Posted: May 20th, 2011 | Author: Emilie Pavey| 1 Comment »
DISHES AS PRINTED ON THE FIRST PAGE OF THE MENU OF GOLDEN VEGETARIAN FOOD LTD (Chinese Buddhist restaurant, Shau Kei Wan, Hong Kong)
“Vegetarian food is the Priceless Treasure to your health.”
1. Vege. Pork Hock
2. Vege. Smoked Goose
3. Vege. Roasted Duck
4. Vege. Duck Kidney
5. Vege. Chicken
6. Vege. Roasted Duck (again, but appears to be a different colour)
7. Curry Gluten
8. Sweet & Sour Gluten
9. Soya Gluten
Below: No. 3
Posted: May 20th, 2011 | Author: Ben Caro| No Comments »
Drifting from word
to word, lovely
on book’s glowing
tarmac, I read at home.
But when the
bulb flickers overhead, the
page flat darkening
for a moment
I am distracted.
flickering past sunlight, and I’m
out, breeze patting my forehead
I reach into the earth, and
as a bookmark
tear out a soiled leaf.
Posted: May 20th, 2011 | Author: James Wang| No Comments »
“Mr. Hendrikson is out for today. I’m your substitute, Mr. Molarin. Please take out all writing utensils you may have in your possession and place them on your desk,” says a thin, tall man in a tweed suit with a white mustache and a gaunt face that looks as if he is purposely sucking in his cheeks. And perhaps he is, or had in the past, though instead of lending him a silly or vain air, as a male model may convey, Mr. Molarin’s face had seemed to cave in on itself after years of maintaining a concerned pucker of the lips.
“What is your name, son? Marvin? Please, Marvin, if you would collect the pens for me?” He brusquely sweeps Larissa’s seven utensils into a wicker tray as an example. The pencil that Larissa uses most often has, perched on top of the eraser, a chunky white unicorn with pink hair. The class twitters with excitement and takes this sudden lapse in tension to shoot each other looks of disbelief. Larissa looks up from her desk quizzically and then turns away from Mr. Molarin’s gaze. Though not an unkind man, he commands attention and has a seriousness about him that makes others want to please him, or else stay at a distance for fear of rejection.
“I am collecting your writing utensils and do not intend to return them. I mean for you to listen in this class, with care and precision. There will be no time to refer to notes; tests of your intellect and vitality will require a good memory.” Billy in the third row croaks a concern:
“But what can you teach in two class periods? Also, we’re in the eighth grade.” Marvin returns to his seat, having left the wicker tray on Mr. Molarin’s desk. Mr. Molarin creeps over to the tray and dumps all the pens and pencils into a scuffed-up black leather attache. To close the case, Mr. Molarin lays the attache on the desk and presses down with his weight so that his feet are suspended with each thrust. The sound of snapping pencils ring out eerily in the quiet room as if the very foundations of the class were giving way to something at the same time fantastic and dangerous.