An editorial assistant’s rejection letter to assholes online

Dear hugecock145:

Thank you so much for messaging me on Tinder/Hinge/OKCupid. I’ve now had the chance to review your pick-up line/sexist comment/racist remark.

I’m impressed by the time that you’d taken to relay your crude thoughts about my physical appearance. Your audacity to list the disappointing measurements of your dick is astounding. However, it is clear that you have not read my dating profile, and I cannot quite understand how you failed to follow the most basic writing conventions. I also feel as if you lacked any cultural and racial sensitivity. That said, I’m afraid I will have to pass.

Thank you again for letting me read. I wish you the best of luck burning in hell.

Sincerely,

Loan Le

The Onion Article: Weird Girl Only Cool When Drunk

Maria Ankundinov, the girl people usually stay away from in the daylight, became the life of the party at Timmy Jackson’s end of the year bash last Friday.

Ankundinov decided to abandon her coop at Fairfield University’s Dimenna-Nywhat’shisface Library and emerged from darkness when she attended a fucking crazy party on a whim. She wasn’t invited, but people ended up liking her anyways because they were drunk out of their minds.

“Yeah, she was in my HI 101 class. I, like, didn’t really like her,” said Ashley Stevenson ’14 to the reporter on scene as she was holding her vomiting friend’s hair back in the backyard of Jackson’s sketchy apartment. “But now she’s totally fun! She really knows how to drink.”

Students reported seeing Ankundinov chugging three Bud Lights before participating in a rousing round of Absolut Rio shots. Dressed in questionable clothing that looked like a rainbow barfed on her, she then managed to win a beer pong game with a group of acne-faced freshmen.

“I’d tap that,” said Jake Bryant ’12 as he sat in a corner and creepily eyed prepubescent-looking girls partying in the opposite side of the room.

The Ankundinovs were so proud that their daughter was getting a social life. Marcie, Ankundinov’s mother, said in an official statement to the public: “I used to hate my daughter so much because she didn’t have any social skills. But I now like her a bit more. Congratulations, Mallory.” Her husband later told her that she said her daughter’s name wrong. Marcie seemed surprised.

Fiction: Voice

I wrote a quick short story a couple of days ago. I followed a challenge that Figment had posted. Each week, the creative writing site hosts a young adult author who assigns prompts and fun games for online users. This week’s guest was Geoff Herbach. His presence on YouTube is well-known, and he is also the author of young adult novel “Stupid Fast” and the upcoming novel “Nothing Special.”

Herbach recently wrote about how to incorporate personal voice into short stories. I just love the way he explained voice through a video. It’s so much better than reading long blog posts. I can see why young adults would love him. His basic message for writers is that voice should reflect the writer’s personality, not the writer’s idol’s personality.

He also gave us a challenge so that we could develop our voices. The outline that Geoff Herbach had posted are as followed:

1. YOU HAVE A CHARACTER WHO DRIVES.
2. A BIRD HITS THE WINDSHIELD.
3. THE WINDSHIELD CRACKS.
4. YOUR CHARACTER PULLS OVER.
5. THE BIRD IS HOLDING A TINY SCROLL IN ITS LITTLE, DEAD BIRD CLAW.
6. YOUR CHARACTER READS THE SCROLL.
7. IT IS A MESSAGE ADDRESSED TO YOUR CHARACTER!

You’ll see the story below.  I took the plot of a WIP story and used it in this setting.

I had a lot of fun with this. I didn’t even notice that I was writing more than a thousand words!

Untitled

I could have taken one of my kitchen knives and stuck it right between Paul’s shoulder blades. I could have emptied our joint bank account and ran his precious Mercedes into a random light pole. I could have driven this crappy Nissan 1997 to the Hamptons and picked up a beach blond guy half my age on the side.

But I’m not in a Lifetime movie. I’m just another woman who has a cheating husband.

I’m nothing special. Obviously. Or else Paul wouldn’t have decided to break my trust.

When Paul came home and planted a perfunctory kiss on me tonight, I instantly knew I needed to leave. Leave before I…I don’t know lost control. ‘Cause right now, I’m past my boiling point.

“Goddamnit!” I shout in my car, assured that no one can hear me in my little bubble of woe.

I need a drink.

Give me liberty, or give my Red Death. Some vodka, peach liqueur…oh yes. Perfect. I need them to drown out the image of Paul and his thing fooling around last afternoon when I came home early for work.

As I reach the end of a scenic Brooklyn block, my eyes stray to the shadowed form of a prostitute showing off her midriff and wearing a red leather skirt as she leans against a blue brick building. She has one leg propped up against the wall and a cig dangling between her cherry lips.

She looks just like my daughter Riley who, by the way, just uploaded an interesting Facebook picture from her 21st birthday. One day I happened to ‘stumble across’ said photo. I told her to take it down.

She unfriended me.

A part of my mind tells me to jet out of the car and wrap a blanket around that girl – who is someone’s girl out there – and give her a cup of steaming milk and chocolate chip cookies. Then another part of my mind imagines the police car that’s parked around here, waiting for any commotion to barge onto the scene. I see myself being slammed against the wall, having the cuffs roughly slapped onto my wrists. As all of this goes down, I’m screaming, “I’m a mother! I’m a mother!”

