Categories
Conversation

Small Windows into Being Alive

A chance sighting in a Bulgarian park sparked a book for Dr Hannah Stevens, who talks to Keith Lyons about why the short story is the perfect form for shining a light on difficult experiences.

Dr Hannah Stevens, author of On the Bodies of Strangers and In Their Absence. Editor
of Tâigael and Mother Tongue, writer, Director at Wind&Bones.

Dr Hannah Stevens (https://hannahstevenswriter.com/) has worked with survivors of domestic abuse, LGBTQI+ communities, activists and educators, using writing and storytelling as tools for advocacy. Her new short story collection, On the Bodies of Strangers, uses tattoos as a doorway into queerness, gendered violence and the mysteries that lie even within familiar lives.

KL: What first inspired you to write this collection of short stories, and how did the idea for it come about?

HS: In 2020 I was walking in a city centre park in Sofia, Bulgaria. It was summer and everyone had shed the warm layers of winter clothes for vests and shorts. I was walking with my partner and collaborator, Will Buckingham, and we were discussing what our next writing projects might be. A woman stepped out on the path in front of us and she had a tattoo on her back. Maybe the tattoo had a story behind it or maybe it didn’t. But the woman certainly would have a story and the idea for this collection just immediately crystallised: a themed collection of human stories linked by the theme of tattoos.

KL: Your stories explore some quite intense human experiences. What themes or questions do you find yourself returning to again and again in your work?

HS: I tend to write about things that preoccupy me, things that worry me, things that inspire me and things that I’ve experienced too. Although the most obvious theme binding the stories together here is tattoos (and I have a few tattoos myself!), there are others too. A lot of the characters in the stories are queer, for example and there are bisexual, lesbian and gay characters. I didn’t set out with the idea to write queer stories, but these are the stories that came. I’m a queer woman who has had relationships with women, non-binary, trans people and men. I’ve inhabited various incarnations of queer worlds, and I think we often end up writing the worlds we know and the people we recognise.

Another theme I often think and write about is gendered violence and abuse because it is such a global issue. There are a number of stories that focus on gendered abuse with male protagonists who abuse their female partners. This kind of abuse is a common occurrence in the UK and around the world and something that’s worth bearing witness to. Some stories in the collection also document the cruelty and abuse that can happen in same sex and queer relationships, which can be overlooked. They highlight the harm we can do to each other by not saying how we really feel and what we truly desire. And there are cruelties in familial relationships here too: the violence parents can enact on their children as well as emotional neglect.

Not all of these things were themes that I set out to write about in this collection but were rather things that emerged through the writing process.  They are difficult subjects but I’m glad they’re here.

The ‘of Strangers’ part of the title is also a nod to the strangers we share the world with. We have our circle of friends and family and other connections, but we live in a world amongst people who are predominantly strangers to us. However, when we dig deeper even those who are familiar and known to us always hold mysteries because we can never truly know anybody can we? Maybe we can’t even fully know ourselves. These are things that I think about a lot.

KL: What drew you to the short story form specifically, rather than novels or other forms of writing?

HS: I love to read and to write short stories: I think they’re intense, powerful and a really precise form. They can capture important, fleeting moments that we might otherwise overlook and really shine a light on our diverse experiences of being alive. Through this collection I’ve tried to take some important and big concerns I have and illuminate them through small windows.

KL: Could you tell us a bit about your background and how you came to be a writer?

HS: I was born into a working-class family in the midlands of England and was the first in my family to go to university. Growing up it didn’t occur to me that writing could be something you could build a life from or that could be a career or a job. But I did love reading and I started writing in earnest during my undergraduate degree in Creative Writing and English. My choice to study creative writing wasn’t planned. I just hoped that it would be interesting because I’d enjoyed reading. During my degree I came across a dusty old book in the library that was – on reflection — life changing. The book was a short story collection by the English writer Daphne du Maurier called The Birds and Other Stories. The stories were dark and haunting and incredibly well constructed, and I totally fell in love with the short story form because of it.

