A Writing/Literature Student’s Curse

I remember taking out a sheet of lined paper and placing it on the table to write. It took me a second to start. The words flowed; I did not really care about the choice in words or even the grammar. It was a foolish attempt to write and the time when I wrote some of the most illegible pieces I have ever done. But many of the ideas from back then survived. Many of the “big projects” come from that time.

Scratching my head, rubbing my eyes, I can’t seem to write like that anymore. The words must go through a careful screening process. Each one must convey the exact meaning I want. Every action must only be the correct one. I can’t let any interpretation change the way any reader perceives the story.

That is the curse of literature’s student. When I added the literature major as an undergrad in my senior year, I immersed myself in a world where words could be interpreted. For the longest time, I only assumed the author’s intent had true meaning. If a reader failed to see what the author wanted, the author failed and so did their work. There was not much to it.

This field, the literary field, opened a door, one that showed the power of interpretation. A simple action, a girl smiling across the hall, could mean something huge in a book. Was it attraction? Friendship? Acceptance? All words in books led down to several hundred paths, all acceptable options of understanding and criticism. It was great! I could say anything and everything. My essays for school became true criticism. I could justify my personal interpretations and judge books in a completely different ways. Terrible books became good books. Good books became amazing.

Everything spun out of control. I let this “field” spill into the real world. I stopped enjoying some things I used to. Comic books became dry and unoriginal. I could see little problems they had that “true” literature did not. The same happened to movies. I became a cynical critic. I wish it had stopped there. I started analyzing people’s actions and words. Everything they said came with a huge weight of meaning. A good morning, depending on the emphasis of words, could mean things so different that I broke my head to understand them. I wished there was an off button. I wished I could turn it off. Graduate school made it worse.

This year, I began going back. I decided to use old types of criticism. No more reader response. I enslaved myself to historical criticism. In order to validate understanding, I had to look at its origins. I thought that would somehow stop me from analyzing things. It did not.

Now, I joke about it. I act oblivious and lie about things. I do it to be happy. I attempt to ignore actions. I ask for explanations and annoy people in the process. Yet, my mind goes through hundreds of scenarios, hundreds of explanations, and hundreds of meanings when someone talks to me. But I joke about it. I laugh and say, “I tend to over analyze things.” 

Flash Fiction - The Boy of Steel

There was once a boy made out of steel. In his village, the people praised him, worshiping for the protection the boy offered. He defended them from beasts and monsters from the outer boy, bravely gazing into the eyes of creatures that defied definition.

With the years, the boy’s confidence increased. And in the excitement, he forgot fear and death, thinking himself invincible. He fought things bigger than his village, slayed monsters of nightmares and won wars for his country. Together, the people and the boy proclaimed divine right, deifying the boy, placing him on a pedestal of honor. In his name, the people built monuments and buildings of gold and jewels, praising his name as savior.

But in the far lands, an eye of greed opened in the shouts of delight, noticing the bounty and beauty, something he had never seen in such quantity. It saw the gold and wanted. It saw the jewels and needed them. It saw the boy reflect the colors of the light and desired him.

It came at night, lighting the darkness as day. The people ran. Many died in the first barrage. The fire flowed, thick as liquid, so hot it burned white. The people cried, “where is our hero?”

Proud and bold, the boy ran at the dragon, his sword gleaming with courage. He jumped and struck, sliced its scales. And before it fell, it roared in pain. The boy landed close, iron clad, and stuck his sword on the earth.

“The beast is slayed,” the people cheered.

The dragon had never seen so much pride in a single man. It was too much. No one could have more than he. It was the dragon’s way. This metal boy, who glowed yellow and red, surrounded by flames had to cease. The dragon rose; the people froze. The white, a hot so fierce, fell on the boy and burned him more, a pain so high he screamed beyond the sobs and tears his people shed for the fear for the boy, their fallen boy of silver and steel. The white liquid melted him red along his sword, leaving a mirroring pool. So proud and bold, the boy now lay, nothing more and nothing less than any coin that could buy greed.

Satisfied, the dragon flew, threw his wings and picked up wind. The people saw it fly beyond the morning sun, away from their town and their fragile lives.

Dobin watched the sun rise behind the earth, looking out the only circular window in the ship. He tried counting all of the sunrises he’d seen. How many were there? The arithmetic, although simple, felt worse than his final examinations in aeronautics. The number itself felt like a thousand needles going down his throat. It was 1278 of them without counting the first week, the week when the accident happened, the week when the fuel line exploded behind them and sent the ship hurling over 1 kilometer per second on the wrong direction, stranding him and his entire crew in the endless void, forever falling towards earth but never returning home.

