Literary Memoir: Flying Away
The pebbles rumble and shake on the earthen floor of the shack as the horse's hooves pound, rapidly approaching our hideaway. My breathing quickens, wild thoughts tracing like a flurry of snow in a blizzard. Do we run? Or shall we stand and fight as we have before? The ground scratches beneath the layers of silk as I slip my claymore silently from beneath the folds of bloodstained fabric and stand. A haze of red begins to shadow my vision with their approach. An evil grin stretches my lips in a morbid, raving grin; the tarnished watch glimmers dully through my tightly gripped, dampened fist.
Elaborate yet simplistic, a book is a paradox that can carry you away just that quickly into another world, where you are not who are. A book serves the purpose not of simple markings on a page to be visited when the teacher requests; rather, they are accounts of adventures had, of loves won and lost, and friendships forged. Albeit, reading is a time-consuming task, as many a book reader will ruefully explain, however the experiences gained from a novel are worth the loss. As a young child, my parents would read to me every night, therefore I came to enjoy books at an early age. Ironically, as fate would have it, I had much trouble with reading. I forwent sleep for "one more chapter". The beauty of a book overtook me as I grew older, and despite opposition from peers, I forged onward in my thirst for new characters. Delving in to fantastical worlds, my only issue with reading seemed to be my utter omission of non-fiction, or fictional works with no otherworldly qualities. From where I began as a reader, I never let hiccups in the road disturb my literary journey.
As girls jumped on beds and became toothless wonders, I grew up alongside their papery flesh through the vocalizations of my parents. My generation may not have been as privy to parents who encouraged and fostered a sunlit garden trove of fond reading memories, but I was blessed in that sense. My literary journey was constant and unceasing; from children living beside nature in abandoned train cars, to magic treehouses that transported the character and reader alike to other times, bears who learned hearty life lessons in Bear Country, to Andrew's meadow and the friends he brought with him. A night was never complete without the smooth feel of paper and an adventure to lead us into our nighttime dream worlds. My favorite book as a child was Andrew Henry's Meadow; the book spoke to the side of every child who secretly wishes to be appreciated for their talent. Andrew's bravery in leaving home to pursue his love for building never failed to impress me. Kindergarten rapidly approached, and outgoing as I was, I feared a classroom and the rules that seemed to accompany education.
The words blurred on the page, inky stains swimming laps as another drip touched the paper. I could not have been considered a gifted reader as a child; as I progressed through kindergarten, my reading and writing skills were below average for a child. Not only was this sudden gap in learning frustrating, it made my 5 year old self flustered and self-conscious. I hated going to school, my teacher despised my high-spirited personality and school was generally a prison to my over active imagination. As the year came to a close, my teacher went so far as to suggest holding me back for another year, which my parents denied. Summer flew by, and my heart was dreading the day school would begin again.
The smell of earthy pencils and clay tickled my nose the first day I walked into first grade. I trudged to my seat and dejectedly plopped into my seat, expecting another year of struggle and strife. Despite my rough introduction to school, my 1st grade teacher rose to the challenge; every kid in Mrs. Mazza's class skipped into class, happy to be at school and excited to learn. Mrs. Mazza noticed I struggled with reading and writing so she helped me a few times after school and explained the concepts I had difficulty understanding in detail; I progressed from barely being able to read or spell more than cat and dog, to reading chapter books by the end of the second grade year. I reveled in my new skills, eating up every book that came my way, devouring the inky pages like homemade spaghetti. My love for books was not shared by everyone, on the other hand, and many of my peers did not understand the obsession I had with my paper friends.
From the impressionable ages of elementary to the present day, I have yet to let others opinions of who I am pressure me into or out of any one thing, love for books included. I have never understood when others ridicule those who enjoy reading, perhaps narrow mindedly because of my extreme infatuation with the literary persuasion. When other girls were out on their first dates, I was busy third wheeling Ron and Hermione. When other peers were out partying and having adventures of the night, I preferred to escape into the rainy, peaceful atmosphere of Forks, losing myself in the trees. My reading habits may have been ostracized, but they could never sway me; books are near an addiction to the avid reader.
The worlds I grew up in were parallel and symbiotic, feeding one another with imagination and liberty. The love of books is nigh unexplainable to a peer who does not share the sentiment. The way you can get lost in a hearty book, almost becoming part of the world, just to surface and bewildered, gaze at your unfamiliar surroundings. There have been a rare few books that I have binge-read and finished, only to sit up and wonder if my life before the book was the fiction or a dream, and I will soon wake up in the settings of the book. Books have a flavor to them as well, a distinct idea that changes every time you read it. The more you read a book, the more details you pull from its talkative pages. My only regret in reading would have to be my lack of interest or motivation for non-fiction books.
My literary weakness of omission from childhood continues to hinder my repertoire, failing to provide me with a full palate including healthy non-fiction; in hindsight, a goal for a productive senior year would be to read thought provoking non-fiction to encourage a gradual introduction to the genre. Genre-snob I may be, I love nearly every book I have read and treasure their words. I have many a times thought I would go crazy, but just in time a papery arm guides me to the metaphorical rabbit hole and off I go, careening to another world. A world of dreams, possibility, danger and fantastical beasts never fails to uplift my mood. A book can entertain my mind as much as a movie, and I will never be able to thank the people enough who fostered my love of reading.
The man walks away, victorious, gripping the ticking watch in one filthy fist. Stopping at a lightning torched log down the road, he rolls his shoulders and peers into the misty green of the forest that lies before him yards ahead.
"The bloodshed may have been unnecessary," the distracted man sighs squeezing the watch tightly.
Gazing back upon the carnage and smoke coiling into the distance, he sheaths the unused sword. Turning, he disappears into the mist.