Arabesque
October 30, 2025

Maisie Corl, Rosa Sittig-Bell, Christopher Gambino, Yao Mou In, Paula Mclean

For two long winters, I lived with my parents in some small town in New England. I watched a lot of television and picked up my American accent around the age of five. We’ll go to Walmart, and I’ll throw a tantrum by the toy aisle every chance I get. A peculiar parenting tendency with dad, his firstborn is an extension of himself. A peculiar sexual awakening in me, I was an exhibitionist before I even knew how to spell the word public. Shiny lip balms, plastic jewelry sets, and the smell of Play-Doh (still almost a drug scent for me) are not simply juvenile wants, but crass reflections of his needs and mannerisms. I assumed most was due to his reluctance to partake in his grad school peers’ lifestyle, as they were all significantly younger, the idea of responsibility, and me picking up the American accent. Before humility installs and becomes a form of pride, my left shoulder has already dislocated four times after dad's countless desperate attempts to drag me out of my own scenes. Or senses? Satisfaction never came. Lollipops from Doctor Lee always do after he pops my shoulder back. Mom would put me in the middle of the backseat of our Toyota and practice driving in circles in the silent woods, her screaming sounds like Debussy’s La Fille aux Cheveux de Lin, because by then the only girl I would hang out with had pale yellow colored hair. Neither of us invited the other for playtime.


Like every romcom, inevitably, I become the only one in the family who speaks dad’s language. Vanity and derision. One night all this must stop, so I didn’t cry. I found my mark and left with a joyous right pocket. It was prime time television, then cut to commercials, then cut to mom whispering to dad’s ear. Everyone was calling my name, full name. I wonder if that was the real reason for such a common first name in comparison to my siblings. Just so I will never feel alone in this world.


Everything that follows is in Mandarin.


I was told to kneel on the floor. Mom walked away.


No question asked. I kneeled. Head’s down, that was my first mistake. I was thinking about my stomach. Television’s still playing, melodramatic tonight. What are the differences between shame and embarrassment? I’m closing all my airholes, first the gap between my teeth then the waterline between my lips then my nostrils, trying not to let any squeaking noise leak. The protagonist is wearing thick makeup. Sapphire. The foundation of the city, the body of heaven. I deserved this. Princess treatment.


At this point, I can tell the difference between stomach and bladder. Both easily filled up, one I can slowly trace the silhouette and illustrate the fluffy texture if I hold my breathe long enough, the other through the pumping heartbeat with its dreading weight. Learning to play with silence, especially when I first noticed the pumping heartbeat was coming from my lower abdomen instead of my chest. These bubbling organs. On the floor, in the back of the car, on my tiny bed with bright moonlight while mom and dad played other games in the room next door.


He asked if I stole. I said no.


You’ve read somewhere else about


A. rare encounters. First kiss, UFO sighting, courage and

B. mundane routines locking yourself in the bathroom to catch air. Between the oppositions stands the third type of experience,

C. incidents in life that are inflicted upon you by chance. A familiarity that demands attention: your mind, your gun, your salivary glands, your ear lobes, your forehead, the thong that is clearly twisted, your index finger that only aches in certain temperatures. You knew that it won’t be the first time.


He asked again. I moved my glance up. For a second, I thought maybe the 2008 recession happened not because of the mortgage crisis but of one’s decision to steal princess blue eyeshadow palette from Walmart, taking revenge in my own terms. A period of easy credit, an abuse of emotions in the name of aid and discipline, and the lack of general regulation. Self-aggrandizing is the same as self-deprecating. Both annoying. Before our eyes met, before I said anything more subconsciously sinister to the moralist.


Then a strike to the face.


Yes. Still kneeling. Now organs are all bursting. One after the other. Burning.


Excerpt from Sapphire by Sharon Xinran Zhang