Issue 7 January 2011

A Literary Journal with Chinese Characteristics

Unsolicited manuscripts are welcomed throughout the year.

Terracotta Typewriter seeks submissions of literary works

with a connection to China. The definition of “connection to

China” can be stretched as much as an author sees fit. For ex-

ample, expatriate writers living in China or who have lived

in China, Chinese writers writing in English, translators of

Chinese writing, works that are set in China, manuscripts

covered in Chinese food (General Tso’s chicken doesn’t

count), or anything else a creative mind can imagine as a con-

nection to China.

© 2011 by Terracotta Typewriter. All rights reserved.

Cover art by Matthew Lubin © 2011

Visit our Web site at http://www.tctype.com.

This literary journal is free for distribution.

NOT FOR RESALE.

Terracotta Typewriter

A Cultural Revolution

of Literature

In This Issue

From the Editor 1

Chongqing 8/29/2010 3 Mark Mihelcic

Calligraphic Lives 4 Dipika Mukherjee

Barbie’s Dream House 7 Beverly Ku

Reflections on 12 Casey Rich

West Lake

Drum Tower 13

Sichuan Earthquake 15 Heather Elliot

Ting Bu Dong 17

The Monkey Orchestra 19 Kevin Wu

三Ab外4 26 Miodrag Kojadinović

Contributor Notes 27

From the Editor

Dear Readers and Writers,

I hope everyone had a joyous holiday and wonderful end to

2010. I expect great things in 2011.

It’s for the best that the calendar has changed. As this publi-

cation is a one-man show, there are difficulties in getting

each issue online in the quarterly timeframe. Sometimes the

publication schedule gets skewed (and it certainly did this

time around). Unfortunately, I skipped the Fall issue

(although the summer issue did arrive late in September). I

look forward to getting back on track this year.

I appreciate all the letters and blog posts in support of

Terracotta Typewriter. Contributors and readers keep this

journal alive.

Keep writing!

Matthew Lubin

Editor & Publisher

tctype@gmail.com 1 一

2 二

Mark Mihelcic

Chongqing 8/29/2010

a mouth of leaves

broken open

piles of stone,

asphalt

dust –

out of the

cars,

the trees,

a mouth of leaves.

the windows

and every clothesline,

like eyelids

hanging,

covering

the cigarette alleys.

3 三

Dipika Mukherjee

Calligraphic Lives

I

My shoes, wet from yesterday’s rain,

squelch in reluctance.

The teenager trips down the stairs, black hair,

black Man U shirt, black shorts…

Woohooh, he says, let’s go dudelums!

He thinks of Shanghai as one big adventure.

I’m not so sure.

I miss the writers gathered at the Mezrab

framed by gentle clanks of the trams of Amsterdam

eating pillows of Iranian bread,

drinking black tea, arguing into the night.

Here, it’s the smell that overpowers,

of food broiling and boiling, warm steamy smoke

of comfort stews with preserved vegetables,

even in the French Concession,

trying to breathe in an old history,

there’s only this, car fumes and fog.

II

In an alleyway, a man grabs his girlfriend’s shoulder,

spinning her around as she claws at him,

4 四

he flings her on to the pavement.

She lies there, not bleeding, taking short choked

breaths of air. No one stops.

When the man returns, he tries to jerk her to her feet;

she hits his groin with her stiletto.

I am haunted in the inner crevices

of this reel which refuses deletion. Random violence

in too-shared spaces, jostling through life

in a teeming crowd...I know this too well.

III

Every morning the river, choked by a lush water hyacinth

carpet

of green, is pierced by the fishermen who make

themselves small within the narrow barricade,

squatting for hours on haunches, fishing in silence.

A river, food, friends and time.

We want to glamorize the lives beyond our gated communi-

ties,

to feel their bend in the river as our lost opportunity...

which it, clearly, is not.

IV

In the typhoon, the trees blur.

