Of Glens and Ghosts

Of Glens and Ghosts - Chapter One

Chapter One

"Does Anyone Remember the Due Date?"

"Tick...tock...went the clock during the last few minutes of my British Literature class. It is a steady, monotonous rhythm that synchs perfectly with the consistent orchestra of pencil drumming, muffled yawning, and the quiet turning of pages which told the students long lost and forgotten tales. In my university's English Education program, the deep, deep roots of double standards and hypocrisy grows deep, spreading as if old authors and their older stories had become poisoned by their "irrelevance" within modern society. Simply because any form of self-expression is forfeit if it might make someone look privileged, close-minded, or conceited.

According to the administration, the branches of tradition must be broken, in order for newer saplings to grow. Which is true to a certain extent, as long as someone does not dismiss a piece of literature on the basis of "new" or "old." But of course, genres such as fantasy, and even classics are necessary for human flourishing because they provide us with experiences different from our own. And thus, I have taken it upon myself to remember the forgotten, and to revive the relevance in the stories which have become lost among the stars in the sky. Again, I say: "tick...tock...went the clock—ticking away at the minutes until all of our expression and escapes dissolve into the thin air of reality—unless some lucky souls can grasp hold of it before it's too late."

I inhaled softly as I attempted to pause dramatically and placed my hands on the library's pretend "podium" which was actually a chair. The symphony of my short speech came to a close—accompanied by one or two soft claps from my co-teaching partner Tristan—who also loves literature. I smiled back at him and awkwardly waved my jazz hands, trying to ignore the crickets chirping from the rest of the table. "That sounded fine, El—the only suggestion I have is to improve your volume—because if I can be honest, your short story's subject matter is bold. Being bold can be healthy depending on who you're with, so just be ready for curveball questions." He said. Ah yes, the unfortunate reality of the curveball question. Some say it was designed to scare the ever-loving daylights of introverts, English teachers, or both parties depending on what is being asked of us. It's me, I am a representative of both parties. "Thanks for reminding me, Tristan," I said sarcastically, "maybe I'm thinking wishfully right now, but hopefully the class will be open-minded during today's fiction writing workshop."

Now if there's one thing you've probably learned about me, Elspeth, is that I am a sucker for a good story—particularly one that will help me escape somewhere far away from curveball questions and other things of that sort. And I consider myself luckier this fall semester because I am not the only escapist around at the moment. Dr. Quill, my professor of British Literature and Mythology, is like a captain on a lifeboat—sensibly controlling the helm through the storms of stress. He can take something that seems boring on the surface, or a story that is extremely difficult and transforms it into pure, engaging magic. It's insane, and sometimes I think he might actually be a wizard in disguise such as Radagast the Brown from The Hobbit. Or maybe it's his Scottish accent, which makes everything he lectures about sound extraordinary, as if he came from somewhere ruled by fairies and talking trees.

Tristan's voice suddenly broke into my thoughts as he began to place his laptop back into his backpack. "Cheers, Elspeth, I'll drink to that." he chuckled softly while jokingly raising a toast with his can of Ollipop soda. I did the same with my water bottle and swung my backpack around my shoulders as we began to walk through the exit and into the crisp, Autumn air. I could not help but grin as the reddish-brown leaves flew past us from a slightly blustery burst of wind. Each one that zipped past me almost seemed to speak, saying "oh Elspeth, please remember me when I return from a meeting with winter," before disappearing into the greyish-blue sky. In that moment, I wish I could respond with the promise that I wouldn't forget them, no matter how old and withered they became. Because to me, each one would always remain beautiful with every passing day.

"Today reminds me of a poem," I said to Tristan, (or rather blurted without thinking), "you know, with the leaves and everything. It makes me wonder where they're heading off to when Winter arrives, and how even though they were once young and green, their beauty doesn't fade as time passes. It just is appreciated in a different way. Sort of like people, in a sense that we never know where we're coming from or going-off-to in our careers, we just hang on to the hope that we'll always be remembered for something good." Tristian looked up from his phone and glanced around at the blowing leaves before catching one in his hand. He grasped its brown stem, and held it out in front of him, and then towards me. "Recite the poem, El," he remarked coolly. "What?" I retorted, feeling a little bit caught off-guard. "You heard me. You've made me curious. If you're willing to share, then tell me how Elspeth the poet might send this leaf off on its long journey from home." said Tristian. I nodded, pausing in deep thought, when inspiration struck:

Sometimes it is boggling

How often the seasons change

And new life turns away to begin sobbing

When summer begins to arrange

A meeting when leaves start falling

For winter's tears are now gauged

But here I am, still stalling

And waiting for newer days.

With the poem being said, done, and out there—Tristan let go of the stem—allowing it to float up and away further into the sky. In that moment, it almost looked as if the leaf was waving goodbye at us. "I suppose I don't know if that saying is true, El—" said Tristan. "Which saying?" I asked, or rather accidentally interrupted. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and continued. "You know, that one about when you love something so much, that you must let it go." I nodded, for there are still so many things I feel so passionate about or anxious about, and yet I am still stalling—waiting to let them go until the right moments. I looked up towards the open sky. "I'm not sure if I'm ready to let everything go yet."