I love writing stories—almost as much as my dad loves falling asleep in the middle of them. So after watching him snore through my favorite movies and doze off during my favorite shows, I've decided to aim for the impossible: to write a story that keeps him awake.
That’s what I’d like to say, at least. But I’m ambitious, not Jesus. So my brother advised me to write a mission statement that sounds a little bit more realistic.
I want to tell stories rooted in culture—and have fun while I’m at it. I know, it’s a step down, but I owe these dreams to two masterpieces that changed my life: American Born Chinese by award-winning author Gene Yang, and Zombie Butts From Uranus by my boy Andy Griffiths. It's a weird choice, but hear me out.
Gene Yang's better than you think.
Anyway, I used to cram onto a twin-size bed and take turns reading with my brothers, and a graphic novel and a 300-page butt joke just happened to kick off that tradition. We were at each other's throats 90% of the time, but at the end of each day, we could always set aside our differences to fight our real enemies.
Zombie butts were coming from Uranus. What choice did we have?
It might not have been Shakespeare, but those stories taught me a lot. Writing can make a real difference. It can be real dumb. But most of all, it can be fun. And that’s why I write.
For my visual storytellers, check out these pages in my art section:
But for all my literate fellas out there, here's a snippet from the opening chapter of one of my stories.
***
All things considered, that could've gone a lot worse.
Nian crawled to his hands and knees, trying to ignore the gods’ laughter, and distracted himself with his reflection in the polished marble floor. His vision swam from the impact, but he settled for the muddled view. The plain white facade. The dizzy red eyes. A mess of tattered rags, like a dark, brown stain.
He nodded to himself slightly, then cricked his neck and groaned—his body and pride were one thing, but at least his mask was still intact. And despite seeing doubles, he was fairly certain he was alone.
Good, Nian thought. So there’s still hope for Hun.
As if on cue, a voice erupted from the gates. “Screw you and your perfect jawlines! And your massive biceps! And your gorgeous—mmf!
An 18-foot-tall gate guardian, fed up with Hun’s 'insults,’ snatched him by the face and raised him high into the air. He looked like a child’s plaything, swinging back and forth in the iron grip. But the door gods weren’t children—nor the types to play. Nian dodged just in time, and his friend rag-dolled into a pillar, landing beside him with a sickening thud.
Hope was for the lucky, Nian tended to forget.
The Goddess of Spring snorted. A pair of beard-stroking deities howled. And even the God of Toilets and his friends jeered, happy to be on the opposite end of a joke for once. Nian flushed with embarrassment while Hun kicked the air and cackled, not bothering to turn himself upright, not caring that he was the punchline. Hun had shape-shifted into a plump god just before approaching the gates, but the force of the collision now shed his disguise. His laughter pitched higher, and he deflated into a bag of bones, then blew raspberries at the gods until he was the only one left laughing.
Nian gave up on covering Hun’s mouth and sighed in resignation. Surviving as a punching bag was an art—and a delicate one at that. The right look, the right posture, the strategically timed whimper. One certainly never laughed back. That much was for sure.
Taunts turned into venom, grins twisted into grimaces, and the pair of howling deities returned to stroking their beards. The motion was less than intimidating, even Nian had to admit, but he was generous with these sorts of things—their beards wouldn't do the hitting. He looked back down to the floor while the crowd closed in around them. That could’ve gone a lot worse. A boot slammed into his stomach.
That could've gone a bit worse. His vision went blurry.
The beating didn’t end until the gods grew tired. Tired or bored—who was keeping score?
Nian ran his fingers down his side, taking inventory of his fresh bruises. He winced, lost count, and started back from zero. It was always hard to tell when the old ones hurt like new.
Hun, however, was already back on his feet, licking blood from a hanging gash that healed right before his eyes. “Wow, that’s it? I almost fell asleep...” He yawned his words and stretched. “Where’s Erlang when you need a good beating?”
Nian had nearly blacked out too, though likely for different reasons. And his beating had been plenty good even without the warrior god. Hun grabbed him from behind and steered him away from the Golden Palace, the gilded tiles shimmering from the corner of his eye. The building was the ideal of perfection—the opposite of Unspeakables like them.
From the red lacquered pillars to the mirror-like floor, legend had it that the Queen Mother’s pride was symmetrical down to the last speck of dust. An exaggeration, surely, but Nian wondered nonetheless. While he’d never resorted to counting grime, on particularly boring centuries, he’d put more thought into testing the theory than he’d care to admit. That was before Hun had taken him under his wing, before he had taught him how to live—Nian had still yet to decide if he preferred living over rotting away in a cave.
