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Donate to the Anthill this xmas!

Give a little something to keep the colony ticking

 

We've had the 'donate' button up top-right for a while, but never drawn attention to it before. The Anthill, founded four years ago, has always been a labour of love, bringing you nonfiction sketches, fiction, poetry and photography from and of China. I've had less time to give to it of late, busy with my own writing, and we shed a tear to see our fiction editor, Tom Pellman, leave China last week after over 11 years. We're still putting up new stories, but this holiday season are asking for your help.

If you want to see more original writing on here, or just want to say thanks for what we've published to date, please give however much you feel like. This isn't a last-call, it's just a chance for you to give something back if you're feeling generous. All donations will go into a pot which we'll put aside for the site. Ideally we'd love to pay for contributions, and are looking into collaborations that might help that happen. If we get a good response from this, we'll find a way to keep the hill alive next year when the posts in the schedule run out. If not, we'll bow out after a good, long and very enjoyable run.

Festive wishes to all – Alec

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Introducing Spittoon

Ed: A quick post to introduce a new magazine and writers collective in Beijing, before we get back to it at the Anthill. Spittoon just celebrated the launch of their first issue, and their poetry and fiction nights are always a treat. Founded by Matthew Bryne, who edits the mag with Simon Shieh, Kelly McNerney and Chris Warren, we're looking forward to future issues and encourage you all to follow them and submit (details below). In the meantime, they've shared a flash fiction piece and a poem in translation from the first issue with us, below.

 

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Flash fiction by Ben Zarov

 

In the morning writing was easy for her. Words came naturally, crisper, and her sentences vibrated at a higher frequency than her evening writing, which was burdened by the weight of the day’s events (she had ceased to even try anymore). She had a routine that she had stuck to for eight years: begin with a letter to someone, anyone. She wrote to television characters, movie stars, deceased authors, old flames, loathed bosses and very rarely, to herself. She had written four complete novels and over two dozen short stories. She had sent none of them into the world and none of them were published. No one close to her knew she wrote. Sometimes, during the day, she herself was unsure. Her first book was a historical romance set in northern Mexico in the early nineteen twenties. She had written two endings for it, one tragic and the other fairy tale and she was unsure which of the two was right.

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Monkey Magic

Two poems of Beijing – by Silas Gorin

 

Monkey Magic 
  
This year I stand alone, 19 floors up.
I peek through edges
daring not to wipe the condensed
pane borne vapour.
My loin lost clothes droop long -
sadly hung clouds of grey damp -
into the box I stand in:
a stationary front
shrinking into whispering sheer.
When we were at our peak of future claim,
perhaps with rabbits in the year
twitching at the air, their brains
stone-still as a blunted axe

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Best Buddies

There's no place called home – by Nick Compton

 

Jake’s house wasn’t much to look at. He rented a weather-blasted two bedroom on the edge of town for a couple hundred bucks a month. The roof was caving in and the exterior scraped clean of its white paint by winter winds and too little attention.  What remained was gray lumber streaked white by curling chips. It looked mean. Haunted, almost.

He was my best friend growing up, but I didn’t know where we stood now. I’d left for university, moved around, ended up working in China and never really looked back.  It was rural America. A tiny town in the hills of Northeast Iowa. My home, but no place I wanted to stay.

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A post-it note from the colony

 

Ed: Dear readers, a quick note before any more dust gathers on the Anthill. You might have noticed posting has been thin in the last months, and I'm sorry for that – I've been busy, and travelling in the UK and Asia since October. I'm now in Hong Kong, and if any readers are here please join me tonight for a book talk at the HK literary festival. I'm back in Beijing next week, and we'll be drip-feeding some terrific new stories on the site from then, including tales from freezing Dongbei and a torch festival in Sichuan.

Four years ago today (happy guanggunjie!) I published our first post from back in China, a dispatch from Tibet. Since then we've grown to a colony of over a hundred writers, and published over 330 stories as well as an anthology book. Now the Anthill is going through some changes, though we'll keep you in suspense until after the Chinese new year. Until then, keep following us and keep submitting stories: we'll still be posting, aiming for one new story a week, giving a home for new China writing.

Keep positive folks, and live the values you believe in. Nothing can trump an act of kindness. - Alec

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