fiction

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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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