Chen Qufei’s Flash Fantasy Fiction No. 1

Postscript:
This story was published in Congrong Literary Quarterly, Issue No. 42, July 2025.

1: Time-Space Mailbox

While browsing a flea market along the Seine, I was drawn to a stall selling wall clocks. The stall owner was an elderly man with silver hair, lounging in a grand chair, absorbed in reading a thread-bound book whose mottled cover suggested it was an ancient tome. He didn’t greet customers. Every item had a tag stating its production year and origin.

As I was examining a red-bronze wall clock, the old man set down his book and looked at me. Speaking in English, he said, “Young man, if I’m not mistaken, you’re a novelist in your country.”

I froze. “Sir, how do you know my profession?”

He smiled mysteriously, tapped his forehead, and said, “I saw you a few days ago, at a book signing, busy autographing copies for your readers.”

I thought to myself: Does this guy have clairvoyance or something?

“These clocks aren’t for you,” he said, pointing to a classical bronze mailbox roughly the size of a person’s embrace. “This mailbox is destined for you. It’ll help make your dreams come true.”

“It can fulfill my dreams?” I repeated, skeptical.

He leaned close and whispered, “Ya, aren’t you dreaming of becoming a film director and adapting your stories into movies?”

“Well… Yes, that was my dream when I first graduated. But my books haven’t sold well, and over the years, the royalties have barely kept my family of five afloat. I can’t afford such unrealistic dreams.”

The old man placed a hand on my shoulder. “I know your life has been tough. But your potential is more than what you see now. That’s why I’ve decided to give you a way forward.”

My eyes welled with emotion. “I’ll follow your guidance.”

“Take this mailbox home and hang it by your study window. From now on, for every story outline you finish, seal it in an envelope and drop it in the box. A week later, you’ll get a reply.”

“You mean… someone will give me writing advice?”

“Exactly. Soon, you’ll become a bestselling author. Then investors who admire you will approach you to make films. You can ask to write the script and direct it yourself. That’s how your dream will come true.”

“How much do I owe you for the mailbox, sir?”

“Just 100 euros. But when your dream comes true and you become a famous director, you must return it here to me.”

I pulled out the only €100 bill from my wallet and respectfully handed it to him. He took it, then gave me back a €10 note. “For your lunch later—I know that was all you had.”

He handed me a large leather backpack. “It’ll make airport check-in easier.”

I slung the bag over my shoulder, and the old man smiled and waved goodbye.

Back at Taoyuan Airport, my wife picked me up. Seeing the large leather bag on the luggage cart, she asked, “What’s in there?”

“A bronze mailbox. I bought it at a flea market along the Seine. I originally wanted a wall clock.”

“How much did you spend?”

“€90, plus €60 for shipping.”

“You! Spending money like it’s nothing…” she started scolding until I loaded the bags into the trunk.

Back home, the mailbox was hung by my study window. My wife found two dresses and a French velvet coat in the luggage. Seeing the price tags, her mood instantly lifted, and she happily went to prepare dinner.

That evening, I wrote a fantasy film story outline in Chinese about my encounter with the old man and the mailbox. I signed it, sealed it in an envelope, and dropped it in the mailbox by the window.

The next morning, my publisher Mr. Cao messaged me on Line, asking me to write some fantasy or sci-fi stories. I promised to send him a story outline within a week.

Exactly a week later, in the evening, I found a letter in the mailbox. Opening it, I was stunned—it was a stack of typed English manuscript pages, signed J. R. R. Tolkien. Tolkien? I was shocked. “Isn’t he the author of The Lord of the Rings, the famous British fantasy novelist?” I quickly opened my laptop and searched for Tolkien’s image.

“No way! Did I really meet Tolkien himself?”

But something felt off. “Wikipedia says Tolkien died in 1973. How could he have appeared at a flea market in Paris?”

Despite my doubts, I read through the manuscript. Tolkien had revised my story outline. The plot was full of suspense and human conflict, with scene after scene, each one more surprising than the last. It was utterly brilliant.

That very night, I translated the story back into Chinese, typed it up, and sent the file to Mr. Cao via Line. Afterward, I drank a glass of milk and went to bed at dawn, satisfied and at peace.