KL: What was your writing process like for this collection? Did you have a clear plan from the start, or did the stories evolve as you wrote them?

HS: I had a few ideas floating around but no clear plan. I’m not good at planning really. I realised this when I attempted to write a novel and had to plan a road map through the chapters. I hated it.

KL: Are there any characters or stories in the collection that you would like to meet?

HS: I’ve met some of the characters in the stories, though none of them are 100% accurate depictions of real-life people, of course. I’ve met Adam in ‘Almost At The Top’ and Jack from ‘The Soft Edges of Difficult Things’ and I wouldn’t want to meet them again. But I did want to explore them through the stories and to capture something of their awfulness. It feels important to not shy away from some of the awfulness of human nature.

I would like to meet Angel and Alma from ‘Stick and Poke’. They have so much potential in spite of their difficult circumstances. And they are such good friends. In terms of their futures, I’d hope that they’re still friends and that they’ve managed to carve out happier and safer lives for themselves.

KL: Your collection was shortlisted for the W&A Working Class Writers’ Prize in 2022, several years before its eventual publication. How did that early recognition shape the development of the book, and what was the journey like from shortlist to final publication?

HS: Being shortlisted for the W&A Working Class Writers’ Prize in 2022 helped to bolster my confidence. I think short stories and short story collections are really under-appreciated both culturally and commercially and especially in the UK. Being shortlisted encouraged me to keep sharing the stories with people. And I’m so glad that I did. I’ve had messages from readers who have really connected with certain stories, characters or the writing style and it’s just lovely to have these conversations with people.

KL: You’ve lived and worked in several different countries. How has that experience influenced your writing, if at all?

HS: Ironically, I never had any specific plans in terms of travel or work, but I’ve been open to different ideas and the possibility of life being many different shapes. I have really loved meeting people and making friends across the globe. I’ve learned a lot from people who were generous enough to share their time and stories with me. And I think it made me more determined to share stories that can connect people.

I’m curious about the world and people and undoubtedly new-to-me landscapes, politics, art, food and different ways of organising society have enriched my writing. Sometimes these influences are easy for me to see: a particular flower, a soundscape, a view or even a house … but other times they’re more subtle and less easy to map.

KL: What do you hope readers will take away from reading On the Bodies of Strangers?

HS: Some of the stories might be considered bleak in certain instances but they’re not without hope and possibility and I want the readers to feel this too: hope is such an important and powerful thing. I’d love it if readers felt empathy for the characters, their lives and circumstances. I mean the point of stories and literature is to really distill and humanise these things, isn’t it?

KL: As co-director of Wind&Bones, you’re running an independent press that publishes other writers’ work. What made you decide to become a publisher as well as a writer, and how do you balance those two roles?

HS: I think it was meeting so many people across the world with important, beautiful and moving stories to tell. I wanted to provide a platform that could help people to share them. It is definitely tricky balancing both publishing and writing in terms of time. But they do complement each other and it’s been useful to bring insights from one world into the other.

KL: You also run creative writing workshops. How has that work shaped your own approach to writing and revising your stories? 

HS: Running workshops has given me confidence in my own writing and to share my stories. The more I’ve connected with people the more I’ve realised what a cacophony of voices and stories the world is made up of and what a wonderful thing that is. It’s good to share our stories, whatever they may be.

KL: What advice would you give to aspiring writers, especially those who might not come from traditional literary backgrounds, who are trying to finish and publish their first collection?

HS: It’s difficult to give any specific advice about a career in writing because it’s such a diverse field and can look like so many different things. But if you love writing keep doing it as much as you can. Build connections and friendships around it because writing is a way to communicate our ideas and experiences and to build community and community is such an important part of being a writer.

KL: What are you working on now, and how does it differ from this collection?

