None of the Stories I Tell are Real

Then do we still need the tears?

Photo by Diz Play on Unsplash

Lately, I have been setting my fictions aside and diving into the world of nonfiction. As a young person, I might not have that many life experiences but some of them are rather unique.

I’m not blogging about a strange anecdote tied together with a life lesson to teach. I’m not trying to sell you anything.

I’m just trying to leave a mark on this vast internet.

I tried making listicles — they seem to be popular here — but they usually leave me feeling hollow inside.

That kind of emptiness is special. Only works I truly care about can fill that void. For me, it is fiction.

The sense of creating something out of nothing is real to me. It’s creating worlds. It’s like playing god.


When I was a lot younger, I used to walk past the newspaper stand on the way home and for certain, every week there would be a new issue of the YA magazine I follow. I would pay the smoking old man in scattered cash, and be on my way with the booklet.

The cover was always nice and illustrated by up-and-coming artists. The magazine was full of short stories, genre ranging from literary to science fiction. There were author interviews, too. Those acted as my muse and a glimpse into a future I would like to have.

There were several writers I like, with no one particular being my favorite.

A few months ago, while preparing for a trip abroad, I got distracted by the local social media and went stalking my favorite author when I was a child.

I came across a short poem. I will translate it here.


None of the Stories I Tell Are Real

By Qi Ci

None of the stories I tell are real
Then do we still need the tears?
Secretly saved in the pillow and the desk
Turning imagination bitter, making time rain dry
Then do you still need to use these clear blue drops
To save the blind girl you like?
Then do we still need to believe
Believing the deepest sky, the farthest land
Making the devil quiet, turning the claws soft
Believing in the gods walking past the rooftop
Trying to be the best little kid?
Then do we still need to believe, to journey?
To sail from the front gate to the next street
Still need to light up every single star sky
Light up the dark village?
Tell me, do we still need to set up
The last warm camp of this land?
Then do you still need me to tell you a story
My dear
How you wish to climb down from the bedtime story
And grow up
Leaving these old picture books, and the storytellers
By the dimming yellow light
Left blank, by you


If none of them are real, do they still matter? The stories I tell are just that, stories. They rarely expose real-world problems and never fix them, won’t solve climate change, can’t bring us one step closer to world peace forever. They aren’t even good utopias, the kind that allows an escape into fantasy.

Why do I still write if no one is watching? It feels like a solo ballet in an empty theater, and the spotlight is a gaze of mediocrity.

Why are there still stories when there are more than enough in the world?

Because the authors care. Because I care.

Because you do, too.


© Aurelia Wong 2019

We Flew All The Way To Rushmore

We flew all night, all the way to Mt. Rushmore. I landed on Lincoln’s head, stumbling until I knelt down on a flatter surface. It was slippery with morning dew, and I was spent.

Cold wind still filled my lungs as I tried to even my breathing. My feathers were all ruffed like a backyard chicken’s, but I had stopped taking good care of them long before that day.

I turned my head when I heard Olivia’s landing. She was graceful, riding the wind, gliding down and folding up her wings as soon as her feet touched the ground. Then, a breeze hit us. I heard her cursing as she wavered in the gust. I had already slipped and fallen off the human president’s face, crashed into his nose, and tumbled down the hill.

Before I recovered, the wind wooshed behind me. Olivia hauled me up from the ground.

“What the hell was that?” She was mad at me. “We just flew for five hours straight, what’s the point?”

“You didn’t have to follow me,” I said, smacking her with my left wing.

“I thought you were ditching Wind Physics for, I don’t know, a bite in town. But you kept flying like a psycho, all the way here.”

“That’s because you’re too slow to catch me,” I laughed, getting up to my feet.

“Where is ‘here’ anyway?” She crossed her arms.

“Mount Rushmore,” I pointed at the four heads carved into the mountain.

She turned to look, the sight startled her. “Those aren’t natural.”

“No, they aren’t.”

“You flew five hours to see four human heads made of stone?”

“I didn’t plan to stop here.”

“Then where are you going?”

“Relax, I’m not running away. Just need some time away, that’s all.”

“You really have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

“The sun is coming up,” I commented. Rays of gold would soon engulf us and the ground down below. If I squinted, I could see the tourist center. I turned to look at Olivia, she was toggling with her wrist screen. “You aren’t going to report me, are you?”

“If I were to do that, I’d have done it 300 miles earlier,” she scrolled, “And my wearable is running out of battery. Hey — Where’re you going?”

