〈The Fantasy World〉
Six Fantasy Flash Fictions
I. “The Time-Space Mailbox”
While strolling through a flea market by the Seine River, a stall selling wall clocks caught my interest.
The owner was a gray-haired old man who reclined diagonally in a traditional armchair, absorbed in reading a thread-bound book. The book’s cover was mottled and peeling, seemingly an ancient volume.
The owner did not greet customers. Each item had a tag indicating the year and place of production.
As I was examining a red copper wall clock, the old man put down his book, looked at me, and said in English:
“Young man, if I am not mistaken, you should be a novelist in your country.”
I froze for a moment and asked, “Sir, how do you know my profession?”
The old man smiled mysteriously, stood up, tapped his forehead with his index finger, and said:
“I saw you a few days ago at a book signing, busy signing autographs for your readers.”
I thought to myself, “Could this old man have clairvoyance?”
“These wall clocks are not suitable for you.” The old man pointed to a classical-style bronze mailbox about the size of a person’s embrace beside him and said,
“This mailbox is destined to be with you. It will help your wishes come true and fulfill your ambitions.”
“It can fulfill my ambitions?” I repeated skeptically.
The old man leaned closer and whispered,
“Ya, aren’t you hoping to become a film director and turn the stories you write into movies?”
“Yes… when I first stepped out of school I did think so. But my novels sell only so-so. Over the years the limited royalties barely support the basic expenses of a family of five. How could I still dream such unrealistic dreams?”
The old man placed a hand on my shoulder and said,
“I know your life has been hard. But your achievements should not stop here. Therefore, I have decided to point you toward a way out.”
Moved to tears, I said,
“Sir, I’ll listen to you.”
“Take this mailbox home and hang it outside your study window. From now on, every time you finish writing a novel outline, put it in an envelope and drop it into the mailbox. A reply will arrive one week later.”
“You mean someone will guide my writing?”
“Exactly. Soon you will become famous, a bestselling author. Then wealthy patrons who appreciate you will naturally seek you out to make films. You can request to adapt the script yourself and direct your own work, realizing your dream of becoming a director.”
“Then, sir, how many euros should I pay you for this mailbox?”
“Just one hundred euros. When you fulfill your wish and become a famous director, you must return it here to me.”
I pulled out my wallet and handed him my only hundred-euro bill respectfully.
The old man took it and gave me ten euros in change.
“Keep it for lunch later. I know that’s the only large bill you have.”
He also gave me a large leather backpack.
“This will make it easier for airport check-in.”
I slung the bag over my shoulders, and the old man waved at me with a smile.
Back at Taoyuan Airport, my wife drove to pick me up. Seeing the leather backpack on the luggage cart, she pointed and asked,
“What’s that inside?”
“A bronze mailbox I bought at the flea market by the Seine. I originally wanted a wall clock.”
“How much did you spend?”
“90 euros plus 60 euros shipping.”
“You really don’t hesitate to spend money…”
She kept nagging until we finished loading the luggage.
At home, the mailbox was hung outside my study window.
My wife pulled two dresses and a French wool coat out of the suitcase. Probably after seeing the price tags, she beamed and went to prepare dinner.
That night, I wrote a fantasy movie story outline in Chinese about meeting the white-haired old man at the Seine flea market and buying the mailbox. After signing it, I sealed it in an envelope and dropped it into the mailbox.
The next morning, Publisher Boss Cao messaged me on Line, asking me to write some fantasy or science fiction stories. I agreed to send him story outlines in a week.
One week later in the evening, sure enough, an English reply appeared in the mailbox. Inside was a stack of bound English pages. The signature at the end read:
“J. R. R. Tolkien.”
Tolkien?
I jumped in shock.
“Isn’t this the author of The Lord of the Rings, the British fantasy novelist?”
A thought flashed through my mind. I hurried to Google Tolkien’s images on my laptop.
“Holy crap! I actually met Tolkien himself?”
But something felt wrong.
“Wikipedia says Tolkien died in 1973. How could he appear at the Seine flea market…?”
After checking, I began reading the English manuscript he sent. I knew Tolkien had revised my outline. The plot truly made me “so surprised I was ecstatic.”
It wasn’t just suspense—it included human conflict, one “scene” after another, twisted yet brilliantly exciting.
I translated it into Chinese overnight and sent the file to Boss Cao on Line. After drinking a glass of milk, I went to bed as dawn broke.