Framed in the pagoda window

the wind whips picturesque

rain sheets down in elemental violence,

turning the world an emerald green

5 五

On ancient waterways float carved wooden bridges

which criss-cross a feng-shui pathway to deflect evil spirits;

These have borne lovers and poets, now a ghostly voice,

the high trill of a girl, hangs in the air like a song.

V

The newspaper headlines have too much death.

The guilty in the melamine-milk-scandal, Executed.

A party official taking bribes, Executed.

Muslim rebels fighting in Urumqi, Executed.

There’s talk of that drunk driver

being in the gallows soon.

The heart stops so easily here.

Even blood, spilt on white porcelain,

starts looking like calligraphy.

6 六

Beverly Ku

Barbie’s Dream House

T here was the first house I grew up in and then

there was the first house I owned. The house I

grew up in was in Danville, a suburb near San

Francisco. This house was large, with a master bed-

room, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a two-car garage, a

large kitchen, a spacious dining and living room, and a fam-

ily room. But every nook and cranny of practically every

room was filled with crap. My parents were in their early 30s

when they and their three children moved into this house in

the late 1970s. Anyone with an interest in the American

Dream and a down payment could purchase a new home.

Unfortunately, my parents were also hounded by a personal

nightmare of scarcity and waste. When my mother’s family

departed China in the late 1940s, they locked their home in

Beijing with all its belongings, expecting to return. My grand-

father had accepted a temporary teaching post in Taiwan and

brought his wife and five daughters with him to Taipei.

When the Communist Party shortly took control of China,

they were never able to return home to reclaim their posses-

sions. During the chaos that followed, Mao’s Little Red

Guards looted the homes of the wealthier classes. The things

that made the old class bad were the things they owned that

signaled prosperity, education, leisure, and class. Then came

the years of famine when millions died under Mao’s eco-

nomic reforms.

In the United States, my parents settled in a gated com-

munity. Our refrigerator was well stocked with milk, orange

7 七

juice, ice cream, frozen meals, yogurt, eggs, and bacon. We

kids drank milk straight from the carton and frequently or-

dered Domino’s pizza. As my parents gradually acquired a

disposable income during the flush Regan and Clinton years,

they became frenetic consumers of disposable crap. My par-

ents had built a more than respectable amount of wealth by

making keen investments. Yet they became gullible, docile

consumers when confronted by ordinary household sales.

Slashed prices meant saving money, in a roundabout way.

They got hooked by novel new stuff, but refused to relin-

quish anything old. In our kitchen, we had bread makers,

toasters, espresso makers, at least a dozen kettles, and com-

plete sets of dinnerware. I’d open a drawer to find a cheese

grater. Amidst the metallic jungle of utensils and ensuing

glare, I’d shut it quickly because I hadn’t expected a deep

metal dig. My mother’s closet was crammed with fashionable

clothing from each decade, boxes of shoes, and designer

purses, still wrapped in their original tissue. Our living room

eventually acquired a second piano along with extra chairs

and tables. Walking around our house became a hazard. You

could trip and fall over all the stuff piled in unexpected

places. My parents even kept magazines, including People’s

from the 1980s not because of any value but because they

could not bear to part with anything. The consequence of

such consumption was that our house, as large as it was for a

family of five, was cramped.