HS: At the moment I’m working on a new collection of short stories inspired by my three years of living and working in the south of Taiwan called Upside Down Heart and Other Fiction from Formosa. I started to write this when I was writer in residence at the Taiwan Literature Base in Taipei. My stories are usually so rooted in a UK setting, I think just because the land and cityscapes are such a big part of my imagination. But this is the first time I’ve written stories set elsewhere and I’ve really enjoyed the deliberateness of the experiment and what stories have resulted.

I am also co-writing a crime detective novel set in Taiwan called The Spoonbill Murders with my fellow Wind&Bones co-director, Dr Will Buckingham. It’s been difficult to find the time to fit the writing in for this one, but it is lighthearted and a lot of fun when we do.

I am also writing an essay about returning to the city in which I was born, that traces my family history, explores the messiness of grief, the social taboo of addiction and how these things can manifest across generations.

KL: Is there anything about writing practice in general, that you wish more people knew about?

HS: A lot of people might imagine writing to be a solitary thing but, in my experience, it is an extremely collaborative process. There are editors involved in the process, of course, but writing has been a way of connecting me with all kinds of different people, cultures, ideas and new friends and it really has changed my life for the better.

Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless Journal’s Editorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.

Extract from Hannah Steven’s short story, ‘Something You Could Feel in Your Teeth’

Georgia is on her bunk. It’s just after seven. The cell door is closed, everyone locked up for the night. Outside, it’s still light, and she thinks of being free, of what she would be doing now. Maybe drinking tea in the garden, maybe having a beer. A small garden, just a yard, would do it really, where she could feel the breeze, see the sky. Sam and Fay would be there, home with her, where they belonged. Fay would be singing a song she’d heard recently, and maybe they’d all sing the chorus together. 

Georgia feels the bunk move as Winter pulls the tattoo gun from beneath her mattress and places it onto the table. It’s a mess of parts, bound together with tape, and it makes her think of Frankenstein’s monster, something made from spares, something not meant to be one whole. It had taken a while to get everything they’d needed together: the plastic pen for the needle chamber, for Winter to exchange enough cigarettes for the small motor of an electric razor. 

There are footsteps in the corridor. They grow louder, heading towards them. 

‘That’s my release date fucked if I’m caught with this,’ says Winter, her eyes wide. 

Georgia scrambles down from her top bunk. ‘I’d take the blame, you know that,’ she says. 

‘You and I both know that’s not how it works: same cell, equal responsibility,’ replies Winter. Her voice is sharp.

Georgia stares at the door, neither of them move. 

The footsteps pass and Winter breathes out. ‘Fucking hell,’ she says. ‘Sorry, I’m just so edgy with my release date so close.’ 

Georgia notices the sweat on Winter’s forehead. She remembers watching her months ago making the needle for the gun. How she’d pulled the coiled compression spring from a smuggled lighter, heated and softened it slowly over the flame of a burning match, then spent the evening carefully, calmly stretching it, straightening it, sharpening it on the exposed brick wall. Easily something she’d be sanctioned for, her detention extended. 

‘I would be too,’ says Georgia. ‘We don’t have to do it.’ 

‘I know,’ says Winter. She wipes the sweat with the back of her hand. ‘But we are doing it. Now, you make the ink.’ 

Georgia pulls out a small plastic bag from the box on the shelf. Then she tips the loose cigarette ash she’d collected over the last week onto the plastic lid of the instant hot chocolate tub. Over at the sink, she adds water and then a squirt of liquid hand soap. She takes a metal pin from her hair, and carefully she mixes it all together.

‘Did you add enough soap?’ Winter asks.

‘I think so,’ replies Georgia. She shows Winter the wet paste.

‘A bit more,’ says Winter. ‘It needs to be thick so the colour stays in.’ Georgia adds more soap, stirs again, and hands it to Winter. 

‘Good,’ Winter nods and points to the bottom bunk. 

‘Okay, lie down.’ 