Somehow, they had made it this far, eating only enough to keep their bodies functioning. But that was not enough. Now, three years and a half later, the food ran out. They would die in a few days. Dobin contemplated death. How much would it hurt? To starve to death? He found it ironic. Everything around him was meant to keep them alive in the most harsh environment known. The ship recycled water, filtering and cleaning it to perfection although the taste remained. It also replenished oxygen through a complicated machine and kept the nonexistent pressure from killing them. Yet, they would die of starvation. The one thing they could not prevent. But what if it hurt too much? Why not end it at that moment? He could use any of the complex instruments to cut something vital. Or, he could simply open the hatch and let space rip his body apart. That couldn’t hurt as much. He would freeze so fast that it would be instantaneous.

Enhat woke up, and started shouting, scaring Bilney and Donbin alike.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Donbin shouted back.

“A ship! It’s a fucking ship!” Enhat said.

“A what?”

“There’s a ship coming at our six, just look outside!”

Donbin pressed his face against the window, his breath leaving a circle on the glass. “Fuck me,” he said. “They came. They came!”

Enhat was the first one to exit the stranded pod and float his way to the ship, an unmanned explorer. Bilney and Donbin quickly followed, each taking a seat on the command module. The three cried as they started the engines. They had enough fuel to make it to the Mun and back. They would make it back home.

“Three years and a half,” Donbin said. “1278 days. 30,680 hours. We will be back home in just a couple of hours”

The engines roared and Kerbin grew in size. They all smiled.

You Did Not Call Back and I Love You for It

      The sun blinded me as I opened the bar’s door. It was 6 p.m. but it felt like 4 a.m. It was the same every day. It took so much energy to do anything, from working to living so I inched my way into the crevices of society. I guess it started three years before, shortly before I decided to move to the promise land of New York. It was supposed to be a new life, a bold life. But I spent most of my time wasting away in that bar than actually living.

      I walked down the street, ignoring people until I caught a glimpse of her face out of the corner of the eye. For I moment, I felt it was just one of those moments when you think you’ve seen something but it is just your mind playing tricks on you. Yet, I still turned, as anyone would to confirm the question. I stopped. And for the first time since I moved to this city, I looked at a magazine stand. There was no doubt about it. It was her face, the face with those brown eyes that always enchanted me, so unreal and almost fantastical. She smiled the smile I remembered so well, the image of legitimate happiness, a smile that could turn the worst of days into fantastic gifts of life.

      I picked up the magazine and stared at the cover until the vendor said, “no reading, pay for book,” in an accent from an uncharted land. I paid him and walked back home, the magazine carefully rolled up in my hand. I did not know what magazine I purchased. I did not care; I did not intend to read it; I just wanted to see her face again. The memories hurt. Nothing is worse than regret, the regret of having done something and realizing how bad you fucked up when it was too late. I hurt her and destroyed the best thing I ever had.

      I looked back at my life. I was a pitiful mess while she went on smiling. I never even thought I would get to see her do so again. Before the image, the last I remember about her were those tears that hurt me more than bullets. Each one of them weighed more than I could even bear to remember. But there it was, that smile I loved and missed, rolled up in the half-sober hands of the one person who wanted to see her the most. At home, I placed my phone on my desk and stared at it. How long had it been? A year? Two? I lied to myself by asking. I knew exactly how long it was.

      I dialed her number, my finger content to dance the familiar sequence, forming a cross with the last four digits. Something about it felt right, as if I were gaining something I lost many years before.

      The tone rang once. Shit, I thought. What the hell am I doing? She wouldn’t want to speak to me after what I said. No, for what I did.

      The tone rang again. Besides, who could say this was still her phone number? She might have changed it some time ago.

      The tone rang once more and I felt a form of relief. If she didn’t pick up, I could just pretend I never called. I could pretend and move on. But a message played. It was her voice, an apologetic voice asking to leave a message, promising to call back later. I considered hanging up. If I did not leave a message, I could pretend to move on.

      “I am sorry,” my voice cracked and I paused, “for everything.”

      She never called back and I hated her for it; I needed it. How could she smile when I suffered? The unfairness filled me with rage and a form of passion that locked me into a different mindset. I unplugged the television and worked on my novel for three weeks, never allowing myself to stop for any type of distraction. The few that knew me, sent me texts, called my phone, and even came to see me to make sure I was fine, but I never wavered. I surrounded myself by my mental world and isolated myself from society, disconnecting myself from reality.

      When I turned in my completed manuscript, my editor grinned and called it my best in three years. Before leaving her office, I requested to add a dedication, something I had declined ever since my first published work. After the third book I declined adding anything, my editor simply stopped asking. At first, she acted surprised but did not question the single sentence I wanted:

      “You did not call back and I love you for it.”