2: Little Mei the Mannequin

Who would’ve thought that buying second-hand mannequins to save money would invite a ghost into my life? Was it karma for being stingy? But this “lesson” turned my life around—and had me shouting, “Holy cow!”

I’d spent over a million on renovating my women's clothing boutique. To conserve working capital for inventory, I took my capable assistant Ah-Mei’s suggestion and bought some gently used mannequins from a second-hand market.

To generate buzz, we launched a promotion on opening day: 20% off all trendy women’s clothing, with an extra 10% off purchases over NT$1,000.

I focused on sourcing and bookkeeping, while Ah-Mei and Ah-Yu handled sales and alterations. Within a few days, both women reported something strange. One Asian-styled mannequin, which they had dressed in Outfit A, was found wearing Outfit B the next morning—even switching outfits with other mannequins. Ah-Mei swore that while changing the clothes of that mannequin, whom she had nicknamed “Little Mei,” its eyes had shifted, and its eyebrows and cheeks had twitched slightly. It creeped her out.

At first, I dismissed it as their imagination. But after repeated complaints, I gave in and installed security cameras at the entrance and checkout area.

The next morning, Ah-Mei reported that Little Mei had changed outfits again. The three of us reviewed the footage—and were stunned. Shortly after closing, the mannequin began to move. She behaved like a tasteful office lady, inspecting each mannequin’s clothing. She lingered at one, touching the fabric, adjusting the collar, just like any customer. Satisfied, she unbuttoned and stripped the clothes from the mannequin, held them up before the mirror, then walked into the fitting room.

Minutes later, Little Mei emerged wearing the new outfit, carrying her previous clothes. She dressed the original mannequin in her old clothes, returned to her position, and resumed her pose.

The three of us stared at the footage, speechless.

“Boss, we’re seriously haunted! Should we call the cops?” Ah-Yu blurted out.

“The police don’t handle ghosts...” I forced a laugh.

“Maybe we should find a Taoist priest. That’s what they do in the movies,” said Ah-Mei.

“I’ve got a better idea,” I whispered. “After closing tonight, I’ll load her into the van and toss her into the Tamsui River.”

At 9 PM, Ah-Mei and Ah-Yu closed up and left. I lowered the steel shutter to just a foot off the ground. Alone at the counter, I heard footsteps approaching. I looked up—Little Mei was just two meters away, then sat down on a chair facing me, glaring with displeasure.

Good thing I had served in the military next to Kinmen’s Taiwu Cemetery, which had toughened my nerves. Anyone else would've freaked out.

Leaning back, I pointed a ballpoint pen at her. “We’ve got no beef. Why are you bothering me?”

Little Mei snatched the pen and wrote on a ledger: “I’ve been wronged. I need your help to return to life.” Her handwriting was elegant—not like a streetwalker, more like an educated woman.

We began communicating via writing. She said her soul had left her body in a man-made car accident that left her in a vegetative state. Her spirit had clung to a mannequin at a nearby second-hand shop.

Soon, we reached an agreement.

I let her sit in the passenger seat as I drove her to a large mansion on Yangmingshan. She opened the door herself and—in a fantastical scene—walked through the iron gate and vanished. But I remembered her figure and the outfit she wore.

From then on, the mannequin never moved again. Business picked up. The shop drew a growing number of wealthy clients—socialites and upper-class women who bought in bulk without blinking.

Six months later, a young woman with light makeup and delicate features visited the store. She wore the exact same long dress that Little Mei had worn the night she disappeared.

When she turned around, my heart jumped: Little Mei, it’s really you!

She approached me, bowed, and said with a sweet smile, “Benefactor, Little Mei has returned to repay your kindness.”

What happened next? Well, I’ll leave that to your imagination.
I got the girl, luck turned, and I became the son-in-law of a wealthy, publicly listed company.

3. The Meteor Man

The odds of being struck by lightning in one’s lifetime are 1 in 1.9 million. So what are the chances of being hit by a meteor?

They say, “Great misfortunes bring great blessings.” Is that really true? In the past, whenever I had bird droppings land on my head or accidentally stepped in human feces, I would buy a lottery ticket hoping to turn bad luck into good. Laugh at my superstition if you want, but plenty of people around me behave the same way!

