Flash: Crack Seed
Li Hing Mui and the Things That Linger
I was eating some crack seed, and as I licked the salty, tangy powder from my lips, I realized just how good it was. Addictive really. The dried plum was sweet and sour, a burst of flavor that lingered, while the li hing mui left a tart, almost electric taste on my tongue. I could taste Tutu in it—her hands plucking them from little bag wrappers, her quiet joy in sharing them with me one by one.
The thought made me pause. Eating, I wished everything I didn’t like would just disappear. It was an ugly wish, but an honest one. And as much as honesty mattered to me, it also made me angry. Without it, I’d probably be too nice. And I don’t like nice people—especially the overly nice ones with their fake smiles and hollow cheer. They’re like pieces left at the bottom with no flavor - all seed.
The gritty red powder clung to my fingers and lips as I finished the bag, little flecks dropping onto the sheets like grains from the sandman. It was already 3 a.m., and the ticking clock on the wall felt louder than it should. Somewhere in the distance, a motorcycle roared past, its sound stretching thin before fading into silence.
In my full stomach, there was a small, hungry mongoose. It scurried around restlessly, its sharp eyes scanning for any morsel left behind. When it didn’t find anything, it scratched at my insides with tiny claws, demanding more. It wasn’t just hunger—it was something deeper: a craving for something I couldn’t fulfill.
The mongoose grew bolder as I lay there in the dark. It invited others—its whole pack—until my stomach felt alive with their frantic energy. They darted and clawed and tore at me from within, wild and insistent. One day, I thought, they’ll rip me apart completely.
I stared at the empty packet bouncing light in the shadows and sighed. If I kept thinking like this, I’d lose my mind. So I got up and tossed the wrapper into the trash can by the bed and wiped the red dust from my lips and sheets.
Tugging the pillow over my ears now to block out the ticking clock, I closed my eyes but then the first sounds of a morning rooster calling out to his harem.
The call—sharp and clear. It wasn’t just one; it was many—a chorus of roosters announcing their place in the world. For a moment, I wondered if even they carried their own hungry mongooses inside them, scratching away too, scratching away at me.
// Zero Strike
Narration by fellow crack seed enjoyer Gracia Ventus