It was almost as clear as day looking through that box. The box my mother keeps put up on a high shelf of that one special bookshelf that every mom has. It was old, dusty, and a bit damaged, but the lid was almost spotless, due to putting more, newer papers in the box as I brought home some of my school work I suppose . It had slightly changed color over the 15 years, But i guess that's what things do. Inside however seemed to be time travel, almost how you think in those fiction books we used to read as kids.
The stories, oh the stories I would write as a kid. They were all about mythical creatures, monsters, emotions, and whatnot ( most of it was made up). As I'm telling you this, it brings me back to my favorite 1st grade teacher and her classroom. The room smelled of that one fruity cereal we loved as kids. Fruity Pebbles? When we would write it would always smell like coffee. Not that dark roast kind of smell but the smell of coffee with cream and sugar added. Strangely enough she never had coffee with her. I was always fascinated with that. How do you make a room smell like coffee without even it being there? Her hair was long, black and super curly. She wasn't old but not freshly out of college either. Ms. Lauren, the teacher, had us after reading books like skippyjon jones, or a book we read in class, write a small thing and use our book as a prompt. I never was really into that kind of thing. I loved to let my mind roam. So when she was passing out papers I was the only kid. The only kid out of 25 or more of us “ Can I have an extra piece of paper?”
Things were never easy being the one kid doing what they were told yet being different. It was always hard for me to make friends because I was shy- no that's not the word- I was a social butterfly, I just couldn't talk to people. Those writing prompts that Ms. Lauren had given us allowed me to share my fascination of things and help find some people who were interested in those same things. That never really happened though, it was all just a figment of my imagination when it had happened. If it ever did. Later in the year I had asked for a blank composition notebook. The spine of the book really threw me off, It was soft yet rough and it somehow stimulated my brain to continue writing. And in that book I would write these short stories about these same fictional things. I continued to write over the course of 4 or so years.
Those short stories, my mom had read them. I was embarrassed. Yes I enjoyed making people smile but I wasn't too sure about this time. As she read them she seemed to like bits and pieces of it. I can vividly remember her telling me, “ Kayden, These are good, but they all seemed to replicate each other. How about we go to the Library to get you a few books to compare how they wrote them because no two are the same?” As any 10 year old I thought, who still wants to go to the library? Turns out I was one of those people. As I was trying to find some books they all smelled strangely different. I just can't place my finger on it though. Maybe it was the pages or the old woman standing beside me. Either way I was calm. Even though that was just the beginning of my world being flipped upside down.
About 3 or so years down the road however, with a bit of bumps and curves, the books I read and wrote had changed significantly. It went from puppies and rainbows to ghost stories, murder mysteries, ect. Some of those books had a psychological effect on me. I started to never leave my room. Not even to eat. I was questioning things. Life being one of them. I never really understood why but I did. Sometimes it got really bad i would cut myself and try to feel something. Something more. Something different. Turns out that I had a ton of mental disorders I didn't know about. I was never really comfortable talking to people about that kind of stuff. To this day, those books that had a mental effect on me, they don't hurt as much anymore, they just persuade me to keep going. Is persuade the right word? Even now is life what was planned? I guess so. Ms. Lauren Nash will always and forever have a huge impact on how I write, what I write, and my thought process on things.
It's funny how one long distant memory of doing one simple task can have a powerful, yet importance over someone. Isn't it?
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Random stories from Creative writing
Randomjust all of my short stories, flash fiction, fractured fairy tales, poems, obituary stuff and epitaphs from my creative writing class
