The Thornton Wilder Writing Competition is an annual event hosted by the Friends of Hamden Library, celebrating the literary legacy of Pulitzer Prize-winning author and playwright Thornton Wilder. Open to high school students across New Haven County, the competition recognizes outstanding works in fiction and poetry, awarding third place in Fiction to Hamden High and the Dial’s very own Samir Iydroose, and his work, The Unseen Mask.

The Unseen Mask
Their newsroom smelled of burnt espresso and ink. A maze of first drafts and coffee cups lay underneath some harsh fluorescent lights. Mia, as per usual, had been camped out in the newsroom since early that morning. Her hair was a little greasy and was tied into a messy bun. Her tiny studio apartment was beginning to suffocate her, and she needed a change of pace. Her colleagues had gone to a nearby coffee shop and would be back soon. Rustam, an intern, had opted for a run and some of the Lithuanian coffee that he insisted was better than the American stuff. Her small social-justice team slowly filed in. Sylvia, a pragmatic data analyst and editor, entered first. She was hugging an inch-thick stack of papers with one arm. Then came Jamie, a documentary producer. He was talking to Isabella, an unapologetically intense photojournalist, about their media arts program for refugees. Both of them took a moment to shake the rain off of their respective camera equipment. Cal, an acerbic political cartoonist with a strong Irish accent, entered second to last, carrying his signature breakfast burrito. Rustam entered a minute later, still a little sweaty, setting down a thermos with “Vilnius Roasters” printed on the side. Everyone then settled in, before Sylvia cleared her throat. “Mia, your union piece is missing two sources. Jamie, your video edit’s overdue. Isabella, your photos for that piece on environmental racism are blurry. And Cal? If you’re going to make city hall hate us, at least spell their names right this time. Also, if you get sued, you have to pay for your own lawyer.”

The rest of the day was tiring yet pleasant. Mia did some more research for her long-form piece about anti-LGBTQ legislation in America and finished early so she started writing a short op-ed about prison abolition. She lay in her bed that night, unable to sleep yet profoundly tired. She looked at her phone to check the time and saw a text message from her sister, who was the embodiment of the people in self-care commercials. It was the link to a beauty website, and when she clicked on it, a jingle began playing.

“Flawless Skin. Perfectly Invisible Imperfections.” The tagline was everywhere. Billboards. Magazines. Social media. The Unseen Mask, a revolutionary beauty serum, promised to erase blemishes, smooth wrinkles, and make pores vanish as if by magic. 

Mia never considered herself pretty, the puffy skin and redness and many bumps of her teenage years had stayed with her well into young adulthood. She had been self-conscious for many years but settled into the thought that hard work, and a close-knit group of friends, would make up for her insecurities. She had put up a figurative mask over all her insecurities, but The Unseen Mask promised a literal one. Lena, her older sister, had high cheekbones, soft skin, and a radiant smile. Mia resented how easily Lena commanded attention.

The following morning Mia met with her sister for coffee. Lena insisted they get coffee once a month but Mia usually came up with an excuse to postpone or cancel it. This week, Mia had forgotten to come up with an excuse and was dreading her sister’s passive-aggressive comments. When she arrived at the coffee shop, her sister greeted her warmly with her trademark smile. The next hour was filled with the usual pleasantries and feigned enthusiasm. “You always put so much pressure on yourself. Maybe if you relaxed a little, things would fall into place.” “It’s so inspiring how passionate you are about your job. I mean, even if the pay isn’t great, at least you’re doing what you love.” “You’re still single? That’s great! I mean, it gives you so much freedom to focus on your career.” Every pointed remark made Mia think back to the slogan: “perfectly invisible imperfections.” 

She had to work in the afternoon. The first thing was a peer-review session. After the usual greetings, Sylvia barked out her orders. “Mia, you will watch Jaime’s short film about urban food deserts. Jaime, I want you to look at Rustam’s article about labor rights in a gig economy. Isabella, I need to talk to you about your photos of that strike. Rustam, please look at Mia’s article about local political extremism. I need to leave a little early to pick Cal up after he gets his wisdom teeth removed.” Everyone got settled, and Sylvia took Isabella aside. Their volume was about a stage whisper, and Isabella was visibly upset. 

“I’m sorry but the higher-ups don’t think that photo of that young activist being gassed will be good for publicity,” Sylvia said.

“But it is the truth, if we water it down then we’re just another outlet of university propaganda. The point of that photo is to make the viewer uncomfortable,” Isabella said defiantly. Mia jumped to her defense, saying, “There is no ‘palatable’ way of talking about police brutality. If we start sugarcoating, we’re no better than the people we criticize. We have a duty to show the truth. No matter how uncomfortable it is.”

The rest of the day was dull and monotonous, almost mechanical. Mia had looked at her reflection in her laptop screen after everyone else had left. She was a total mess. She barely remembered her commute home and clicked ‘order’ in her daze.

