While I was doing my undergrad in Beijing, I took a summer job at the KFC next to campus to save up for a Lenovo Legion. I worked for 24 hours a week in the kitchen alongside Old Li.

Old Li was of medium height, with a crew cut, patchy beard, heavy eyelids and ashy lips. When I had been working there for a month, he asked for a promotion to assistant manager, saying he wanted to learn how KFC handled logistics, but the manager told him to wait for two or three years.

The fumes were so caustic they became needles that slid down my lungs. The morning that Old Li told me he was leaving, I drained the fryer to reveal the black slurry at the bottom, bits of chicken barely visible. As I pounded at them with an iron spatula, I couldn’t help coughing, but I turned my head, refusing to let my spit land in the oil, even though I knew the fryer would exterminate all microbes once switched on.

I swapped the filter paper before flushing the oil pump. Old Li hauled out boxes of raw chicken from the freezer, arranging them while chatting. Each box weighed about 20 kilos. Fresh chicken had to be stacked underneath, older stock on top, so that the oldest batch got fried each day.

“I’m not sure if I told you this before but I’m leaving for Tsingtao tomorrow. I don’t wanna hang around Beijing anymore. They all said life would be easier once you got into uni. Get into uni, and you’re all set. That’s what my parents told me, that’s what the teachers told me. I picked Tourism Management, then three years of the pandemic went by and I can’t even tell you what I learned. I was like nah, I can’t live my life like this, so I tried to take the grad school exam but didn’t make it. Honestly, who can I blame? I barely studied for it.”

I cut him off. “Hey. Don’t bend like that. You’ll pop a disc.”

“My back’s sore all the time already. It’s fine. I’ve been looking it up online. Best climate’s either Tsingtao or Kunming, but Tsingtao has clearer seasons. Nice coastal city. I’ll find a tutoring gig there, earn 3000 a month ­– 1000 for rent, 1000 for living, 1000 to save. Yeah, should be doable. They say rent is cheap in Tsingtao. Damn, the floor is slippery. Where was I? Wake up at seven, bike along the seaside, then head to work. For lunch, I’ll have stir-fried clams and garlic scallops, with Tsingtao beer. After work, study for the grad exam, maybe Chinese Language or Law. Anything is fine for dinner, but it’s got to be an outdoor location where I can feel the breeze in my hair. Last night I spent hours bookmarking online lectures. 9 o’ clock tonight, I’ll read the classics. I’ve got a full list of stuff to read.”

Old Li kept rambling without my input. After sorting the chicken, he hauled the seven-box-tall plastic tower back into the freezer. I grabbed the flour and spice bags from the shelf, dumped them in the mixer, then turned around to fill up the oil tank. Old Li was still talking.

“If I get into a university in Guangzhou, then I’ll go to Guangzhou. I’ve always wanted to travel around the country. My parents have been pressuring me to get on with my life, you know. But I feel like if I wasn’t earning my own wages, then they’d be right to call me a failure and stuff, so I really don’t know why they’re so hostile with me right now. I do have a bachelor’s degree after all.”

I got through each day with the thought of buying that computer. I couldn’t even begin to imagine working here for life. Grease clawed itself deep into my nails and eyebrows. Burn scars speckled my hands. A tray carried ten kilos of Original Recipe chicken, out of the fryer at 230 degrees. No time to put on gloves — just two paper napkins between the tray and my palms, little drops blistering the skin as I forced myself not to flinch. So I really did envy Old Li, and I congratulated him seriously when I clocked out that day.

The next day, I arrived at 8 to see him in the kitchen. At 3, Old Li went out the back entrance for our smoke break. Deep in autumn, ginkgo leaves scattered in the air, but I stayed in my work clothes since I didn’t want grease on my puffer jacket. He sat on the steps, right hand dangling from his knee and holding a cigarette. I sat down shivering. He handed me a cigarette from his pack, and told me he was leaving for Tsingtao the next day. He kept saying that for months. Then I saved up 7000 yuan, put in my notice, and never ate from that KFC again, afraid I might still see him there.

Welcome to Boilerplate Mag

Welcome to Boilerplate Mag – a new literary journal founded in Melbourne, Australia. We’re looking for eminently readable and shareable stories, think-pieces, poems and more. Anything that gets under your skin. Anything that compels you to talk to someone about it. Anything that entertains, provokes, angers, comforts.

The vision is to build something small and scrappy, where good writing finds good readers!

We’re open now for launch submissions.

We’re open for submissions of:

• Fiction (up to 5,000 words)

• Creative non-fiction (between 2000 and 5000 words)

• Poetry (up to 50 lines)

• Plus flash, hybrid, and short essays that don’t fit neatly anywhere else

We’re looking for writing that’s unforgettable – something you’d tear through and then send to a friend as soon as you finish it. For complete submission details, visit the submissions page.

Why Boilerplate?

In writing, boilerplate refers to generic template text that you copy-and-paste between projects. I liked the irony of that, and the acceptance that all writing is, to some extent, copy-and-paste. “There is no such thing as a new idea” and whatnot.

But I was also intrigued by the etymology of the word, the idea of this machine that holds and boils huge amounts of water – to me, it’s like a crucible of sorts. Something about it reminded me of the journey of putting something new and fresh into the world, to have it boiled by the judgement of others.

And, it’s a cool word!

How to submit:

Subscribe to Boilerplate Mag using the button below.

Subscribe now

Then send your work to submissions@boilerplatemag.com.au. Attach your file (.doc, .docx, or .pdf) and include a short bio and note in the email body.

Submissions are currently unpaid, but our goal is to grow into a space that can support contributors down the track.

Happy writing, and happy reading!