Monday, April 11, 2005
A portrait of the artist as a young freak
My mom has been cleaning out the garage lately, and has unearthed a variety of ancient artifacts. This morning, she brought to my attention a story I wrote when I was nine years old.

I was always something of a Wednesday Addams kind of child. Very odd, slightly gothic. My little schoolmates were a bit wary of me. I gave a presentation of the cannibal scene from Robinson Crusoe in the sixth grade complete with bones and fake blood. Two girls vomited on the spot. It gave me a real sense of accomplishment.

Anyway, this untitled short story is proof of just how weird I was. Remember, I was nine. Nine.

Once upon a time, a man named Hank sat in a chair in a small room waiting. He did not know what he was waiting for, but he knew he must wait. You see, this is your key - your key to "THE DOOR TO FICTION!"

Hank had been waiting for many centuries, since 1301. A strange person had told him to wait. He had given Hank a key and said not to use it until he didn't want to live any more. He had then led Hank into a large building that was smaller on the inside than it was when Hank looked in. Then it came, the thing Hank was waiting for. He did not know it was there, he just felt its presence. Hank unlocked the one door in the building and died.

In retrospect, perhaps "Hank" isn't an historically accurate name for someone who was around in 1301. Or maybe it is, I really don't know. But there you have it.