Ever since I was hit by a meteor and woke up from unconsciousness, I started noticing strange abilities in myself—x-ray vision, hearing people’s thoughts, powering electrical appliances by gripping the wires, even glimpsing the future. But instead of being a blessing, my life spiraled into a terrifying nightmare. Everything around me began to change.

Each day, the moment I stepped out of my rental apartment, I would begin to see things I shouldn’t—like a female coworker approaching with no underwear beneath her skirt. I would hear things I shouldn’t—like the boss’s secretary mentally cursing him as a “crocodile with no tears.” I dared not tell anyone about these abilities. I didn’t want to be labeled a freak.

I decided to break up with my girlfriend of two years—a woman who planned everything to perfection and lived an orderly life. I had foreseen our future: after we married, she would turn me into a flawless ATM machine, using both threats and sweet talk to push me into making more money and becoming “a man with prospects.” In return, I’d be treated no better than the family dog, Lassie. My daily allowance would be ten dollars, and my only asset would be the secondhand motorbike I currently rode. Why sabotage myself?

So first, I lied and said I was infertile. She replied it didn’t matter—we could adopt. Then I claimed to have a family history of ALS. She knew my father had it but didn’t know I was adopted. That worked—she asked for a month to “think it through.” She ghosted me for exactly one month and a day. I thought I was finally free, but then she appeared in my office lobby and told me she had made up her mind—she was willing to spend all her savings to take me to Europe or the U.S. to search for a cure. That plan backfired too. I panicked, secretly quit my job, and fled Taipei for Shanghai under a new name.

In unfamiliar Shanghai, I found work as a casino dealer. I was a natural. Those card-counting gamblers were no match for my x-ray vision and mind-reading skills. The boss gave me a nickname: “The Undefeated.” He treated me like royalty. But good luck never lasts forever.

One day, I overheard two gangster-level gamblers plotting to kidnap me. They wanted to torture the secrets of my winning streak out of me—and if I refused, they’d kill me. I grabbed a bag of cash and escaped Shanghai overnight, back to Taipei. First thing I did was visit a plastic surgery clinic to “start fresh” with a new face.

With a stash of money, I decided to settle somewhere peaceful. I bought a few acres of hillside land in Taitung, built wooden cottages, and opened a bed and breakfast. I lived a quiet life farming by day and reading at dusk, avoiding the use of my “gifts” and gradually forgetting I was different.

Then one evening, my employee, an Amis girl named Chiu-Ping, told me she saw a blue glow emanating from me as I walked up the alley, like a firefly approaching from the dark. At first, she thought she’d seen a ghost. I warned her not to speak a word of it. To keep her quiet, I decided to marry her. In the future I foresaw, Chiu-Ping made a diligent, reliable boss lady.

4. Bungee Jump

Unable to resist my roommate’s relentless persuasion, I finally agreed to go bungee jumping with him during a long weekend.

We rode motorbikes to a site upriver—a towering iron arch bridge spanning a deep gorge. The boss was a blond, blue-eyed foreigner with a classic muscular build. His assistant, tall and rugged with deep features, sounded Indigenous—he had the same athletic frame.

Watching thrill-seekers leap into the canyon, some screaming their lungs out, others closing their eyes to fake calm, I found it absurd—people paying money to torture themselves.

My roommate jumped before me. He spread his limbs like a flying squirrel, bouncing up and down in the gorge. The whole ride lasted less than three minutes but cost him three thousand NT dollars. I winced—three thousand could buy me ten days of great hotpot dinners.

My turn. I strapped on the chest harness, waist belt, and groin support like a pro.

“Jumped before?” the Indigenous coach asked.

I nodded and smiled, not bothering to explain.

“You can hug a pillow to ease the tension,” he offered.

I chuckled inwardly, You’re underestimating me, bro. I was in Special Forces during my military service. Parachuting, mountain warfare—I eat this stuff for breakfast.

I dove headfirst like a dolphin, eyes wide open. The riverbed rushed up.

Then—darkness.

Complete silence replaced the roar of the wind. Confused, I blinked into the void.

Seconds later, I heard an alarm ringing.

What the...? Was I dreaming?

I sat up and looked around. The room had soft, feminine décor—clearly a woman’s room. Empty beer cans littered the floor. I muttered, “How did I get back here? Weren’t we bungee jumping? Where is this?”

The bathroom door opened, and a curvy woman emerged, towel wrapped around her hips and another around her hair. My jaw dropped as she walked toward me, her chest prominent.

