A short story in Vietnamese by Nguyễn Văn Thiện
Translator: Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm
Art: Đinh Trường Chinh

I’ve come to terms with how my face feels, but I was still unsure of its shape, an estranged spirit busking at a flea market, a samurai waving a knife gutting himself for fun, or some deranged fool arranging words dreaming of becoming a poet? Shrouded by a cloud of smoke and mist of desolation, I considered the placing of my face. Each time there was an itch, I took a glimpse at the mirror, it was a sad, defiant stranger.

I reside to feel my feet, but I was unsure if they belonged to me or to someone else. Whose feet tirelessly climbed dunes to reach the sea, whose feet entangled in the long grass dreaming of laying abandoned beneath the bluest the biggest sky? Whose feet chose to set foot…