The Descendants

by Stefan Schear

Cold night air bit at her rosy cheeks. The stairway to the train was a surging swamp of bodies. Kuan surrendered to the pull of the crowd, allowed herself to be lifted upward and carried like a rag doll to the platform. She let the tension and myopia of work seep from her muscles, and dreamed of home.

Just through the doors and they groaned shut, ripping jackets and dividing families. There was always the next train, she thought. In six hours. Maglevs heading west to Tibet ran on a sparse schedule, so once every six hours wasn’t bad for New Year’s traffic. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt tight and closed her eyes, losing herself in the grind of metal on the cheap headphones.

Kuan was traveling alone. She hated crowds, which was unfortunate for a factory worker living in the Shanghai sprawl. This was the only time of year when she could return to the relative open space of Tibet, to the mystical clouds of her childhood. Continue reading…