[Creative Writing] How to stay positive at the end of the world

(This is a short story originally published as an assignment. Trigger warning: death, suicide)

How to stay positive at the end of the world

You unzip the plastic bag and take out the pale blue notebook. The edges are moderately worn, with all the printed ephemera inside making the notebook curve like a whale. Handwriting is an intimate thing, you think as you flip through the pages. The words start at the baselines on the left and gradually shift upwards, just like how you would write. There are crude-but-charming little doodles of food along the margins of several pages . You pull out the chair from the solid wooden desk and start reading.

_________

6 April

I had a nice little chat with Mrs. Weaver by the pond. I told her that I got some blood oranges delivered and offered to give her some. “Oh that’s very kind of you.” She exclaimed, then lowered her voice, as if telling me a secret, “You need to boil them down and preserve them in a jar with honey!” Thinking about a pot of boiling sugary oranges with fragrant steam reminded me of the beautiful honey yuzu tea I had as a child. I heard a subtle buzz from both of our pockets. Mrs. Weaver took her phone halfway out and exclaimed: “0.3 per cent increase, well done us! Oh the Angel can tell when I’m having a good time!” Her energetic voice bumped our cohesion score up by another 0.1 point, just about enough! I swiftly redeemed that sweet supermarket cash voucher before our score fluctuates again. 

Am I becoming more and more like my parents? I used to find mom too earthbound, now I too, greet all my neighbours, scrape all of the tiny deals to save a few coins, and hell, I even sold all my stocks and started buying gold! I have to plan carefully and save my resources, considering I may be losing my job soon. Not just my job, the whole industry may be going soon, as most of our overseas clients cut ties with us.

International politics is for smart people and I don’t want to have misaligned opinions about it. All I know is this: our community has to stick together, brighten each others’ days, demonstrate our joy to the ill-intended international press, and spot potential instability at its cradle. The more happy we are, the more illegitimate their accusations on our country will look. I actually agree with the Beloved One this time, focusing on the positive makes life more delicious.

I brought a few blood oranges to Mrs. Weaver in the evening and she offered me some home baked cookies. She is such a beacon of joy, we all owe our supermarket vouchers to her.

11 April

My work died quietly, I became a lingering ghost in the office. Warm wind blew through the mesh window, my computer stared at me in silence. I tried to look busy. I wondered what our ex-clients thought of us from their moral high ground. Caged chickens? Mindless ants? Curiosity and boredom lifted my fingers, and when my consciousness caught up, I found myself browsing the WildNet. The Beloved One personally announced the Angel system this year to cultivate community strength, but according to these hostile foreign medias, it was nothing more than a surveillance tool? The public’s moral urge got so strong, our main clients had no choice but to disatcosiate with us to avoid boycott. My heart rate increased while my joints weakened. How dare they? What do they know about us? Why can’t they stand us being happy? What did I do to deserve this?

I didn’t share this rage with my colleagues, because, well, I was still pretending to be doing actual work. Also, negativity infects. Neither could I talk with my parents or neighbours, who would probably freak out about me browsing outside NationNet. I had a perfectly aligned rage towards foreign press—safe rage. I wish I had someone to share with.

19 April

Life went on as I watched the company collapse. Everyone started looking for jobs. Mr. Shang’s son died. Our cohesion score spiked to 90.1%—tragic events are excellent opportunities for a community to demonstrate its unity. 

The residents group chat was filled with stickers of cute crying animals. Cliché, comforting. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you. I’m always here if you ever need anything.” I added to the chat. I’ve never been very good at comforting people but I heard that the Angel rewards keywords like “sorry” and “I’m always here”. I assume the people who built it understood something I don’t. I hope he is actually in the group chat.

20 April

I had a wander around the city, seeing the busy weekend traffic was reassuring. I bought fresh vegetables and cooked myself a nice meal. I also bought Mr. Shang flowers, the nicest flowers I could justify paying for. 

I gently put my flowers outside his door, on top of other flowers and cards. The bouquets dyed the damp air in the hallway with a half-fragrant, half-rotten smell. I took a moment to remember this scene, the pearlescent, spirit-like white chrysanthemum, piled up in a timeless dark hallway like a pile of rubbish. His wooden door was heavy and silent, absorbing all the life force out of the flowers. I knew something was collapsing in me, but I couldn’t figure it out.