I shake my head. I place two hands on the wheel. And I stomp on the gas pedal.

No red light. No red light, I repeat to myself. If I stop again, I know I won’t be able to stem the tears building behind my eyes.

I’ll just end up crying in my car, and the teenagers who stop next to me at the red light will cackle at the sight of me.

But, who cares! I am a woman! I am a feminist! I am –

“Mother of – ”

Out of God-freakin’ nowhere, some bird collides with my windshield.

I wrench my steering wheel to the right, trying to avoid the inevitable. My heart stops. I hear the tires screeching and the angry honks of some guy behind me who’s probably late for dinner and doesn’t want to be on his wife’s shit list.

My right tire hits the nearest curb, and I manage to get the rest of the car under control.

I sigh angrily and throw a good punch at the stirring wheel. Now I’ll have to call Animal Control or something to get this shit off my window. I can’t do it myself; that’s disgusting.

“Hey, you all right, lady?” An African-American guy peeks through the window on my side. Behind him, I see a small group of nosy senior citizens gathering across the street.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Can’t say the same for this bird though.”

“You want me to call someone? The ambulance?”

I wave a hand at him. “No. Just…just call the animal guys. No ambulance, though.”

“You sure?”

I do the right thing and censor all profanity that’s flittering through my mind. “Yes. Please.” The man nods at me and assures me that I’ll be okay.

I slowly release myself from the seat belt constraints and gingerly move my legs. Good, they work.

Blowing a few blond strands from my face, I lean closer and check the damage. I spy a small crack that’ll probably take $400 to fix. Great. At least I didn’t crack my neck. Once my blood stops boiling, my shoulders begin to relax and my conscience stops its swearing.

Poor bird, some part of me thinks. It still looks peaceful in death.

Wait.

I press my nose against the window and squint my eyes. Is that…? Really?

I kick my door open and scramble to get near the bird. The guy from before is on his cell, and the crowd is slowly beginning to disperse. No one important died so this accident is nothing to look at, I guess.

Back to the bird. I see that under one of his limp claws, he’s holding some kind of scroll.

“Ew, ew,” I mutter, as I gently pry the bird’s claw open. The bird relents and the scroll rolls into my left palm. It’s small and slightly damp with avian blood, but I ignore my germophobic thoughts and curiosity takes over.

I roll out the paper. I feel like I’m Nicholas Cage.

I read: MOVE ON.

Those words are written in some kind of charcoal that’s rubbing off on my hands. I flip the piece of paper to see if there’s anything on its back, but nothing. No signature. No explanation.

I glance up, checking to see if there’s some creep peeping from his window or rooftop. My eyes catch nothing but laundry dangling from homemade lines and one wrinkly man who’s slumbering away on a cemented porch.

“Shit,” I mumble, dropping the slip onto the oil-drenched road. I glance back at the innocent bird who couldn’t have known what was coming.

Okay, I’m officially creeped out. Who cares about Animal Control? I roll up a newspaper that was lying on the sidewalk. With a few prods, the bird tumbles over and lands on top a sewage gutter. The rain will wash it away.

“Hey, miss, they’re coming soon,” the cell guy says to me.

“Oh well,” I answer, sliding back into my car.

As I drive away, I glance at my rearview mirror, as if searching for the paper. I can still see the words in my mind.

“Move on,” I whisper. If only it was that easy.

I’m still going to that damn bar.

The Asian Curse

It’s impossible to look cool when you’re part of a tour group.

Especially if you’re Asian and you’re visiting an unfamiliar place with your Asian family (and that one awkward American addition).

You look on with disgust at how your uncle-who’s-not-really-your-uncle-but-connected-in-some-way-only-now-you-call-him-with-some-honorific-title is dressed in the typical Asian outfit — polo shirt tucked into jeans with a belt holding back his gut belly –spits as he lectures the whole group like a tour guide. For extra Asianness, he also wears a pair of eighties glasses.

You try not to roll your eyes when your Aunt brags about her daughter who’s going to Harvard University, because you know it’d be disrespectful and you might get a chopstick lashing from your mom later for your disrespect. Instead you put on an interested face and ask what kind of study techniques your cousin uses. You don’t even ask what kind of major your cousin’s going for; it’s obvious she’s going to add to the family of doctors.

You feel utter sympathy for the American guy who just had to fall in love with a really nice Asian woman, but an Asian woman came with a lot of packages — and that included her family, who, although they don’t say it aloud, mourn the fact that she didn’t marry an Asian. The family likes the American well enough though. But it’s clear that the American gets confused sometimes, but you give him props because he’s still part of the family.

You look on, amused, when one of your family members goes up to a stranger to ask him to take a photo of the family. That amusement quickly turns to annoyance when you hear the stranger ask your relative to repeat himself. Honestly, his accent is not that bad. So, you go up to the stranger — suppressing the urge to smack him when seeing relief on his face — and ask the question again. He nods eagerly then.

You trudge back to your twenty-something Asian family members (and White person), dragging your feet and praying to Buddha that they don’t do that stupid Asian sign. The stranger counts loudly and slowly, and you open your mouth to curse at him — when the flash goes on.

You then realize later on, after checking the camera for the picture, that about half of your family’s eyes are closed.

Curse the Asian features.