Georgia lies down, rolls up her sleeve, and looks at the tattoo already there. It’s a microphone made of sketchy, dark lines. Winter did it a few months before, and Georgia loves it in spite of its imperfections. She thinks of being on the outside, of singing again, maybe at the karaoke. She imagines the low lights of a bar, the faded velour chairs, the sticky floors, and that feeling in her chest. 

This time she’s chosen two musical notes. She’d found a book in the prison library, leafed through some pages on music composition, settled on quavers. She doesn’t know what they mean exactly. But she loves the round shape of them, the stem, the curled tail. 

Winter wipes Georgia’s arm with a damp flannel and then pats it dry with a towel. Georgia clenches her jaw: an involuntary movement, in anticipation of what’s to come. A sharp pain flashes through her mouth and then fades. She stares at the marked mattress above her. 

Winter dusts some talcum powder across Georgia’s skin and smooths it out into a fine white sheen. Next, she draws the musical notes with a blunt pencil. The end is damp and lifts the talc from her arm, like an eraser. 

‘Like this?’ Winter asks. 

Georgia looks and takes in the two new shapes. 

‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘Like that.’ 

Winter shifts in her chair and leans in a little closer. ‘Are you ready?’ 

Georgia nods. She doesn’t look at Winter, somehow doesn’t want to catch her eye. Sometimes beautiful things came from pain. Like her children. 

Winter switches on the tattoo gun. The low whir of the motor kicks in. She dips the needle into the ink and begins. 

Georgia feels the sharp, hot pain in her skin, the jagged vibration in her arm. She feels it move through her body, shake her bones, and then settle into her teeth. 

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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Categories
Stories

The Sixth Man

By C. J. Anderson-Wu

Lin Yuan-Kai strode past the basketball courts, flanked by two prison officers, when a basketball suddenly flew toward him, striking his left hip. Though unhurt, the impact startled him. Laughter erupted from the players on the court—it was no accident.

Without hesitation, he picked up the ball and gestured his intent to join them. The officers didn’t interfere. The inmates, momentarily caught off guard, watched as he lined up a shot. He missed, but his confidence and performance impressed them.

For the next seven minutes, they played. Two inmates stepped forward as his teammates for a mano a mano match. Together, they seized victory, defeating their opponents 12 to 8. When the game ended, the officers resumed their duty, escorting Lin Yuan-Kai away, as if nothing had happened.

The sun hung mercilessly overhead, its heat absorbed and magnified by the endless concrete walls stretching in every direction. The prison yard of cracked pavement and sun-bleached barriers offered little relief. The air shimmered above the surface, thick with dust and the scent of stone baking in the heat. A few trees, sparse and struggling, clung to life along the far edge of the yard, their thin, brittle leaves barely moving in the stagnant air. The little tree shades were claimed by the few inmates lucky enough to lean against their trunks, eyes squinted against the glare. 

Most others had no such luxury. They paced in the open, sweat slicking their skin. Conversations were short and clipped, words drowned out by the hum of cicadas whining from somewhere beyond the towering perimeter walls. The walls themselves, reinforced with layers of thick concrete, absorbed the heat like a furnace, turning corridors into suffocating tunnels of stifling air. 

Two years ago, Lin Yuan-Kai was commissioned by the Archives Bureau to conduct the analysis of political archives and the gaps left behind after multiple rounds of legal document collection. The task was immense, and many researchers had approached it by pinpointing missing records and overlooked events. However, that method lacked structure and rarely led to meaningful conclusions.

Given the limited timeframe, Lin Yuan-Kai devised an approach that combined institutional records, yearbooks, and interdepartmental meeting minutes to identify relevant agencies involved in political documentation. Not every agency maintained comprehensive records, and many yearbooks only covered relatively recent years, which complicated the search. Another method involved a quantitative breakdown of archival cases and items.

