Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 12 | Page 263

Slowly, the monk walked innocently up to the fruits store. He took a bag from the store owner and began filling it
with delicious goods. Many stared at this man, buying so much - more than 500 Renminbi worth of fruits. And
they had even more reason to stare when he started to run.
Anguished cries echoed through the street as the man sprinted away, stuffing the precious food into his bag. He
ran forward, the harsh calls of ‘STOP THIEF!’ following him, disheartening ever more the tired monk. And then
he heard calls he recognised. He glanced backwards over his shoulder. Behind him, the same flashes of black and
gold. Before they could realise who he was, the monk darted behind an alley, leaping over rusted pipes and dusty
bricks. Finally, he stopped, entering once more the abandoned house that the monk realised he would have to get
used to calling home. He bit into a lychee. Savouring the burst of flavour, the monk slid down to the floor. He
was alone - not controlled, no. Just not free, either.
After a week, the monk finished off the fruits and realised that he would have to go back for more. He stepped out
of the front door and had almost no time to scream as he was tackled viciously to the ground.
As he woke, the monk heard voices. In the dim lighting, he made out two figures arguing. Finally, one of the men
smiled triumphantly and strutted towards the monk. Chang! The monk realised that the winner of the debate was
no other than his old friend.
“You not be punished. That gives bad karma. Instead, you work. Clean at end of day.” The man’s broken English
made all the sense it needed. The monk knew he would never be a novice again. But in his mind - his tired, old
mind - he realised. Free was not alone. Free was happy.
Happy was free.