II. “Little Mei the Mannequin”
Buying display mannequins from a secondhand market and attracting ghosts—was this the price of being cheap? Yet this lesson later changed my life completely, making me shout “Unbelievable!”
My women’s clothing shop spent over a million on renovation. Since capital had to be reserved for inventory, I accepted my assistant A-Mei’s suggestion to buy secondhand mannequins in good condition.
On opening day we launched promotions—20% off everything, plus an additional 10% off for purchases over one thousand.
A few days later, A-Mei and A-Yu told me something strange:
One Eastern-looking mannequin wore Outfit A one day, but the next morning had changed into Outfit B—sometimes even swapping clothes with others.
A-Mei vividly described how once while changing clothes for the mannequin named “Little Mei,” she felt its eyeballs move and its eyebrows and cheeks twitch slightly, making it feel “creepy.”
At first I dismissed it as imagination. Later I installed surveillance cameras.
Sure enough, we saw Little Mei come alive after closing—examining clothes like an OL, changing outfits in front of the mirror, entering the fitting room, and returning garments perfectly.
We all stared in shock.
“Boss, we really hit a ghost! Should we call the police?”
“Police won’t catch ghosts,” I said bitterly.
“Let’s find a Taoist priest!”
“No need. Tonight I’ll dump her into the Tamsui River.”
That night, Little Mei sat before me and wrote:
“I have a grievance. Please help me return to life.”
She had been in a staged car accident, became a vegetable, and her spirit attached to a mannequin.
We made a deal.
I drove her to a mansion on Yangmingshan. She passed through the iron gate and vanished.
After that, strange events stopped—and rich customers poured in.
Half a year later, a beautiful woman wearing the same dress Little Mei had worn appeared. She bowed and said:
“Benefactor, Little Mei has returned to repay you.”
The rest—leave it to imagination. I married into wealth.
III. “The Meteor Man”
The chance of being struck by lightning is 1 in 1.9 million—what about by a meteor?
After being hit, I gained superpowers—x-ray vision, mind reading, controlling electricity, seeing the future.
But life became a nightmare.
I saw things I shouldn’t see. Heard thoughts I shouldn’t hear.
I broke up with my girlfriend after foreseeing a miserable future.
I fled to Shanghai, became a casino dealer nicknamed “All-Win,” then escaped gangsters.
I got plastic surgery and moved to Taitung, living quietly.
But my Amis employee saw my body glow blue.
To keep her quiet—I married her.
IV. “Bungee Jumping”
After endless persuasion by my roommate, I agreed to go bungee jumping.
Watching thrill-seekers scream into the gorge felt like paying to torture oneself.
When it was my turn, I jumped headfirst.
Suddenly darkness—then an alarm clock.
I woke in a girl’s room.
A woman came out of the bathroom and said:
“Xiao-Li, you’re awake! Just dump your boyfriend!”
I looked down—
I had breasts.
The newspaper headline read:
“Joy Turns to Tragedy: Graduate Student Dies in Bungee Accident at Dahan River Gorge.”
My phone rang.
“Sir, sorry—your time wasn’t up. I took the wrong soul.”
V. “A Love Letter from the Sea”
After retiring from the university, I came alone to the seaside of Taimali in Taitung and rented a house to live there long-term.
Good mountains and good waters, with a retirement pension sufficient for a peaceful old age, every day I wandered along the beach, barefoot chasing the waves, lying on the warm and soft sand watching clouds and listening to the wind; going up the hillside for outings, immersing myself in seas of golden needle flowers and lilies, sensing the floral fragrance carried in the salty sea breeze.
The relaxed pace of life, the detached state of body and mind, enjoying the afterglow of sunset after retirement.
That day, I had just returned from a stroll on the beach when a half-exposed envelope was hanging from the mouth of the mailbox in front of my door.
I pulled the envelope out; the delicate handwriting seemed strangely familiar.
Inside were a sheet of letter paper and a photograph—it was a group photo of Xiufeng and me on a cruise ship in the year we graduated from high school.
The letter was brief. It said that when the Lotus cruise ship docked at Hualien Harbor one week later, I could go to the pier to meet her.
When I looked at the date at the end, wasn’t the cruise ship docking at Hualien Harbor tomorrow?
Returning to the house, I took out the suit from thirty years ago, rode my black moped into town, delivered the suit to the laundry for dry cleaning, and then went to the barbershop for a haircut and grooming.
Early the next morning, I drove my van to Hualien Harbor.
After walking for more than ten minutes, I arrived at the pier. Sure enough, a cruise ship was docked there, and passengers were filing toward the escalator.
