I’ll be doing my first ever virtual reading with these brilliant writers on Wednesday 11/18 @ 7 pm CST! If you’d like to join in on the fun and watch me stumble over all my words, email email@example.com for Zoom details.
It’s the first time I’m celebrating National Flash Fiction Day (and frankly, the first time I learned such a thing existed). I’m thrilled to have two micros make it to the top 22 in National Flash Fiction Day New Zealand’s Micro Madness 2020 competition.
Check out the two pieces, Flower Girl (no-themed) and Can’t see the rainbow from here (lockdown-themed): https://nationalflash.org/micro-madness-2020/
I recall my dad telling me stories of his childhood–how mung bean popsicles were one of the cheapest desserts, how he had to carefully consider which dessert he could afford. And so, “Mung Bean Popsicles” was born.
Read it here: https://thetawave.space/lucy-zhang
I wrote this back when World War 3 was trending on Twitter at the start of 2020. That feels like ages ago. It’s about ballerinas and neutrons and bombs.
My flash “Diets” is out in Okay Donkey! Taking on a more experimental list form (at least, relative to my past work), this piece skirts the line between fiction and non fiction for me. Enjoy 😋
I also have a piece, “The Apple Orchard Remains” out in Bandit Fiction. A product of my love for apples, if you will.
I’ve got a piece out about ducks in Jellyfish Review! 🦆
How do I get unlost on my own
The bottom of the pond is covered by a blend of tan, ocher, brown, and grey stones, hauled in by teams with hoses and buckets and bright yellow hard hats and orange vests. Painstakingly timed waves ripple from the center, generated by a motor and a pump somewhere out of sight. Not too loud. Not too quiet. A consistent undulation, the perfect backdrop for taking in shallow breaths after a wine glass-shattering argument. At the pond’s edges, water drains down to the source of the ripples, a pump forcing movement until seven pm every day – it is the same water over and over again. Had the pond been less shallow, had it been as deep as the ocean, there might have been room for a Loch Ness monster or a man-eating clown. But Mother Duck paddles to the side and leaps…
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When I was kidnapped, I wore a denim jean jacket with a front button placket, point collar and two button-flap chest pockets—one for my phone, the other for a twenty-dollar bill. I figured one day the twenty dollars would be a useful bribe, or if I was feeling generous, a donation to the street musicians in the city. But twenty dollars wouldn’t save my life, nor would my inability to say no to anything or my ability to depersonalize from my body. My gaze was always trained elsewhere, at the clock tower or the German bakery or the smoke emitted from the factories up ahead.
I watched my body collapse into a leather suitcase. Humans don’t fit the rectangular form factor. No matter how condensed and space-efficient a fetal position can get, heads jut out and feet don’t fold inward. So you hack them off. My head fit snugly in…
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When I cross the road
I feel like the world is staring at me:
the Porsche, a metallic silver
the Honda Civic, once white now covered
by dust and smoke
from the last California wildfire.
Smoke travels far.
Reaches the edge of the earth.
The crosswalk is the length of time
dangerously long, you could untangle earbud wires
before the next thump,
the heart of someone’s starving body
trying to get to the other side.
The pedestrian light flashes yellow when
I reach the sidewalk
and the Porsche roars behind me
like I exit the stage
and conduct the world back to life.
A laugh from outside the window
one floor down
light from a setting sun
cast onto a colorless room
grey and lighter grey
melts door handle into door
an exit never found
had it existed to begin with.
Situated at the edge of the earth, the end of time
there’s nothing to do but wait
for the curtain to be drawn,
blackness ticking off another day.
The ceiling is expanseless, like it fails to meet a corner,
yet surely there are walls
in this room
where “what comes next”
is eagerly forgotten.
The bridge stands only a few meters above the water
Aged with crippled wood and missing planks
A skyscraper, reaching from ground to sky and across the river bend,
to a side shrouded from sight.
A place of romantic coincidences
Where the soon-to-be high school graduate witnesses
a first ever meteor shower,
Where the newly wed brings her husband to a childhood memory
of flinging get-well letters into the water
before winding up as an inpatient for mental rehabilitation
Love cures all, so they say–so she tells him,
Where trees grow so tall the sun fades from existence
all shadow and fireflies
until you cross over, look back
and wait for your straggler to catch up.