotted with soap and skin. I rinsed it, wrapped it in tissue, and swallowed it like a dumpling.
After chemo, she always wore a beige cap, brim pulled low. Cherry-red lipstick brightened lips drained of color. I imagined the smooth scalp beneath.
I used to hate her long hair. She never let me grow mine out, said I had to learn to wash and braid it first. But hers flowed to her waist, shed on pillows, coiled in combs, floated in our soup. I used to gag at the sight.
Now, she won’t let me see her head. Says it bothers her.
I place my hand over my stomach. It feels heavy. “You see?” I whisper to her cap. “You’re here.”
My body has finally learned how to hold her.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.
It started by accident. The first strand of hair was tangled around my toothbrush. Stretched across the bristles, abrupt and silent. I pinched it between my thumb and forefinger. It was longer than my short hair, split at the ends, still carrying the cheap floral scent of her shampoo. Mom’s. I curled it onto my tongue and swallowed. The second was caught in my backpack zipper. Stiff and stubborn, like the tight line of her mouth when she scolded me. I tugged. It snapped in two. I swallowed it too.
Soon I started searching. Strands clung to the underside of her pillowcase like cobwebs; a few were buried in the couch, tangled with crumbs. At the collar of her black sweater, I pressed down clear tape and peeled it off, zzzt, my favorite sound. I even knelt by the bathroom drain, digging out a clump of hair knotted with soap and skin. I rinsed it, wrapped it in tissue, and swallowed it like a dumpling.
After chemo, she always wore a beige cap, brim pulled low. Cherry-red lipstick brightened lips drained of color. I imagined the smooth scalp beneath.
I used to hate her long hair. She never let me grow mine out, said I had to learn to wash and braid it first. But hers flowed to her waist, shed on pillows, coiled in combs, floated in our soup. I used to gag at the sight.
Now, she won’t let me see her head. Says it bothers her.
I place my hand over my stomach. It feels heavy. “You see?” I whisper to her cap. “You’re here.”
My body has finally learned how to hold her.
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.
The First Word She Wrote
by Huina Zheng
Lan’s knuckles stiffened, her grip on the pencil awkward, clenched tight as if it might slip away. These hands had planted rice in the paddies, scrubbed dishes in restaurant sinks, scoured hotel toilets, yet never once held a pen.
Six-year-old Lilin leaned close, her soft little hand propping up Lan’s coarse finger. “Grandma, your index finger should go here.”
Lan lifted her gaze to her daughter, Mei. Her face gave nothing away, but behind the glasses that had corrected countless student essays, her eyes glimmered. “Remember how to write 人?” Her voice was deliberately stern.
After dinner, the living room turned into a classroom, the dining table their desk. Lilin would start first grade in half a year. “Learn alongside her,” Mei said. “Isn’t your greatest regret never setting foot in a school?”
Lilin’s small feet swung beneath the chair as she clamored for a contest. Lan bent low, the pencil tip inching across the paper: one slant, then another. The character stood like a tiny figure, legs spread apart, just as Mei had explained the first time.
Mei leaned down to compare the words, the corners of her mouth lifting. “They both look good.”
Lan gazed at the trembling character beneath her hand, her heart turning soft. She thought: whether at six or sixty, the first scratch of a pen breaking ignorance rang just as clear.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.
Lan’s knuckles stiffened, her grip on the pencil awkward, clenched tight as if it might slip away. These hands had planted rice in the paddies, scrubbed dishes in restaurant sinks, scoured hotel toilets, yet never once held a pen.
Six-year-old Lilin leaned close, her soft little hand propping up Lan’s coarse finger. “Grandma, your index finger should go here.”
Lan lifted her gaze to her daughter, Mei. Her face gave nothing away, but behind the glasses that had corrected countless student essays, her eyes glimmered. “Remember how to write 人?” Her voice was deliberately stern.
After dinner, the living room turned into a classroom, the dining table their desk. Lilin would start first grade in half a year. “Learn alongside her,” Mei said. “Isn’t your greatest regret never setting foot in a school?”
