Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4 - 7 2018 | Page 45

The Last Jade Shard
German Swiss International School, Chan, Elvis - 15
“The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trial.”
-Confucius
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Shanghai
I
stumbled forward as an agonizing pain pierced into my lower back. Struggling to regain my
composure, I grasped my sword defensively in front of my chest.
“Stop…please…” I whimpered, struggling to choke back the tears that were clouding my vision. Why were
my parents cruel enough to send me to this martial arts academy? I thought to myself, cursing under my
breath as I swung around blindly. In my nebulous daze, I faintly made out the glint of the sword before it
struck me.
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The first shafts of sunlight trickled through the dust-covered windows into the otherwise unlit infirmary
room, capturing the specks of dust in its frozen embrace. The moth-eaten curtains drooped to the ground,
poised like phantoms hidden in the shadows.
As the days went on, some gashes healed while new ones were opened. It was an unending cycle of pain and
recovery, of being beaten down and then getting back onto my feet. Over time, the art of coping with pain
became easier. I won more often that I lost; less time was spent in the infirmary.
New Years finally came; the only time students of the academy could visit their parents. Although I was
eager to leave this prison of an institution, there was a bitter resentment towards my father for sending me
away.
I cycled along the Huangpu River, mesmerised by its dazzling shade of emerald, A chime signaled my arrival
as I walked into my father’s jade shop in a narrow alleyway on the Bund. Father was sitting behind the
counter, his eyes fixated on a small piece of jade that he cradled in his palms.
“What’s so fascinating about that rock?” I asked, my voice tinged with irritation.
“This piece of jade is incredibly special. I first found it as a child in the rivers of Xinjiang and it has been
with me ever since, through the ups and downs of life,” he muttered, as if to himself.
After a prolonged silence, he finally looked up and beckoned me to come closer. “We’re going back to our
hometown in Xinjiang this year,” he said. “I can tell you the stories along the way.”
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Luoyang, Hunan
I watche d as the jagged verdant landscape on the raw piece of jade was gently smoothed out into rolling
ridges with snow-capped peaks. Placed against the rotary disc, the chafing spewed out fine particulates of
ash. In the midst of the snowstorm, I saw two figures huddled together on the ground. Their complexions
were wan and ashen, melting into the colourless landscape. The howling wind threatened to pry open their
clothing, eager to lash at their frail bodies. Grains of snow thrashed at any exposed skin, but they were too
numb to feel any pain.
A lone passerby proffered a sack of rice, for which they were immensely grateful. In their ravenous state, the
grains of rice were precious pieces of jade, glinting in the muted wintry sun.