A quarter of an hour later, a fashionably dressed, slender light-mature woman dragged a suitcase and walked toward me.
Her facial features gradually became clear—wasn’t she Chen Xiufeng from thirty years ago?
The girl held a photograph in her hand and came before me.
“Excuse me, are you Chen Qufei?”
“Yes, I am Chen Qufei. You are….”
I examined her features carefully, feeling as if worlds apart in time.
“Before my mother passed away, she instructed me to find you.”
“Mother? Passed away? Are you Xiufeng’s daughter?”
“Yes, my name is Chen Nianfei. My mother and I lived long-term in Kyoto, Japan. My mother passed away last month.”
“Chen Nianfei? Your facial features are almost exactly the same as Xiufeng’s back then.”
“In order for you to recognize her, she cloned and gave birth to me.”
“Cloned? You mean….”
I was utterly confused by this girl.
“Twenty-five years ago, my mother gave birth to me through asexual reproduction. She never married. She once said that in this lifetime, apart from you, she would never be with a second man.”
The girl spoke calmly, yet her words struck me like a meteor collision.
“Why go to such trouble? You two….”
I murmured softly.
“My mother asked me to come in her place to accompany you.”
“How did she know I was living in seclusion by the seaside of Taimali in Taitung?”
“Intuition, I suppose. My mother told me that back then she broke up with you on the beach in Taimali.”
The girl followed me to the parking lot and sat in my van.
As the van drove toward Hualien city, I tried my best to play the role of host.
“The mountain and sea scenery here is just as my mother described in her diary—an earthly paradise detached from the world.”
Nianfei wore a relaxed expression and continued,
“To settle down long-term in such a picturesque place—thanks to my mother’s arrangement.”
“No way. I’m already an old man in my sixties. You should go back to Japan.”
“I’ve already disposed of all my mother’s properties in Kyoto and came here to accompany you to fulfill your dreams.”
She said it lightly, but I was completely bewildered.
“Fulfill dreams? At the twilight of life, what dreams could I still have?”
“Your dream of making films. The hundreds of film scripts you wrote, every script story you posted online—my mother read each one carefully while she was alive. She instructed me to sell her properties and bring the funds to find you.”
“But with my physical strength, how many films can I still shoot?”
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
The girl took a metal can from her handbag and said,
“From now on, take one pill every month, and your physical functions and appearance will remain as they are now.”
Curious, I asked, “How is it so miraculous? Where did this pill come from?”
The girl explained slowly:
“After my mother left you and came to Japan, she entered Kyoto University Medical School. After graduation, she stayed in the research department, focusing on biochemical technology development. This pill was the starting point of her wealth. It was improved again and again, until last year before she passed away, when the effects finally became completely stable.”
“So that’s how it was! Back then, your mother was already a scientific prodigy. It’s just that I had elders to care for and couldn’t leave Taiwan.”
As I spoke, my thoughts drifted back thirty years—
Xiufeng once asked me to go to Japan together to study abroad, marry, and build a family. I would study art, she would devote herself to medicine. But at that time I couldn’t leave, and could only part with her in sorrow.
The van returned to Taimali.
After settling the luggage, Nianfei slung a backpack over her shoulders and asked me to accompany her to the beach.
When we arrived at the shore, the sea breeze lifted her long hair.
She took a yellow jade urn from her backpack—I knew it was an urn for ashes.
The girl walked into the sea.
When the water reached her knees, she opened the urn and scattered the ashes toward the waves, her lips seemingly murmuring words.
After a quarter of an hour, Nianfei turned back and walked toward me, a blush rising on her face.
Shyly, she said:
“From today on, we are husband and wife.”
She extended her hand to hold mine:
“My mother said you would love me with the same heart you used to love her.”
I stared at her earnest face and smiled knowingly.
VI. “The Magic Paintbrush”
In the pavilion of a small park on a street corner stood a stall: an easel, a wooden box, two wooden benches, and a lounge chair—these were the only possessions of the middle-aged portrait painter A-Tang.
His business was slow, not because his painting skills were poor, but because he had too much personality. He would only paint customers who pleased his eye, and he also had a nasty rule: customers he had painted before would never be accepted again.
That day it was raining heavily.
All morning, no customers came to have portraits drawn.
He quietly read the Bible.
At noon, a ragged old homeless man, with a dirty canvas bag hanging on his chest, sat soaking wet on the bench, staring eagerly at the French baguette in A-Tang’s hand.