But I could escape all of this in my bedroom, which I

kept clean and orderly. Books were shelved, clothing was

folded and organized, pens and pencils were never scram-

bled together in a drawer but separated by color and func-

tion, and I always made my bed. The one novelty in my room

8 八

was my Barbie dream house, the first house I owned. I was

quite excited about this house when it came in a box. My

mother helped assembled the house, but I decorated it. Or

rather, I managed it for Barbie. It was two stories with a bal-

cony, double lattice doors, and flower boxes beneath the win-

dows. Barbie’ s house was all white with a yellowish orange

roof, window shutters, and trimming. Although I could keep

my room in order, I could not control this house. It was over-

crowded with Barbie, Ken, their three female playmates, and

the necessities of modern life. She had a flushing toilet, a

well-equipped kitchen, a dining set, a bedroom set, a vanity

set, and lots of clothing and shoes. Ken parked his Mercedes

outside the house because it didn’t have a garage yet. I deco-

rated lavishly for Barbie, a mysteriously happy and wealthy

persona, so that she could entertain her entourage of admir-

ers. Each outing to the Mattel aisle of the toy store provided

possible upgrades for Barbie. I experienced my first highs

when I rushed to the car after my purchases and tear open

the Mattel packaging. I was told, over and over again, to wait

until I got home, but I couldn't because my heart would race

from the anticipation. I was an addict looking for excuses to

consume. Perhaps Barbie would be happy with an indoor hot

tub? It actually held and drained water, giving Barbie an au-

thentic experience. But soon, the house, with all its stuff, col-

lected dirt in crevices, corners, and edges. I found dead bugs

in the hot tub, which freaked me out. I had not considered

pest control when I acquired this house. My playtime turned

into cleaning and organizing Barbie’s stuff. Her fashion ac-

cessories included earrings and shoes, which were easy to

misplace. So too were the delicate forks, spoons, and knives.

Because Barbie changed outfits frequently, her clothing

9 九

stretched and soon lost their gloss. Time took its toll even on

Barbie, as her hair became more ragged and dull. I wanted to

get rid of everything and get new stuff for Barbie. I really

liked buying stuff, but not keeping or maintaining anything.

My dream house, on a smaller scale, was a replica of how my

parents managed their house. They thought more stuff

would make them happy, just as I thought Barbie would be

happier with more stuff. In fact, our house became a store-

house of junk, with each item of junk symbolizing our dream

of finding confirmation of our wellbeing.

Although I had outgrown Barbie by the age of ten, I

moved on to other, more age appropriate addictions. I loved

buying new clothing not because of the quality of material or

workmanship in design, but because of the smell and sheen

of store bought clothing. Before the wear of washing and

stretching, store bought clothing hung neatly and beautifully.

I bought new clothing so that I too could feel new and untar-

nished. I so hated the skin I was born into. I had similar feel-

ings about department store makeup. It wasn’t the tube of

lipstick that mesmerized me but the pristine condition and

packaging. I bought stuff to take home with me, thinking that

the perfection and beauty of a cosmetic compact would rub

off on me. I wanted so desperately to believe that perfection

and beauty existed in a sadly imperfect and ugly world.

When I moved beyond consumer products, I got hooked

onto things I could ingest. Alcohol, prescription drugs, nico-

tine, and food were all fair game. It’s not the things you buy

that own you, it’s the feelings that drive you to consume that

possess you.

The consequence of over consumption was that as an

adult, I became wary of the American Dream. A lust for

10 十

housing and property seemed to grip people of my genera-

tion. Stocks went up and down on a digital screen, but prop-

erty was a solid, reliable investment. Borrow and buy low,

upgrade and wait, and then sell high. The profit provided its

own kind of security. But isn’t the Dream really about secu-

rity, safety, and stability? Security from an unstable govern-

ment that would accept defeat and flee, safety from a new

order that permitted looting and destruction, and the stabil-

ity of knowing that when you returned home, everything in-

side would still belong to you?

11 十一

Casey Rich

Reflections on West Lake May 8th, 2009

Two moons dancing on the rippling surface of West Lake.

They exchange bows and lose rhythm, twist about

each other like lustful youths at courtship. The waves

tuning them up, slapping them about in twists and dips.

Given a momentary pause they may unite as one. When

will the lake stand still? When will the young stop moving?

12 十二

Drum Tower October 17th, 2008

And I realized while I was there, and the music was loud,

That I had nothing left to say to anybody.

So I left, on a thought, and paced through the crowd,

Following some people who didn’t make it to the exit

Struggled into corners.

And on the outside I crossed over some sidewalks

That were made by people’s footsteps.

