By Joanna Li
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Artist Statement:
“Hello World” is a collection of memories. I find it hard to put words to my feelings, so I hope to convey them through borrowed senses instead. I usually write in binary and bytes and sometimes it’s easier to reason through my inner turmoils with these logical statements. “Hello World” is the first flap of my tiny wings to break out of the mould that my overprotective (but unconditionally loving) parents and societal standards have shaped for me.
switch (summer daze in these summer days) { case “june”: while(reminiscing())
{print(us.memories);}
The first time we meet, we’re in a dark room, surrounded by people I feel ostracized by, surrounded by your closest friends. I laugh with my lips bared back, your smile an invitingly acidic lemon curl. Dinner, I say. Let’s get dinner sometime.
git initialize in myHeart
git add “You”
Bojack on the telly, my legs over yours. The room is an origami haze and I’m unfolding in your palms.
Walking through the drizzle, your warm laundry in our arms. You turn to me. Let’s order Dominos. Two hours past midnight, we’re stuffing our faces with cinnamon sticks and vanilla icing.
Carrots, onions, potatoes. We’re chopping vegetables with ceramic plates and butter knives. You hug me from behind as I stir the pot. You sniff and say, this smells great b. The curry roux cubes dissolve like me in your arms.
I’m sitting in your too large T-shirt. You know, we are so good together. Emphasis on the so. Your eyes are sparklers and you whisper I love you. We are a warmth of whispers, my heart cigarette red. I love you too.
We’re lying in bed and your shoulder is a pillow comfier than memory foam. Does this hurt your arm, I ask, I feel like I’m crushing your blood flow. No, you laugh, It feels fine. We lie awake pillowtalking for hours every night. One night you bring up logistics. You tell me, Our relationship has an expiration date. I turn away from you and reply, Does it matter?
git commit -m “Will you be my girlfriend?”
We’re lying in bed and you’re scrolling through your old Facebook photos. This is my best friend from high school. A bright-eyed boy stares back at me. These are the people I used to hang out with. A tiny crowd of teenagers at a party. Oh, this is me asking my ex-girlfriend to prom. You’re posing with flowers and a sign. This is our prom picture. You’re standing with a smile I don’t see anymore, your arm around a bright-eyed girl. Here’s another picture of us. Scroll. This one is at the dance. Scroll. This is us with my parents. Scroll. Good times, you mutter wistfully, Good times.
Your eyes are angry flashes that I don’t know how to read. My voice are pleads of I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You shake my hands off. Pay attention to me! You don’t love me! I’m shaking my head, tears streaming down my foundation. No, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Around us the dancefloor rages on. We leave the club early and find treaties in our bodies.
Am I a rebound? You’re quiet for a century of seconds. I don’t think so? I turn away from you and reply, Okay.
You send me off at the airport. August, we say. We just have to wait till August. I love you, we say. It’s a reassurance, not a statement. Two weeks later, you’re spewing acid through Facebook messenger, coming at me with backstabs and shoulder blades. I’m not one of your subservient pussy-ass bitch friends that bend over backwards for you All you do is constantly message me asking me for shit Everything is about your feelings. I eat dinner with red-rimmed eyes, almost transparent with my chloroform blues.
Your face is blurry on my phone screen. It’s the first time we’re video-calling. I guess what I’m asking is, would you still like me by the time August rolls around? That’s a loaded question. On one hand, it would be nice to see you again. But it’s also logical to forgo that since things will be so complicated. I’m pressing on, You didn’t answer my question. Your face scrunches up in thought. I guess yeah, I’ll probably still like you. We never videocall again. break;
case “july”:
Math.random()*heart.rebound;
We matched on tinder. He was my first tinder date. His bio consisted of several emojis; he had a girl in every picture. We meet outside an Sony store. He’s wearing white and fake Balenciagas. Two hundred dollars, he tells me, Got them in Shanghai.
So, where do you want to go?
The question hangs unanswered as we meander on the streets. He walks down alleyway labyrinths, showing me a city I’ve been living in but never explored. We’re in an international bar. The owner greets him by name with a smile.
You’re popular, I say over my fuzzy navel. His brief explanation is a I come out drinking a lot. We talk about college and shaky relationships. I tell him I got a C in math, the words foreignly real. I’ve only told three people so far, two of them being my parents. He tells me he failed out of college. Raved too much, he explains. I feel the Tropicana kicking in.
We do tequila shots, complete with salt and a slice of lemon. What’s the lemon for? I ask. I’ve never had tequila shots this fancy in college. Lick the salt, take the shot, then bite into the lemon. Ready? We clink our shot glasses together. Nasty, I say, biting into my lemon.
He nods in agreement. Tequila is my kryptonite. Wanna do another?
