Lite by Coco Gong

Facetious (adjective): comical; jocular; flippant


The life of the party.

Floral dress, lace-up sandals, and a glass of sunrise cocktail whose ice cubes clinked coolly in the ombre liquid—it was as if a summer-scented wind followed her wherever she pranced. Every five steps had a colleague, a friend, an old classmate, or even a stranger waving and saying hi. Every ten steps, she swept one of them into her arms and twirled across the dance floor, the fabric of their clothes blooming under the neon light. Her mischievous, shining grin was always the last thing they saw before she once again vanished into the blend of partygoers.

When the last spotlight clicked off and the final drunkard stumbled into a taxi, the wind blew frigid outside. The gloomy clouds and the empty sky that held not a single bird were telltale signs of rain—a heavy storm, at that. Streetlights and their soft glows waned, occasionally sparking.

There, stone-faced and clamping a lit cigarette between her lips, she walked home alone without a coat.


Fop (noun): an excessively fashion-conscious man


The man spun on his heels, shoulders straight and chin up in the air, striding away as if he were a king departing from his throne room… as if he hadn’t just bargained with the bakery owner for half an hour, trading a quarter for a slice of stale bread. As if his beard was trimmed by an accomplished barber instead of a rusted razor. As if his pride as a model hadn’t been shattered by bankruptcy.

The other homeless people loitering around the abandoned building kept their distance and shot him weird looks—it made sense, considering how he still wrapped a length of tattered cloth about his shoulders, flicking at it every now and then like it was an expensive suit. They’d long given up talking to him, for he treated every interaction like some kind of business meeting in a substandard social circle.

As he stormed alway, the man gazed back disgustedly at his surroundings of plastic bags and soggy cardboard and half-eaten cans of dried beans. With a flippant swish of his tent’s coverings, he vanished into his pitifully elegant dwelling.

Was it pride or denial that gleamed in those eyes?


Fortuitous (adjective): happening by chance or accident


It smelled orange.

Not the joyful color of sunlight on an autumn day, spilling over the reds and yellows and browns littering the ground. Not the vibrant hue of marigolds that bloomed in the gardens of an elementary school. Not the happy orange.

It was like poison, like death. The dark orange of a life that passed away too soon, of its rotting body silently returning to earth.

The boy smiled awkwardly at his friends. Then accepted the source of that sad, pungent scent of orange—a small piece of paper rolled with strange herbs.

He knew about cigarettes. How dangerous they were. How his uncle stumbled around with a blank look on his face, draining his life’s fortune for more of the mind-numbing drug, ever hungry and greedy for another stick.

A flame flickered. More orange flooded the air.

He knew, but he was not like his uncle. There was no staggering debt riding on his back, no furious wife, no weeping child. The boy wasn’t seeking temporary relief in his life. It was an accident—he didn’t mean to stumble into the popular crowd and he didn’t ask for the smoke to be pressed into his hand.

He had self-control, and it was just one, anyway.

The papery feeling of the cigarette gradually became warm in his hand, and the boy put his lips to its end, tuning out the warnings in his mind and relishing in the scent of orange.


Effete (adjective): worn out; barren


Stepping over dusty pebbles and crunching through dried leaves, the little webbed feet padded clumsily after the two figures. They were getting further by the second—a pair of humans pushing their stroller and enjoying the remaining rays of the setting sun.

The baby goose strained its neck, the half-grown feathers on its small wings flapping about in a desperate effort to propel itself forward. Even though it tripped over itself for every step it took, it ran after them. The lonely gosling ran for warmth, for love, for the wishful image of a family that cared for the youngling sleeping in their stroller.

Beneath the layers of soft gray fluff, its heart knew that the two figures were human—they were neither geese nor his real parents. They would never help chew up the worms that were too big for it to eat, never chase off the other ducks that snapped at its neck in their crystal-blue pond.

It couldn’t keep up.

Footsteps slowing, its small body shivered at the first signs of nighttime wind.