The park was about to open. We couldn’t be here when the tourists arrived with their cameras. The Director wouldn’t like viral photos of a winged person on the internet, and I knew Olivia was camera-shy. Our existence was supposed to be classified.

“Alright, are we going back?” She arrived next to me, combing through her feathers absentmindedly.

“Yes, but it’s also getting hot.” I didn’t like flying close to the sun, and it was almost summer. “We can fly in the evening. Don’t you want to see the world, just for one day? I’m sick of spending my life in the hangar.”

“People will be looking for us — ”

“We’ll go back at night. Promise.”

As I walked down the neat pavement with all the state flags hanging from both sides, I could see a gift shop sign from there. We couldn’t just walk down the street in broad daylight.

“Ugh, fine. It’s not like I’m the one with a disciplinary warning.”

“That was an accident.” I didn’t like the reminder, but I loved being her amusement. “Let’s not speak of that ever again.”

We walked down the pavement with our wings folded. A few employees were arriving, getting ready for the day. One of them opened the door to the gift shop and went back inside.

I slipped in, grabbing two souvenir sweaters from the shelf. They were the largest size.

“What the hell are you doing?” Olivia hissed at me. I tore off the price tags and threw one of the sweaters into her arms.

In the public restroom, I took off the complex elastic band from my forearm and used to it bind my wings to my back. Olivia did the same but she was slower. I could get it done in a minute. She was the good kid who seldom left the hangar. I was surprised she had tagged along for so long.

“Isn’t this nice?” An hour later, we were walking on the side of a mountain highway. Cars sped past us, their drivers weren’t giving us more than a glance.

“You can see the city from here.”

“Would be better if we can glide down there,” Olivia said, “That’s faster than walking.”

“You want to see the city?”

“Well, that’s the whole point, isn’t it? If you want to see these trees — ” she gestured all around us. “We have plenty of these back home.”

I kept quiet, not wanting to mention the fact that she just called the hangar “home”.

“I feel like…” I hesitated, “I felt a pull…to come here. Like something is drawing me here.”

Instead of laughing at me, or worse, ask “what do you mean”, she didn’t say anything at first. I regretted walking at the front. I couldn’t see the reaction on her face.

“Hmm,” she finally said, “I wonder if it’s your human part or the bird?”

She was right. I never knew what kind of bird DNA they put in my body. My wings were tawny and white. Those colors were too common to really tell the species. And the scientists won’t tell us. Either they thought it was useless information, or they mixed so many things together they forgot which was which.

Could my bird species be native to South Dakota? Was that the reason to come here, some sort of natural instinct, living on as a part of me? Or…my history as a human had something to do with this.

I wrecked my brain and could not find an answer. None of us could remember our time before the hangar. Some of us were even born there and never ever left. I always liked to think of myself as the former. Someone with a history, with a past, a back story.

Yet it was no use to me now.

“Let’s head back,” I said, “That way we won’t miss the curfew twice.”

“But didn’t you say it’s dangerous in broad daylight?”

“It’s alright. We’ll fly high, close to the sun,” I looked at her, before tearing off my disguise and doing a running take off. “It’s not a problem at all.”

Bright Decay is here

My debut novel is now live on Amazon. You can purchase a paperback now or preorder the ebook edition, which is coming out on September 16, 2019.

The cover of BRIGHT DECAY

Bright Decay is the origin story of a female superhero who can control time. It’s the first book of a trilogy and can be read as standalone.

Everyone knows there’s something off about Skylar, including herself. She wades through high school being normal, but ever since the disappearance of her only friend, her life spirals out of control. Humans with uncommon abilities live closer than she thinks. 

Skylar wants nothing to do with the government-sponsored superheroes that inhabit her world, yet a near-death experience makes her one of them: she can stop time with a thought. The entire world, frozen in stasis, can become her playground.

In the city of Duskim, she has to adjust to her new reality. Her powerful ability can’t save her from past regrets, though it attracts the attention of all kinds. If she wants a rank among the heroes, she must stop the resurfaced terrorists threatening to burn down everything she knew.

She may be powerful. She may be powerless. Who is she when it matters the most?


BRIGHT DECAY on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/45032011

BRIGHT DECAY on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1093784865/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_api_i_tyXdDb89CXJFN


Want a sneak peek? Right now, you can read the first three chapters for free!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Strange Days Are Good For Being Inspired

Photo by Matthew Hamilton on Unsplash

It was January in California. I was living the low life. Sleeping twelve hours a day, waking up at noon. Doing work and then not. I ate very little, then a lot.