22 April

After the initial spike, Mr. Shang’s negativity and the rumours of his son’s suicide dragged us rapidly below 75%. No more redeemable supermarket vouchers. Instead, the community speakerphone woke up from hibernation. A soft female voice repeated selected quotes in an excessively animated voice, like an opera singer. 

“One kind word can change someone’s entire day. [music] Alone we can do so little, together we can do so much. [music] Live, love, laugh. ” Kids loved repeating these quotes, but there is only so much repetition I could personally appreciate. 

25 April

Inspirational quotes worked magically. We all started speaking energetically, grabbing each other for small talks. Together, we could get our score back up and make this thing stop. I discovered a new hobby of understanding the Angel. No one cares if I wander outside the NationNet due to the international nature of my role. Who would have known that talking to an imaginary friend have the same effect as taking to a real one? I wrote down my findings.

“Handwriting?” Jess laughed as she walked past. “How fancy. You know they can match that stuff these days—just saying. In case you’re up to no good.” She’s nice, I wish we talked more. “Bad? I never do anything bad. My spirit has been marinated in live love laugh.” I smiled.

Boss updated us that he’d made contact with new clients. Maybe we can all make it.

_________

Urgent Notice

Dear residents,

Your emotional health is of our highest concern. While minor fluctuations are inescapable, we are dedicated to making sure our palace of social cohesion is not undermined by the erosion of negativity. Luckily, we will welcome a team of Angel Ambassadors to our community to host weekend dancing parties. We will introduce you to simple, mood-boosting moves and dance to the hottest songs of the year. 

Time: 10:00 am, 27th and 28th April

Location: by the Jade Pond

Participation by residents under 3 years old and above 75 is not compulsory.

We would also like to remind residents that negativity is contagious. Mentions of self harm in any speech or digital format will negatively impact our cohesion score and result in more support from the Beloved’s government.

Yours,

Community Complex Management

_________

26 April

I stared at the piece of A4 paper taped to my door. I better cancel lunch with mom. Let’s hope Mr. Shang’s over 75. Oh dear, I can’t dance. Taping the note to this page, there’s something interesting about it.

27 April

Mr. Shang looked older than before. His lips pressed together, forming the suggestion of a smile. People were eager to talk to him, offering words of encouragement. He had to dance to the hot beats now, as he failed to stay positive. I chose the front row, slightly embarrassed that all my neighbours could see me moving like a penguin. Things I do to avoid looking at this old man!

28 April

Our eyes met. His were deep, like black holes. I walked towards him, drawn by his gravitational pull. “My condolences.” I heard my own voice, calm, dry. “Thank you. Wen’s a good child.” His voice hovered in the air, paused, then his gaze went through my hair and landed at a very faraway place. “He was your age… long hair… just like you.” 

My age, long hair.

Oh.

I felt like crying.

I know who his son is now, my secret Prometheus. I was not close to Mr Shang so I have never connected the dots. Wen, the name suited him.

I remember his Bambi eyes and rose petal-like lips, as he walked past me. I remember the ripple of air, with the smell of clean soap. I thought he must be a poet. A few months ago I spotted him again from far away, the way the wind played with his hair was somehow special. He was talking on the phone, sounding like a crisp green apple. 

I will never be able to meet him properly. 

I guess my self-pity and grief must have overflown, because surprisingly, Mr. Shang continued talking about his son. The more he told me about Wen, the more I thought, we could have been friends. I should be telling Mr. Shang to stay strong and stop drowning himself in the river of grief, but instead, I found myself walking into that river with relief. 

I went home with him after the dance, carrying new flowers and cards for him. Each time he repeated “Thank you, this means a lot” and accepted another card, the score climbed up a little. I crossed Mr. Shang’s heavy, silent door, his house was just as I imagined. We spent hours looking through Wen’s collections, Mr. Shang even showed me some old photos. I felt a bit like an intruder, declaring a one-way friendship, looking for clues that he would have liked me, mourning a friend I never had. I fetched my suitcase, and took most of Wen’s books home. Mr. Shang was glad, he didn’t know what to do with them otherwise.

