— Nonfiction by Vivian Wang, Grade 11

As soon as I stepped past the faded letters etched into the arch, I entered a whole new world—a world where Cantonese echoed harshly in my Mandarin ears and the people charged into my comfort zone, brandishing squirming fish and chickens in my face. The striped canvas stretched over our dark heads, shielding us from the morning sun. The humidity and the stench of fresh meat made everyone more impatient than usual. The well-worn pathways were jammed with tan, short women wearing worn-out clothes and jade bracelets. At every table, buyers bartered loudly with sellers, and sellers rambled on like talking advertisements to attract buyers. Each one boasted that their vegetables and meats were fresher than their neighbors'; they all looked the same to me.

Every morning, my energetic Ye Ye bounced to the marketplace to buy groceries for the day's meals. I reluctantly followed him, carefully sidestepping the streams of bloody water that overflowed each crevasse on the cobblestone pavement. I dragged a tiny cart that clanked behind me as I fought my way through the sweat-drenched crowd to keep up with my grandpa. I found him by the chicken coops. My grandpa hastily picked out a little black chicken covered in fluffy white feathers, a wu ji. With a snap, the farmer broke the chicken's neck and threw it into a machine that whirred and chugged. A minute later, the limp chicken was thrust into my grandpa's hands, naked and covered with black goosebumps. Just the sight of it made my stomach churn.