Lilin’s small feet swung beneath the chair as she clamored for a contest. Lan bent low, the pencil tip inching across the paper: one slant, then another. The character stood like a tiny figure, legs spread apart, just as Mei had explained the first time.
Mei leaned down to compare the words, the corners of her mouth lifting. “They both look good.”
Lan gazed at the trembling character beneath her hand, her heart turning soft. She thought: whether at six or sixty, the first scratch of a pen breaking ignorance rang just as clear.
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.
Hongbao
by Huina Zheng
“I don’t want to go back,” Lan said, her voice calm and firm. “I’m not paying for a family reunion.”
“You don’t usually go home anyway, and you hardly call your parents,” Yong said uneasily. “If you don’t even go back for the Spring Festival, they—”
“They have more than just me,” Lan cut him off with a glance. “You think they’ll miss me? Their son’s right there, with two grandkids around. What more could they possibly want?”
“It’s not the same. They still miss you—”
“Let’s not argue,” Lan sighed. “On the second day of the Spring Festival, all my cousins are going to visit my parents. Do you know how many cousins I have there?”
Seeing Yong’s blank face, she held up her fingers. “Eight.”
“The more the merrier, right?”
“Do you know how many kids they each have?” Lan fought the urge to smack him. “At least two per cousin.”
“So?”
“So how many hongbaos stuffed with lucky money do you think we’ll need? You do the math.”
A week later, hongbaos bulged in Yong’s pockets, making his jacket puff out awkwardly. One by one, he dug out a hongbao, grinned, and handed it over, moving from child to child like a man emptying a treasure chest.
Lan stood by, watching him with a tight smile. With each hongbao he pulled out, she felt their year-end bonus shrink a little more. The lambskin quilted handbag she had hesitated over for months, the limited-edition matte 999 lipstick, the SK-II essence, the silk summer dress, the Kyoto trip they had dreamed about, all vanished, one hongbao at a time.
The kids clutched their hongbaos and passed them straight to their parents, whose faces lit up with satisfaction.
Lan clenched her fists in secret, thinking: Should’ve had kids earlier. Two at least. Might’ve gotten the Arashiyama train ride and kaiseki dinners paid for.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.
“I don’t want to go back,” Lan said, her voice calm and firm. “I’m not paying for a family reunion.”
“You don’t usually go home anyway, and you hardly call your parents,” Yong said uneasily. “If you don’t even go back for the Spring Festival, they—”
“They have more than just me,” Lan cut him off with a glance. “You think they’ll miss me? Their son’s right there, with two grandkids around. What more could they possibly want?”
“It’s not the same. They still miss you—”
“Let’s not argue,” Lan sighed. “On the second day of the Spring Festival, all my cousins are going to visit my parents. Do you know how many cousins I have there?”
Seeing Yong’s blank face, she held up her fingers. “Eight.”
“The more the merrier, right?”
“Do you know how many kids they each have?” Lan fought the urge to smack him. “At least two per cousin.”
“So?”
“So how many hongbaos stuffed with lucky money do you think we’ll need? You do the math.”
A week later, hongbaos bulged in Yong’s pockets, making his jacket puff out awkwardly. One by one, he dug out a hongbao, grinned, and handed it over, moving from child to child like a man emptying a treasure chest.
Lan stood by, watching him with a tight smile. With each hongbao he pulled out, she felt their year-end bonus shrink a little more. The lambskin quilted handbag she had hesitated over for months, the limited-edition matte 999 lipstick, the SK-II essence, the silk summer dress, the Kyoto trip they had dreamed about, all vanished, one hongbao at a time.
The kids clutched their hongbaos and passed them straight to their parents, whose faces lit up with satisfaction.
Lan clenched her fists in secret, thinking: Should’ve had kids earlier. Two at least. Might’ve gotten the Arashiyama train ride and kaiseki dinners paid for.
Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.
Albatross
by Huina Zheng
Her finger hovered above the workbook. The pencil tip tapped where the final stroke of 飞 (fly) was missing.