He snuck in a final glance, but Hun’s head blocked his view. With his deathly-pale skin and piercing purple eyes, the impish god skipped while humming tunelessly. His hair was like wildfire, swimming against gravity, and he seemed to get along better with Nian than with the whole concept of logic. It was no wonder, Nian thought, looking away. No one in their right mind wouldn't fear the abomination behind his mask.
“Wait, hold on!” The voice belonged to the Goddess of spring. “I have a confession…”
Nian froze in his tracks. It was impossible, he knew.
Hun was the only one, he knew.
He knew… But what if…
Nian whipped his head around, and her finger, lying in wait, slammed into his mask. He clutched at his facade and stopped himself from swallowing. Even out of season, orchids bloomed in her hair, and her shoulder-freeing dress rippled from an unfelt breeze. She looked up innocently, and he met her piercing, purple eyes.
“Hm? What’s wrong? Don’t look at me like that…” The goddess pouted and crossed her arms, but Nian looked unamused. The silence stretched on until she burst out laughing—her voice becoming sandpaper as she morphed into Hun.
“C’mon, I told you…you're going to make me blush!” Hun draped an arm over his friend’s shoulder, heaving with laughter, lurching both of them forward like he hadn’t pulled the same trick a hundred times. Nian faked a tired grin, waiting patiently for the storm to pass, knowing there was a chance that he'd never see the day. By the time Hun had regained his bearings, the palace was a speck in the distance.
“So your genius plan was to what? Stand there in line?” Hun wiped a tear from his eye, his voice teetering on the border of laughter. “Not that I mind a beating, but don’t tell me you forgot—”
Hun stared out into the distance, apparently losing his train of thought.
“...That everyone hates our guts?” Nian suggested at last.
Hun blinked and scratched his head but shrugged with an expression that said “Well?”
“No, I’m not that lucky,” Nian favored his bruised ribs. “But this is the Peach Banquet, not some party. They’d never ban us from something like that.”
“Never, huh? Well, isn’t that a relief.” Hun sucked on a shred of lettuce in his teeth. “Cuz feels like they just did.”
Nian shook his head in slow motion, considering Hun’s words. “They were only giving us a hard time, but it’s not like they don’t know. Every god—even us—needs those peaches to stay immortal. And now that they’ve had their fun…this could be our chance.”
“Chance? What chance? To get tied to another rock?”
Nian thought it had been fairly obvious. “To get back in line.”
Hun let out a scoff, or what could've been one; half of his hand was in his mouth as he picked at his teeth. “Y’know, Nian, you might be more delusional than me.”
Hun’s eye twitched at that exact moment, and Nian pretended not to notice. “Mhm. But look, gods don’t get banned from the peach banquet, Hun. That’d basically be the same—that’d be the same thing as just—”
Hun raised a brow. Nian furrowed his. They wouldn’t…would they?
“You don’t really think…” He choked on the thought. “The Queen Mother wants us dead?”
Hun finally extracted the lettuce from his teeth and studied it against the open sky. “Well yeah,” he flicked. “Since when has anyone wanted us alive?” The chunk landed on himself, and the two stared at it for a moment. Hun sniffed, shrugged, and reached back into his mouth.
Nian shook his head in disbelief, almost too shocked to be disgusted. He opened his mouth, but words eluded him with a grudge. Surely someone cared. Surely someone would. Nian nodded to himself, scraping his mind for crumbs. There was bound to be a needle in the haystack out of six thousand years—a word, a smile, a single tender moment. Anything would do.
Nothing came to mind.
A sickening realization dawned on Nian as his thoughts drifted to Bao. The third Unspeakable must've already known. That’s why she had stayed behind. Bao must’ve already known that she would finally get what she wanted. Freedom from the ridicule. Freedom from the starving nights. Freedom from Nian and Hun in that pit they called home. Freedom from living. Nian swallowed hard. Wasn’t that what I wanted?
When did that change?
“Alright, enough thinking!” it was Hun’s motto at this point. He slapped Nian’s back straight and helped fix the collar of his rags. “So a bitch doesn’t want us at her fancy little fruit party. Who cares anyway?”
“Queen Mother. Peach Banquet,” Nian corrected Hun in a daze. He thought before he spoke. “...And I’m pretty sure we care.”
Hun waved aside the specifics but couldn’t wipe a smile off his face. “Yeah, yeah, pretty boy...” He squeezed Nian's shoulder a little too hard. “Then it’s a good thing for us that I have a real plan.”