Short Stories

February 2016

A recent story this time, a creative writing school assignment. We could choose to write on the theme of escape from reality, domestic violence or both. Guess which one I chose ;P Anyway we had started writing in class using chromebooks (those are portable computers— yes, our school has money) and as is usually my case, at first I felt stuck. Normally it doesn't bother me, I could just think about it later, but here I had a whole period of class ahead of me and I was supposed to write at least something. But it was impossible to concentrate because all my other classmates were typing away and it just drove me crazy. The bell rang and I hadn't written a single line. We had three more class periods to work on it and we were allowed to write at home too, but my homework load was way too heavy so I just came in the next class and sat down in front of the screen again. My mind was still blank and I finally got tired of it, so I simply decided to write the first thing that crossed my mind and see where it would lead me. One paragraph later I was typing away just like the others :D

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Escape from reality

It's no use. This is just going to be another fifty minutes of staring contest with this stupid computer screen. Last time was no better: a whole hour spent staring at my computer, torturing my brain, looking up things to inspire me, and fifty minutes later I had brushed a couple of ideas but landed on nothing. It's not really my fault― hearing the constant tap of fingers on keyboards all around me made me acutely aware of the fact that others were boiling with inspiration, while I faced the blankness of writer's block. I won the staring contest, though.

The subject of this creative writing isn't that hard― escape from reality. What I do every day. Most people would say I escape by reading, but actually the best way to cut myself off from the world is to daydream. It's what I do in the car when I go to school, when I come home on the bus, in my bed before going to sleep. Those are the calmest moments in my hectic everyday life, the moments where there is plenty of space for all my current worries to seep into my mind one by one and I have to clamp them down before they become strong enough to make me choke on my own tears. By daydreaming I am able to create a bubble around my mind filled with thoughts that take me far away from the bus, the car, my bed, far from school and even my friends and family, a bubble devoid of any lingering link to reality, except maybe a flicker of fluttery fear in the background― a subconscious acknowledgement of the world surrounding me, a troubled world which my consciousness has let go of to drift into the restful depths of imagination. That is how every day, my soul temporarily leaves this world to enter the next, an intermediate level between heaven and hell, tilting one way or the other depending on the path my ideas take... Usually my thoughts help me guide my spirit upwards, but at times they take an unpleasant turn, and I start tilting until I topple over— the light suddenly darkens and I feel myself falling for a half-second, landing as hard as if I'd plummeted from a mile-high cliff— the bubble pops, my eyes snap open, the hardness of immediate reality hits me with full force, leaving me in a disoriented haze for a second before I am able to focus again. The deeper my mind wanders, the harder the fall... Even once a pleasant line of thought has crossed the threshold to unconsciousness, a sharp turn may still break it— a dream's trailing beauty snagging on the hem of a cape draped over the horror of a lurking nightmare — tripping over itself until there is nothing left but sharp awareness, the world fading back into place with painful detail and mocking clarity.

Having the ability to create a stable and truly relaxing daydream requires experience... When you first try to create your own bubble, your daydream may seem shaky and shifting. It's easier to push your line of thought where you want it to go than to lightly guide it before letting it go wherever it chooses; but there is no real daydream as long as there is a conscious effort to manipulate it. With my years of practice, I can enter a daydream — eyes open or closed — in less than a minute, and most of the time the only things that can pull me out of it are external factors like the slamming of a door, the braking of the bus, or the passage of time. The thoughts in my bubble have the power to take me anywhere, as far away as a parallel world, as far away as ten years from now. Often my thoughts direct themselves towards a happy event from earlier that day, turning it over in my head until my excitement tires, but most often they choose another path, scenes from a fantasy story I dream of writing, a line of thought I never tire of— the shaping and moulding of ever more elaborate characters, of an ever more intricate world... I feel like it has always been inside me, like a second nature, like a seed waiting to be planted. My passion for reading was the first to water and nourish it; then one day in 4th grade I found my best friend sitting on the ground at recess, head bent, knees drawn up almost to her chest, her eyes and pen alive with the thrill of creation, and I asked her with unrestrained curiosity, "What are you doing?" Her eyes darted to me, and a small grin broke her once intent expression. "I'm writing."

That day I discovered something more to my life, something beyond the passiveness of reading; the seed was now a seedling, peeking for the first time over the dirt that had once encased it, taking its first look at the infinite horizon; an idea was born. I then tentatively wrote my first stories, my ideas shifting with the books I read, until a recent reading of Tara Duncan and Percy Jackson steered them a particular way— they bumped into another planet, a dragon, a girl with extraordinary powers, and never bothered to move on. My seedling had matured into a plant, asserting its presence in my mind and digging its roots into my imagination. Since then it has never ceased to inspire me, triggering more ideas as it grew, the tip of its stems twining with my fingers and pen, its rough and sprawling roots spreading and unfurling in the labyrinths of my mind, so that as it grows, the world it embodies expands and strengthens with it, slowly and steadily pervading my imagination, gently but firmly becoming my own alternate reality. The world in this new reality is a world full of colors and life where I can be free, imagination thrumming and emotions aswirl. I share the most intimate relationship with my characters, so that none of them can be qualified as my friends; though they have no knowledge of my existence, they are a part of me, and I a part of them. Swifter than any god, a single shift of my thoughts can alter their fates and turn their respective realities upside down. At first I explored this new world so that I may write it out in a publishable book; but today, more than a project, it has become the homeland of my daydreams, the surest of escape routes. When fate turns my world into a living nightmare I know there is another place, a place deep in my mind, a place close to my heart, where I can be fate, as carefree and reckless as it gets. Some people escape the burden of a weary existence by risking their life in every possible way; I confront my heroes to impossible situations and evil nemeses. Some people escape the torment of a crumbling future with drugs and desire; I plunge to the heart of my inner reality, play around with the science and physics of my world, invade into my characters' most private moments, which is more addictive than anything I've ever experienced before. Some people escape the hopelessness and frustration of their life by becoming the toughest bully in the school; I oppress my characters, make them suffer twice as much as I do, in the security of my role as a merciless god.

Escape from reality, 1200 words. I made it. How did I go from a staring contest to metaphors woven through four dense paragraphs? I guess personal experience is the best source of inspiration in some cases. But I still needed a little more than that. In order to overcome the tapping of fingertips, the glaring whiteness of an empty page, I had to form a bubble around my mind to evacuate the outer pressure. I had to find my balance in an intermediate world where my lack of inspiration made me tilt and topple countless times. I had to tread carefully for fear of breaking a fragile line of thought. I had to let my inner blossom take control of me so that it might tell its story. I had to immerse myself in my alternate reality and hover over my inner world to look at it from an angle I'd never considered before.

I had to escape from reality.