The Black Mark On Your Permanent Record: 07/01/2004

Thursday, July 08, 2004

- Pen awards entree.

Late June. It is a time where the weather tries to kill you slowly, either by frying you with its unbelievably hot sun, or boiling you with insane amounts of humidity. It is also a time where Mother Nature reminds me she is not only far from perfect, but has instead been born with a massive array of birth defects- such as having the sun grossly mutate into a torturous fireball, and having the wind only blow when I’m indoors. Besides this, it is also the time where stacks of unfinished holiday homework would mock me from across the table, and the reminder of returning to school haunt my dreams.
With such a wonderful environment, it only seemed fitting that inspiration would crawl into the deep, dark recesses of the earth, to pounce on me only when I needed it least.
You see, I was selected to write an essay for the pen awards. The topic? One of the most open topics there could be- My Story. Confusion overwhelmed me. What did this vague topic mean? Now, I have always believed that limitations, contrary to common belief, actually bred creativity. Right then and there, it appeared that Satan had read my mind, and decided to punch me in the gut for coming up with such warped logic.
It almost seemed that way, for as my eyes scrolled down the tiny slip of paper, two words met with them, and proceeded to fling childish taunts at me from the page itself.
“Involve Family”
I panicked. Do not misunderstand; I do not dislike my family. I find them to be less dysfunctional than others. Moreover, should I be stuck in a fire, I can be rest assured they will not stand by and laugh. However, as I had learned from society, family stories were by far one of the least interesting, most boring, and yet hardest to write. It was simply not my style to ramble on about my fat brother and his destructive nature; it was my style to write about things remotely interesting.
Or at least have something worth reading and writing about. Sadly, family hardly fit into either of these categories. Try as I did, I simply could not get past “My father is the core of the house”, before my mind either gave up or wandered off to a much more exciting place.
Before I knew it I had totally abandoned the idea of writing a family story worthy of the average sarcastic, irreverent teenager. I proceeded to writing what I wrote best: Warped and cynical views of events, entwined with a dollop of parody.
Mr. Gneh was the man responsible for my entrance into the competition, so it seemed only reasonable to have him consult my paper. I was confident in my story in all ways but one- if my story fit the topic of “my story”. I watched Gneh’s face as it scanned the paper, sweat drops trickling down my face, past my mouth as it started its own prayer.
“But is it relevant?”
Gneh continued giving ample advice, and while I did catch a phrase or two, most of it was muted by the curses thundering in my head. I had returned back to the nefarious “square one”, my work a waste, and my mind still baffled at the meaning of “My story”. Staying optimistic, I decided that my situation would have been funny from a sadist’s point of view.
“A good story need not have a twist!” I heard him saying, “Some good stories are reflective and insightful! Cliché yet nice! And… are you alright?”
I checked myself, and noticed my right fist was raised, shaking. I forced it down, then bowed. “Thank you Mr. Gneh. I understand.” I walked off, confidence shaken, mind already churning out cheesy plotlines, but perhaps with more of a clue than before.
I spent the next few days weaving up a reflective and insightful story, trying my best to make it sound philosophical like the many other articles out there. I was disgusted at myself, and lamented at how different writing never made it past the mushy, cliché types.
A week later, late at night I stared upon the mess of words upon my screen. It looked like the kind of story only the church would like. I disliked my writing, but knew that it was much more suited for where it was headed. I stared, sighed, and prepared to glue the essay onto my computer forever as my mouse hovered over the “save” button.
Perhaps it was divine intervention, for at that moment, the screen flickered into a dead, black pane of glass. I was puzzled for a while, before the lights in my room flashed off as well. From the darkness, I gazed out the window, and saw rows of lights disappear at a time, and heard shouts of exclamation. Yet I just stood like a dummy, facing the dark night, as if expecting a meteor to descend.
My work. All of it was gone. Disappeared. Erased. For 5 minutes I stood, stunned. I was half expecting the computer to turn on, for this to be all one big prank. Then I trudged downstairs, grabbed a candle, and placed it on my desk. The little light lit up towers of books, and one lone piece of paper on the table. Its big flashy words seem to watch me- “the topic is My Story”
For the ensuing 30 minutes, I looked at the paper. Hope was slowly draining from my body. The competition was over. I picked the paper up, and headed for the bin in the darkness.
Then inspiration hit me like a bullet train on a well greased track moving at full speed.
My story was a story that wrote itself! It made perfect sense! Just then I heard the blessed sound of the computer buzzing, and lights clicking, and leapt onto the computer, hands ready to type.
To type my story about My Story.

A nice 1000 words, just right. Hopefully this will make it through. Critiques are more than welcome. in fact:

"PLEASE TEAR APART MY WRITING THANK YOU KEKEKE ^_____^"

The Black Mark On Your Permanent Record

Author

Posts

Archives

Links

Admin