I went through whole days without talking to anyone. Even in our small room, my roommate and I barely exchanged hellos. I was surviving on peanut butter and instant noodle, the latter being the luxurious instant pho instead of ramen. I was looking at my electronic devices all day, watching other people achieving their dreams and not feeling a thing.

I wasn’t creating contents like I was supposed to do. I wasn’t creating anything. My thoughts still raced, but I was always tired, always too disappointed at the world to put anything down.

Among what friends I have, only one person still text me. And when he asked me if I want to go out to eat, I responded three hours too late. I was living in the confine of my room, biding time until the spring comes, waiting for a change to give me the reason to be irritated again.

I was in bed all day, under layers of blankets with the AC on cold. I was invincible at the safety of my room. I was in bed until 6 pm. I was invincible but only somewhat.

I crawled up and changed my sweatpants to a pair of jeans, put on a jacket and head out for a night lecture. Artists often visit my school throughout the school year, and now I was taking an easy class where all I had to do was sit in the lectures twice a week and get easy credits. Might be waiting the tuition I paid, but really I just want to get things over with.

The winding corridors were empty. The only sound was my footsteps. For once I was walking without my headphones on. Truly listening to the winds howling and all the creaking noises, the people talking in a faraway place or just behind the door.

The lecture hall was dimmed so I didn’t have to worry about seeing people’s faces. I signed in and sat down at the back row. I was on my phone, pretending to have something more important than this until the lecturer announced that he was ready.

The next two and a half hours was such an out-of-body experience I almost felt bored among all the strangeness.

The artist was one of those good speakers we rarely get, otherwise it could have killed me with secondhand awkwardness. Instead, he was brilliant and easygoing.

He mainly did installation works, worked with all sorts of material and sound. He took us through his life’s works in various types. A room-sized installation that looked like an escape room inhabited by aliens? Check. An outdoor opera through a hole in the chimney? Check.

I was always so cynical about fine art, never finding the point of it all. Told a friend that I’m not the type of person to feel emotions when I look at art and he was genuinely shocked. I truly didn’t.

Who’s gonna fall for this? I was a narcissist when it came to creativity. They could be producing masterpieces and still, I thought mine was better.

Of course, mine was better. I loved my world better than his rant about a fantasy world map he drew. Even though I never drew a map as complexed as his. Mine was better because it was all in my head, where they sat pristine in gestation, never tainted.

In the darkness, everything made sense. That was when I realized it couldn’t stay that way.

Everything in our headspace is always better. Every story sounds better in our own head. In my head, I won all the arguments, while in real life I only smiled faintly. Under the dimmed lights and having watched the improv performance the artists spontaneously did, we clapped in hesitation.

When it was over and I walked out, knowing the cafeteria would only have leftover food. I had a slice of pepperoni pizza for dinner the third time that week. Red-ish oil glimmered under the heating lamp.

I sat alone in the emptied dining hall, listening to the echoing sound. I knew at that moment, I needed to write something. For the first time in months, I felt the urge to write. I was writing before, but it was like a routine of typing words, and I would drop off the face of the earth for another few days, then came back trying to pick up the threads. It wasn’t working. I needed to write something else.

I was walking back home with my hands in my pocket, shivering all the while. I recently picked up an interest in the introspective personal essay. Am I telling a story? Or simply dumping my mind’s content on the keyboard? I started a first draft that later became this.

I don’t know, I don’t know. This feels like a journal entry.

Yeah, I do this very often. I get inspired by others quite easily. I got epiphanies a few times a month. The weightless feeling I was addicted to, the sense that you can do anything, you can accomplish anything. My mind turned into a different beast at night, or maybe I’m romanticizing the darkness.

I was back to my bed and blankets again.

I turned on my nearest screen. Turned on some soft hip hop. 
An old friend was online. The certain kind of friendship: know her in real life, friended her on social media. Never talk to me, never texted me, never liked my posts. Last time we met was five years ago in a dingy subway station. You know, one of those old friends.

She posted something, saying that she was crying because one of her favorite authors had passed away. We read some of his work in a grade school textbook, but it’s not an author I care too much about.

She thought otherwise. She posted a diary entry of four years ago when she wrote about being inspired by his work she just read. With the caption, “when I grew up, you’re gone.”

A sudden sadness came over me. Like it often did.