My burn is incandescent, blue against the skin of those who venture under my glow. I see many things with my light. The dirty—sometimes clean, doesn’t last long— half bathroom with no windows is my home. I share my home with others, but reside above all occupants. Beneath me, Sink, Mirror, and Toilet. They have their jobs, I have mine, but theirs does not take place without my presence. 

There is also Ornate Hand Soap Dispenser, who has seen more that any of us. I ask her about Blonde Hair Far, Blonde Hair Close, and Blonde Hair Closest, who occasionally venture beneath my light. Why are they not tethered to the wall, like us? What do they see when they roam outside of my domain? “You’re an object,” Ornate Hand Soap Dispenser tries to tell me, “Our purpose is for their use and that’s it.” I don’t get it, but it seems that Toilet has accepted his fate. 

Sometimes there’s also Brown Hair Close, who comes to my domain and uses Sink and Ornate Hand Soap Dispenser before making a hasty exit. “He needs to learn to keep it in his pants,” Ornate Hand Soap Dispenser mutters, but I have no idea what she means by that either. 

One day Blonde Hair Close comes in. She doesn’t use my light, but she does use Toilet in a strange manner, being lower than Blonde Hair Far. She looks up and I can see her face. She dispenses water, like Sink. I question Ornate Hand Soap Dispenser, who mutters something about there being a new Blond Hair Far. 

The burn of my light goes out a few weeks later, proven when Blonde Hair Far wiggles Switch. Switch has been here as long as me, and I often ask him about our connection, but he doesn’t like to answer me. Blonde Hair Far comes in and takes Ornate Hand Dispenser, who wishes the rest of us luck. I am scared. Without my light, and without Ornate Hand Dispenser’s wisdom, the half bathroom is kind of eerie. I become worried when Blonde Hairs stop coming in completely. Is it because of me, because I cannot make light? 

Switch notices that I am anxious and speaks up, “It’s not you. The power is off. And them? They’re not going to come back. But there will be more, don’t worry.” Switch turns out to be right. Soon half bathroom is cleaned by new wanderers (Skull Cap Giants, Bare Brown Head), and I am illuminated again by Box Braid Black, who refers to me as Beautiful Victorian Flush-Mount.

Ani came back from school one day. The house was quiet, she liked it better this way. She preferred the silence over her parent’s loud screaming. She ate leftover pizza from yesterday and took it to her room, where she picked up a book to read while eating. She was going to get her homework done later, she told herself, but she could never put down this book no matter how many times she’s read it. She just couldn’t keep her mind away from the sword-wielding heroine with fiery hair. 

Her parents arrived home together, she could tell because she heard their screaming before they even entered the house. She planned on staying in her room for the rest of the night. Maybe sneak into the kitchen once both her parents had gone to bed. She heard their argument turn to her.  Ani knew she wasn’t liked, by either of them. She’s been told that their marriage was ruined when they had her, that they would be much happier if she wasn’t there. It looked like they were finally going to do something about it. 

Ani heard their footsteps approaching. She quickly locked the door and got away from it. Her heart began raising and her breathing got heavy. They were screaming at her to open the door. The doorknob shook as badly as her hands. Then they started pounding on it. She knew they would knock it down soon. She looked around her room and her eyes landed on the window. Without a second thought, she climbed through and ran. Ran until the screaming of her parents could no longer be heard. Ran until her legs burned. She ran until suddenly she was falling. The world blurred around her and she felt her body go cold and wet. Then she fell into blackness. 

Ani finally woke up. She looked around and saw long trees with vibrant green leaves. She felt warm, despite feeling cold just-well however much time passed since then. She could see a figure approaching from behind the trees. It was a girl, with long red hair and two braids tied to the back of her head. She was wearing silver armor and a sword on her back. A sword? She must still be unconscious because here in front of her was Gwenn Clementina. The heroin from her favorite fantasy series ever. 

