Kiangani Street

Xiang Fei kicked about the round object in the street with his friends. All, neighbours of his, barely ten years’ old. Fen Li watched them, leaning against the rugged wall of the little shop in the suburbs of Shanghai.
The dirt on the worn out street matched the brown colour of the carton boards and mats of which were made the little habitats and shops. And the dirt, as the breeze in Kiangani street stirred it, matched the exuberance of the happily bouncing object, nearly worn out too, that Xiang Fei and his friends kicked about in happy cheers that mixed with the citizens’ voices, chatting and discussing on their way to the market.
Fen Li watched it all and saw nothing, except the blurred figures of happy children playing on the road, seemingly so distant despite being so near.
Fen Li listened too. But once again he could hear nothing except the din that meant nothing to him.

Sianshi was one of the ghettos in the suburban region of Shanghai. Vast land of uncountable fortune, Sianshi was, unbelievably, totally covered by slums. And like Xiang Fei and his friends, Fen Li too stayed in one of those slums.

Straight hair, dark, protruding forward with a small bush on the top of his head sprouting upwards, Fen Li bore all the typical traits of a Chinese kid. Same yellow coloured skin with such a smooth texture. But the cuts here and there and the dark black and brown patches on his body and face stamped his identity to this ghetto. Shabby clothes, of which he had only one other equivalent, had seen him through the last five years’ of his ten years’ existence. Worn out, torn in several places and barely covering his body, it was very difficult to identify the actual colour of the clothing. Dirt covered and sooty were the only adjectives that could qualify it.

His world was only black and brown. And these were the only two colours that Fen Li could see through the eyes that barely showed through his flattened, albeit droopy, eyelids partly covered by his protruding dark hair that badly needed a cutting.

The chat of passer-bys making their way to the market mixed with the happy cries of the playing children composed the daily melody of Kiangani street. But to Fen Li, melody had no meaning. At least not that particular one. It was all a mixture of noises, each one trying to drown the other. And as he thought of Xiang Fei and his friends kicking about the round object, the noise of the little group peaked up to a deafening crescendo as one of Xiang Fei’s friends’ sent the object between the two worn out sandals that lay in the middle of the dirt covered road.
Fen Li knew only the music of the tapping hammer against the rocky walls of the caves he explored daily and at times during the night to get a plate of Mee Foon per day. A plate one third full. And a glass of water.

Fen Li felt so different from Xiang Fei. They kept kicking the object and he couldn’t understand why. Xiang Fei had two elder brothers working in the mines along with him and a sister who helped their mother prepare food in their little slum, while Xiang Fei attended the ‘school’ that some foreigners had set up. Xiang Fei and his kins had a father too.
Fen Li had no parents. Just like his five other little brothers and sisters had no parents. Only his twelve year old elder brother helped him in supporting their little family.

Fen Li kept leaning against the rugged wall of the little shop in the suburbs of Shanghai. Fen Li watched it all and saw nothing. Fen Li listened too, but heard nothing.

His only melodies were the tapping of his hammer against the rocky wall of the mine caves and the occasional explosions of dynamites and the deathly hisses of poisonous gases that had lulled so many of his co-workers to sleep. Like they would lull him to sleep one day too. Or, maybe one night.

Another peak in the children’s noise and Fen Li knew that they had sent the object between either pairs of worn out sandals again, as he watched the kids jumping, crying and clasping each other but saw only a hazy blur of figures merging together.

Fen Li didn’t know if he wanted to be like Xiang Fei and his friends. He couldn’t envy them for he didn’t understand them. He couldn’t understand why they derived so much pleasure in kicking about the round object. Fen Li only knew that he was different from them. And Fen Li knew that he was so lonely. He needed a friend.

The breeze blew again in Kiangani street, as it usually does. Stirring the dirt. And memories. Memories that were as hazy as everything that Fen Li saw. The cool touch. So soothing. So reminiscent of a solace Fen Li had once used to feel. So long ago. His parents were dead. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know how. He didn’t remember their faces. He didn’t even remember their names.

His father was a memory lost in the abyss of the darkness of the caves that not even his headlight could catch the figure of. Only the cool touch of the breeze kindled the dying embers of memories of a solace in a lap so long lost.