“You forgot a dot,” she said, surprised by the rasp in her voice. Only then did she realize—since dashing out of the office at five, braving the subway crowds to pick up her daughter, then stir-frying that plate of spicy cabbage—she hadn’t even had a sip of water.
She wrote the correct character. The pencil carved deep lines into the page, like the claw marks an albatross might leave skidding across Antarctic ice.
She thought of the documentary they’d watched last week. “Look, Mama!” her daughter had cried, pointing at the screen. A white albatross soared across the wind, graceful as a ballerina. The narrator said they could fly for months without eating, crossing the entire Pacific.
She looked at the torn paper and thought: even the most elegant fliers crash hard when they land.
The door slammed open.
“Babe!” Her husband staggered in and collapsed on the couch. “I’m home!” he called, mumbling more words she didn’t catch. “Babe!”
She sighed. “Mama’s going to check on Daddy,” she told her daughter. “Keep writing.”
In the living room, he beamed at her. “Old Wang got promoted today…” he slurred, his voice sticky with drink. He smelled like grilled meat and someone else’s perfume.
She straightened his shoes. “I’m tired,” she said, setting an overturned cup upright. “Hope always lets you down.”
He reached for her. She stepped back, pressing against the damp balcony door.
“You feel so far away,” he murmured.
On TV, couples kissed in staged rain. Outside, real rain lashed the balcony. Wind-whipped drops burst on the tiles, pooling into dark stains.
“TV lies,” she said.
“What’s real, then?” His eyelids drooped.
She returned to her daughter’s room and glanced at the deep grooves on the page. Was she now like an albatross too—wings heavy, but still forced to take off?
“Mama, I finished 飞 (fly). Is it right?”
She paused, then stroked her daughter’s hair. “Mama’s just about to take off.”
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng, a Distinction M.A. in English Studies holder, works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and others. Her work has received nominations three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her family.
Her finger hovered above the workbook. The pencil tip tapped where the final stroke of 飞 (fly) was missing.
“You forgot a dot,” she said, surprised by the rasp in her voice. Only then did she realize—since dashing out of the office at five, braving the subway crowds to pick up her daughter, then stir-frying that plate of spicy cabbage—she hadn’t even had a sip of water.
She wrote the correct character. The pencil carved deep lines into the page, like the claw marks an albatross might leave skidding across Antarctic ice.
She thought of the documentary they’d watched last week. “Look, Mama!” her daughter had cried, pointing at the screen. A white albatross soared across the wind, graceful as a ballerina. The narrator said they could fly for months without eating, crossing the entire Pacific.
She looked at the torn paper and thought: even the most elegant fliers crash hard when they land.
The door slammed open.
“Babe!” Her husband staggered in and collapsed on the couch. “I’m home!” he called, mumbling more words she didn’t catch. “Babe!”
She sighed. “Mama’s going to check on Daddy,” she told her daughter. “Keep writing.”
In the living room, he beamed at her. “Old Wang got promoted today…” he slurred, his voice sticky with drink. He smelled like grilled meat and someone else’s perfume.
She straightened his shoes. “I’m tired,” she said, setting an overturned cup upright. “Hope always lets you down.”
He reached for her. She stepped back, pressing against the damp balcony door.
“You feel so far away,” he murmured.
On TV, couples kissed in staged rain. Outside, real rain lashed the balcony. Wind-whipped drops burst on the tiles, pooling into dark stains.
“TV lies,” she said.
“What’s real, then?” His eyelids drooped.
She returned to her daughter’s room and glanced at the deep grooves on the page. Was she now like an albatross too—wings heavy, but still forced to take off?
“Mama, I finished 飞 (fly). Is it right?”
She paused, then stroked her daughter’s hair. “Mama’s just about to take off.”
Huina Zheng, a Distinction M.A. in English Studies holder, works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and others. Her work has received nominations three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her family.
Cleaver
by Huina Zheng
The first time I sleepwalked, I was seven. I only know because my mother told me later. She said that one night, while the whole family was asleep, I got out of bed barefoot and walked to the front door. My fingers twisted the metal lock again and again. Click, click. In the silence, it was loud enough to wake them. She grabbed my arm; my father dragged me back into the living room.
