Archived entries for Fei Wu
Alpha
by Fei Wu
Henry crushes the remainder of his still-burning cigarette into the plush floral patterned carpet with his scuffed Italian leather shoes. He takes a deep breath in front of door number 666, and lets himself in. The door whirrs and clicks open, and Henry finds himself face to face with a topless teenager. She’s young, probably younger than both his daughters. There is cocaine residue beneath her nose. Her eyes are unfocused, her tits are small. She raises her bird-bone hand toward his face, and Henry flinches backward.
They’ve destroyed the suite. The yellow wallpaper has been torn into Plathian shreds, the air smells of blood and alcohol, the walls are pulsating with bass, and his boss – the treasury secretary of the Shanghai Train Bureau is sitting, draped in a sleek, brown, bear’s pelt amidst a pile of writhing young women, empty Mou Tai bottles, and 100 RMB notes. Henry tries to sneak into his room, the smallest room, unnoticed, but his boss is uncannily alert. He calls to him. Continue reading…
A Place of Great and Rushing Silence
by Fei Wu
Past midnight. Salary-men hurtle home drunk and horny to silent apartments, cold rice and a bowl of shriveled green beans swimming in oil. They glance at their still, sleeping wives and consider shaking them awake for a quick and furious fuck, but balk at the thought of worn beige panties, and tofu waists indented with the elastic bands of winter wear. Some turn to their computer screens; pant in the near-dark, faces aglow with artificial light.
Then there are those who phone Xin. Continue reading…
Mary
By Fei Wu
It has been six months since my epiphany.
On the morning of my conversion, I was staring at the sterile white linoleum that lines the floor of the underground lab where I spend my days, indolent in artificial light.
Mary, the peroxide-blonde office slut had ensnared me in a tiresome flirtation. She slid up to me that morning wearing too much lipstick and much more eye-shadow. She purred a greeting, and brushed her arm casually against mine. The smell of her overwhelmed me, it was rosy and rotten. Her scent distracted me from my work with its fetid desperation. I stared at her through my glasses; making sure the glare obscured my disgust, and forced a smirk that I knew would make her thighs twitch. Mary was puppyish in her devotion to me, convinced I was a genius, that my aloof exterior was a shell for a lonely, suffering soul. This was partly due to a bored manipulation on my part, I’d casually left some scribbled lines of maniac poetry on my desk for her to see, and she’d eaten it up. The rest of her delusion stemmed from a deep, almost dogmatic faith in clichés. Her cubicle was covered with inspirational quotes, some of which she had written out in painstakingly cramped calligraphy — because a personal touch is never too much!
