Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction Group 3 - 2017 | Page 463

Going back home was much easier than coming to the hospital. When I approached to my bed, I lay down, and instantly
fell asleep. It was simply the best sleep I had in my life. The long night of rest, the surge of energy returning to my body. The golden
necklaces is gone, forever.
It wasn’t until the next week I found myself perfectly fine. I continued to work in the doll factory. Amazingly, I am not
scared of the dolls anymore, since my encounter with the strange doctors. My son had been hopping around Rich Street playing
with the other boys. Sometimes, a sacrifice has to be made, for the best.
Her Memories
The Independent Schools Foundation Academy, Chung , Candace - 14
Amongst the sea of sky scraping glass towers, rain drops slowly drip down the roof of a petite dusty brick hut. Some
raindrops drizzle into the shack through the tiny crevices on the roof. In the old house a woman calmly resides beside the
window. Age has left it’s mark on her, wrinkles and creases on her dry cracked skin, long silver hair draping down her shoulders,
plaited into an unkempt braid. She looks out the window, as her memories replay in the reflections of the glass.
The straight concrete streets outside the window morphing into winding ochre dirt paths; bright street lights transforming
into clusters of oak trees; the sea of people fading into jade rice fields. It was Spring, rain soaking the earth, blending in with the
water canals stretching across the vast farmlands. A young girl wears her trademark disheveled braid, raven hair flowing in the
wind. She prances in the fields, singing her favorite song, voice blending in with the rain. Other farmers also sing the same song,
chattering amongst each other, motivating themselves to continue with their work, refusing to let the rain dampen their mood.
The girl wore a wide smile on her face.
The scene dissolved once again. Grand buildings formed around the now neat stone pavement. A woman calmly strides
with other pedestrians, her dark locks starting to have hints of gray. Noise was blaring everywhere, whether it was the noisy
chatter, or shop owner’s advertising their own products. She glances up, seeing serrated spears pointing all around, fanning out of
walls. It was a beautiful creation indeed, from the sheen of the metal to the symmetry of the semicircle. It is a shame, how the
seemingly artsy structure haughtily displays humanity’s lack of trust.
The rain continued to drip down the window now displaying wide streets, herds of passerbys crossing the streets, vehicles
crowding around, the familiar dusty suffocating smog filling the air. People roam the streets, heads bowed down, looking at the
luminous screens contrasting the murky skies. The old woman’s pale hair continued to flow in the wind, her unheard sigh adrift
in the wind. Isn’t it ironic how people can be so close yet so far?