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 first chapter of one of my stories.
***
All things considered . . . that could've gone a lot worse.
Nian slammed into the ground, bounced a couple of meters, and landed with all the grace of a pair of old slippers. He struggled to an elbow and blinked down at his reflection. The dizzy red eyes. The featureless mask. The mess of tattered rags that might’ve once been a cloak.
He nodded to himself slightly and heard something pop. His body and pride were one thing, but at least his mask was still intact. And despite seeing double, he was fairly certain he was alone. It wasn't all bad.
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—oh…”
Hope was for the lucky.
An 18-foot-tall gate guardian, fed up with the 'insults,’ snatched Hun by the face and raised him high into the air. Hun 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 an echoing thud.
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. Hun had shape-shifted into a plump god just before approaching the gates, but the force of the collision now shed his disguise. Color drained from his face as he returned to a heap of skin and bones, deflating with each time he cackled with the crowd.
Nian sighed in resignation and gave up on covering Hun’s mouth. 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. Something in the air changed.
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 at 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 crowd had grown tired. Or satisfied. Or bored—whichever came first.
Nian ran his fingers down his side, taking inventory of fresh bruises, then winced, lost count, and started back from zero (it was always hard to tell when even the old ones hurt like new). Hun, however, was already back on his feet, licking blood from a sizzling gash that healed in a matter of seconds.
“Really? That’s it? I almost fell asleep...” Hun yawned and wiped his mouth. “Where’s Erlang when you need a good beating?”
Nian nodded along half-heartedly but avoided Hun’s purple eyes. He had nearly blacked out too—though likely for different reasons. And his beating had been plenty good even without the warrior god. He let Hun grab him from behind and steer him away from the Golden Palace, but its glow lingered in his vision as though to kick him while he was down.
From its polished marble floor to its dragon-coiled ceiling, the Queen Mother’s pride was symmetrical down to the last speck of dust. Or so he had heard. Hyperbole was a tricky thing in heaven.
Had it been built a million years ago, or a million years ago? Was it older than time, or had it out-aged the old man? These were the kind of questions that kept Nian up at night. And if those didn’t do the job, Hun’s snores always did.
It reminded Nian of the first time Hun had dragged him out of that echoing cave. He had been wondering, like now, if someone was responsible for counting dust. But before he could get any ideas, Hun had taken him under his wing.
He decided to—what did he call it? Teach him “how to live.” Ever since then, Nian hadn’t found himself bored. He hadn’t walked without a limp either, but apparently, that was normal. Hun had assured him that a little suffering was simply a part of life.
All Nian wanted to know now was when the other parts would start. He could hear Hun humming behind him without a care in the world.
“Wait up, you two!”
Nian froze in his tracks. Even the sound of Hun’s humming had suddenly come to a halt. The voice sounded familiar, but the words didn’t match. Why would the Goddess of Spring call out to Unspeakables like them? Nian did the math and reached the nearest conclusion.
She had been wondering how to make their lives miserable—as one often does—and concluded that three beatings in a row sounded better than two.
“Look, I know. You have every reason not to trust me.” She lowered her voice. “But Nian, the truth is…”
It was impossible, he knew. He was an abomination, he knew. He knew…But what if…
Nian spun around, and a finger, lying in wait, slammed into his face with a familiar clack. His head shot back, and he covered his mask. He peeked through the gaps as his face burned bright red.
Orchids bloomed in her hair, even out of season, and her shoulder-freeing dress rippled from an unfelt breeze. She pulled her hand back with a look of clueless innocence, but Nian’s gaze hardened when he met her piercing, purple eyes.
“I-Is something wrong?” The goddess pretended to look around. She pouted and touched her lip, but Nian turned the other way. He never seemed to learn, and Hun never seemed to change—unless you counted appearance.
Then he always changed.
The voice eroded into sandpaper as the goddess morphed back into Hun. “I’m sorry, okay?” He draped an arm over his friend’s shoulder. “But you make it so easy it’s almost not funny!” Hun hunched with laughter, lurching both of them forward, slapping his knee and stomping like he hadn’t pulled the same trick a hundred times.
Nian slumped under Hun’s weight as he waited patiently for the commotion to pass, aware of the possibility 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, not quite,” Nian cradled 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. “Cause’ 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.”
“Yeah, sure. To get tied to another rock.”
Nian thought it had been fairly obvious. “To get back in line.”
Hun scoffed or coughed, or some weird neighbor of both; 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 listen, 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 watched Hun skip past him, but words eluded him with a grudge. Surely someone cared. Surely someone would. 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 too?
Since when had that changed?
“Hey! Enough thinking!” It was Hun’s motto at this point. He slapped Nian’s back straight and fixed 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 him 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.”