The presents you get for the holidays always help you understand what others identify you as that year. When I was going through my artsy phase I got every type of paint brush imaginable, when I was into music I got endless CD’s, and when sports was my thing I got a whole shelf worth of stuff from sporting authority. So it’s easy to guess just the type of presents I got this year after finding an interest in writing. If you guessed books you’re right, but more specifically I got every short story book imaginable. With this in mind, I’ve decided to accept the identity my relatives have chosen for me and try my hand at some very short stories.
A lot of times during my conversations with my Pop Pop he tells me quick anecdotes that stick out to me but that I feel no need to further reflect on or write a two page essay analyzing. Like Goldilocks at the end of her book, some of my Pop Pop’s stories are “just right.” So to begin my series of “pocket-sized stories,” I’ll tell you one from last week’s conversation:
It was my first time taking a real college English class. It was an English Composition class and it was as exciting as it was daunting. It was held in one of those huge lecture halls that feel like the Colosseum and the professor looked exactly how you would imagine a college English professor to look like: slim physique, refined facial features and an aura of existentialism that radiated at a constant rate. I spent the first class intently listening to an hour lecture on run-on sentences: their identification, how to correct them and how to avoid them in the first place. At the end, the professor assigned us an assignment to go home and write 500 words on any subject of our choosing. Being the enthusiastic over achiever that I was, I took this task very seriously and began working on it the minute I got into my dorm. The next class I walked up to his desk with pride in my eyes as I handed him my assignment: a story about my initial experiences in college that was one big run on sentence.