Gazing into a bloody puddle, there I stood watching my own reflection amid the squalor and chaos wondering about my survival in this battle between life and death, only to it being trampled by Ding Hui’s greedy grin. The people of Ding Village had found a treasure which flowed within their bodies. The cry of a child piercing through the brick walls, as its parents shook their “blood tree”. Faces popping out through serpentine lines, hopeful souls jutting out blood- filled veins, feeding the hungry mouth of a needle the scent of money coagulating in the sharp odour of fresh blood, the optimism of a better life floating in the swirls of endless blood streams, the remnants of fate engraved on the discarded cotton balls.

As Ma Xianglin sang, Ding Village trembled as the blood thickened. The anxiousness of finding a cure prevailed in the vindictive heavens, the wrinkles on Grandpa Ding’s forehead deepened like the concave shadows of the coffins. As Ma Xianglin sang, Li Sanren saw his fate in the red sesame dots plastered on his arm the grunting of a pig made Zhao Xiuqin quiver at thought of the animal feasting on her last rice bag.

As Ma Xianglin sang, the bright-red bridal jacket matched wits with Lingling’s cheeks as they blushed to Ding Liang’s flirty stares. The bones shivered in the starry night while the robust voice of Ma Xianglin danced to the tunes of the fiddle the smell of stale blood fading in the stench of a blood merchant. The bow moved horizontally gently tickling the erhu, the melody of a folk song lingered amongst the chilly air as it fleeted through several blank stares, hopeful hearts and frail bodies.

Ding village