Exeter Writers

 The Snail and the Stork by Paul Batterham This story, like all the best stories, begins with a death.   Pu had been planting new season rice in the fields far beyond the temple ruins, where the openbill storks pick out fat, juicy apple snails. His body was found face down in the shallow water, his tattered cane hat floating like a lotus next to him. Paw said Pu’s heart had failed. Ya said that which had never existed cannot fail. Nobody mourned Pu. There was no decoration of his casket, and the bier it sat on remained unadorned. There had been little chanting, and nobody had attached ribbons for Pu to receive his merit. After three days, Paw burned the body. “I’m free now,” Ya whispered, and she took my hands in hers. She was crying, and smiling. Her hands were knotted and twisted like tree roots and her cheeks shone like apples in the firelight. Ya said Pu was phi phong now, and giggled and cried.   I stood and watched as the casket slowly disintegrated. Pu’s hand fell ...