And Fen Li kept leaning against the rugged wall of the little shop. Watching, but seeing nothing. Listening, but hearing nothing.
And the breeze blew. Once in a while.
And Xiang Fei and his friends kept kicking about the round object. Passer-bys kept moving from and to the market. And the noises kept fighting each other. A peak here. A peak there.
And Fen Li kept leaning.

Until.

The breeze blew in his face again.
Plastering something against his face.

His hands instinctively moved towards the foreign object and his nimble fingers moved their way towards the edges. It was a piece of paper and Fen Li looked in the direction of the breeze. An old woman was walking away from him, bent over with age and the hardships of life. A basket in her hand. With a cabbage inside.

Fen Li turned back towards the paper that he held in his hands. Yellow it was. Like his skin, but darker. The colour of age. The stamp of time.

Fen Li strained his eyes. Like he does everyday. This time to adjust to the rays of the day. He moved the paper closer to his face and away from it. Until he could just about make out what was on it. It was a piece of newspaper. Quite old too. Like he had thought.

He looked again in the direction of the old lady. The paper had most probably covered her cabbage. She had disappeared. Swallowed by the blurred dot that kept moving away from him. Fading in the distance. Like Xiang Fei and his friends had suddenly faded from his thoughts. And their noise from his mind.

He looked back at the piece of newspaper. Fen Li still remembered some alphabets. He tried spelling them out. But gave up within a few minutes. In the only one line that was big and bold, the only word he could make out was ‘child’. The other big words, he couldn’t make out. For he had forgotten the other alphabets. The rest were too small for his liking.

Xiang Fei sent the ball between the sandals again and the children erupted again. But Fen Li heard nothing this time. Like he saw nothing. Only the breeze blew slightly, rustling the paper. And Fen Li kept leaning.

Fen Li was about to crumble the paper and throw it away, out of disinterest, when a picture lost between the letters caught his eyes. A coloured picture. Of which he saw only brown and black. In which he recognised his world. And Fen Li clasped the paper between his fingers tighter, lest the breeze blew it away. Almost tearing it in two.

The skin was dark brown throughout. But Fen Li could made out the colours of nature and those of life. And like he was marked by the colours of life, the kid sitting on a bench in the picture was too.
Same clothes. Shabby. Worn out. Torn. And the belly that it failed to cover. A belly, as skinny as could be, with ribs pressing out, just above. Fen Li touched his own belly and moved his hands upwards, feeling his own ribs. The same. As his. Fen Li’s heartbeat accelerated.
He had to have a name. Fen Li thought. But couldn’t make out.
The boy sat there. On the bench. In the picture. Holding a round object in his hands. And Fen Li thought he recognised the object. He glanced a look as Xiang Fei sent the object towards his friend. Same. Fen Li thought. But not worn out.
Something puzzled Fen Li. Everything looked the same. As though he and the boy in the picture were one. Even the age seemed to be the same. Only the object didn’t seem to fit in. Fen Li looked at Xiang Fei again and for the first time made an effort to watch. And see.
He looked at the boy in the picture again. No smile. No excitement. Just the pangs of reality. And hunger. Just like Fen Li.

Fen Li kept leaning. And the boy kept sitting.
The breeze blew again. Wrestling one edge off his right hand. Plastering the paper across his face. Fen Li’s left hand holding the other edge. It was different this time though. More like an embrace.
Friend. Brother.
An answer to loneliness.

Fen Li thought he understood. He had to meet this boy. Some day. How? He didn’t know. When? He didn’t know. Why? He didn’t know.
Only that they would meet, he knew. For sure. Maybe in life. Maybe after their deaths. But they would meet.

Xiang Fei’s friend sent the ball again where it belonged. And the crescendo made itself heard again. But Fen Li cared no more to watch or see, listen or hear.

Only Fen Li kept leaning. Against the rugged wall. Of the little shop.
And the other boy, his friend, his brother, kept sitting. On the stool. The object in his hand.

And the breeze blew.
With a new freshness.
In Kiangani Street.

Author's Note

I wrote this piece for an anthology entitled 'Shades and Shadows' which tries to explore the concept of identity from different angles.

The theme here is child labour. But I think I am too vague and message I try to convey gets lost in the imagery...

The boy on the newspaper is an attempt to highlight this identification to another boy suffering the same fate.

While this is purely fictional, I try to relate a boy working in the mines in East Asia to another one working in Pakistan/India hand sewing soccer balls.