Nobody was there but the taxis, some turning,

Making me pause, others just circling around

Nobody is in there.

And I sat upon a bench made of concrete, that

Really stretched like a retaining wall.

Looking up at a waning moon, I couldn’t keep

It in place, but Gulou Tower, like a lone marcher

Grew into the sky like a statement.

And as I lay there, thoughts slipped past into breezes,

Left in the trees and collapsing.

The mountain and the lake and the city center, landmarked

Positions that I called out to, and they wanted some respect

Thrown to the miles of consistent wind.

And a personal statement, I saw a peng with

Wings blotting out the moon, with one single

Beat it was gone beyond the horizon.

13 十三

So I stopped breathing for that moment, on

The inhale, and I never let it out.

14 十四

Heather Elliot

Sichuan Earthquake

The news rose up, a dust

making me cough into

the sullen white of my computer screen.

As I read the numbers of the dead

my building sidled into the night,

the tops of my fingers pale

in the darkened room

as they waited over the keys.

There was nothing I could do

when a child was swallowed into

the embrace of the earth a province or

a country or a million hearts beating

between us.

Photo of a smiling stranger, I see

the shape of you on the television

but our eyes have never met.

I never slouched into the classroom

with you, hid a compact in my palm

as the lesson started, and now your parents

will take you out of the ground and cry and

put you into it again. You

might have turned out to be a petty crook.

I see you massaging your prices, trading

cigarettes for small favors; but maybe

not; I

15 十五

conjure you when I see the numbers,

wrapping zeros around your arms

like bangles, scooping up rice with the

ones.

I see you squinting into the horizon,

and I wonder if you are home yet.

16 十六

Ting Bu Dong

dianhua: telephone

How poetic to name it electric speech, you think

every time you flip it open, hold it to your ear,

call your friend for the number of her high rise;

call your boss, complaining about

your visa; your family, far away, to say you’re alright.

pijiu: beer

Your Chinese friends sigh at your love for street

food, sour potato strips served hot

in a plastic bag, spicy meat kabobs wrapped

inside pita bread, pale green bottles

of Tsingtao beer, tastes mingling in your belly.

xiexie: thank you

Where your pronunciation will fall

between shay shay, which sounds like a dance,

and sea sea, which makes you think

of the lap of water, changes by your mood,

the hour, the minute. You say it so often, but

don’t know how often you’re understood.

bizui: shut up

You believed it a gentle request for silence

17 十七

until it didn’t work anymore on the fourth-

grade boy running around the room, throwing

books; until in desperation you sent

for his Chinese teacher, until she dragged him

crying from the room snapping

bizui! -and you didn’t call for help again.

piaoliang: beautiful

When the woman pats your arm

and says white, piaoliang, when groups

at the Great Wall want you in their pictures,

you try to return the compliment, but

they laugh, snap their shots, vanish in the crowd

wo ting bu dong: I can hear you, but I don’t understand

You bounce the words around you like

a chorus of small bells, a shield

to vendors throwing hopeful fragments

of English after you like colored glass,

to the taxi driver who asks

if you’re married then proposes; every time,

you realize again how little you know,

how after a year in the jigsaw streets

of this neon city you are still

like a child, innocent and easily lost.

18 十八

Kevin Wu

The Monkey Orchestra

(A picture of a monkey/chimpanzee almost hu-

man with shirt and pants and shoes on, looking

down, in a dignified and quiet and self-

efficacious and cool sort of way.)

Tap tap. The conductor leaves the scene. Too crushed by ex-

pectations, he wanders into the parking lot, never to return.

Always to return. He leaves a trail of shit along his way to

exile. The audience doesn’t notice, or smell. The audience is

merely interested in the beginning, not the middle, nor the

end. The audience is never ready for something so rash, and

incalculable. The audience.

Silence. The dignity. With repose. From the deep room.

With silence. The music. The appearance of which is be-

coming human. The player coming out of the shadows.

