“Tiger Auntie’s Dinner” and “Lost Youth”

By Huina Zheng

Tiger Auntie’s Dinner

Under a moonlit night, my brother and I, jolted awake by fierce knocks, tiptoed
to our door. Isolated in our forest home, with Ba’s leg broken and Ma away for help, we peeked out to see an immense figure—Tiger Auntie. Her eyes, pools of moonlit mystery, sparkled fiercely, framed by a broad nose and full lips. Sharp teeth, like ivory daggers, gleamed against her rough, moon-streaked skin, subtly striped like a shadowed jungle.

Before we could react, she burst in, her eyes shining with a strange, ravenous
glint, sizing us up.

“I’m too small,” my brother protested, wide-eyed. “I’m barely a snack.”

“And I’m all bones,” I added, playing along. “Hardly worth your trouble,
wouldn’t you say?”

Tiger Auntie paused, assessing us. “I’ll fry you,” she growled, her voice thick
with hunger, “until you’re crisped to perfection in hot oil, golden and dripping.”
Turning her fierce gaze on me, she snarled, “And you, you’ll stew nicely, softening in a pot until you’re falling apart, soaked in savory flavors.”

The wind flung the door wide, the full moon casting an eerie glow. Her looming
figure, more daunting under the lunar light, seemed to carve itself against the dark, moving closer, each step leaving its mark. Her breath was heavy, a faint smile lurking.

Counting silently within myself, I gauged their arrival—typically two minutes,
never more than five. That’s the duration I needed to endure. Addressing Tiger
Auntie, I ventured, “To cook us, you’d need kitchen utensils, right? Plus, you’d need our help for tasks like lighting a fire and boiling water.” She paused. “Besides, there’s no escaping for us. Even if we tried to run, you’d easily catch up,” I added to my argument. She nodded in agreement. Catching my brother’s eye, I gave a subtle blink; immediately, he hauled the large pot to the stove and sparked the fire.

The water in the pot began to heat up, and three minutes had already passed. My brother’s hands started to tremble slightly, so I took hold of them. The moment I was awakened by the knocking, I had already pressed the button on our smart home system by the bedside, which would send an alert to the local forest rangers. Why hadn’t they arrived yet?

A rumbling sound came from Tiger Auntie’s stomach. Licking her lips, she said,
“I could start by nibbling a few bites of meat to quiet my belly.” She took steps
toward us. Was the water in the pot hot enough to scald her? Just then, the door burst open again—this time with the forest rangers storming in.

Caught off guard, Tiger Auntie tried to flee but was swiftly apprehended. She
roared in frustration, her plans thwarted by the very children she had underestimated.

Bathed in the moon’s capricious silver, my brother and I merged in an embrace.
The night, a velvet cloak, teased with secrets untold – the beautiful and cunning fox spirit, the stiff-armed hopping zombie, and the underworld’s messengers, the Ox- Head and Horse-Face. Shoulder to shoulder, we faced the shrouded unknown, our souls woven like the sinuous shadows that danced with us, poised for the world’s cryptic ballet.

Lost Youth

Years down the line, we would be entangled in the web of corporate meetings, tax returns, and the relentless ticking of the clock. But the memory of that spontaneous road trip to the coast, right before our real-world responsibilities took hold, would blur like the coastline in the rearview mirror. How the ocean’s roar was our soundtrack, and the bonfire our beacon, flickering against the ink-black night. How we etched our dreams into the sand, only to watch the tide embrace and erase them in the same gentle sweep. Someone had their camera out, lens fogging with the mist, claiming this snapshot would be our anchor to forever. This is it, we whispered under the starlit dome, the photograph immortalizing only silhouettes. This is the threshold, the precipice of “what comes next.”

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Huina Zheng, with her Distinction M.A. in English Studies, is a college essay coach and an editor at Bewildering Stories. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.