“Where are you going in the middle of the night?!” he shouted.
I kicked and thrashed. He lost his temper and slapped my back. I started crying. “Why did you hit me?” That’s when they realized—I’d been sleepwalking.
After that, it became a worry. They tried red thread on my wrist, calming soups, even tucked a yellow talisman under my pillow, but nothing worked. I’d still get up at night, drawn by something, always toward the door.
Then an uncle from the countryside visited. After hearing the story, he tapped his cigarette and said, “Put a cleaver under the bed. Blade out. Spirits fear steel.”
My mother hesitated. She never believed in that kind of thing. But that night, she slid the heaviest cleaver we owned beneath my bed. Its cold weight pressed against the wooden slats like a silent warning.
Strangely, it worked. I never sleepwalked again. The cleaver stayed there for eleven years. Sometimes I’d crawl under the bed just to look at it. Its blade gleamed dully in the dark, like a closed eye.
Before I left for college, my mother knelt beside my bed and reached underneath. She pulled out the cleaver, wrapped it in old newspaper, and handed it to me. I held it for a moment. The outline of the blade pressed through the paper. Weapons weren’t allowed on public transport. Dorms did inspections. “I can’t take it,” I said finally, and slid it back. She didn’t argue. Just sighed, and looked away.
That first night in the dorm, I woke in the hallway. My hand was on the fire door. The metal was cold. At the end of the corridor, the emergency light flickered green. My shadow stretched across the floor. Behind me, my room door hung open.
And in that moment, I remembered the cleaver under my old bed. But here, there was nothing. Just me. And a door that would open with the slightest push.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng, a Distinction M.A. in English Studies holder, works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and others. Her work has received nominations three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her family.
The first time I sleepwalked, I was seven. I only know because my mother told me later. She said that one night, while the whole family was asleep, I got out of bed barefoot and walked to the front door. My fingers twisted the metal lock again and again. Click, click. In the silence, it was loud enough to wake them. She grabbed my arm; my father dragged me back into the living room.
“Where are you going in the middle of the night?!” he shouted.
I kicked and thrashed. He lost his temper and slapped my back. I started crying. “Why did you hit me?” That’s when they realized—I’d been sleepwalking.
After that, it became a worry. They tried red thread on my wrist, calming soups, even tucked a yellow talisman under my pillow, but nothing worked. I’d still get up at night, drawn by something, always toward the door.
Then an uncle from the countryside visited. After hearing the story, he tapped his cigarette and said, “Put a cleaver under the bed. Blade out. Spirits fear steel.”
My mother hesitated. She never believed in that kind of thing. But that night, she slid the heaviest cleaver we owned beneath my bed. Its cold weight pressed against the wooden slats like a silent warning.
Strangely, it worked. I never sleepwalked again. The cleaver stayed there for eleven years. Sometimes I’d crawl under the bed just to look at it. Its blade gleamed dully in the dark, like a closed eye.
Before I left for college, my mother knelt beside my bed and reached underneath. She pulled out the cleaver, wrapped it in old newspaper, and handed it to me. I held it for a moment. The outline of the blade pressed through the paper. Weapons weren’t allowed on public transport. Dorms did inspections. “I can’t take it,” I said finally, and slid it back. She didn’t argue. Just sighed, and looked away.
That first night in the dorm, I woke in the hallway. My hand was on the fire door. The metal was cold. At the end of the corridor, the emergency light flickered green. My shadow stretched across the floor. Behind me, my room door hung open.
And in that moment, I remembered the cleaver under my old bed. But here, there was nothing. Just me. And a door that would open with the slightest push.
Huina Zheng, a Distinction M.A. in English Studies holder, works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and others. Her work has received nominations three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her family.
