Century Egg — Christine Liu
Human embryos mirror characteristics of avian embryos at first. In 1896, a man jumped with his hang glider from Mühlenberg and glided about 15 metres, before dying. Today, you get called a cooter and press your own wings back into a swan-bent spine. We press eggs in an alkaline mixture of ash and quicklime for centuries. Icarus strapped globs of wax on his back, but you burn just by stepping outside. A crow at a window watches us drain congee into our mouths like slobs. You lift your hands up like a prisoner when a man asks what country you are from. You say this one and he laughs, like a humming motor. Surviving historical records describe attempts at birdlike flight going back at least 1,000 years. You make me swear to be a nice immigrant this time, asking me to pull feathers from your back. I don’t understand why anyone wants this, you say. The sky looks the same from any distance. I hum and tell you even the monks tried to fly. My mother says I was born hairless and drowning in fluid. You say your mother doesn’t remember it at all, how she ended up with a winged daughter. I hold onto the corner of your appendages, weighing the both of us down. I won’t tell you when I’ll let go, but it will happen.
Christine Liu (she/her) is a sophomore at the Kinder High School for the Performing and Visual Arts, where she majors with a concentration in creative writing. She has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers, and Best American High School Writing, among others. In her free time she likes to draw and watch South Park.