With these comparisons and insights gained from studying archives and conducting interviews, Lin Yuan-Kai suspected that there were unfound prison archives that might have been hidden, abandoned, or destroyed. Traditionally, archives had been collected by searching institutional catalogs through keyword and classification code queries. But that process had two major flaws—some documents were not indexed due to oversight, and institutional catalogs were often incomplete or poorly organised. The true scope of political archives lay not only in recorded files but also in the unindexed stacks of storage, filled with materials that had never been officially recognized as archives.

Determining which institutional catalogs to consult was another challenge. For instance, searching for prison records during martial law meant looking beyond the former Garrison Command and into its subordinate and sub-subordinate agencies that had been dismissed after the abolishment of martial law. Despite the obstacles, direct access to storage rooms was the most effective solution. That required perfect timing, coordination, and support from the right people. Fortunately, the Archives Bureau’s careful planning made it possible, allowing as much as possible access to the storage rooms where records had long been buried. Several times, young staff members had initially claimed that certain archives did not exist, only to uncover them once inside.

It was a rare opportunity, shaped by luck and determination, and it offered a glimpse into the missing history hidden in forgotten shelves.

Nevertheless, bureaucracy was a major obstacle of Lin Yuan-Kai’s mission. Authorities were never eager to be scrutinized, in the past as well as at the present. As he arrived at the former Alapawan prison, now a correctional institute, Lin Yuan-Kai felt the old walls, though renovated, still carried the weight of their history. Inside the building, the scent of disinfectant and old settings filled the air as he approached the front desk. A stern clerk barely glanced up from his files when Lin Yuan-Kai introduced himself and explained his purpose, citing his authorization letter from the Archives Bureau. The clerk took his paper, skimmed it for a brief moment, then sighed.

“The records you’re looking for don’t exist.”

Lin Yuan-Kai had anticipated resistance. Bureaucracy had a way of stalling progress, and Alapawan’s past was no exception. He tried to reason with the clerk. “These events happened only fifty years ago. Surely there are still some transcripts or reports? Can I enter your archive room and look for myself?”

Half a century ago, political prisoners in Alapawan attempted to seize weapons and ammunition from the prison guards, hoping to break free and ignite a large-scale revolt across the island—ultimately aiming to establish the Republic of Taiwan. But they failed.

Following the prison break, a Joint Command was formed, consisting of the Garrison Command, an army corps, and the police force, tasked with tracking down the fugitives. Within days, five chief conspirators were captured, and within months, these rebels previously imprisoned for separatism, disrupting social harmony, or sympathizing with communists were sentenced to death. This time, the charges were far graver: instigation of social disorder, treason, and espionage.

This chapter of the insurgence had been thoroughly investigated and studied. Lin Yuan-Kai had pored over nearly all available historical materials, including the official reports on its suppression and subsequent rehabilitation. To him, their plan had always seemed doomed from the start—too few participants, none of whom had ever been trained in combat, armed or unarmed.

Even if many sympathized with their idealism, organizing them into a unified force, let alone securing enough supplies to sustain an uprising, was nearly impossible.

What pressed on Lin Yuan-Kai’s mind, however, was not how they had failed—but what followed. How many more were purged in the aftermath?

Determined, he waited for the clerk’s response.

The man’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’ll need an official request submitted through proper channels. A paper from the Archives Bureau can’t order us to upheaval our archive.”

Upheaval, Lin Yuan-Kai thought, that’s how they saw a search of the archive, it means the documentation must be in very bad condition. “Is there anyone I can speak to in person? Former officers, anyone who might have firsthand knowledge?”

The clerk shrugged.

“What about inmate logs? Medical reports?”

The man hesitated. “Accessing them requires approval from the warden’s office. But the documents don’t include materials from fifty years ago.”

Lin Yuan-Kai saw his chance. “Let me speak to the warden, please.”

