“the most Taiwanese thing about me” & Other Poems by Juliana Chang

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the most Taiwanese thing about me after katie mansfield   not the tub of bean curd in my freezer. not the Lao Gan Ma chili oil I drink by the spoonful like my Ba. not how I fish pork blood out of my soup to drop into my brother’s bowl, not any acre of my mouth, really.   not my two passports or my two names. not the yearbook photo retake  that made twins of me in 2nd grade, Ting Wei and Juliana printed out side by side. not the time I made…

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Soon Enough, Later: Fiction by Naomi Gage

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It had been six weeks, but the memory lay in her like the pit of a stone fruit. Lila hunched over in the passenger seat, leaning her head against the cold, greasy glass of the window. Rain drummed the glass with a wild, hammersome kind of fury that seemed fatally separate from the precise, measured conversation inside the car. Lila fantasized punching the window open, breaking it like a flower splitting into bloom, fractals spiraling everywhere— how the bone would brutalize the skin, nerves lighting…

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sunlight in a bottle: Fiction by Davina Jou

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There was dirt on my knees and the floor of the car. There was a wine bottle in the front seat that burned to the touch. I’d wrapped it in a cobbled-together bundle of magazines, half-burnt newspapers from the incense sticks we’ve put out on them, long-lost sweaters, and food wrappers. My head thunked against the steering wheel. Once. Twice.  See, the thing is, most people’s grandparents leave behind some sort of heirloom. A pearl necklace. Or a silk dress. Or, even a bottle of scotch.…

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A-chieu: Fiction by Wiley Ho

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Even before she entered the house, I would hear A-chieu calling to whoever might be in the courtyard “Have you eaten yet?” It was a common greeting but, in Hakka, in the way A-chieu said it, it sounded more like an accusation.  A-chieu was our family cook when I was little in Taiwan. She would be a hundred today but in my memory, she is a woman in her prime, full of fire and the master of the flame. A stout woman with powerful limbs, her thick body darted impossibly fast between the sink…

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“Lin”: A Short Story by Triona Tsai

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Lin was tired of running.  When her family was ripped from her 15 year old world, Lin ran. She ran to escape the scathing voices in her head. Ran to escape the hunger for a warm embrace. 1 year, 6 months, and 8 days later, Lin ran alone. As the youngest of three, Lin had never expected to be the last one. Her brother, Jin, was crafted from the watery depths, his disposition as unruly and free as the tormented sea. Waterfalls of water twisted and curled like an obedient beast at the flick…

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“Kinmen, 1969”: Fiction by Deborah Jang

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  2024 Grand Prize Winner, College Category On odd days of the month, the mainland bombards the islands with shells. On even days, we return the favor. The steel capsules come thick and fast, a distinctive whistle in the air. My teacher instructs us to take cover in the concrete-reinforced bomb shelter under the school’s track. I don’t learn very much on those days.  Half a million shells landed on Kinmen in forty days. If Kinmen is 150 square kilometers, calculate the number…

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Homing: Creative Nonfiction by Lenna L. Liu

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  Homing  Dedicated to my father  Meet me   along a border, a boundary,  where earth and water meet.  Snow geese fly   tracing coastlines,   salmon leave   salty bay waters for freshwater streams,   grey whales slow  filling their bellies on long journeys to arctic seas.  What if borders are pathways,  not barriers  guideposts, banks of a stream,   fertile grounds for crossings   birthing diversity,  in estuaries,…

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Luck Girl; Benign City: Fiction by Herbert Chang

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"Subtle, restrained, elegant. A moving, poignant reflection of youth, friendship and first love." - Judges' Remarks Grand Prize Winner, Adult Category – 2024 Betty L. Yu and Jin C. Yu Creative Writing Prizes Luck Girl; Benign City  Summer 1989, I met Claire in my hometown Bei-Liao. But it also doesn’t matter, because I almost never tell anyone.  Memories of that day always unwind like a roll film, in third person present. I walk between rice fields. My sweaty school uniform…

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