Masters of Sleep and Other Stories by Zhu Yue is forthcoming with Accent Edition in Spring 2026.

On some days I am cheerful, and on others I am not. On those greyer days, I like to tell my story.

Almost everyone has had the experience of running sprints in gym class. Two or three students prepare themselves at the starting line, backs bent, eyes forward. Standing on the finish line, the coach blows his whistle and brings his hand down; the students start to run. While the coach checks his stopwatch, the students speak to one another in hushed tones, snickering about their running peers. Occasionally, a cloud of dirt rises from the track…

When I was in elementary school, our gym coach, Mr. Cheng, was a stout man who kept his hair long. In my memory, he always wore the same purple tracksuit. His niece, Xiaokun, was my classmate. Her grades were not great. I remember our homeroom teacher once saying that Xiaokun was a troublemaker. Indeed, Xiaokun was a bit mischievous, but she was also terrified of her uncle, Mr. Cheng. When the teachers discovered Xiaokun’s weakness, they would often use it to threaten her: “Behave,” they would say, “or I’ll go get your uncle!”

One day, a teacher followed through on this promise. In tears, Xiaokun begged her to change her mind, but she insisted that Xiaokun’s behavior was unforgivable. Mr. Cheng arrived at our classroom; we all watched uneasily as he dragged Xiaokun outside by her braid. Then, standing just outside the door, he slapped her across the face. When I think of my days in elementary school, I can identify seventy-two truly memorable moments; this was one of those moments.

Another of these moments occurred one autumn morning the year before, during gym class. I stood with one foot on the starting line; Mr. Cheng blew his whistle, and I took off at full speed. As I ran, I heard the sound of laughter coming from the sidelines, though I couldn’t tell what they were laughing at; the other two runners were only slightly ahead. Once we’d finished, I noticed Mr. Cheng looking at me with narrowed eyes, as if he were asking: “Did you mean to do that?” I met his eyes, my confusion growing.

“Do you know why they laughed?” he asked.

“No,” I said. (Even now, I can imagine how naïve I must have looked.)

“You should sign up for The International Funny Running Race!” He smirked.

“The International Funny Running Race?” I repeated.

“Your running is hilarious!”

“I have bow legs,” I tried to explain.

“Really?” He pulled me aside and told me to stand with my legs closed. I did as he asked. He examined them for a moment, thinking, and said, “You don’t look that bow-legged…”

Since then, the “International Funny Running Race” has had a place in my heart. Just the other day, I saw a poster on the street: “What can you contribute to the Olympics as a Beijinger?” Even this reminded me of my funny running. I went so far as to imagine myself standing atop the Olympic podium, watching the flag of China rise…

One time, back during my school days, Mr. Cheng played a song on his tape recorder and asked us to improvise. He wanted some new moves for our morning exercise. We all swayed and swerved to the tempo; I swung my arms around in circles. Of course, everyone laughed at me. Even now, when I hear a song with a strong beat, my legs will feel weak, my body will shudder, and I will struggle to walk.

Actually, my funny running revealed itself even before the incident at the track. When I was very small, my parents would often take me for walks in Tiantan Park. One day, while walking through a pine forest, I felt so energized that I began to run. As I ran, I pretended that I was a jaguar, curling my fingers into claws and pawing the air with both arms. Eventually, I grew tired and slowed to a walk. My father looked down at me.

“Why were you running like that?” he asked.

“I was a jaguar,” I said.

“You must pay attention to your form,” he said.

Nearby, I heard someone mutter, “That kid must have bowed legs.”

During junior high, I still had to take gym class, and it was always a nightmare. When my teachers or classmates asked why I was a bad runner, I used my “bowed legs” as an excuse. Not long afterwards, “Bowed Legs” became my nickname. At my request, a friend—who we called “Belly Button”—agreed to observe my running form. He pointed out my tendency to lean my head towards one side; this, he thought, could be the cause of my unusual posture. I considered this: I did tilt my head slightly to the right, as I thought it helped me run faster. (Back then, I wrote a number of comics about the adventures of Bowed Legs and Belly Button. They were quite popular.)

I used to believe I could fix my posture. As time passed, however, I began to notice that every movement I made was funny. My middle school classmates found my morning exercises particularly amusing. One of these classmates once told me, very seriously, that he no longer found the morning workout to be a pain after watching me perform it. Back then, our homeroom teacher was a solemn, old man, and he made me practice the exercises in the corridor twice a week. As I did, he stood beside me, watching closely, pointing out my mistakes; then, he would ask me to do it again. My extra exercises in the corridor attracted the attention of many students. After a few weeks’ training, however, my movements were no longer as funny. “The morning exercise is no fun anymore,” my classmates complained, regretfully.

