Story

In the end it was a classic. Nothing original, but old time honored ideas placed into a new package and pushed into the market again. But what could be done? There may be no limit to ideas, but there is a limit to how many a person may access within their lifetime. So is it really surprising that the plot contained nothing to be toted as brilliant or original? That was simple the state of things and it could not be altered.

To be truthful he wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to edit it. Call him silly and sentimental, but it was his secret project and he rather liked it. Grammatically correct with a foolproof plot, it had reduced even Shari to tears. A difficult task granted Shari was perhaps the toughest individual alive. But it was worth it, three years of his life lived like an outcast. Three years of beating his head against the wall until it bled, just to make the right words spill out.

A boy who loves a girl

Simple. But that was the first page. And essentially, that was his story. His great American novel was nothing other than a love story. A romance between two teenagers in the midst of a normal society. Simplistic and classic. He didn’t care much that he was a guy, and guys were not supposed to feel emotion, much less allow it out onto paper. This was his talent, the manipulation of words until one forgot that they were, in fact, outside the story.

Opens his mouth to share his mind

So with the manuscript in hand he walked through the halls. The pages bundled tightly into a neat, eight and one half by eleven inch, black and white stack. It was strange to walk those halls with the papers under his arm. It felt as though the entire world would look at him, look at the pages, and see right through him. And what they would do with the knowledge terrified him. If they could see into his mind, the inner workings, would they approve? Or would it be his fate to wander eternity shunned. But life is nothing without a thrill, so he continued to walk, pausing occasionally to speak to someone he knew, or smile at someone he’d like to know.

But is muzzled by the mind itself

He stopped now. Because she was there, standing there beside her locker the same as everyday. She was his best friend. The one he’d trusted most, but even she didn’t know. And today he would tell her. Confess his thoughts and let her read them, to see if she’d approve. He could see it, her mouth soften while her eyes smiled, she would turn the pages and understand everything he kept to himself. The bits of his soul she always encouraged him to bare. Here it was, everything he’d ever wanted, neatly typed, times new roman and double spaced. She looked up and waved hello. He stopped. What if she was like the rest? What if no matter how high a pedestal he placed her on, she was still the same as them all. What if she looked at him, at the words, and laughed. Shook her head and left?

So the cycle begins again

In such a mindset of total terror he arrived at the locker. Hellos were exchanged and, being naturally curious, she asked what he was carrying, oh nothing, nothing important, was the response he said as he stuffed it in his locked and quickly closed it.

“So how was your weekend?”

“Fine, yours?”

“About the same.”

With the formalities out of the way they turned and went to class, chemistry today. One of their favorites it gave them a chance to talk while pretending to study a frog or whatever it was they were supposed to be doing. The freedom to chose their own lab partners was greatly appreciated as well.

Not unlike all the times before

Once in class they sat down in their seats. Where they always did. After all, this was their spot. Everyone knew. The teacher stood in front of the class and spoke, they didn’t pay attention, never did. The scrape of chairs and shuffling of papers alerted them to the fact that the lab was beginning. He moved, automatically, towards their lab station, this time, it was she who stopped. His name was Mike, she said, only blushing a little, is it ok to work with him today? Overhead the lights fluttered, victims of budget cutbacks, sure, he shrugged, makes no difference to me. You’re the best, said she.

But something is harsher this time.

From his lab station, he watched them. And when it finally made him sick, and he had to blink, he turned his eyes towards the instructions before him. But alas it was simply words. He stared at them and rearranged, turned them from something drab to something beautiful, placed them where they ought to be. But no one noticed. Not even she, she was with Mike. The sound of them reached his ears. And while she laughed his thoughts rewound to the writing of his story. The hero had made a joke, to cheer up this lonely girl, and the girl had looked at him with sparkling eyes and laughed. And with that laugh she said so much, she said thank you, you’ve made me happy, and for that I may be able to love you. And he remembered trying to describe that laugh, and thinking back to her, remembering the last time she laughed. He remembered dreaming at night of how she;d look, with that laugh in her face when he told her that she was his motivation. His inspiration for that laugh.

With reason unknown, the sting is amplified.

But the script was in his locker. And it would stay there. Because the story had to be changed. Silly him for thinking it was done, for thinking happily ever after made a good ending. He’d have to change it. And when he had changed, he would show it to her and see if it made her happy. The girl, in his story, she would meet and angel, yes, an angel on earth, and together then would leave for sights unknown. The hero who made he laugh. He would stand back and let her go, understanding that she needed someone with wings like hers. And he would hope she would forgive him for ever trying to hold her back, for selfish reasons. For thinking that one like her would have time to read his story. But it didn’t matter much how he changed it really, one way or another, it would be a classic.