Mark is out there somewhere. I don’t know where exactly, but he’s there. Maybe spitting in a milkshake he’s making at Burger King, or fishing in a creek in Taipei, or sitting in despair in his basement wondering what he’d done to deserve the life he has. He’s out there somewhere. And goddammit, he’s a better writer than me.
Let me put this in perspective. Almost twenty years ago, at the age of 14, I knew I loved writing. It was freeing to go into my own little world and muck about, far away from the teachers and bullies and chores that pervade the life of an American adolescent. These were my little escapes and I frollicked in them, spurred on by compliments that were elsewise held back by those I admired. And I got cocky.
A teacher had told us of an assignment where the goal was simply to write a three to four page short story. The best one would be sent to be showcased in an art show at the county fair. At the time, the task seemed monumental (which is laughable today), but I was bound to rise to the occasion. Calling forth every crazy idea I wanted, I threw together a story about a man who, after massive experimentation, had gained the ability to adapt to whatever situation he needed to escape. If he was burned, his skin would turn to steel, if he was struck, spines would grow on his body. It was random and fun and I wielded a hubris for the book that was as laughable as the challenge of the three page story is today.
And I lost.
In the same class as me was Mark. He was thin, with pale skin, acne, a pinched voice and black, wiry hair, a born victim of ridicule in the ridiculous atmosphere that is high school. And somehow he’d won. This wasn’t possible. I had this. I’d owned this story. Surely the teacher was mistaken or Mark had cheated or alien’s had switched the papers or something. I had to find out how this had happened. So I asked him to let me see it...
Originally Published via The Frank Martin Review