18 posts tagged with "Microfiction"

Old Wang shivered in the cold wind, carrying his ancestral small bench. Today was the first day of the Lunar New Year, and he had managed to get away from the mahjong table to watch a movie at the newly opened "Bench Cinema" in the county town. He had heard that this cinema was unique in that it did not have seats, and audiences had to bring their own benches. When the idea first came out, Old Wang had scoffed at it, thinking it was nonsense. However, he couldn't resist the cinema's "New Year Special Offers," the tickets were surprisingly cheap, and curiosity eventually overcame his principles.

When he arrived at the cinema entrance, Old Wang realized he was not an oddity. Men and women, old and young, each carried a bench, of different colors and materials, like a bench exposition. There were plastic ones, wooden ones, and elegant folding stools. Someone even carried a small grand master chair. People sized up each other's "vehicles," with a hint of novelty and a hint of helplessness on their faces.

Old Wang clutched a crumpled movie ticket, on which the words "Bench Ticket" were clearly printed. He looked around; the cinema lobby was bustling with people, each carrying a variety of benches. There were small plastic stools, bulky wooden benches, and even someone lugging a foldable lounge chair.

"These days, you even have to bring your own equipment to watch a movie," Old Wang muttered. In his hand was an old wooden plank he had found at home, looking rather shabby.

The cold winter wind cut through the gas station like a knife, leaving it deserted. Only the orange glow of the lights illuminated the cold asphalt. Old Wang huddled deeper into his cotton coat, exhaling a puff of white mist. He had been working the night shift at this remote gas station for five years. Since the company introduced robots to replace human workers, it had become a forgotten corner.

Old Wang had given this robot a name, “Little Iron,” even though it was just a cold machine. He still had a habit of talking to it. Tonight, Little Iron was different. It was no longer mechanically repeating “Welcome, please scan to refuel,” but instead making strange noises.

When Old Zhao woke up, he found an "invisible bracelet" on his wrist.

"Oh, look, look! This 'Jilin Changbai Mountain' outfit is so grand!"

Old Wang was holding a bowl of instant noodles, his eyes glued to the screen. The Spring Festival Gala was in the middle of a skit, Shen Teng's familiar face contorted as he tried to elicit laughter from the audience. But Old Wang thought this year's skit seemed a bit weak, the jokes were awkward, even forced. He put down his chopsticks, picked up the remote, and habitually opened the bullet comments.

Old Li had been out of "Singularity Interconnect" for three months. This company was known for its "disruptive innovation," but also for its strict confidentiality system. Before leaving, Old Li signed a thick confidentiality agreement. At the time, he found the terms cumbersome, skimmed through them, and signed his name.

Lately, Old Li found himself having strange dreams. In his dreams, he was surrounded by countless black cameras, and a cold, mechanical voice echoed in his ears: "Article 37 of the agreement prohibits the disclosure of company secrets in dreams." He would wake up startled, his back always soaked with sweat.

Old Wang was a chef, or more precisely, a chef who made smashed cucumbers. His smashed cucumbers weren't sliced with a knife but rather "smashed" using a family-inherited "unique technique." The result was cucumbers that were crisp, flavorful, and unmatched by any other establishment. This made Old Wang a prized asset at the "Four Seasons Spring" restaurant.

Old Wang was a cleaner at the Go academy, a quiet, gray-haired old man. His daily job was to sweep the playing rooms, wipe the Go boards, and pick up the scattered stones from the Go bowls and put them back in place. He had witnessed countless battles and heard countless sighs, but none of that concerned him. He only cared about the black and white stones, especially those that had been deemed "dead stones."

According to the rules, dead stones are removed from the board and placed in a special small box. But Old Wang always felt that these dead stones were unwilling to accept their fate. They were abandoned by their former owners, ruthlessly defined as "worthless" by the rules, and then thrown into the box, waiting to be used again, and abandoned again. Old Wang felt they should have some value, at least they shouldn't be treated like this.

After retiring, Old Wang's greatest pleasure was taking an evening stroll in the community garden. He always felt that the ground beneath his feet was a bit strange; not soft, but rather hollow. He tried stamping on it, to confirm he wasn't just seeing things.

Old Wang lived on the first floor and had suffered from dampness for years. He mused that it would be great if he had a basement. This thought, like weeds growing wildly in a corner, spread in his mind each day.