29 April

I have to say, his collection is a little spicy for the Beloved One’s taste. That’s the problem with books: once they are bought, you can’t remove them from people’s shelves when publishing guidelines shift. Older books are grey things, legal yet not tradable. Wen’s soul is stuck here, with me. This makes me happy. Outside two isolated apartments in this complex, his soul was erased. Negativity infects.

“That day, I turned twenty-one. In the golden age of my life, I was full of dreams. I wanted to love, to eat, and to instantly transform into one of those clouds, part alight, part darkened.” A handwritten note caught my eye, he was using it as a bookmark. It’s a quote from Wang Xiaobo’s Golden Age. I know what’s coming after this sentence: “It was only later that I understood—life is but a slow, drawn-out process of getting your balls crushed.”

Do you remember watching a rain droplet connecting with another droplet on a bus window? It was wonderful. For too long, I felt like a fish on land, a caged chicken, an insignificant ant. What if I’m not the only fish on land? The feeling of being seen is so precious, just knowing that we’ve read the same book, liked the same quote is filling my heart with blossom. I wish I could give this feeling to others, somehow.

30 April

I read last week’s dancing notice again. Isn’t it funny to see the management teaching us how to avoid further interventions from higher up? Clearly they hate it too. And I… let’s just say, I was inspired. I started brainstorming. I’m not an expert but I do have some notes about how the algorithm works. As long as I stay silent, I am still free to think. While heroes have networks and manifestos, I have craft supplies.

In case anyone is reading this, I need to clarify that I would never do anything illegal. I know, writing while anticipating unwelcome readers is a crazy thing. I’m nobody. Not brave. Not trying to tear down the system. Still, I need to write this down, to keep my memories for myself. Or maybe you are a friend, who knows. I want to tell you that I am here, a wet, salty fish on dry land.

6 May

The company didn’t make it, boss went abroad. Jess suggested we all go for a drink—sure, let’s party before the end of the world! I ordered apple juice. They were so funny when they were wasted. Zack will become a carpenter; Joe will sell his house and open a coffee shop (I do hope he was joking) and Jess will become a taxi driver. I told them I will become a poet. “Unemployed and beautiful!” Jess yelled.

8 May

I asked about the old all-in-one-printer at work, and got it for free. Great for printing CVs. I even got a free paper shredder, a plant, and a few spare light bulbs. I had to take a taxi home.

10 May 

Mr. Shang is getting better at dancing.

National cohesion score is experiencing a steady increase. We are winning the moral war. 

Long live the Beloved One.

By the way, I found a leaflet outside every apartment door in my building today. It looked like a scanned page of a collage. Words were cut out and glued to form sentences. I wondered if someone had collected old books and leaflets. I wondered if they had cut out the useful words and shredded the evidence.

_________

Helpful Tips

Dear residents,

Your emotional health is of our highest concern. If you find yourself in a tricky situation, remember the Angel will guard us through sound capturing and digital footprint monitoring. Your mind is a palace, we paint the exterior walls for the guests, we keep the inside intact. Record yourself repeating positive phrases as a reminder of gratitude. Treat your phone to your own joyful voice to improve harmony. Write with pen and paper as digital detox. Get creative! Invent new languages, codes, or appreciate ambiguity. You are not alone.

Make a collage, or lie down and rest. I love you.

Yours,

crafter

_________

You quickly scan through the final few entries, nothing particularly interesting, he had been busy looking for jobs before the investigation turned toward him. After carefully tucking the leaflet back and returning the whole thing in the plastic zip bag, you open your silver laptop and start typing: 

Item: Personal diary, A5, with loose elements.

• Evidence of: “Disharmonious thoughts towards the Beloved One”

• Evidence of: “Dishonesty towards digital systems”

• Evidence of: “Illegal publishing”

You feel the familiar heaviness in your stomach. Too often, criminals charm you with their twisted theories and stories. It’s unfortunate that you feel this way, you must keep the misalignment to yourself. You need your job, you can’t afford another path.