Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Winners 2020 | Page 16

Winning Entries
“Mei Mei!” My mother shouted, “come back this instant!”
“I’m coming!” I scrambled back up, but I was greeted with only the long empty platform
and the tram. The three figures who were previously standing across me mere seconds ago
were now replaced with negative space.
“Mom?” No reply. “Dad?” No reply. “Holly?” No reply.
Not a voice was heard, not an item was left behind, not even a skid mark made by the
shoe. Nothing.
“What?” I glanced at the little snippet of colour I acquired.
In my hands were a thin piece of paper, the red had smeared itself onto my palms and the
Chinese inscriptions were barely legible. Cheap paper and cheap ink. Though, I couldn’t read
Chinese to begin with.
Suddenly, instead of the growling of trucks and machinery, the construction was replaced
with rackets of congestion and bartering. Over the banister laid a market. Gone were the
excavators and bulldozers, gone were the destroyed buildings, gone were the monochromatic
grey that slathered itself all over the district.
A myriad of colour splashed itself onto the streets. Between two old buildings were
rows upon rows of makeshift shops, each covered with products in every inch of available
space. Large signs with square words hung over the murmuring crowd below. The people
went from one stall to another picking up a product to inspect it, before putting it down and
carefully inspecting another. Surreal, it was almost as if it would disappear if I looked hard
enough; almost as if, upon squinting, colour would erode and reveal the grey skeleton of the
construction site.
Curiosity drove me down the stairs, and I sought to confirm it for myself.
Proximity, somehow, lent more credibility beyond visual verification. I needed the
affirmation of all five senses to accept that it was not my mind playing tricks on my eyes.
But the images did not waver, the voices did not fade, and the smell, a mixture of wetness
and cardboard, hit me.
It was curiosity, again, that compelled me to enter.
To my left were stalls with iron sheet roofs stacked next to each other jaggedly. In each
stall was a vendor, some enthusiastically attracting customers, some others merely eyed
the crowd. Win Chi Stationary; Chow Ting Flower Shop; Liang’s Goods. On my right were
nameless vendors, with goods in tag-less glass jars and red plastic boxes. They scooped treats
from containers and measured them on weathered weights. Dried plum; assortment of nuts;
medicinal herbs.
Older ladies with flower-patterned shirts wore equally decorated tote bag on their
shoulders. They expertly examined each fruit, weighing each one and with their hands,
inspected the colours of the skin, before putting it down and sifting through the rest of the
contenders. Unsatisfied, they continued their search for a fruit that was not too young, but
not too ripe.
At the end of the street around the bend sat another market, a wet market. A pungent smell
invaded my nose. Meat. Laid bare, skinned and gutted, raw red exposed on the chopping block
at the mercy of the knife. Butchers with glossy aprons raised their cleavers, and carved up flesh
with experienced hands. To the more stubborn tendons, they dug the blades into the thickness
of the muscle and hacked at it until the meat has become thoroughly severed.
“62 dollars for so little? This is too expensive!” Across, a lady pointed to the mackerel, still
breathing and twitching on the ice. Each spasm flicked droplets onto the ground, their eyes
round and wide.
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