Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 80

The New Tales of Old Shanghai
International College Hong Kong, Blain, Joseph – 15
T
he smog is coiling…
No, it isn't. It’s smoke that coils, winding and settling amongst itself. Smog, however, grows sluggishly up-
wards out of the various maws of the city, stacking itself into large, bulbous columns before quickly thinning
into a concrete haze. The best word for this smog, then, would be brooding.
The smog is brooding over the city. It curves, like a blackened, burnt out ceiling, to meet the city on
the horizon. Buildings and roads all seethe orange as the sun slumps off to another part of the world. Silhou-
ettes of steel spires plant themselves firmly against the light. They look like skeletal fingers, clawing their
way out of the bedrock.
Shanghai can be beautiful sometimes, but only in the ugliest possible way.
—
The sky was a chilly blue. An afternoon sun hung, pale and bright, like an eagle amid wisps of frozen cloud. All the roof
tiles of the Chinese City glowed like jewels beneath the force of the shining August morning. Birds zipped by close
overhead, dodging around fluttering lines of washing and dangling signs to get from roof to roof.
Eddies of dust raced around a menagerie of feet, keeping the stone tiles covered in an ever-shifting layer of rough dust.
Occasionally voids were formed by a constant sweeping at the doors of the fancier shops.
In the end, though, the dust always returned. It was difficult for things to leave the streets of the Chi- nese City. Far in
the distance, looming walls of stark jade and brick made sure of that.
—
The knife edge digs into my skin. I lock my other hand into the gap between the girders, shaking the blood back into my
wrist before carrying on. It hurts a little more, but I’m convinced it’s the quicker way up. Boots is trying it the other way
about six feet below me, threading his way up through the mess of scaffolds that covers the steel skeleton like a web. I
think about turning my head to toss a playful jeer, but speed up instead. I’m not about to lose my lead.
Three minutes later I reach the top floor. Boots must be at least a minute behind, but when I pull my- self up onto the
work platform I sprint up to the top anyways, falling in a panting heap on the roof before the planks have stopped
creaking.
Boots strolls up about two minutes later. By now, the sun has begun to rocket ponderously upwards, a flare of harsh
sunlight flowering up beneath it.
“You missed the sunrise,” I say, trying not to gloat right away. Boots is still standing. Pondering the flames that cover
the city, as they melt into another pallid yellow day.
“No, I didn’t.”
Instinctively, with a derisive snort: “What are you talking about? I beat you by five minutes.”
He looks at me with that smile, and I roll my eyes. I know what’s coming next. “That may be true,
but what we were debating was whether I missed the sunrise or not. And as a matter of fact, I didn’t. I was
watching it the whole way up.” He turns to face me. “Were you?”
I can’t help but laugh. Just when I think I've proven myself, he’s managed to show me up with an-
other philosophical monologue. He sits down next to me. “You always win when you don’t play.”
In no time at all, the maze of glass buildings that stretches out below us is gleaming. Rising heat
makes the image ripple; it seems for a second that the rumble of coursing streets is making the windows
themselves tremble.
Amid the climbing chaos, a single crag of steel and green debris netting stands out. Despite the