My First Story

Like a blind man seeing for the first time, the scales were ripped from my eyes. Part of me longed for them to be placed back, but another, much more prevalent part was overwhelmed with excitement. Words became more than letters on a page but an outlet for emotion and a new place to call my home. My first story, my first step into life.

We were given the simple prompt of writing a gothic narrative; the story's events were entirely up to the author. My adrenaline began to rise as ideas started to fly into my head. Different storylines and characters were concocted in a matter of seconds. Images began to swarm in, a picture of an overgrown abandoned mansion enveloping my brain. I grew entranced with the storyline growing in front of me, but as if I was struck by a bolt of electricity, the bell rang, and I was snapped back into reality. The day continued, and I went class to class, but all I could consider was this story in my mind and the characters I had just begun to dream of.

The words came rushing in like a tidal wave. Too many to count. An image being drawn in my brain, no more than an image, thousands of pictures interlaced with words, knitted together, becoming a beautiful tapestry. So many words, I have to write them down, get them out of my head and onto a paper. A cool breeze rushed in as I sat there through the open window. I felt the cool air rush down my back. A soothing chill flowed down my spine. I looked at the pen and paper before me and began to write. The words started to flow off my tongue and onto the paper—the first needle in the tapestry.

The words began to leave the world of my mind and join the world of the paper. An endless expanse grew around them. Then the strangest thing happened: I, too, left the world of my mind, or the actual world of reality, and was in the world of the paper. The earthly surroundings vanished, and all I saw was the story as it began to unfold. A helpless bystander watching these lives I created learn to love, hate, feel joy and sorrow, and learn to live but with that, learn to suffer. I wanted to change the words leaving my hand, to erase their suffering and give them peace and rest, but I knew I couldn't. They were as bound to living this story as I was to writing it. I watched their lives crumble and felt guilty as I was the one causing the destruction. A chill ran down my spine, undoubtedly caused by my guilt for being their doom.

"I have become death, the destroyer of worlds." In minutes, I have breathed life into the world just to murder it a few moments later. The chill is electrocuting my spine once again. The familiarity of the cold roused me just the smallest amount. This chill, what is it? Where did it come from? An image flowing into my brain, an open window, cool fall air. I opened my eyes and looked around; I was back in my room, my pen in front of me placed next to it, a stack of paper entitled "The Eyes of Jackdaw Mansion.”

My whole class read my story, and to my shock, they loved it. My teacher approached me and said, “Isaiah, this is the best short story I have ever read; go get it published.” An overwhelming feeling of pride and joy rushed over me; maybe I could do this. Perhaps I could be a writer, tell the stories to everyone I usually just share with myself. There was no going back; I had received my first taste of what it felt like to write. I must continue. I will choose to embrace this new world in front of me.