Halifax, Nova Scotia, CANADA
Congratulations Sarah!
Sarah’s Bio:
Sarah Mian has been a writing junkie since childhood. To support her habit she has worked, among other jobs, as a film extra, waitress, substitute teacher, and currently as an exhibit custodian who ships and receives evidence in a crime lab. She has been published in numerous journals and anthologies, including The Vagrant Revue of New Fiction and The New Quarterly. Her co-written play, 'Creatures of the Moment' was produced by Metamorphic Theatre.
Sarah has written her way across Canada, living on Vancouver Island in the west, Toronto in the middle and Newfoundland in the east. She also spent nine months abroad to see how the other half lives before returning home to Nova Scotia where the waves break on all sides and everyone says 'thank you'. She lives with her boyfriend, Leo, who can't sing but is a damn fine kisser.
English as a Second Language
ichi
In Japan I wore satin shoes with paper-thin soles, slept in the afternoon behind still curtains. I forgot I had a talented sister, a dog, an ugly middle name. I couldn't recall addresses so I deposited blank postcards in the mail. I wrote notes to my parents on my wrist and washed them down the sink. Evenings I spent perched like a centrepiece amongst scantily-clad dishes, drank sake until bright dragons flew around the rooms. The men's faces smeared to a blurry streak: all except one.
ni
The flight home: hours of punctuated regret, stabbing the seat with my nails and frequent, bloody trips to the toilet. As the plane descended, I saw my reflection in the cool metal clasp of my seatbelt at the same moment I glimpsed it in the window pane. Bad omen, my lover would say. If he was next to me.
san
Remember (a voice whispers) sakura, heibi, the postman on his bicycle, the fireworks? Remember (it urges) his smooth hands on your thighs, the cars whining past the blinds, headlights swinging through the crack, your love unraveling like a bolt of red silk. You cast of your petals like dance. (Sobbing) You turned round and ripe.
When I awake, the wind is breathing hard on the grass and cups rattle vacantly in the white kitchen.
shi
There is a wilting cherry tree in the yard outside. The therapist follows my stare. In Japan, I tell her, the cherry blossom represents the warrior who dies too soon. She writes this down. I have condemned my words to classroom flip-charts, consent forms, scented paper, to drainpipes that empty into a vast ocean. Now this woman wants to imprison the few sentences I have left in a metal cabinet. Every time she slides the drawer open, I hear screaming: our first language.
Outside the office I stand in front of the tree. There is one small hardened fruit left on the naked branch. It is the size of a seven week old embryo. When I touch it, it gently falls into my palm. I open my mouth, swallow, wait to feel it in my belly.
I wonder if my letter is still unopened, sitting in my lover's lap.
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