Page 45 - WTP VOl. VIII #6

Science Fiction in Canton Palace
In Canton Palace, a waitress coughs
As she sweeps the carpet. I look up
From my plate of rice and fish. It’s nine O’clock, the end of the evening. Tea
Steams in the cup. My son Simon has Finished his noodles. We’ve been talking About plot and scenes, exposition,
The elements he’s been working on.
I say how strange it is that people
Will pay money for stories. The same Money that buys food and cars, laptops And refrigerators, they’ll spend to
Read a tale set on a planet with
Two suns and three moons, characters not Quite human, obsidian mountains,
And deserts where blue-red flames explode Into a cold, unbreathable sky.
The protagonist wishes he could
Save everyone, but nothing works out. Characters die—a few will survive,
Not necessarily the noblest
Or the smartest. A good writer knows Darwin was wrong. It’s the luckiest
Who’ll make it through another chapter.
I put down my chopsticks and look out
The window. Simon is already
Walking outside, past the bakery,
Cellphone store, empty parking spaces. He’s figuring out what happens next.
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