A-Tang tore the bread into two pieces, handed the longer piece to the old man, along with half a bottle of leftover mineral water.
In the curtain of rain, the old man unceremoniously took big bites of bread and drank water.
He quickly finished the bread, burped, and then pulled out a wooden pen case from the canvas bag.
“Your name is A-Tang, right?”
“Yes, old brother,” A-Tang replied with bread in his mouth.
“Do you know why I sought you out?”
A-Tang shook his head.
“I used to be a street portrait painter like you. Now I am looking for a successor.”
“So you’re a senior in the same profession. But why choose me?”
“You are my shadow—your temperament is the same as mine.”
“The same as you? Stubborn and unpleasant?”
A-Tang gave a bitter smile.
“More or less. I pass this wooden box in my hands to you—you are now my disciple.”
The old man handed the wooden box to A-Tang:
“Inside are a pair of paintbrushes—one with black ink, one colored. Open it and take a look.”
“Senior, what do you want me to do for you?”
A-Tang opened the box; sure enough, there was a pair of brushes.
The old man said solemnly:
“Take these brushes and do righteous things.
The black brush is for erasing.
The colored brush is for creating.
The only restriction is that you must not use them for harming others for personal gain.”
“I understand. When will you come back, Master?”
“You should change the way you address me and call me Master now.
I will not come back.
Now take out the black brush and erase my image.”
“Mas… Master, I can’t do that! That would be ungrateful—”
“Listen to me. Pick up the brush and erase me, so I can return to heaven to report.
Then go wait at the bank across the street.
Soon a gang of criminals armed with knives and guns will rush in to rob it.”
“Return to heaven to report? Master, you… you are truly a divine being.”
The old man smiled and nodded.
“Pick up the black brush and erase me.”
A-Tang picked up the black brush and made a few strokes in the air.
The old man’s image disappeared accordingly.
At that moment, the heavy rain suddenly stopped.
A-Tang knew his Master was telling him to begin new work.
He packed up his belongings and headed toward the bank across the street.
Before long, a gang of criminals wearing masks got out of a van.
Holding long and short guns, they rushed fiercely into the bank, fired at the ceiling, and ordered everyone not to move.
At this time, A-Tang, who was reading a newspaper in the corner, calmly took out the pair of brushes from his coat pocket.
He first used the black brush to erase the weapons in their hands.
Faced with such a sudden change, each criminal stared in astonishment.
A-Tang then used the colored brush to draw handcuffs on their wrists and shackles on their ankles.
The criminals collapsed one after another onto the ground.
Postscript
This short story was published in Congrong Literature Quarterly, Issue No. 42, July 2025.
Author Biography
Chen Chaosong (Chen Qufei)
Brief Biography:
Chen Qufei, real name Chen Chaosong,
born in 1963, wrote his first modern poem in 1976.
He holds a master’s degree from the Graduate Institute of Taiwan Literature at National Taipei University of Education.
He writes modern poetry, novels, film and television scripts, and poetry criticism.
He is a modern poet, novelist, playwright, and literary critic—a comprehensive cultural and creative worker.
His works are extremely prolific. Major creative works include:
(1) Long biographical novel “Water Colors: The Biography of Hatta Yoichi” (screenplay version published);
long historical novel “Spring of Luku” (screenplay version published);
“Anping Requiem,”
“Fireflies Fly, Fly: The Nanzhuang Anti-Japanese Incident,”
dozens of youth inspirational novels;
fantasy novels “The Whale-Riding Boy” and “Heaven Hotel”;
and adventure novel “Deserted Island Medical Dragon.”
More than sixty medium- and long-length novels have been completed, all adapted into television and film screenplays, currently seeking investors and production partners.
(2) Published poetry collections:
“Sunday’s Defense,”
“Island Taiwan,”
“Take You Back to My Distant Castle,”
“Let You Be Heartbroken Once More,”
“Songs of Wind and Clouds.”
(3) Literary monographs:
“Rhetorical Aesthetics of Modern Poetry: Formal Design and Expressive Techniques” (Volumes I & II);
“Theories of Modern Poetry Creation and Critical Appreciation” (Volumes I & II);
“The Modern Dream Factory: Practical Film Screenwriting”;
“Novel Structure, Narration, Rhetoric, and Psychological Analysis—International Novel Introductions and Theoretical Analysis” (Volumes I & II);
“Theoretical Analysis of International Fantasy Classics.”
Email: 54088rabbit@gmail.com
Phone: 0910555892
