This microstory was originally published in Fairfield Scribes Issue #26.
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In the LED glare, I scrutinize myself. I must’ve got it wrong. They told me if I lost the blubber, tucked my bulldog chin, toned my batwings, and tossed the ’90s togs, they’d give me the green pill. But I still hate programming, and no genie has whisked me away to Broadway; my mother still says autism is an urban myth and I’m spoiling Declan; Ian is still fucking Jean from H.R.; and I still can’t time-travel and pick Juilliard, though Dad sulked ever so.
Now, in the mirror, I stand naked, no longer a fat loser. Just a loser.
Amita Basu 