He studies me. I’m surprised, you look like a good girl from your tinder pictures.
I’m mildly offended, annoyance tinting my What do you mean? He laughs.
You don’t mind if I smoke, do you? His cigarette is already lit. Go ahead, I say. Secondhand smoke cancer statistics flash through my mind. He blows a low cloud of smoke out, the wind billowing grey into my face. I cough a little and he laughs. Sorry.
My face is hot, red with Asian glow. I kiss him with an urgency, my hand on his crotch, squeezing his dick through his jeans. His mouth is on me and I get louder. Fuck me, I say, fuck me.
He fucks me six ways to Sunday. As we lie in bed he sits up and lights a cigarette. Can I try? He hands it to me. I gingerly hold it between my lips and suck in.
We’re sitting on the veranda of the bar. I’m sipping my China Blue; he’s on his second cigarette. What does it feel like? He looks a little surprised. Smoking? Not much I guess. Then why do you smoke?
I’m not sure, I guess it’s just a habit. The first time I smoked though, that was the best. We’re silent for a bit as he watches his hazy exhales. He squashes the cigarette out. Wanna get out of here?
There’s nothing great about coughing through my lungs, sputtering with the inhale. He’s laughing at me now, getting up to pour me a glass of lemon water. break;
case “august”:
Error: “us.memories” is deprecated
When I lie in bed, he is there. When I close my eyes, he is there. When the air turns stagnant and humid, he is there. His name is ____, I say, but those words no longer hurt. His features are a canvas, muddy against my imagination. I meet Veronica. Her laughs are blithe, her eyes twinkle with mischief. I call her Ronnie. Her breaths tickle my ear when she leans in to talk. Her smiles are conspiracies, invitingly pink. We kiss once in the club, the boys looking on in glee. Her mouth is warm and cloyingly gentle. I feel her hands silently grazing on my back. We break the kiss, but our eyes remain locked.
She’s lying on the bed. My head is beating, pounding like the Wild Turkey shots we threw back. There is hesitation in my movements; there is urgency in hers. Ronnie has a boyfriend but this doesn’t feel like cheating. When she closes her eyes I can see her brown eyeliner. Her timid cat liners smudged at the tips, pigment mixing with powder. We kiss again, her matte lipstick strangely dry against my own. A worming thought in the back of my head wonders if my lipstick is smearing all over my face. A thought that melts into her Cranberry Orchard perfume. Later, when we take off our makeup in the morning, I will look into the mirror and see crayon streaks of her Bumble on my worn Mamacita. Later, when I avoid her searching stare in the mirror.
She pushes me down now. Her fingers are deft with my dress. It’s familiar territory after all. My mouth is dry, but I know I am wet. Her eyes don’t leave mine as I feel her fingers slide into me. I don’t break the gaze; my breaths are moans.
The night lingers on my tongue as the taste of cassis.
break;
}
Critique
First of all, thank you so much for your submission to our Winter Story Contest! This was a solid piece—you had some truly chillingly beautiful descriptions. I mean, “your smile an invitingly acid lemon curl”? Yes, please!
Our primary critique while reading this piece is that we would have loved an overarching theme—something tying this story together. There is a trend of romantic relationships, but what connects them? Your computer coding transitions were a great start to this, not to mention they’re super creative. You could have incorporated them even more by including even just a single line tying comp sci into your narrative somehow.
We all agreed your work is pure art on a sentence-by-sentence basis—it’s clear you worked hard on each phrase. With that said, here are a few nitpicky points I noticed:
“Your eyes are sparklers and you whisper I love you. We are a warmth of whispers…” (pg. 3) Okay first of all, great description. But can you substitute a different word for “whisper” the second time? I don’t think the repetition works quite right here.
Under section git commit -m “Will you be my girlfriend?”: Each paragraph is a different scene—I get that concept. However, the transition from looking through the Facebook photos to fighting at the bar is a little jarring. Maybe include a small transition like “Two weeks later.” before that second paragraph?
“I eat dinner with red-rimmed eyes, almost transparent with my chloroform blues.” Just had to point out how good this sentence is!
“I’ve only told three people so far, two of them being my parents.” (pg. 5) “two of them being my parents” reads slightly awkward. How about “three people so far: my parents and (whoever the 3rd person is)”?
“I feel her hands silently grazing on my back.” (pg. 7) Okay, this is super nitpicky, but I don’t think “silently” is necessary here. When are hands anything but silent?
As I mentioned before: incredible writing. Not too much critique with that, but we would have loved an overarching theme or even just a concluding sentence at the end of the piece wrapping everything up. Your last sentence is very artsy, but it did leave us with a sense of being unfinished. Based on your descriptive ability I’m confident you could pair that artsiness with a bit of a more satisfying conclusion.
Thank you again for your submission!