Fiction from Elena Zhang

Photo: Pranjall Kumar

Once, a Long Time Ago

We leave home and fall asleep in apple orchards. We sink teeth into red skin and white flesh, and we learn about carnal sins, awakening lust and licking mirrors with our reflection pooled on the surface. We invite wolves into our beating hearts and consume our ancestors. We grow our hair long, our scalps like doorbells, our locks an invitation. Our breasts blossom, then pucker, as we fall in love with men who poison our milk. We become pomegranate-pregnant, red and round with jewels inside. We give birth to an exhalation. We climb beanstalks to caress the clouds, then dive into the ocean and lose our voices. We shit peas instead of pearls, bury them under mattresses so we can have waking dreams of beauty. We spin straw into gold in exchange for our names. We dance until our feet bleed glass. We’re starving. We knock over bowls of porridge in favor of glistening pork. We wear bearskin and find breadcrumbs dried into gleaming pills. We swallow them and grow small. We try to find our way back home again. We try, and try, and try.
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Elena Zhang is a Chinese American writer and mother living in Chicago. Her work can be found in HAD, The Citron Review, Ghost Parachute, Your Impossible Voice, and Lost Balloon, among other publications. She is a Best of the Net nominee and was selected for Best Microfiction 2024. She’s on Twitter @ezhang77.