If there was one word to describe Sam, that word was “curious.” He was a young boy with a mean case of inquisitiveness. His Father, one of the wealthiest lawyers in Manhattan, had just bought the family a massive property with acres of land just outside of the city centre. “This,” Sam thought to himself, “is heaven.”
As mentioned before, Sam was a boy with an insatiable appetite for discovery. He was as curious as can be, and was bursting at the seams to get out into his new backyard to explore. He shot out of the backdoor like a bat out of hell, running for the trees lining the back of the property. “My god, that boy cannot sit still for more than two minutes without running off” said his Father.
“From here all the way to here” said Sam, talking to himself while waving a finger in the air, drawing out his imaginary tree-top fortress. Everything was going according to plan. He had established which trees would house his fictional stronghold (the tallest ones of course) and now, all that was left to do was go figure out which of his imaginary friends would he show his new domain first.
Sam was a child that didn’t exactly attract the other kids his age. In fact, he had a reverse effect on them, the other children were repelled away, lacking the level of curiosity and imagination Sam possessed. He wasn’t one with many friends, so he had to make do with what he had. Running around the yard, looking for things that he could decorate his newfound fictional fortress with, Sam was one happy kid. Continuing on his romp around his new backyard, he discovered a small hole in the fence at the far corner. Peering through the hole he noticed his neighbour, a young boy around his age, sitting with his back against the fence. Sam called out to him, and when the boy on the other side of the fence turned around, Sam noticed he was crying, hard.
Taken aback by this, never had he seen such a clear portrayal of sadness on another humans face. When he asked what was wrong, the response he got was one that changed him, troubled him deeply. The story was so evil, so upsetting, that Sam never went on another adventure in the backyard again after that day. The story left such a mark on Sam, that the boy that was once filled with so much curiosity and fantasy, was now one that spent his days inside, the lights that was once inside had been dimmed. He wished everyday that he had not come across the boy on the other side of the fence. But, of course, it was too late. For once a story is told it cannot be called back. Once told, it is loose in the world. So you have to be careful with the stories you tell. And you have to watch out for the stories you are told.
~~~~~
Reading something aloud that I have written is a pretty foreign concept to me. Although the story was short and done rather quickly, it was still a very interest process from beginning to end. I ended up telling my story to my parents, who had two different reactions to hearing it. My dad, kind of half listening, gave me a thoughtful nod and said that it was interesting, really only taking the story at surface level. When I told my mom, she listened intently from start to finish, and we had a long conversation about it afterwards. I guess the story itself is about the youthful innocence being robbed from this young boy at a time when he was least expecting it, quite a sullen situation. But, all in all I found this to be a very thought-provoking exercise, and a totally new experience for me and for that im grateful!
2 Comments
Hi Aidan,
Thank you for your thoughtful, vivid, and well told story! I appreciate your decision to locate the coming of evil on a more personal, individual level. As a story of (potentially lost) innocence and imagination, your tale reminds me of Lewis Carroll’s Alice books. Alice, too, is a “curious” child, both in the sense of being inquisitive and in the sense of being unusual! And I think you’re perceptive to draw attention toward the incredible impact stories, images, and ideas can have on us as children–and, on the other hand, how important stories of childhood and growth tend to be for adults.
You’re right (I think) in that we who spend quite a bit of time and effort on writing in one form or another often have a lot to learn and enjoy from speaking and reading aloud. I certainly felt this (to give one example) when I found myself writing for radio–and having to come to terms with the wordiness and convolutions of my language! (Your writing, however, is elegant.) It’s great that you brought something of a comparative method to bear on your storytelling and reflection. As Thomas King demonstrates, the story really changes every time, even if the substance and even the words remain the same (1). You noted the reactions of your parents, and I’m curious as to whether you found your own telling changing based on the responses you were getting throughout. Do you have any feelings about how the situation of the telling changes the story’s shape and even extends it? You mention that you carried on with a long conversation afterwards with your mother, and I do feel that, in a way, the stories we tell are always open and unfinished in some way, inviting discussion, variation, and elaboration.
Hi Aiden~
I have to say your choice of picture (one I recognize from my literature studies of days gone by) had me on edge from the beginning. Like Connor mentioned in his comment, I too like how you attributed the creation of evil in a singularity — that is, one young boy who is changed irrevocably by it in the end.
Reading our classmates stories, and I include mine in this, it is interesting to me to see the pattern of curiosity that leads to the “creation of evil.” I wonder at whether or not there is some outside influence as to why our generation may associate curiosity as being a cause to the creation of such evil. I also wonder if there would be a different characteristic that older or younger generations might attribute to being the force behind finding evil and releasing it onto the world.
I also told my story to my parents, and had a very similar experience respectively from them. What is it about moms that strives to open up the discussion and further our learning, I wonder. Whereas, with dads, it seems that they are somewhat half attentive to the learning process…Though to be fair to my own dad, he is more of a hands on kind of guy rather than an academic, whereas my mother is literally an University professor at UBC.