Christine H. Chen ~ Three Micros

American Goddess

When we returned to Guangzhou for vis­its, all the aunts and uncles bum­bled against each oth­er to lay down their offer­ings of dried per­sim­mons, fra­grant lychees, can­died papayas in crin­kle paper and cop­per coins around Ah Ma who sighed, then hawked and hacked to spit out gold pearls the size of a lon­gan fruit into their opened palms.

“American gold tastes bet­ter,” one aunt said, suck­ing on it like a bon­bon, “I read some­where that Americans have gold toi­let seats,” one uncle chimed. “I heard San Francisco stands on a moun­tain of gold,” anoth­er one growled. “I need more gold for my daughter’s wed­ding ban­quet, this pearl is hol­low, doesn’t even weigh half a gram,” whined anoth­er, and Grandma, my Poh-Poh’s smile slow­ly melt­ed like ched­dar on a hot pan.

“Is that all you can do?” she said to Ah Ma, “Even a goose lays big­ger eggs, do better!”

“Here, Poh-Poh, let me help!” and I gath­ered my sali­va and vom­it­ed a fat woodchuck.

Everyone screamed and ran off, after the mar­mot bit and scratched his way into the kitchen, leav­ing me and Poh-Poh chas­ing after him with a broom and a mop.

By then, Ah Ma was pulling on a turtle­neck to soothe her aching throat, shak­ing her head at me with dis­ap­point­ment and mum­bling in a hoarse voice what a use­less klutz of a daugh­ter I was.

~

Fangs

When I tripped and stepped on Ah Ma’s big toe, a snake peaked from her throat and hissed between her teeth. Recoiling with ter­ror, I whim­pered I am sor­ry, Ma, I’ll be more care­ful! The snake, a machine of glit­tery scales, iri­des­cent like a thou­sand opals, shrieked and clanged its fangs so loud I peed in my pants. Fear and tears fed the thirsty snake, and she sprung out from Ah Ma like a fiery rod, shoot­ing poi­soned words that sliced and shred­ded flesh and heart like moo shu pork. Ah Ba scooped up my bro­ken chunks. After he ban­daged me back with tape and care, the snake tick­led my cheek with her forked tongue. What’s a lit­tle scratch, it’s for your own good, she whis­tled. She embraced me, then coiled her body around my neck. It is I who gave you life, her voice ripped and rip­pled as I squeaked for Ah Ba to save me. By then, she’d sunk her fangs in his arms and neu­tral­ized him. When I was old enough to learn about ven­om anti­tox­in, I coaxed the snake out of Ah Ma with cut­ting words, noth­ing you do will hurt me any­more, you witch snake, I’m leav­ing! When it slith­ered out, I stuck the syringe with the mail-ordered anti­dote between its beady eyes and pushed the plunger with all my might.

~

Ah Ma’s Ghost

After the funer­al, Ah Ma appeared to me, still wear­ing her hos­pi­tal gown.

“Get up, you lazy girl, go make my break­fast, I want lotus seed buns!” she growled.

“But you’re dead!”

Ah Ma seemed stunned for a few sec­onds. She raised her translu­cent hands, stared at them, and saun­tered around my bed. “I’m not dead, how dare you? Curse you for say­ing that!”

I got up, strode to the kitchen, opened a pack of lotus seed paste buns. I slid the plate towards her.

“It’s cold, heat it up!” she snarls.

I shrugged. I fig­ured she couldn’t hit me any­more with her rice paper thin ghost hands or her cut­ting words.

She kept jab­bing at the bun and watch­ing her fin­gers dis­ap­pear into the pale dough. After a good ten min­utes, I said “Always so clum­sy, and use­less, have you nev­er learned any­thing from me?” mim­ic­k­ing her shrill voice and wear­ing her frown in the form of a severe “V” on her fore­head when­ev­er she said those things to me.

I took a bite of the bun, winced at how cold and hard it was as her eyes reg­is­tered a grow­ing fear and some­thing like sadness.

“I’m NOT dead, okay? How can I be dead if I’m talk­ing to you, huh, stu­pid girl? Ask your Ba!”

Ah Ba was dead for the last twen­ty years, even though I wished he’d come see me, instead of Ah Ma. But I already knew what he’d say: Forget she said you’re ungrate­ful. Forget she said you are dumb. Forget how she threw a clock at you for not reply­ing fast enough to her ques­tion. Forget how she slapped you for talk­ing back to her. Forget how she had me whip you with my belt every time she said you got angry and made a face at her. Forget every­thing. Forgive. Let her go!

Ah Ma was still mut­ter­ing, I’m not dead, I’m not dead, I’m not dead, and mov­ing her arms around her, per­plexed at their translu­cent nature.

I was angry at myself. Why couldn’t I be more deci­sive? Always vac­il­lat­ing between anger and pity. Finally, I mum­bled “I’m let­ting you go!”

She point­ed a fin­ger at me and start­ed say­ing “It’s not up to you!” when her body shim­mered as mil­lions of cells slow­ly dis­in­te­grat­ed, the hos­pi­tal gown flopped to the floor, and right before her face van­ished, a tear from her dis­ap­pear­ing face dripped to the floor.

~

Christine H. Chen has pub­lished sto­ries in Atticus Review, SmokeLong Quarterly, Time & Space Magazine, Best Microfiction 2024, 2025, Best Small Fictions 2024, 2025, and oth­er jour­nals and antholo­gies. She was born in Hong Kong and grew up in Madagascar before set­tling in Boston where she worked as a research chemist and began writ­ing fic­tion. She is a grad­u­ate of the University of Pittsburgh and Emerson College.