Xiang Fei stands for the irony in the contrasting fates fate of the two children, with Xiang Fei playing soccer with his friends using a ball that could well have been sewn by another child...

But I guess the theme gets completely lost in the story somehow...

Reviews

[Warrior]

Great story telling. This did justice in the realm of getting the message across. Great message. There's lot of times where a story can have a great message to aim for, and have a lot of under lining things but then no one gets it, and if no one gets it, then the point has failed. But in my opinion this did well to get the message across. You made it clear, which is why I think it's good. Keep up the good work. What was also great was that I could imagine the story as I read it, and that is also a strong point of stories. The ability to have the reader imagine it because after all we're reading not watching it, but it was as if I was there as I read this, and that is great. Great visuals and great story telling. It had plot and substance. When you add substance to writing it gets that much better. It gets the reader hooked on it and make them feel as if they are part of it. As long as their is that emotional connection between the reader and the story then it's good. The connection you were able to established in the writing gives the reader a sense of comfortably that they are in tune with the writing. So that way when the writing is over, the reader wants more, and wishes it didn't end. I feel the same way when I watched a movie or tv series that I get so attached to, I never want it to end. And for this writing, I didn't want it to end. You had me hooked, and I am sure everyone else who read it was hooked as well. That is good, that is what you want for people to keep wanting more. The way you put the story together makes me feel like my life is different for that moment in which I read your story. I love it, and it was beautiful. Just keep posting stories like this, and you'll have a good following.

[*~*Butterfly Kisses*~*]

Wonderfully gripping story. I enjoyed every minute of it. Nicely done, keep it up.

[sharonlee]

'Just the pangs of reality. And hunger.'.... had me drawn in from start to finish... great character composition.
Nicely crafted.

[Amila Jay]

wow, great writing, super story:)

[Dark Beauty]

greatly written,good story line, i liked it!!

[CT]

Work, not 'Erik'. Damn stupid autocorrect on my iPod.

[CT]

Not to sound lIke a total prick after all these glowing reviews, it's just... Well, this type of writing isn't my thing. The thing Is, there's a lot to like in this story- the composition of the piece is spot on, the imagry is vivid and full of life, the emotions are raw and shine through... But I feel as if there's something holding the piece back- it feels... Well, it doesn't feel natural. It feels artificial, like you tried to cram the story into a predetermined mold you had already decided upon before you even started writing instead of letting it flow forth on it's own, spilling from your pen in a jet of pure, undiluted emotion, shaping itself instead of you shaping it. I feel as if there's a barrier between me and Feng Li, seperating us, preventing me from ever really feeling the boy's emotions. It's as if I'm viewing the scene through a window instead of standing next to him, holding his hand, feeling his thoughts and pain. To me, this story feels too much like those overwritten, contrived prose samples from those literary textbooks that they cram down our throats in English class- and that's just what this is- a story, and it never let's you forget that. It never breaks down that barrier between the language and reality that truly great writing does.
As for you representation of your theme, here being child labor, you pulled it off with expertise and aplomb- you did the right thing by giving it a nominalistic approach and weaving it underneath most of the imagery instead of whacking the reader in the face with it like so many other authors.
Speaking of imagery, you did brilliantly. You stretched a veil of vague surrealness over the whole thing, giving it almost the same feel you get from looking at a painting.
This is far from a bad piece of writing, and with some more polish could be something truly great. But as it stands, my major criticism with this piece is the same as most of your others: it tries too hard to be great, and in doing so never really carves out its own idendity- it's just a montage of great writing void of any real soul. It's like a high school student who tries so hard to fit in the the social elites that he loses his own identity and who he really is in the process.
I truly hope this review doesn't come across as sounding superior or condescending- believe me, there's plenty of things wrong with my own writing and I'm always striving to improve- I just wanted to point out what I personally and in my humble opinion percevied as flaws.
All in all, this was still an enjoyable piece to read, and it'll stick with me a while after. Good Erik, and keep writin'.

[RienKelsoCinema]

My envisions just trigger a sense of realism with the sensation of fiction. This boy seems so real (obviously), but the realism only goes so far so the fictional path starts to pave over in great way! Good job!

[Cosmic Dreamer]

its really good! I really like how it is fictional, yet based on a true story. Its very meaningful, and makes me think about the world in a slightly different way. Well done, its a great story

[Jupiter Jazz]

Chinese, huh. That's cool. The descriptions were amazing and the emotions were strong. Good job