What histories and discourses are inscribed on the body?

By Catalina Ouyang, The Asian American Writers’ Workshop
Essays    Reportage    Marginalia    Interviews    Poetry    Fiction    Videos    Everything   
Fiction

“Scared, Starlight?” my big brother said smiling at me as we’d strapped our harnesses into place. “Don’t be.”

Fiction

It is 10:40 a.m., I stare up at the ceiling, a collection of imprints. I am trying to count how many animals I can see sheeted above my head in all four corners.

Fiction

Hot outside, cold inside. Hopeful on the outside, forlorn on the inside. Or was it the other way around?

Fiction

One day the woman wakes up and she can’t say exactly what it is that’s changed, only that she knows it all has.

Fiction

They thought me the oddity, though they were the ones depriving themselves of air. I watched them with the same curiosity that they watched me. How? And why?

Fiction

People talk about the dead sometimes having unfinished business with the living, but my case was the opposite.

Fiction

Her teeth and nails turned to grit, and she became part of the earth itself.

Fiction

Since the new government promised land reform, the have-nots in your father’s village buckled over with joy, while the landed were bewildered

Fiction

There was a time, Abu says, before your great-grandmother, when water was blue because it was a bruise, when it could feel our hands like the skin of a fruit.

Fiction

That spring my wife covered the walls of our living room in newsprint.

Fiction

She, like the others, could only slightly feel the edge of some thoughts, and some memories. It was better that way, they all agreed.

Fiction

Astrological insights from our inaugural twelve flash stories

Fiction

Everybody thinks you become someone different when you’re someplace different, but it’s not true, you come back and you turn the same again.

Fiction

The white Liang mansion was melting viscously into the white mist, leaving only the greenish gleam of the lamplight shining through square after square of the green windowpanes, like ice cubes in peppermint schnapps.

Fiction

These days I’ve grown tired of my heart, how much feeling it has required, and would much prefer to laugh.

Fiction

We could only see Love if we did not look at it directly.

Fiction

In the shelter of our happiness, his shell shone brighter and brighter until one day, it split open and crumbled into dust to reveal a baby, golden skinned and blinking up at me.

Fiction

She was a prisoner in this home, where death and decay had collected like a fog.

Fiction

Sometimes she grew so nervous that she had to sit in her room for hours until her hands stopped trembling. She wondered if her daughters ever thought about her.

Fiction

She should moisturize more often, drink at least three liters of hot water with lemon each day, and wear silicon sheet masks to bed to hide the stigmata of a woman who was everything.

Fiction

“Scared, Starlight?” my big brother said smiling at me as we’d strapped our harnesses into place. “Don’t be.”

Fiction

She, like the others, could only slightly feel the edge of some thoughts, and some memories. It was better that way, they all agreed.

Fiction

It is 10:40 a.m., I stare up at the ceiling, a collection of imprints. I am trying to count how many animals I can see sheeted above my head in all four corners.

Fiction

Astrological insights from our inaugural twelve flash stories

Fiction

Hot outside, cold inside. Hopeful on the outside, forlorn on the inside. Or was it the other way around?

Fiction

Everybody thinks you become someone different when you’re someplace different, but it’s not true, you come back and you turn the same again.

Fiction

One day the woman wakes up and she can’t say exactly what it is that’s changed, only that she knows it all has.

Fiction

The white Liang mansion was melting viscously into the white mist, leaving only the greenish gleam of the lamplight shining through square after square of the green windowpanes, like ice cubes in peppermint schnapps.

Fiction

They thought me the oddity, though they were the ones depriving themselves of air. I watched them with the same curiosity that they watched me. How? And why?

Fiction

These days I’ve grown tired of my heart, how much feeling it has required, and would much prefer to laugh.

Fiction

People talk about the dead sometimes having unfinished business with the living, but my case was the opposite.

Fiction

We could only see Love if we did not look at it directly.

Fiction

Her teeth and nails turned to grit, and she became part of the earth itself.

Fiction

In the shelter of our happiness, his shell shone brighter and brighter until one day, it split open and crumbled into dust to reveal a baby, golden skinned and blinking up at me.

Fiction

Since the new government promised land reform, the have-nots in your father’s village buckled over with joy, while the landed were bewildered

Fiction

She was a prisoner in this home, where death and decay had collected like a fog.

Fiction

There was a time, Abu says, before your great-grandmother, when water was blue because it was a bruise, when it could feel our hands like the skin of a fruit.

Fiction

Sometimes she grew so nervous that she had to sit in her room for hours until her hands stopped trembling. She wondered if her daughters ever thought about her.

Fiction

That spring my wife covered the walls of our living room in newsprint.

Fiction

She should moisturize more often, drink at least three liters of hot water with lemon each day, and wear silicon sheet masks to bed to hide the stigmata of a woman who was everything.