The monkeys take a bow, deep down to their knees. To

their knees. Their monkey feet. The orchestral silence. The

anticipation following orchestral silence.

What kind of music do you want to play, the audience asks.

What kind of music. To row us over.

The monkey orchestra replies, giving it away, something

close to the eyes, when looking at the audience, something

like another note, experimental. On its words it says nothing.

Its face is stern. Its lips are full. Like silence. Like muteness.

Like sirens, it says, warning you. Do not speak and you will be

heard. Falling, like music falling, the monkey orchestra

weaves its beginning notes in the air, leaping and grabbing

19 十九

them, with its fervent, passionate mind. It calls for the force

outside of the theatre, the mausoleum, as the joke runs,

something to counter against all these humans, all these

clothed, legged, masses.

Then the music starts.

The monkey orchestra plays, for a long time, to the

arousal of tenderness and grief, of the intersection of streets,

of cities. Leaving, all of humanity, behind, is its dying dream,

forging an indelible music, of palate and fervor, of undivided

shadow and madness, of the great, free, falling, of the rain…

It shows a belief in the neighborhood, frolicking and

jumping in between places, coming with chatter, running

around in the night air. The music explains, that it was some-

times always about reading, books, or listening, to the radio.

How that was always brokenness, itself, and air, itself, how

that was what sometimes what you need to pay attention to,

pay attention, to the life that unwraps around you. Your

house. Your inevitable house. The inevitable sitting. Your

many hours of life and tumultuousness. The train that runs

past your tumult of a life. The sitting. And the waiting.

The monkey orchestra delves into issues of humanity, of

heights and lengthening. It says, what is life, but a wind, of

lifting above everything, descending on only nothing, travel-

ing in the air, never letting the wind blow you off course, or

the sun dry you up, too much. Only music. Unseen. Notes

revered and unheard. Tantamount. To nothing unusual. But

your deepest love. Your deepest understanding.

And then the music says this, about humanity. About

surrounding the people. About the audience regarding the

notes. All powerful. All inviting. All living, with an opening,

of one’s arms. Let the bird go free. Let it fly away, sing, so pow-

20 二十

erfully, because it is the only thing left that is in us. In our

shoulders. In our breaths. In our marching up the stairs, step

by rising step. Contain it, the spirit of the song wants to say,

break it, bring it down. But my spirit. My power. The loveliness

that is in the sky. The human loveliness that is in me. In us.

Will forever be forgotten. Like this song. For the remnant of

days.

The things that I don’t say, the things that I don’t say, the

monkey orchestra wants to say, in its mind, there are many

things to say, nothing childish, nor human. The orchestral

indifference is for the many people, that are in the notes, that

are in the story, that are in the house, to let the snow fall, con-

tinuously, outside, outside, outside…

The human, if he says something, something about all

these works of artwork and desire, built upon hours, upon

minutes and minutes of time and distended time. Time and

the following ovations. A stop collected here, there, and then

going on, toward the distance, just like the great train…

The looming of the room, the crimson drapes and the

sound which surrounds, brings the heart’s heaviness and

gravity out of the body, up through the throat, into the sur-

roundings. A hundred men’s heaviness, a hundred women’s

gravity, enlists an air that falls and falls, onto the granite

floor. And then the music, clear, shrill, almost visible, binds

together everyone’s solemnity, runs through the room’s black

and gray…

In the next instance an orchestral monkey springs onto

the scene, his shirt somewhat unbuttoned, all quiet, spring-

ing, hurriedly he walks toward his spot, sits down, and be-

gins his playing. The wildness of his motion sways the audi-

ence one way only. The orchestra playing only slightly more

21 二十一

powerfully than before. The mark has been struck where he

sits. The sound is greater, and fuller. Everyone wants to ap-

plaud.

Then it was a momentary silence. A stillness. That would

cover over everything. All space and the clarity of things. All

silver, gray water, cool and free of air.

Then the surge is on.

