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 Tsos chicken doesnt
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
Barbies 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
Ab4 26 Miodrag Kojadinovi
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.
Its 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
1
2
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
Dipika Mukherjee
Calligraphic Lives
I
My shoes, wet from yesterdays rain,
squelch in reluctance.
The teenager trips down the stairs, black hair,
black Man U shirt, black shorts
Woohooh, he says, lets go dudelums!
He thinks of Shanghai as one big adventure.
Im 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, its 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,
theres only this, car fumes and fog.
II
In an alleyway, a man grabs his girlfriends shoulder,
spinning her around as she claws at him,
4
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
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.
Theres 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
Beverly Ku
Barbies 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 mothers 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, Maos 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 Maos eco-
nomic reforms.
In the United States, my parents settled in a gated com-
munity. Our refrigerator was well stocked with milk, orange
7
juice, ice cream, frozen meals, yogurt, eggs, and bacon. We
kids drank milk straight from the carton and frequently or-
dered Dominos 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. Id open a drawer to find a cheese
grater. Amidst the metallic jungle of utensils and ensuing
glare, Id shut it quickly because I hadnt expected a deep
metal dig. My mothers 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 Peoples
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
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 didnt 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 Barbies 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
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 wasnt 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. Its not the things you buy
that own you, its 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
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 isnt 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
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
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 didnt make it to the exit
Struggled into corners.
And on the outside I crossed over some sidewalks
That were made by peoples 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 couldnt 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
So I stopped breathing for that moment, on
The inhale, and I never let it out.
14
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
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
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 youre 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
dont know how often youre understood.
bizui: shut up
You believed it a gentle request for silence
17
until it didnt 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 didnt 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 dont 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 youre 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
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 doesnt 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
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 ones arms. Let the bird go free. Let it fly away, sing, so pow-
20
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 dont say, the things that I dont 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 hearts heaviness and
gravity out of the body, up through the throat, into the sur-
roundings. A hundred mens heaviness, a hundred womens
gravity, enlists an air that falls and falls, onto the granite
floor. And then the music, clear, shrill, almost visible, binds
together everyones solemnity, runs through the rooms 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
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 hasnt
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 tonights 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
(There was, in one of the monkeys eyes, an indication of
true anger, and true dignified hate. A true sense of a musi-
cians 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 ones self.
And thats all Ill 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
dont know any other places.
And I dont know you, it says, at least you. At least I
dont 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
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
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
monkeys 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
Miodrag Kojadinovi
Ab4
(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
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 Kojadinovi 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
Dipika Mukherjees 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.
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