After several more rounds of procedural explanations and lingering doubt from the clerk, Lin Yuan-Kai was finally escorted to the warden’s office. Warden Liu, an aging man with years of institutional experience behind him, sat at a desk cluttered with paperwork. His eyes held neither warmth nor hostility, just the weariness of a man accustomed to endless trivial administrative tasks.

“I understand you’re seeking records on the insurgents,” Liu said, leaning back in his chair. “Officially, we have no ties to the former Alapawan prison, and our institute does not comment on past political events.”

Lin Yuan-Kai sat forward. “I’m not here to stir controversy, only to understand what happened. The prisoners’ perspective, the conditions, their treatment during the conflict, those details are crucial to preserving history.”

What he withheld was the conversation with a relative of one of the cellmates. She had approached him upon learning about the Alapawan prison project.

“Dr. Lin, my granduncle disappeared after the prison insurgence, after the sentencing and execution of the five chief conspirators. We never found out why or what happened. There is no governmental paper detailing his release, or his death.”

The young woman, Hsiao Yi-Chun, retrieved a worn photograph: a man in a white shirt, his hair neatly trimmed in a business cut. “This is the only photo we have of our granduncle.”

Lin Yuan-Kai, who had spent years studying the White Terror, had seen countless images of its victims. Each one struck him deeply. In the faded photograph, the man’s dark eyes stared back at him—he was likely around his own age.

What would happen to his own family if he were to vanish?

Carefully, Lin Yuan-Kai wrote down the man’s name, his charge, the year he was sent to Alapawan prison, and snapped a picture of the worn portrait with his smartphone.

After their meeting, Lin Yuan-Kai tried to edit the portrait with his phone—unblurring it, brightening it a little, strengthening the contrast 20%, and testing almost all special effects. But, at last, he saved the original without keeping any edited image. Hsiao Yi-Chun said they were told that her granduncle was the “sixth man”, but no one knew what it meant. 

Standing in the warden’s office, Lin Yuan-Kai wondered if there was any clue that could lead him to the “sixth man”. The air was thick with the scent of stale paper and old ink, the kind that lingered on documents left untouched for years.

A single overhead lamp flickered, casting erratic shadows over the cluttered desk, its surface scarred by decades of use. Forgotten files lay in disarray, stacked haphazardly, their edges curling from time and neglect. The blinds were drawn, shutting out daylight, trapping the room in a suffocating stillness.

Officer Liu studied Lin Yuan-Kai for a long moment. Then, instead of responding, he rose from his chair and crossed the room to an old, rusted cabinet. With a quiet click, he unlocked a drawer and pulled out a worn box of folders.

“These are the only personnel notes from that time, kept by a former officer,” Liu said. “Unofficial and very incomplete, but if you want insight, this might be your best chance.”

Lin Yuan-Kai wiped the dust from his sleeves as he leaned over the crate, its brittle edges crumbling under his fingers. The box, long forgotten in the corner of the archive, promised secrets. But so far, it had yielded nothing but empty envelopes, rusted paper clips, and a cracked ceramic cup with faded initials no one could recognize.

Lin Yuan-Kai stood by the desk, flipping through the box’s contents with growing frustration. Bent clips, drawing pins, a hardened eraser, outdated requisition forms, a dust-coated key, each item more useless than the last. But the warden said nothing. He sat slumped in his chair, fingers laced together, watching the archivist with weary indifference. His gaze held neither curiosity nor concern, just the detached patience of a man accustomed to fruitless searches. The dim light caught in the deep lines of his face, revealing decades of service worn into his skin.

Lin Yuan-Kai kept searching, brushing aside brittle folders until his fingers found something different—a single slip of paper, folded with deliberate care. Slowly, he unfolded it, scanning its brief message.

“Documents regarding Deng Tse-Shan must be burned before May, together with this note.”

Obviously, it was a secret order but was not obeyed. The recipient had neither destroyed the note nor, perhaps, the documents it referenced.