“Oh, you’re awake! Good, well come on” Gwenn said as she started walking back into the forest, stopping once she realized Ani wasn’t following. Gwenn walked back to her and held her hand out in front of her. “Don’t you want to come, Ani?” She did, she really did. So Ani held her hand and let herself be pulled by Gwenn. She never thought about home, never thought about her parents. She would never know that she was in the newspaper the next day, warning people that the rail on a cliffside broke, and it was the tragic ending of a girl named Ani.

“You’re not a brand, you’re a person…” I whisper to myself.

A recitation proved useless, despite its truth.   

Sat atop my navy covered mattress, shirtless, hunched over where the mounds of my vertebrae are visible. Staring blankly at the post button after months of waiting to capture that “perfect” series of photos. Finally I’ve done it, but I can’t bring myself to post it as I’m overly attentive to critique, the unproductive kind. The kind that I’ve carefully implanted in the minds of an otherwise indifferent audience. 

Suppose I can’t bring myself to understand that no one actually cares. Suppose my fear of judgment has clouded my own. And suppose social media has detached me from people more than quarantine has.

I click back. Save draft.

“Man, what the hell. I thought I was over this.” With a defeated motion I lay to my side from my curled position, now forming a “me” shaped crater in the bed and staring at myself in the mirror. 

For the past month I’ve happily indulged in sharing who I am with the world and not adhering to my comedy niche, or brand, or content schedule or feeling like I owe anything to anyone. For once, I allowed myself to just be me. Posting video game clips, my favorite poems, scenes of my favorite TV shows. Anything that wasn’t some stupid skit or joke or whatever. 

I lost about 543 followers in the past three weeks of being “off-brand.” It’s okay I guess; it shouldn’t hurt as much as I allow it to. 

A young woman had reached out last night as I’d been going to bed. Tapping at my screen I look at the message requests and see hers, it reads: “Hii I just wanna say I really love ur content!! :)))” 

I responded, “Thank you, you’re very kind.” A part of me doubts she was telling the truth because it’d been about a month of no funnies… but I appreciated that little spark of validation.

Perhaps, people like her are the ones that matter. I checked my followers list and she showed up, not leaving after I have been showing up as myself lately.

“What the hell…” Mustering the courage, I am prepared to lose more followers. “I don’t owe these people anything. I am me, that’s my brand.” 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Post.

The dreaded Sundays. I mean Sundays were already awful, to begin with since it was the end of a wonderful weekend and the start of another mundane week. Sundays felt like the world was stopping and the only thing humming was silence. That’s the best way to put it. I particularly hated Sundays because they were hair oiling days on top of the endless amount of homework, I had to do that made it dreadful as is. Hair oiling is a rite of passage for South Asian girls. My mom would warm her hands with coconut oil and lather up my hair. I hated the feeling because it made me look weighed down and greasy. My scalp would feel hot, I don’t know whether it was the fact that I didn’t want my hair to be oiled or the actual oil making me heated. She would work in the oil and nag at me about an endless number of things. That added to the torture. I would try my hardest trying to scrub the oil out in the shower by shampooing over and over. Emulsifying the shampoo and working a lather. No matter how much I tried to wash it out it remained.

I wish more memories of things remained the way the awful ones do. Traditions are funny because no matter how much you hate them, you don’t know whether to pass them down or not. I hated my mother oiling my hair then, but I would give anything to keep that around forever. Almost as long as that oil still remains in my hair to this day.

Every day reality gets worse, bodies dropping like leaves in autumn. Human rights disappearing like a snowman in a heatwave. The future is as on fire as California during the summer. Yet I’m supposed to ignore the things happening around me and keep on going. Ignore the people dying around me, just like I ignore the fear in my heart. Yes, I do live in a “safe state” so safe that an “active shooter incident” happened less than a year ago at my college. Where I used to go to avoid the turmoil at home, and in my brain. 

Walking into rooms automatically in survival mode, mapping out escape plans in every space. Walk around with a knife in my boobs, and a scream in my throat. While remembering to never scream for help cause no one is coming to my rescue. Having to scream fire, because the loss of property is more important than the loss of human life. Walking into classrooms and automatically thinking about all the ways I could escape. Questions gather up at the back of my mind, all while a smile plays its role on my face. How far am I to the emergency staircase? If I jumped from that window could I survive the fall? What can I throw at the shooter? How far is the nearest hospital? Is it even worth it to try to survive? How can I let the police know that I am not the shooter, just one more victim? 

