Excerpt from The Shelter: “Woodland”
Danielle Shi
The Shelter: “Woodland”
Before going back to bed, I stepped forward into a shaft of moonlight that illuminated the living room.
There was an unadorned door on the far side of the room that had remained unopened. I tried the knob once, driven by a desire to know more about Jeremiah’s person. It turned, and I carefully maneuvered so that the frame wouldn’t creak.
There was no need for the light switch; I could see just fine from the window’s light that the room was filled with firearms, an entire collection of rifles and shotguns, stored against the wall on wooden mounts, their bodies polished to a shine. I blanched. Everyone had a dirty little secret. I spied a handgun on the desk, and an oiled rag, and maintained a set distance from the weapon, as though that would neutralize the threat, while examining the remainder up close, their metal barrels. Was he the type to keep a convenient firearm in his glove compartment, dormant—and ready for use when the urge struck? Big game, a pastime of the sportsman, with his killer’s hunting instinct. I felt the interloper more than ever as I shut the door. Some, in all their animal cunning, liked the hunt, and some, like me, made themselves out to be easy prey.
Jeremiah had shaken throughout the night, his body shivering in cold or fear, and I couldn’t tell if he was asleep or simply closing his eyes. Did he, like me, sense the nearness of danger—a mistrustful stranger or turncoat piercing his skin with a bullet, leaving a round, offcenter hole, a wound that would bleed itself dry? I brought my hand to my forehead and then put my fingers in my mouth to taste the residue. The gunshot wound tasted like fresh soil, like warm peat. I dug my fingers into the hole.
He was the one who had let a stranger into his home.
October 2025
The Shelter: “Untitled”
Jeremiah fell asleep by my side while I stared at the ceiling, possibly from the caffeinated tea, taking inventory of his tasteful closet filled with outdoor wear, which was slightly open. I slipped out of bed and walked over to the kitchen, groping for the water pump on the counter, but I couldn’t get the pump to work in the dark, setting down my empty water glass in defeat. Before going back to bed, I stepped forward into a shaft of moonlight that illuminated the living room. There was an unadorned door on the far side of the room that had remained unopened. Passionately curious, I was reminded of a time I had snooped around my Airbnb in the Oakland Hills that had been connected to an abandoned old storage room barricaded by old objects. Back then, I was scared in the dark of what I couldn’t see next door; now I was more driven by a desire to know more about Jeremiah’s person. I tried the knob once. It turned, and I carefully maneuvered so that the frame wouldn’t creak.
There was no need for the light switch; I could see just fine from the window’s light that the room was filled with firearms, an entire collection of rifles and shotguns, stored against the wall on wooden mounts, their bodies polished to a shine. I blanched. Everyone had a dirty little secret. I spied a handgun on the desk, and an oiled rag, and maintained a set distance from the weapon, as though that would neutralize the threat, while examining the remainder up close, their metal barrels. Was he the type to keep a convenient firearm in his glove compartment, dormant—and ready for use when the urge struck? Big game, a pastime of the sportsman, with his killer’s hunting instinct. I felt the interloper more than ever as I shut the door. Some, in all their animal cunning, liked the hunt, and some, like me, made themselves out to be easy prey.
Jeremiah had shaken throughout the night, his body shivering in cold or fear, and I couldn’t tell if he was asleep or simply closing his eyes. Did he, like me, sense the nearness of danger—a mistrustful stranger or turncoat piercing his skin with a bullet, leaving a round, offcenter hole, a wound that would bleed itself dry? I brought my hand to my forehead and then put my fingers in my mouth to taste the residue. The gunshot wound tasted like fresh soil, like warm peat. I dug my fingers into the hole.
He was the one who had let a stranger into his home.
August 2025
The Shelter: “Untitled”
While I was sleeping, a mistrustful stranger from an unknown land shot me in the forehead with a sniper rifle. My skin was pierced by a bullet that left a round, off-center hole that bled itself dry, the blood congealing around the small hole, with no other apparent incisions or markings. I thought it was Jeremiah, that he had gone turncoat. When I walked over to the water pump on the granite kitchen counter, standing before it motionlessly in the early morning light, in silence admiring his craftsmanship, he didn’t stir from where he had fallen asleep. He had insisted on giving me a pair of long socks to keep my feet warm, and he shook throughout the night.
Gingerly, I brought my hand to my forehead, and then put my fingers in my mouth to taste the residue. The gunshot wound tasted like fresh soil, like warm peat, fresh loam. I dug my fingers into the hole. From the recession emerged the faint strains of singing tones that lay beyond utility, arching into the higher octaves, a Jing opera by a masked vocalist, their red and white painted patterns swirling into a war mask.
The tune was sung from within, by my small-boned mother, in that inside space where we carry the outside in us. She whispered the song to me in consecutive parts, so that I could take over for her when the time was right, her hands reaching out toward me with supplicant palms open. Outstretched, as though to beckon one closer, into loving embrace; their gently lined skin, supple from disuse. My mother’s song, of scarcity and the illusory, labored to appear effortless, while professing that we were blessed to know each other—that she, too, as did seasonless youth, as did all reason, heart, rationale for being, would fade with the distant tread of time’s soldiers, leaving back through the unidirectional tunnel. My mother’s song, that emerged through the bullet hole in my forehead, trickling out in place of wet soiled blood.
February 2025
Process Statement
The Shelter, my novel in progress, is about Chinese American disability and kinship and what happens when concepts of home—and family—are blown apart by forces larger than the individual. The project has undergone a multitude of revisions, and this passage caused me no small amount of heartache. I'd received feedback that I should cut the more surreal, gauzy elements, in favor of a more cohesive narrative that would progress in a chronological order easier to follow. As for me, I am fond of the part about the mother's song about the nature of affinity, Chinese yuanfen. I'm touched that the previous version has found its home here, and I was lucky to be able to read it with the Kearny Street Workshop at their annual AAPI arts festival. Though it has all but disappeared from the later drafts of the manuscript, it is a poetic interlude I love. The other drafts were shared to demonstrate the process of making a piece of writing more literary in nature; for example, through the excision of the anecdotal detail about a corporation, a point unnecessary to preserving the main storyline. I am happy with the manuscript in the third revision represented here, though it may see further edits as the project goes through rounds of feedback.
Danielle Shi is a Chinese-born writer and photographer currently living on Ohlone territory. She studied English and creative writing at UC Berkeley before pursuing a Master’s in the Humanities at the University of Chicago. Her art practice considers the present-day intensification of experiences of madness and climate grief, while examining the overlap of human, animal, and environmental health. Shi has been awarded residencies by Vermont Studio Center, Prelinger Library, Winslow House Project, PLAYA Summer Lake, The Ruby, and Kala Art Institute, and has received scholarships from Off Assignment, Kearny Street Workshop and Left Margin LIT. Her writing has been nominated for the PEN/Robert J. Dau Prize 2023 and Best New Poets 2025, while receiving recognition from Dzanc Books, Gulf Coast, and Puerto del Sol.
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