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The Broken Comb

A new short story from Shanghai

THIS STORY ORIGINALLY APPEARED IN H.A.L. PUBLISHING

 

I live alone, apart from the cockroaches. My room is on the ground floor, down a lane. The house is as old as the People’s Republic. Damp is climbing up the walls, and the paint is peeling. I lock up my bicycle outside. At night, someone tucks it in under a blue tarpaulin. I have never seen who does this.

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Opening words

 

Welcome to the Anthill – a new home for narrative writing from or on China, as if the world needed another website about this place.

There are three compensations for this inexcusable act of creation.

First: we follow stories, not the news. We're not fussed about the latest trending item to get knocked about the echo chamber. We prefer the vignette about going on Chinese TV, or stray conversation on a train, that would otherwise go unwritten.

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