I’m scared of a thread that is yet to come. Not going out on days when the weather calls for it because I’m scared of what could happen to me. Scared of what people will do in the name of a god whose name they don’t even really know, praying from a book they have never actually read. Using the teachings set to be interpreted by biased men with agendas filled with hatred. 

My sister keeps on sending me pictures of the baby she just had and the thoughts in my head and the fear in my heart have only gotten worse ever since. A 10-month-old black baby living in America. I’m terrified of the thoughts that pop into my head because of the things happening around me. I am terrified of what people will do to him because of the color of his skin. So many questions in my head all without an answer and I want an answer. I want someone to give me the answers. Is he gonna die at the age of 12 like Tamir E. Rice for holding a toy gun or will it be at 16 like Angelo Crooms all because his music was too loud and he could not hear the police officer. Will he be killed at a later date? Will he even get to turn 18 and live to be anxious about what college he got into? Will he get to go to prom and make mistakes with the person he loves? Will he turn 21 and have his 1st official drink with his dad? Will he be able to have a family of his own? Will he take control of the family business? Will he take after his dad or his mom? I can barely sleep at night, I lay awake thinking of all the ways he could die. All the ways I could die. 

People are constantly asking me why I say that I don’t want to be a mother. Well, I don’t want to be a mom because I could not send my child to school to be murdered. I couldn’t help them get ready every morning just to hope that they come back to me alive and without the trauma of being shot at in a place they were supposed to be safe. I couldn’t go to work every morning and wondered if I’m going to make it back to them or if they were going to lose me. I can’t have a kid just for me to lose them. I can’t have a child just to watch them lose their innocence. I can’t have a child to watch them be a victim. I refused to bring another victim into the world. I refused to give the news another face to put on their headlines, another name to be forgotten like words in the wind. 

Sacred

My first time was behind a dumpster in an alley.

 It was a chilly, cloudy evening in Los Angeles, and my friends had convinced me to go out with them: I wasn’t doing anything, after all. On went my denim jacket, ratty sneakers, and wooly sweater, to the tinney bar down the road. 

“Those? Why don’t you put on something nice?” I recall her, Sadie, saying. Her cheeks were flushed, rosy, and her inky black tresses were flat ironed into a middle part, unlike her normal waves. I didn’t know at what point she started acting differently, but I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. I knew her before she started drinking, after all. 

“Because,” I said. “I’m not going to show off.” 

She ruffled my hair, urging me to hurry, stepping outside to where our other friends were waiting – another guy and girl duo – Calvin and Claudia, twins. I’d only drunk with them in their backyard, and they seemed pretty tame, so I thought it was okay.

They were having a great time, somehow chatting up the barista through the bumping music and bustle of people while I sat alongside them, a brandy cola in front of me slowly disappearing through my straw. Taking in the sweet, syrupy smell of Coke, my eyes lingered on the antique surroundings, the rustic walls, and blurring, horizontal lines on the old television. I supposed the place was meant to be vintage. I didn’t realize how badly I was slouching until Claudia’s voice caught my attention.

“What’s got you down?”

“Yeah, you haven’t said much since we left.” Calvin added.

“Lotta classwork is all,” I waved her off. An understatement, since I was failing two courses at the time.  

“Then kick back an’ relax, no?” He chuckled, lifting his beer bottle as if to cheer me on. I gave a smile to the two, but in hindsight, I was far too exhausted to be in a boisterous environment as I was. Sadie had been in her own little world, sipping a gifted cocktail from a flirty stranger, which left a space between me, Cal and Claud. 

Then, as if out of nowhere, the feeling of someone close raised the hairs on my neck. Bleached, yellowy hair and amber eyes turned toward me, settling in the vacant bar chair, next to my friends and I. 

“How goes it?” His voice was low. There was a southern accent to him, but I couldn’t pinpoint where from. 

