Lily Hoang - Unfinished - stories finished by Lily Hoang

The grandparents kept their entire financial realities at the same bank where James’s mother worked, and because James’s mother wasn’t their daughter — family isn’t a technicality: you’re either family or you’re not — they took ready advantage of her willingness to clean up their messes:

“Now tell me dear, why would they call it overdraft ‘protection’ if we’re not really protected?” She could be so sweet when she felt like it, but this was rarely the case. James’s grandmother scowled and stood, her knobby fingers plunged into her hips.

“And what…”

James’s grandfather also stood, although he was always slightly stooped from years of bad posture.

“… are you implying?” the grandmother snapped. “That we need your credit?”

The grandmother’s scowl lunged deeply into the grandmother’s cheekbones. James’s grandfather shot a glance towards the thick oak door, but just as quickly, he corrected himself and returned his glossed eyes back onto James’s mother. She was sweating.

“I’m only ever going to say this once.” His eyes narrowed in perfect tense with his voice. “You are a whore.”

The grandmother knocked the knuckle of her index finger on top of her daughter-in-law’s desk before straightening, then wagging, the full, fleshy digit at James’s mother. “A fucking whore.”

That night, James’s grandparents tried anal sex for the first time in decades. The grandfather’s skin fell loose around his waist and abdomen. The grandmother grabbed until she felt moisture under her nails. That was the kind of woman she was. Then, she bent him over the lime green dresser that he’d painted for her a lifetime ago and pushed a Vaselined 7UP bottle up his ass.

As she worked him over the glass bottle, she thought about the first time they did this. She’d begged to use an unopened bottle, which he thought was a bad idea from the start, but she insisted it would increase the sensation. Said she’d done it a million times.

Of course, it was a tight fit going in, but it was well lubricated and chilled, which he liked.

Afterwards, he painted the dresser lime fucking green, even though he couldn’t sit, so they would always remember how much he hated her.

James’s grandmother, every time she sees it, can’t help but laugh.

The truth of it was that James’s grandfather didn’t think that Frey was his grandson. Sure, they came out of the same pussy, but that doesn’t prove anything. James, however, he proudly claimed as his own. James’s grandfather always said that Frey belonged to the old hag, meaning James’s grandmother.

There was no real reason why he chose one boy over the other. They looked exactly the same. They had the same voice and opinion. There was just something plain dumb about Frey that James’s grandfather couldn’t quite place. He’d say, “Must be that you’re part whore,” which Frey came to believe, although he didn’t know what part of the world whores came from.

James’s mother didn’t like the boys to go over to the grandparents’ house, but James’s father wanted them to have a “relationship” with their ailing grandparents.

“Ailing?”

“Honey, they’re old.”

“Fuck you. Don’t call me ‘honey.’ You know I hate it.”

“You know what I mean.”

“If they’re old, it means they’ll die soon, right?”

“I don’t understand this resentment you have towards them. I mean, what did they do to you?”

James’s mother had pretty but vacant eyes. Whenever his father tried to look her in the eyes — to try to guess what she was thinking — he’d become even more confused.

“My parents have been nothing but generous with you.” James’s father was neither a fool nor ignorant, and the only thing he’d inherited from his parents was their need for sexual adventure.

James’s grandparents’ house was a dump. It’s always been a dump, not because of the house itself or the neighborhood but because they didn’t care to maintain it.

Whenever James’s grandmother cooked, the house reeked for weeks.

James’s grandparents left stains where they’d fucked.

James’s grandfather refused to throw away his used tissues and Q-tips.

When James and Frey came over, they wouldn’t want to sit down or touch anything.

And their grandfather would say, “Frey, you little fucker, you look just like your fucking grandmother when she’s fucking another man.” It was like he just could not help thinking about his wrinkly wife in bed with another man when he looked at the boy, and this always made him a little excited.

James’s grandfather would call James over. He’d say, “Boy, do you know what a hard-on is?”

James would nod his head, since he’s had this conversation with his grandfather a million times.

James’s grandfather would say, “Boy, do you know where you put a hard-on?”

James would nod his head, since he’s had this conversation with his grandfather a million times. James would show his crooked teeth in something resembling a smile. Frey, however, had learned — a million minus one times ago — to start running.

Every time a young Birder approaches me, inevitably, the conversation turns to the Wibble-Wibble. I am often asked about the first sighting, about my curious choice of names, and fear.

Because I am known to take great deliberations, I will not bore the reader with my answers, as you are probably already tired of reading about historic first encounters such as these.

I am writing to you today because of my concern over the growing interest in our beloved Wibble-Wibble. Clubs and organizations have formed at some local and regional universities with the singular goal of making a sighting. And while I applaud the enthusiasm exuding from these petite scholars, I grow increasingly concerned that the hordes of bungling, bumbling beginners traipsing around the Wibble-Wibble’s already limited habitat may make them retreat even further into oblivion, and our Birding community with lose them once again — and perhaps this time forever.

So rather than try to futilely use my nimble body as a roadblock to prevent young Birders from doing what young Birders desire most — to quote our motto: explore, learn, grow — I have instead written this guide in hopes that a more careful approach and an appreciation for this strange species may be enough to offset the blatantly irresponsible behavior we now see all to often from the youthful members of our community.

A Brief Clarification: I am not a writer or a decorated scientist. I am simply someone who loves the Wibble-Wibble. If my writing is not as smooth and error-free as it could be, please forgive my ignorance. If the terms I use are not scientific enough, at least they are comprehensible to all our Birding community, which is what I want most.

This is not a textbook on the Wibble-Wibble. I am quite sure by now there must be at least a couple of those, but textbooks will not help you identify the Wibble-Wibble the way this guide does. I was, after all, the first Birding to sight a Wibble-Wibble.

The Basics

When in the wild, there are several techniques a trained observer may use to identify a Wibble-Wibble. Be aware, however, that the Wibble-Wibble maintains all of these characteristics, and one of these traits — when observed on its own — should not be taken as an indication of a Wibble-Wibble, as there are many similar species that share these superficial traits. With that word of clarity and our mutual understanding, here are some of the known characteristics of the Wibble-Wibble:

1. The Wibble-Wibble is flightless, though through no fault of its own. It was perhaps never designed to be a flying creature.