The music overflows onto the audience like no one has

ever known. Like an uneven tide on the yellow sand. Uneven

flow of cold, selected things. The barrier broken, the water

runs on.

On, on, the music runs, into the corners of the theatre, the

theatre, the motion of it is very much like waves, but not

quite, because the music comes from nowhere; and; it hasn’t

been found, but instead it is plentiful coming out of the in-

visibility of echoes, of some instruments, of music, and it cap-

tivates someone enough to make, indelibly, some notes in his

mind, of the power of tonight’s orchestra. The monkey or-

chestra. The tender orchestra. The flow of the water sound.

Instead of the animal, instead of being very very human. But

like a squeak of some toy. Or the human mall, lovely at sun-

set.

Uncontainable.

The lesson that the orchestra teaches refuses to be very

holding, like a father, what is music but a step out of our

every day, oppressive, lives. Remember love, how that the

music has you love the very thin strands of hair, of mad

yearnings and great genius, and in the end there was great-

ness after all! The monkeys loved Beethoven, and his look, his

picture, it judged them; finally, overall, without thunder,

without all catastrophe, without pain.

22 二十二

(There was, in one of the monkey’s eyes, an indication of

true anger, and true dignified hate. A true sense of a musi-

cian’s own worth, despite the measure of the world)

And then the music does go on, to remembering some-

thing so essential, lost, amidst the city blocks, something al-

ways about longingness, and vastness, and structurelessness,

having the entire world to explore, everything to be gained at

once, and all you have is yourself, all you have is the sea…

You dove into the sea and the water is so cold, and your

skin is so warm toward it, everywhere there are rushes, the

tumult of the water toward the horizon; you did nothing,

scrap, shriek, scratch, the music did not hear you, you stayed

inside the water, forever…

The rushes of the waterfall was like madness, and it did

have a sound that played a tune, again and again it let the

clarity fall, let the blue show, let the night dim. Again and

again it did not know what it was doing, and you, some lost

child, acted brave, acted older than your unknowing years,

was run over by senselessness, without any weapon, to de-

fend one’s self.

And that’s all I’ll ever know, the monkey composer

wants to say, is this… The music looks toward the overhead

lights, the upper gallery, the carpet before them, the doors, is

all I have, the cool color of the walls, the majesty, the luxuriant

seats. I have never wandered outside the theatre, they keep

me here, for a reason, except Harvard, where I studied, I

don’t know any other places.

And I don’t know you, it says, at least you. At least I

don’t know anything about this life, your life. I am only a

monkey, it says, the composer revealing his weakness, his

frail self. I am only an animal. I am only imagining. What are

23 二十三

the mysteries of this life. What are the myths that we live on,

you, and I. What are the beats, underneath the consciousness.

What are the supreme liftings, the tracks, the currents, the

springs…

With all attention, all of a sudden, a music is played out-

side the music of the orchestra, above, perpendicular, that

says something, that says something about their lives, the

music that moves in tenderness and humanity, an above per-

formance, a metaperformance, a music that is so beautiful, so

beautiful, so eminently beautiful, so alive, so alive to our

deadness, a deadness that is between us, a deadness for all

listeners.

And then the interior music ends.

Relief. From the orchestra. Of the concert well per-

formed. Everyone applauds.

Everyone talked to each other, saying wow, that was

such a strange performance. How I did not love the sym-

phony, but is it everything in the world, to love? It was inter-

esting, some say, to have taken a part in something so mon-

strous, and played with such dissonance. The person in the

middle of the room looks at another, the great composer,

closer to the stage, and he starts to tear up. Something about

lost time, his historical works, the composer is sometimes

who the man wants to be, and the man has tried all his life at

it, without success. That no one could be the composer, and

the world being so full of contempt for anyone else. And now

that I am in the theatre, he is just like anyone else, and his

privilege will last forever.

The crowd at last leaves, filing out through the doors.

The play of the melody of their lives ends, in quietude.