“…Fine.” I answered, after a moment of silence. He waited ever so patiently for his drink, his few free fingers hooking the edge of the bar in anticipation, while the other palm rested in his pocket. The bartender brought out a shot of vodka and he tapped his fingers on the table, tossing the bitter liquid back into his throat. His eyes were back on me as soon as they left.

I sunk into myself, my stomach beginning to churn. 

Something about him was off. Something in my gut told me to go home. Something, something – and I didn’t listen.

“Ugly” is a four-letter word that infected my vocabulary as a tween. If you were to word-search my 13-year-old brain for it, you’d receive more than 1,000 results. Not enough makeup or outfit changes could erase that dirty word from my mouth, funny enough it would rather encourage the use of it. Rounded glasses sat heavily on my nose bridge and braces over-crowded my mouth letting out an occasional spit when I would speak. At the time I didn’t think I was being so hateful of myself, I believed it was necessary if I eventually wanted to improve my image. My #1 merciless Rebecca supporter. Go, Rebecca! You’re doing AWFUL! Being surrounded by white skinny girls didn’t assist in the harsh criticism either. Watching my crush Hamilton (now thinking about it wasn’t a spectacular name) choose a tall, green-eyed blonde over my 5 ft brown-haired, brown-eyed self, chipped at the little confidence I didn’t even think existed. Did I require a race change and a growth spurt for his attention? Or maybe when Levi from 8th grade rejected me before I had even expressed a breath of my feelings. These were just two of many of what I would’ve considered “tragedies” at the time.  

After using brown eyeliner as an eyebrow pencil and the wrong shade of foundation for two years, I entered high school learning from my past mistakes. I was melting into a sense of satisfaction with my face and body. High school came with a whole new anxiety. With a new and improved complexion, initiated more interactions with boys. Their acknowledgment was what I believed I had wanted all this time besides looking pretty, but it wasn’t. I became hopeful that perhaps my personality was my winning feature, but ultimately it didn’t feel like it. I didn’t receive a feeling of euphoria, a thrill from their attention, instead, it angered me. Where was all this consideration before? Was my face all that mattered? I had formed a new hatred that bubbled inside of me waiting to erupt guts onto everyone. It was a bitter taste in my mouth that I couldn’t wash out. My suspicions were confirmed when I was told by a boy directly that he merely only liked me because I was pretty and nothing else. His defensive response could’ve resulted from my rejection of his feelings, but it unveiled his true intentions. A friendship I had naively thought was founded on honesty and respect crumbled before me. Had I merely obsessed over my appearance for validation from others?  

Yes, I had. I hadn’t done anything for myself. I came to realize that I was upset at others for superficially focusing on the surface, but I had been doing just the same. I was trying to push myself into a small space of standards alongside everyone else, like a bunch of sardines in a can. I had begun loving myself once I matured and shoved everyone’s opinions in a bottle and threw them into the ocean. They would float back occasionally, but I taught myself what truly mattered, my bliss. I had based my stringent assessment of myself on the cruel gaze of the world but acquired beauty by my definition. I regret the heartlessness I submitted my younger self into, how much I could’ve relished in that part of my childhood. How much I could’ve loved myself.  

Frank was thirty hours into a game of poker when he got the call from his bank. 

“Hi there Mr. Delillo, we’re calling to let you know you’ve overdrawn your account by fifty-two million dollars.”

Frank turned away from the table hunching to say, “don’t worry, I’ve got them on the ropes this time.”

“No sir, you only had four hundred dollars to begin with,” the banker went on.

“I’m holding two-pair here and he’s got nothing. Talk to you later,” Frank whispered over the banker as he hung up the phone and turned his attention back to the game. 

The pot that was being played for was sixty-two dollars. Making matters worse, Frank did not have ‘two-pair’ like he had told the banker. What he actually had was a pair of twos. Meanwhile, the man across from Frank held in his hands a royal flush. 