“Xiao-Li, you’re finally up! I told you to dump that loser boyfriend. There are better fish in the sea!”

Xiao-Li? I’m… Xiao-Li?

Panic gripped me. I looked down and saw... a pair of papaya-shaped breasts under the bathrobe.

I mustered my courage. “Who… Who are you? Who’s Xiao-Li?”

She frowned. “Don’t give me that post-breakup amnesia crap. Look, here’s today’s newspaper. You’ve been passed out half the day. It’s almost noon.”

She handed me a paper and walked to the wardrobe. Still wrapped in only a towel, she casually put on lingerie with her back to me.

Thou shalt not ogle, I reminded myself and turned to the newspaper.

The front-page headline made my blood freeze:

“Tragedy Strikes: Graduate Student Dies in Bungee Jump Accident at Dahan Gorge”

I slapped my forehead. What in the world happened? Why was I here, living someone else’s life?

Then my phone rang.

I answered.

A voice said, “Sir, sorry. I called the wrong soul. Your time hasn’t come yet.”

5. Love Letter from the Sea

After retiring from the university, I moved alone to the coastal town of Taimali in Taitung, renting a house to live out my days. Surrounded by mountains and ocean, and with a pension sufficient for a peaceful life, I spent my days strolling barefoot along the beach, chasing waves, lying on warm sand watching clouds and listening to the wind. Sometimes I hiked up the hills, wandering through seas of daylilies and lilies, breathing in the floral scent mingled with the salty ocean breeze. It was a tranquil pace of life—both body and mind at ease—as I savored the twilight of retirement.

One day, I returned from a beach walk to find an envelope sticking halfway out of the mailbox. The handwriting on it looked familiar. I pulled out the letter and a photo—of me and Hsiu-Feng on a cruise ship the year we graduated high school. The letter was short. It said that when the Lotus cruise ship docked at Hualien Port a week later, she hoped to meet me there. Looking at the postmark, I realized: the ship was docking tomorrow.

Back inside, I found my thirty-year-old suit and rode my black Domike motorbike into town. I dropped the suit off at the dry cleaners and then went to get a haircut and a shave.

The next morning, I drove my RV to Hualien Port and walked about ten minutes to the dock. Sure enough, a cruise ship was moored there. Tourists were disembarking in single file. A quarter of an hour later, a stylishly dressed woman in her late thirties approached me, dragging a suitcase behind her. Her features grew clearer as she neared—she looked exactly like the Hsiu-Feng of thirty years ago.

She held up a photograph and said, “Excuse me, are you Chen Ch’ü-fei?”

“Yes, I’m Chen Ch’ü-fei. And you are...?” I studied her face, struck by how otherworldly it felt.

“Before my mother passed away, she asked me to find you.”

“Your mother? Passed away? You're... Hsiu-Feng’s daughter?”

“Yes. My name is Chen Nien-Fei. My mother and I lived in Kyoto, Japan. She passed away just last month.”

“Chen Nien-Fei? Your features—you're the spitting image of Hsiu-Feng in her youth.”

“She made me to resemble her, so you’d recognize her.”

“Made...? You mean...?” My head spun with confusion.

“Twenty-five years ago, my mother gave birth to me through asexual reproduction. She never married. She said she’d never love another man in this life besides you.” Her calm tone hit me like a meteor strike.

“Why would she do that? You both...?” My voice trailed off.

“She asked me to take her place—so I could stay by your side.”

“But... how did she know I had secluded myself by the sea in Taimali?”

“Just a feeling, I guess. She told me she and you had said goodbye on the beach at Taimali all those years ago.”

Nien-Fei followed me to the parking lot and got into my RV. As I drove toward the city, I tried to show her some local hospitality.

“The mountains and sea here are exactly like the paradise Mom described in her journals,” she said, casually. “It’s a dreamlike place. I’m grateful she arranged this for me.”

“But... I’m already in my sixties. You should return to Japan.”

“I’ve already sold off all of Mom’s property in Kyoto. I came to help you fulfill your dream,” she said, as if it were nothing. But I was completely bewildered.

“Fulfill my dream? At this age? What dream could I possibly still have?”

“Your movie dream, of course! The hundred or so screenplays you posted online—Mom read every single one. Before she passed, she told me to liquidate her assets and bring the money to you.”