Lin Yuan-Kai’s pulse quickened. He scanned the note again, absorbing its implications. If the files had been moved rather than burned, then someone had deemed them worth preserving, just not in the way history had dictated. His grip tightened. He glanced at the warden, searching for any reaction. None came. Silently, Lin Yuan-Kai tucked the paper into his pocket.

Back at the AirBnB, Lin Yuan-Kai let the cold shower wash away both the sweat and the lingering excitement. He reminded himself that he might not find anything beyond the note.

Later, in the shared living room, he settled into a chair, sipping the icy beer he had stored in the fridge earlier.

A westerner with a ponytail walked in. Seeing Lin Yuan-Kai, he asked politely, “Are you Dr. Lin Yuan-Kai?”

“Yes, I am,” Lin Yuan-Kai replied, surprised. How did a foreigner know him?

The man extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Morris. They told me you’re an archive expert.”

Lin Yuan-Kai shook his hand. In this isolated place, any outsider stood out, especially one visiting the prison, the largest institution in the region.

He gestured toward the beer. “Want one?”

They moved to a high table with their beers. Dr. Morris, an American sinologist, studied the inscriptions on headstones to trace the tempo-spatial patterns of migration to Taiwan from different regions of the world.

“They told me there are many headstones that might be of interest, so I came to see for myself,” he said. “I walked around and found graves with inscriptions suggesting that people from diverse backgrounds lived here from the late nineteenth to the early twentieth century. Some came from China, some from Southeast Asia, others from Taiwan’s west coast, and some relocated from the mountains to farm.” Lin Yuan-Kai was amazed that one could re-establish such a history through headstones.

Dr. Morris continued, “I copied down some of the names carved into the stones, at least the ones still legible. Some graves bear only a name, with no other details. Tomorrow, I am going to check out the old village office, hoping some documents have survived. The neighbourhood chief, Mr. Huang, agreed to take me.”

“What is in the village office?”

“They said the office kept tons of unattended documents, and I might find some matching the names on the headstones.”

“Can I go with you?” Lin Yuan-Kai asked, as an archive expert, the prospect of an unknown collection set his pulse racing.

“Of course, that’s what I intend to do.”

.

Around 7 o’clock next morning, they met in front of the dilapidated village office, and Mr. Huang brought a key to carefully open the door. Lin Yuan-Kai thought it was just a gesture, for the door was so unhinged, anyone could just kick it open.

The archive room was in the deepest side of the building, lying in stillness, untouched and forgotten. As the pale morning rays filtered through its dust-streaked high windows, shadows stretched long across the floor, tracing the outlines of scattered folders and crumbling stacks of paper that had surrendered to time.

Metal filing cabinets, their surfaces pockmarked with rust, stood in rows like sentinels guarding history’s remnants. Some drawers hung open, revealing brittle documents curled at the edges, their ink faded. The air smelled of damp paper and aged furniture, memories soaked into the very walls, lingering long after the last searcher had departed.

A single overhead light flickered weakly, its bulb on the verge of surrender. In the corner, a toppled chair lay beside a desk strewn with yellowed index cards, each inscribed in careful, long-forgotten handwriting. The room exuded a quiet decay—a blend of dust, brittle paper, and the faint musk of fraying linen threads that once bound volumes now crumbling with age. The air carried a musty dampness, heavy from years without ventilation, tinged with the metallic trace of ink that had long since bled into the paper’s grain.

They stood uncertainly, unsure where to begin. Then, a sharp shriek from a bird outside the window cut through the silence, startling them. A single leaf fluttered in through the broken screen and landed atop a half-open drawer. Lin Yuan-Kai took it as a sign, so he would start there.

Dr. Morris unfolded the papers where he had recorded names over the past few days, studying them as he tried to decipher the document arrangement. The records were categorized roughly by the number of strokes in the characters of family names: Wong, with four strokes, was placed first; Wu, with seven, followed after; and Lin, with eight, came next in the sequence.