Frank was not particularly good at poker, nor did he possess a solid understanding of finances. Not only this, he had a tell that gave him away virtually every time he had been dealt a winning hand. It came in the form of fiendish laughter that he could hardly suppress upon seeing a favorable hand.

The frustrated man across from Frank was a seasoned pro in Texas Holdem. He and the menacing scar that ran from his left forehead, through his eye, to the bottom of his chin, had just about seen it all. He raised the stakes, picking up two more red chips from the immense stacks in front of him, tossing them towards the center of the table, refusing to pick up his elbow in the process. 

Frank looked at him suspiciously and turned to the card dealer, “he’s bluffing right?”

The dealer’s eyes widened at the question and the fact that he was face to face with one of the worst players of any game the world had ever seen. 

Across the casino floor, in the high roller section, the drunken billionaire stood up to relieve himself. He too was in the middle of something of a gambling marathon when he was hit with the urge. 

He patted his pockets looking for his hotel room key. It took him some time to check every pocket because of the tens of secret ones expertly hidden in the expensive suit. The billionaire began furiously taking the pockets out as his bladder stretched and bulged to better locate his key so he could use the futuristic, sentient toilet in his presidential suite. 

The emptying of his pockets sent money flying indiscriminately off his person. A golden gambling chip lept its way onto the velvet carpets and rolled past shiny black shoes.

Frank loosened his tie and lowered his head into his folded arms on the table. He wasn’t excited about having to tell his son he couldn’t go to college anymore. Looking at his feet, feeling sorry for himself, he noticed the small golden glow between his feet. 

“One hundred million.”

Climbing rocks, playing in parks, walking around after dark as life spirals around the wonderful activities of our childhood. We played tag, red light-green light, and had water gun fights with our cousins, siblings, and friends on our neighborhood block during the hot summer days as our parents hung out. Hearing our laughter, running after one another, and seeing your gummy smile, I felt excitement, safety, and innocence. We attended school together, although we were in separate classes, we always found a way to connect. My parents know your parents, your grandparents know my grandparents, our entire family knows one another generation after generation. 

Years go by. We’re “grown” now. Two different paths that we took. On my way to school, I see you hanging out on the corners with people our parents told us to stay away from. Once in a blue moon I finally get a chance to speak with you, outside of the streets. While you tell me you’re proud of me, I beg of you to please be safe. The heavy metal gun you tote, the money you flaunt, and the gang signs that you now identify with, ring alarms in my head when I’m around you. Your innocence and gummy smile are no longer there, and you have become what I was told to stay away from. These days, I wonder if the connection of generations will continue or will this be the end of the line. I worry for you, my friend, my cousin, my brother. I love you always, please be safe. 

The boat rocked beneath him as the waves crashed against its side. Sam gripped the sides of the small boat tightly, his knuckles turning white with effort. He had never felt so alone before, surrounded by nothing but the endless ocean.

It all started out as a simple fishing trip with his father. They had gone out before nightfall, hoping to catch something big to bring home for dinner. But the storm covered the sky in gray. The winds picked up and the waves grew rougher. Before they knew it, their boat had been tossed about like a rag doll.

Sam’s father had done his best to keep them afloat, but the relentless waves had capsized the boat, sending them both tumbling into the water. Sam clung onto a piece of driftwood, praying that someone would come to their rescue.

But now, hours later, there was still no sign of help. It is now pitch black, with only the sounds of the ocean surrounding them. Sam felt his heart sink as he realized that they might never be found.

He shivered as the cool breeze brushed against his wet skin, sending chills down his spine. Hunger struck, and his throat dry from lack of water. His eyes closed as he prayed for a miracle.

The stars twinkled above them as the night fell, casting a peaceful glow over the water. Sam felt his eyelids droop, as he fought to stay awake. But the lull of the waves was too soothing, and soon fell asleep.

When Sam woke up, he was no longer in the water. He was lying on a sandy beach, his father’s arm draped protectively over him. Sam blinked in confusion, wondering if he was dreaming. But as he looked around, there was a blanket of safety over them

Sam looked up into the sky, thanking a higher power. He knew that he had been given a second chance at life. And vowed to never take it for granted again.