“But I don’t have the stamina to make movies anymore...”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she said, pulling a metal tin from her bag. “From now on, take one pill a month. Your body and appearance will stay just as they are.”

I asked, intrigued, “How is that possible? Where did this come from?”

She explained gently, “After leaving you, my mother went to Kyoto University to study medicine. She stayed on in biochemical research. That pill was the beginning of her fortune. Over the years, she improved it continuously. By the time she died last year, its effects were finally stable.”

“I see. Even back then, she was a genius in science. But I couldn’t leave Taiwan—my parents needed me.”

My thoughts drifted back thirty years, when Hsiu-Feng had invited me to study in Japan with her, to get married and start a family. I was pursuing art, she was entering medicine. But I couldn’t leave, and so we parted.

Back in Taimali, we unloaded her luggage. Nien-Fei slung a small bag over her shoulder and asked me to accompany her to the beach. The sea breeze swept through her long hair as she pulled a yellow jade urn from her backpack. I knew—it was an ash urn.

She stepped into the knee-deep water, opened the urn, and scattered her mother’s ashes into the waves, murmuring something under her breath.

A quarter hour later, she returned, a blush rising in her cheeks.

“From today on, we’re husband and wife,” she said shyly, reaching for my hand. “Mother said you’d love me with the same heart that once loved her.”

I looked into her earnest face—and smiled.

6. The Magic Paintbrush

At a corner pavilion in a small park, a man had set up a modest booth—an easel, a wooden box, two stools, and a lounge chair. These were the entire worldly possessions of Ah-Tang, a middle-aged portrait sketch artist. His business was quiet—not because his skills were lacking, but because he was too picky. He would only draw people he found pleasing. Worse still, he had a strange rule: he would never paint the same customer twice.

That day, rain poured steadily, and no customers came all morning. Ah-Tang sat reading the Bible in silence.

At noon, an old homeless man, drenched and wearing tattered clothes, sat down on a stool, a filthy canvas bag slung over his chest. His eyes were fixed hungrily on the French baguette in Ah-Tang’s hand. Ah-Tang broke the bread in half, giving the longer piece to the old man, along with a half-empty bottle of mineral water.

Under the curtain of rain, the old man devoured the bread, gulped the water, burped, and then pulled a wooden pen case from his bag.

“You’re Ah-Tang, right?”

“Yes, old man,” Ah-Tang replied, still chewing.

“Do you know why I’ve come to find you?”

Ah-Tang shook his head.

“I used to be a street portrait artist like you. Now I’m looking for someone to inherit my craft.”

“So you’re a fellow artist? Why me?”

“You’re just like me—same temper, same stubborn streak.”

“Like you? Bad-tempered and hard-headed?” Ah-Tang gave a wry smile.

“Something like that. I’m handing you this wooden box. From now on, you’re my successor.”

The old man handed him the box. “Inside are two brushes—one black, one colored. Go ahead, open it.”

“What do you want me to do with them?” Ah-Tang opened the case. Sure enough, two brushes lay inside.

With a serious face, the old man said, “Use the black brush to erase. Use the colored brush to create. One rule: never use them for personal gain at the expense of others.”

“I understand. When will you come back?”

“You should call me ‘Master’ now. I won’t be back. Now take the black brush and erase my image.”

“Mas... Master? I—I can’t do that. That’s betrayal...”

“Listen to me. Use the brush and erase me. I need to report back to Heaven.”

“To... to Heaven? You’re a... a deity?”

The old man smiled and nodded. “Take the brush. Erase me.”

Ah-Tang lifted the black brush and made a few strokes in the air. The old man’s image faded away.

At that moment, the rain stopped abruptly. Ah-Tang knew: his Master had given him a new mission. He packed up his things and crossed the street to the bank.

Soon, a group of masked robbers leapt from a car, brandishing guns as they charged into the bank. Shots fired into the ceiling. They shouted for everyone to stay still.

In a quiet corner, Ah-Tang calmly pulled the two brushes from his coat. He used the black brush first, erasing the weapons from the robbers’ hands. Stunned, the thieves froze in disbelief. Then, with the colored brush, he drew handcuffs on their wrists and shackles on their ankles. One by one, the robbers collapsed in surrender.