While Dr. Morris remained buried in the worn-out documents, Lin Yuan-Kai turned his attention to the files of surnames with the most strokes. He examined those for Yen but found little of note, only a handful of records for the name. The files of Tsai were similar.

The documentation was inconsistent; some individuals had more detailed records, including birthplaces, occupations, marriages, and even death dates, while others had nothing beyond a name. Women, in particular, were often documented solely in relation to their husbands—identified, for instance, as Madam Tsai when married, and again only when widowed.

Lin Yuan-Kai thought of Hsiao Yi-Chun’s granduncle as he sifted through the files under the Hsiao surname. Unsurprisingly, he found nothing; the man had disappeared in 1970, while these records dated back only to the late 19th century through the mid-20th century.

Still, experience had taught him that archives always held something—hidden traces, faint echoes of the past, as if the ghosts of those denied closure lingered, guiding his search.

Political prisoners of that era were often in their twenties or thirties. If some had been locals born in the 1930s or 1940s, their names might still be buried in these files.

He retrieved the note he had secretly pocketed the day before—Deng Tse-Shan, the man the authorities had tried to erase.

At first, the documents of the Deng families revealed nothing. But as Lin Yuan-Kai scanned names that might be connected, Dr. Morris unfolded his own notes and pointed to an entry—a name containing Deng and Shan, though the middle character was unrecognisable

“Could they be the same person?”

“Very likely,” Lin Yuan-Kai said, leaning in. “Where did you find this name?”

“In the mass grave. He might be the ‘sixth man.’”

Sixth man. It was the second time Lin Yuan-Kai had heard that phrase.

Dr. Morris explained that, according to Prof. Jiang Ming-Shun, after the five chief conspirators for Taiwan’s independence were arrested and sentenced to death, the national leader Chiang Kai-Shek remained convinced that a sixth man had played a role in the prison break and ordered that he be found at all costs.

No one knew how Chiang had obtained this information, given that he lived and governed from Taipei, far from the prison in Taitung. But his word carried unquestioned authority. His judgment was treated as truth, and his directive was followed without hesitation.

The result was a wave of arrests and executions carried out with little to no evidence, culminating in the mass grave near the prison.

“So, there were more than one ‘sixth man’?”

“Based on what we counted in the mass grave, there were likely eight to twelve. Some mounds might not be graves at all, and others may have disappeared over time, lost to floods or landslides.”

Lin Yuan-Kai took over Dr. Morris’s notes, searching for Hsiao Yi-Chun’s granduncle. One name shared a matching character, but it wasn’t enough to confirm whether it was the same man, or if Hsiao Yi-Chun’s granduncle was among the “sixth man.”

A clearer picture has begun to emerge beyond the well-studied prison insurgence. In addition to the five chief conspirators, eight to twelve other men were accused of being accomplices and executed on the spot—without trial, without due process. The scale of this slaughter exceeded even that of the major trials. Each of these men—who may or may not have been involved in the uprising, who may or may not have supported Taiwanese independence, who may or may not have identified as Chinese or Taiwanese—was killed as the “sixth man”.

To their families, they simply vanished. To history, they became little more than unmarked remains, whose existence were left to be debated as part of Taiwan’s sovereignty decades later. 


C. J. ANDERSON-WU
 (吳介禎) is a Taiwanese writer who has published fiction collections about Taiwan’s military dictatorship (1949–1987), known as White Terror: Impossible to Swallow (2017) and The Surveillance (2021). Her third book Endangered Youth—Taiwan, Hong Kong, Ukraine has been launched in April 2025. Her works have been shortlisted for a number of international literary awards, including the International Human Rights Art Festival and the 2024 Flying Island Poetry Manuscript Competition. She also won the Strands Lit International Flash Fiction Competition, the Invisible City Blurred Genre Literature Competition, and the Wordweavers Literature Contest.

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