short story

tmmBack in 1998/1999, I was in the 5th grade. I was in a new country and I had to make new friends all over again. I was 8/9-years old; I didn’t know that the naïve idea of “friend” I had was nothing but a fantasy.
I digress.
For some reason, all my teachers were impressed with me. They thought I was smart. Actually, a lot of people think I’m smart. I don’t like that. To me, being smart means doing something magnificent in my life. I didn’t invent anything or do anything worthwhile. I don’t have a Nobel Prize in anything.
I digress again.
One of teachers told me about a writing competition. I don’t know why he told me, but I’m glad he did. The prize was a trip to London. London! I was 8/9-years old and I had the opportunity to go to London. I wanted that. I wanted that not because of the prize; I wanted to make my father happy.

I began writing that story. I didn’t know what to write. I didn’t know how or where to start. What’s the fucking story? There wasn’t Google to read on how to write a story. Besides, I only had 2 days to submit my story.
So, I wrote about what I know most: my life. I wrote a story about a naughty boy who is never grateful for what he has and he continuously bullies his sister. One day, this naughty boy gets grounded for something he’s done (I wrote it 18 years ago, so excuse my drug-reduced memory). I think he wanted to buy a new toy but his parents refused. He went to his room in a frantic and closed the door. He fell on his bed and went to sleep.
He woke up some time later and opened the door. The house seemed dark and empty. He felt scared. He started calling out for his parents and sister. No reply.
He ran downstairs and found no one. Hot tea was on the table with unfinished snacks. The TV was on. He checked the garage and found the car parked.
He felt something inside his chest; he couldn’t breathe normally. Suddenly, the house began to shake. Earthquake? No. The house was closing in on him. The walls were shaking and moving towards him. Someone was yelling his name. It was getting darker and narrower. So much noise; so much fear.
He began screaming for his parents. No answer. The ground beneath him was shaking even stronger. The walls are almost touching him now. His breathing is uncontrollable. The voice calling his name was getting louder. It sounded like his father. The boy felt hope; his lungs were able to inflate with some oxygen. The walls are now squeezing him but the voice is getting stronger.

“Wake up” his dad yelled. The little boy woke up in the back seat of the car. They were in the parking lot of the big toys store. His father was standing outside, smiling. The boy didn’t understand what just happened. He got out and hugged his father like an orphan who just met his parents. “I don’t want toys, father” he looked up and smiled, tears running down his eyes and nose. “Having you – my family – is all I ever need.”

And they lived happily ever after.

Guess what? My 8/9-year old self won the award. The Best Short Story in (insert capital of the country I was in).
I won the award. I didn’t know until they called my name at school.
I won the fucking award. I wish I didn’t.

I never wrote anything again until 2009, when I began keeping a journal.

***

  • My name is X. I’m currently a 27-year old human. Both my parents are humans, and so is my entire family.
  • I was born on Earth. The country I was born in is less than 200 years old. Its borders are set by the geography defined by humans. I carry its passport.
  • I can converse in a few languages.
  • I used to have friends, but I couldn’t define what “friends” mean, so I don’t have friends anymore.
  • I’m married to the girl I loved, even though I still don’t know what love means. But I loved her anyways because of the feelings that took over me.
  • I’m a very confused human. I don’t understand what life means; I’m not sure if the previous question is a valid question; I don’t know if the word valid is used correctly in the previous sentence.
    • I don’t have a favorite sport. I don’t have a favorite team. I don’t have a favorite color. I don’t have a favorite food. I don’t have a favorite song. I don’t have a favorite anything. I don’t understand how to know what’s my favorite (insert anything).
  • It’s difficult for me to understand the definitions set by other humans, so I spend most of my time observing them. What do they mean by love? What do they mean by trust? What do they mean by “I’ll be there in 5 minutes” when in fact they arrived 15 minutes later?
  • I enjoy finding patterns in people’s behaviors; there’s always a pattern; the way they move their hands when they’re nervous, the words they use when they’re upset, the tone and tempo of their speech,..etc.
  • I have no clear goals in my life other than finding a goal(s).

You can read more about me (from me) here.

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3 thoughts on “short story

  1. That’s one helluva prize! A trip to London? What I wouldn’t do to earn one…Anyhow, that’s quite an imaginative story you came up right then considering your age. I know this is 2 decades late but congratulations!

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