Tag Archives: Helen Qian

Yellow Is

Third in a row of seven before the crayon box is opened. The fat block of school bus whose number she keeps forgetting. What dad tells her when she asks if she is also labelled. What she can’t see on … Continue reading

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Meet Me at My Funeral

There will be black triangles, stiff ironed skirts and ties, and their owners will be straightening to keep up, to mold into the curves of somber, the ambiance they’re going for. I’ll be nestled in a nook, the squiggle of … Continue reading

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