Skip to main content



The Last Day Of My Childhood

That year looked the same as all of my earlier years. I was eleven years old, in my last semester of primary school. Different from most of the other similar-aged kids, I was quiet and obedient, never made any trouble: At school, I was a good student. Each class, I sat straight-backed in my seat, listening and interacting carefully, wrote down every note that I thought necessary; when my father taught me and my younger brother that the best way to practice our hand writings was following the dictionary, I did. So, all of my homework and quiz papers were written neatly and beautifully, like a piece of calligraphic work; after school, I always walked back home accompanied by a few classmates. They loved to listen to me telling them stories—I had read a lot more books than them. They scrambled to walk closer to me, they repeated my stories to the others; plus, I made sketches, especially those beautiful ladies’ sketches: Some were reading, some were playing instruments, and some others we

Latest Posts

Persistence of Chrysanthemums

Worlds Apart

My Fourth Uncle

Fisherman's Song

Since Then

Days Of Magnolia Past

About Rape Seed Flowers

El Condor Pasa

Re-bloomed Spring

General’s Legacy