But I had many other funny traits. Ever since primary school, my recitation has driven my peers to tears of laughter. This is largely due to my poor pronunciation. No matter how I tried, I could never read like the others. Many of my middle-school classmates signed up for English classes only because they wanted to watch me pronounce the words. Even in college, my English caused a scene. Our English professor was a grey-haired, old woman, originally from Southern China. To show my determination to master the language, I sat in the front row of every class, fixing her with my gaze; still, I failed to learn any new words. One time, she made me read a sentence aloud. Once I had, she asked me to repeat the word “caricature.” I tried my best to pronounce it: “Kaa-lii-kaa-chiil.” The entire class broke into laughter; a few faces showed shock or curiosity. The teacher made me pronounce it again, and again I did. Embarrassed, I bowed my head and fixed my eyes on my pen box. It was a blue iron box with many stickers attached; I had been using it since high school. In that moment, I had the impulse to throw the pen box at this frail, gentle woman. We stared at one another, without speaking, for about ten seconds. If the silence had lasted any longer, I thought later, I would have tossed the iron box. Perhaps she considered this possibility, too; I was allowed to sit down.

Anyways. Bit by bit, I have been forced to accept this part of myself: deep inside me, something funny is lurking and wants to burst out, either through my running or through my recitation or through some other manner entirely. I call this phenomenon “the funny mystery.”

Since leaving school, I’ve avoided running whenever possible. My close friends may have noticed that I always arrive thirty minutes early. This is because I never want to be seen “running” late. In fact, I haven’t run since my last year of college; that’s another evening I’ll never forget. I was having dinner with a girl from the Chinese department (whether or not she ever amounted to a girlfriend, I am not sure). I ordered a dish called “A Hundred Years of Felicity.” It was really just stir-fried lilies with celery, but perhaps I was hoping to have a hundred years of felicity with her. I don’t remember what was said during the dinner, but the lilies were sticky and horribly sweet. Somehow I managed to upset her, and she left without finishing her meal. I followed after her, begging. Then she started to run! Of course, I had to chase her; she was tall and took long steps, and I had no chance of catching her unless I ran at full speed. I tried to overcome my previous trauma and move carefully. I told myself to keep my eyes forward, to keep my head straight and my knees square. Then I heard the sound of laughter coming from the street; I turned and saw a middle-aged woman watching me, laughing hysterically. I stopped. The girl stopped too, and turned around. She didn’t understand what had happened. I stood still.

After college, I met an attorney through my work. I told her that I wasn’t able to cross my legs when I sat. “Did you get many shots as a child?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You must have gluteal muscle contracture.”

“Gluteal muscle contracture.” I repeated the phrase. I thought I’d finally solved the mystery.

“I used to have that, too,” she said. “But then I had my surgery—they drilled two holes into my buttocks—and now I can lift my leg over my head.” As she said this, she stood on one leg and brought her the other up to her chest.

Since then, I’ve been trying to decide whether or not to have my butt drilled. My terrible running and stiff legs could all be due to my gluteal muscle contracture. For a while, I was obsessed with the medical term and wanted to write a story about it. Perhaps, I thought, I could imitate “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” But my hero wouldn’t know how to solve mysteries; he would only have gluteal muscle contracture. The murderer wouldn’t be an orangutan, but an elephant. An image came to mind of a detective running funnily after an elephant.

Earlier this year, a relative tried to set me up with a young woman. I was given her number and told to reach out. So I sent her a message: “My back is a bit hunched, my head is a bit bald, and I drag my feet when I walk. I don’t know how to drive and never want to learn. I don’t own a car or an apartment. I don’t have a stable income.”

The girl replied promptly: “Whatever you were thinking when you sent this, you don’t sound like an adult. You’re either a child or a psycho!”

I didn’t respond. I wondered what she would have said if I’d told her I couldn’t run.

People are always asking me: “Why do you behave like a child?” Whenever I hear this, I recall a famous photo of Sartre: he is smoking a pipe in the mist, his eyes narrowed. I think of his (perhaps meaningless) philosophical adage: “Existence precedes essence.”

Of course, I am not trying to use this or that to defend myself. These things all come into my head at random. Since learning of my gluteal muscle contracture, my parents will often remind me to massage my buttocks. Even now, as we walk together down the street, they will mutter, “Massage, massage…”