What is left over. After the music plays, only two mon-

24 二十四

keys are left on stage. Silently they sit there, with the empti-

ness of chairs. One is tuning his instrument. The other is

picking up things from the stage. No one says anything. The

silence. A picture of their monkey feet. Their dark pants. Mo-

tionless. The stillness. The silence. The silence. The silence.

If this is what aura brought, what aura thinks, the dance

after being more important than the dance itself, the silence

after music being more important than the music itself. The

monkey’s suits hang slack on them, after so many sessions,

their human clothes seem not to completely fit their monkey

bodies. One does not ask the question, was this what they

have wanted, all along? Were we the ones to play for, all

along? Well, then, what about the wild? We think of how

they could have played their tunes, in the wild, with trees

and other monkeys and the blasting of a, a, a, with every

monkey to listen, the monkeys as a species, the monkeys as

an audience. Then, in the breeze of their palms, is a world,

vanishing, debilitated, the only things that they knew, then,

was to bring it up, monkey-like, somehow, into becoming

fully-human. Maybe it is then too soon that they become

nameless, soundless, and without voices; into becoming, into

becoming, those f-ing house dwellers. The structure in them is

not enough, it seems, the music is not enough, and they are

silent, in the backroom, looking out into the night, imagining

the swing of their arms, and how they talked to each other,

and how they beat their hearts, without human music, dur-

ing the darkest night of the year…

25

二十五

Miodrag Kojadinović 三三三三Ab外外外外4

(for Laiwan)

Consummate passion

to partake in consumption

consumes the artist(e).

Four is cocoon is death.

A lack of leaves cancels Silk Road

Poetess ruminates.

Will eat mulberry leaves rustle

in exchange for a silky thread

of 4 haiku

26 二十六

Contributor Notes

Heather Elliott taught English in Dalian, Liaoning, from Sep-

tember 2006 - July 2008. She returned to the States to pursue

her MFA, where she still constantly talks about China. She

isn't anywhere close to being an expert on anything China,

but she remains fascinated by Chinese culture, history and

language.

Miodrag Kojadinović is a Canadian-Serbian poet, non-fiction

and erotica writer, editor and translator between English,

Serbian, Dutch, and French. His work has appeared in an-

thologies, journals, collections, and magazines in seven lan-

guages in the US, Serbia, Canada, Russia, the Netherlands,

Slovenia, India, France, Montenegro, the UK, and Croatia. He

returned to Europe last year after several years of teaching at

universities and colleges in Southern Mainland China and

Macau.

Beverly Ku currently lives in San Francisco and studies

graphic communication. She has attended UC Berkeley, UC

San Diego, and the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor.

Mark Mihelcic was born and raised in the eastern United

States and has a degree in psychology from the University of

Delaware. He currently lives and works in Chongqing,

China.

27 二十七

Dipika Mukherjee’s debut novel, Thunder Demons, was long-

listed for the Man Asian Literary Prize 2009 and her first po-

etry collection, The Palimpsest of Exile, was published by Rubi-

con Press (Canada) in April 2009. She has performed her po-

etry at the Het Huis van Poesie in Rotterdam, The Hideout in

Austin, Texas, The Sugar Factory in Amsterdam, and the

Iowa Summer Writing Festival among other places. She is

currently professor of linguistics at Shanghai International

Studies University and divides her time between America,

India, Malaysia and China, calling all four places home.

Casey Rich is head of social sciences at Cambridge Interna-

tional Centre - teaching history. He writes for Map Magazine

(Nanjing). His poetry has appeared in Harvard Univer-

sity's Dudley Review and Grand Valley State University's The

Rant.

Kevin Wu is originally from Guangzhou. Nowadays he lives

in Carmichael, CA. He holds an MFA in fiction from Brown

University and a BA in English from University of California

at Berkeley. His stories have been published in Word Cata-

lyst, Kartika Review, Issues Magazine, and Visions Magazine. He

hopes to travel more this summer.

28 二十八