| Author: | William F. Wu | ISBN: | 9781370609246 |
| Publisher: | Boruma Publishing | Publication: | December 22, 2017 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | William F. Wu |
| ISBN: | 9781370609246 |
| Publisher: | Boruma Publishing |
| Publication: | December 22, 2017 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
In this alternate world, a parody of old stories and movies about Chinatown, three recent college graduates of Chinese and Japanese descent celebrate graduation with a dinner in Anglotown. Pals Ken, Andy, and Garth joke and harass each other at dinner, but Ken’s curiosity grows. Cindy Smith, hostess, offers to take him into the back where he can see the secrets of Anglotown.
~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~
“I’ve heard Angotown has all kinds of underground tunnels, secret rooms and passageways,” said Ken. “Maybe it’s just urban myth, but the rumors go way back.”
“Urban myth,” said Garth. ”Let’s look for the Loch Anglotown Monster, too.”
Andy laughed and gave Garth a whack on the arm.
Ken parked and led his friends up the sidewalk, looking around. He didn’t remember the name of the restaurant. It was a weeknight, with few tourists out.
Some of the tourist-based businesses in Anglotown had the pointed windows, steep gables, and gingerbread of Victorian homes. The shapes created other-worldly shadows, hinting at ghosts from when California was mostly Anglo and Hispanic. Other buildings reflected Colonial Revival, meaning a rectangular shape, two or three stories, symmetrical façades, brick or wood siding, pillars, and windows with shutters. Yet none of it seemed quite right; the shutters were just for show, nailed against the front walls, and many structures had been added awkwardly. Signs, written in archaic lettering, swung in the breeze from horizontal posts out front that evoked New England or Britain itself. None of it seemed to belong in Los Angeles, yet it all belonged in Anglotown.
“Smells good,” said Andy. “Is that meatloaf cooking?”
“I smell pot roast.” Garth, who knew about all kinds of food, raised his head and breathed in. “Hey, does this hakujin restaurant you like have cheap prime rib?”
Ken ignored him, eyeing a narrow storefront jammed between a big seafood restaurant with a Cape Cod front and a bank with a Victorian-era façade. “Chillicothe Katfish Kitchen” was painted on the door above “Genuine Missouri-Style Cuisine.”
In this alternate world, a parody of old stories and movies about Chinatown, three recent college graduates of Chinese and Japanese descent celebrate graduation with a dinner in Anglotown. Pals Ken, Andy, and Garth joke and harass each other at dinner, but Ken’s curiosity grows. Cindy Smith, hostess, offers to take him into the back where he can see the secrets of Anglotown.
~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~
“I’ve heard Angotown has all kinds of underground tunnels, secret rooms and passageways,” said Ken. “Maybe it’s just urban myth, but the rumors go way back.”
“Urban myth,” said Garth. ”Let’s look for the Loch Anglotown Monster, too.”
Andy laughed and gave Garth a whack on the arm.
Ken parked and led his friends up the sidewalk, looking around. He didn’t remember the name of the restaurant. It was a weeknight, with few tourists out.
Some of the tourist-based businesses in Anglotown had the pointed windows, steep gables, and gingerbread of Victorian homes. The shapes created other-worldly shadows, hinting at ghosts from when California was mostly Anglo and Hispanic. Other buildings reflected Colonial Revival, meaning a rectangular shape, two or three stories, symmetrical façades, brick or wood siding, pillars, and windows with shutters. Yet none of it seemed quite right; the shutters were just for show, nailed against the front walls, and many structures had been added awkwardly. Signs, written in archaic lettering, swung in the breeze from horizontal posts out front that evoked New England or Britain itself. None of it seemed to belong in Los Angeles, yet it all belonged in Anglotown.
“Smells good,” said Andy. “Is that meatloaf cooking?”
“I smell pot roast.” Garth, who knew about all kinds of food, raised his head and breathed in. “Hey, does this hakujin restaurant you like have cheap prime rib?”
Ken ignored him, eyeing a narrow storefront jammed between a big seafood restaurant with a Cape Cod front and a bank with a Victorian-era façade. “Chillicothe Katfish Kitchen” was painted on the door above “Genuine Missouri-Style Cuisine.”