Still Bound
by Huina Zheng
The dog had been chained in the corner of the yard for six years. The iron chain had rusted red, like a dried-up trail of blood. You can’t blame me—when he was just a puppy, he tore around wildly, scattering the neighbor’s chickens and even killing one. When I fastened the chain around his neck, I saw a flash of confusion and fear in his eyes. I should have felt pity. But the neighbor had shouted, “If you don’t keep that dog under control, I’ll stew him myself.” I did it to protect him, to make him good. I did it out of love, or so I told myself.
At first, he howled through the nights, the chain pulled taut, his little body rubbed raw from struggling. Every time I passed, I walked faster, trying to outrun the guilt. Later, his cries faded to a rasp, folding into the wind. And then, even the rasp vanished. In storms, rain poured through the crooked kennel roof. He curled into the puddle. If he whimpered, the rain swallowed it. Under the scorching sun, he looked like a sunbaked lump of clay, motionless except for his tongue.
He grew into a large dog but lay in that narrow patch of dirt, quiet as stone. I should have let him run, let his muscles remember what it was to stretch. I should have warmed his cold nose with my palm before the light left his eyes. But I only hurried past, the way you pass a plum tree that never bears fruit—there, but no longer seen. For six years, aside from refilling his bowl, I nearly forgot he was alive.
One autumn afternoon, I walked toward him with a key. When the lock popped open with a click, he didn’t even twitch an ear. I called his name. He looked at me. I felt dizzy. I touched my neck—no chain. But something still choked me.
My late husband’s face flashed: twisted with rage, fists flying, spit in his curses. Blow after blow, I shut my eyes, unmoving—like a dog long used to being kicked. Why did you make me do it? You know how much I love you! He shouted, striking again. I looked into the dog’s hollow eyes and thought: do I have the same dead fish stare? If I had struggled harder, could I have broken free? Or was I, like him, still shackled to the years I thought I’d outlived?
I looked at him. Obedient. Broken. Utterly resigned. “It’s over,” I whispered. The chain was off. And yet I wondered: how long would it take for us to stand?
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng, a Distinction M.A. in English Studies holder, works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and others. Her work has received nominations three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her family.
The dog had been chained in the corner of the yard for six years. The iron chain had rusted red, like a dried-up trail of blood. You can’t blame me—when he was just a puppy, he tore around wildly, scattering the neighbor’s chickens and even killing one. When I fastened the chain around his neck, I saw a flash of confusion and fear in his eyes. I should have felt pity. But the neighbor had shouted, “If you don’t keep that dog under control, I’ll stew him myself.” I did it to protect him, to make him good. I did it out of love, or so I told myself.
At first, he howled through the nights, the chain pulled taut, his little body rubbed raw from struggling. Every time I passed, I walked faster, trying to outrun the guilt. Later, his cries faded to a rasp, folding into the wind. And then, even the rasp vanished. In storms, rain poured through the crooked kennel roof. He curled into the puddle. If he whimpered, the rain swallowed it. Under the scorching sun, he looked like a sunbaked lump of clay, motionless except for his tongue.
He grew into a large dog but lay in that narrow patch of dirt, quiet as stone. I should have let him run, let his muscles remember what it was to stretch. I should have warmed his cold nose with my palm before the light left his eyes. But I only hurried past, the way you pass a plum tree that never bears fruit—there, but no longer seen. For six years, aside from refilling his bowl, I nearly forgot he was alive.
One autumn afternoon, I walked toward him with a key. When the lock popped open with a click, he didn’t even twitch an ear. I called his name. He looked at me. I felt dizzy. I touched my neck—no chain. But something still choked me.
My late husband’s face flashed: twisted with rage, fists flying, spit in his curses. Blow after blow, I shut my eyes, unmoving—like a dog long used to being kicked. Why did you make me do it? You know how much I love you! He shouted, striking again. I looked into the dog’s hollow eyes and thought: do I have the same dead fish stare? If I had struggled harder, could I have broken free? Or was I, like him, still shackled to the years I thought I’d outlived?
I looked at him. Obedient. Broken. Utterly resigned. “It’s over,” I whispered. The chain was off. And yet I wondered: how long would it take for us to stand?
Huina Zheng, a Distinction M.A. in English Studies holder, works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and others. Her work has received nominations three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her family.
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