It was a small milky white bottle with an iridescent sheen that seemed to shift under her fluorescent bathroom light. Mia picked it up, feeling its cool surface that sent a shiver through her fingertips. It came open with an unnervingly satisfying pop. Below the cap, the applicator was thin and perfectly tapered. An overpowering yet artificial floral scent wafted from the bottle. It was sweet and cloying, but with a chemical edge that lingered in her throat. She dabbed a small amount onto her fingertips and applied it onto her face. It seemed to spread itself over her face, like a thousand little needles stitching a new face unto hers. Her face slowly tightened, starting with a gentle tugging at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She leaned forward into the mirror, and the mask seemed to settle. Her breath caught, her pores were gone and her skin impossibly smooth. The dim fluorescent light reflected the shimmer on her cheeks like polished glass. Her eyes were sharper and brighter, like droplets of molten gold. 

The following day, Mia felt wonderful. The tingling sensation had given way to a feeling of lightness. The entire team complimented her when she arrived, and joined them to get coffee. She got invited to lunch with her coworkers, and she accepted. She usually declined and worked through her lunch break, but for the first time, it felt as if she didn’t need to. 

Mia had started spending more time curating her image. Her small rotation of semi-formal wear had transitioned to more maximalist items. She leaned harder into her brand, taking selfies almost ritually for social media and she had hundreds of followers asking about her skincare routine. Her articles were gaining traction. An article about reframing organized abandonment and redlining as strategic optimization put her on the radar of a group of realtors who wanted her to be a panelist at an upcoming conference. They said her thought was exactly what modern urban planners needed, and a call to disinvest in high maintenance low-yield sectors. Sylvia was loving how her new perspective drove online engagement and catered to a larger demographic. Her schedule was exponentially more packed. She barely saw her social justice teammates except for the occasional meeting with Rustam. 

A photo Isabella took was once again flagged by the higher-ups, and Mia did not come to her defense. She met with Lena again for coffee, which she was no longer scared to do. This time Mia dominated the conversation, complaining about how insensitive people were and how much she was being ostracized. Lena was visibly uncomfortable during this interaction and left shortly after. Still, she managed to maintain the awkward banter in the morning but it was starting to feel forced.

Mia was invited to a panel on the future of intellectualism. She spent a couple of weeks preparing, reading from Foucault to Plato. She crafted an airtight thesis justifying the existence of elitism in universities and media fields and defending literary canon. It was a spotless venue, with all leading business figures, deans, and policymakers. Mia fit right in, with a tailored blue suit and flawless skin. Rustam, Isabella, Cal, and Jaime all watched the livestream and each one gagged a little during her presentation. As she went through her speech, hedge fund managers and venture capitalists murmured their approval. Mia basked in the limelight. 

The next week, Mia stopped being invited to lunch with her coworkers. Each one said that they were slammed with work, and kept having furtive conversations with each other. She continued freelancing and consulting but was feeling more alone. One day, as she checked all major news sites for inspiration she saw a collection from the company she worked for. It was an exposé by Isabella, Rustam, Jaime, and Cal entitled ‘Power and Media’.  The first piece was an essay by Rustam, called “The Death of the Firebrand”, following the trajectory of how radical intellectuals historically were absorbed into the mainstream. Next was a collection of photos, side by side of several prominent figures. On the left of one, was a young Mia, megaphone in hand screaming about an executive at a protest. On the right was Mia in styled clothing shaking hands with the same executive. Next was a short film with archival footage of prominent investigative journalists, and more recent clips of them presenting a sanitized version of their views. Last was a political cartoon with a well-dressed person with an opaque mask over her face, being puppeteered by strings attached to people labeled as institutions and sponsors. 

She sat alone in her studio apartment, every clip of Jaime’s 7-minute film replaying in her mind. She saw an email from a grant she applied to, about six months ago. The grant was an opportunity to report abroad about any social justice-related topic, with a generous stipend. She applied to go to El Salvador. She would do a deep dive on how gang violence interacts with various other industries. She was accepted. Reporting abroad, working alongside local activists, absorbing another culture, and telling the stories of those who are oppressed. The real work. Some force inside her willed her to decline… compelled her.

She thought of all the times she had questioned whether her work mattered. Whether her hours spent pouring over articles, fundraising, or mentoring young writers had ever made a dent in the systems she railed against. You can’t fix everything, the mask whispered, its voice soft and insidious. Why waste your time on little victories?

Her hand trembled. Instead of clicking decline, she closed the laptop. She didn’t feel strong, or triumphant, or brave, or redeemed. Just tired.

She walked to her bathroom. The iridescent white bottle whispered to her, promising that she would not need to feel anything else. She picked it up, feeling its cool weight in her hand. Slowly, she unscrewed the cap and poured the serum down the drain. She caught her eye in the mirror. Her skin was uneven, her eyes almost lifeless, and her pores were like tiny wells. She looked flawed, human, and painfully real. But, for the first time in a while, she recognized herself.

The next morning, Mia reopened the email. Her hand hovered again, but this time she didn’t hesitate. She clicked accept. She didn’t know what lay ahead. Maybe she would fail. Maybe the work wouldn’t be enough. Change didn’t happen all at once, and it didn’t always come with recognition or reward. But it started somewhere. And this time, she decided, it would start with her.