Despereaux: A Short Story
Words cut through my mind like 1000 papercuts, sharp and painful. They swirl, crowd and scatter, taunting me, impossible to catch. I'm expected to read this out loud? How? I stumble and stutter slowly fighting through the double-edged blades of d’s and b’s the, gaping maws of silent e’s, the poisoned spikes of ph’s. My first-grade teacher spits acid, “Why don’t you just focus?”. The thousand-eyed monster shifts and shows it’s eyes white, restless, ready to strike with the laughter of 25 tiny voices. I fight alone through switching numbers as 21’s turn to 12’s. I fight alone, slogging through the muck of short passages, while others soar above on Nimbus 2000 broom sticks with Harry. I fight alone until I meet a little mouse named Despereaux.
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Despereaux is tiny and strange, but he is brave.
We learn to read together, “The marks on the pages, the ‘squiggles’, ... arranged themselves into shapes. The shapes arranged themselves into words, and the words spelled out a delicious and wonderful phrase”(The Tale of Despereaux, 22). We learn about the darks and lights of the world, of redemption, cruelty, longing, forgiveness and bravery. We are knights in a world full of strange expectations, quests, and lovely princesses. Soon reading becomes a leisurely walk through a haven rather than an endless battle through Mordor. These opalescent stories that had once been a foray, became my most stalwart of
companions.
Books form my armor against a new behemoth. My peers swarm elusively and overwhelmingly. The hive runs through the cafeteria, buzzes and gossips excitedly in small clouds, it clumps, and separates, is joyous and scornful, constantly changing before I can blink. I brace myself against the blunt impact of small talk, and the stranglehold of picking groups. Every time I wade into the torrent I am spun around and spat back out. So, behind the shield of my unpropped book and under the heavy armor of past volumes, I sit on the fringes.
This strategy is just fine until highschool, when the swarm moves closer and becomes even more perplexing. I realize that a shield is no longer sufficient. At times I need to face the hulking beast head on, and for that, I need a weapon. A weapon that I don’t have, so I slowly lose ground until I slide gracelessly into the theater.
"Stitch-Stitch-Stitch" (Song of the Shirt, 29), stars attach to shirts for a WWII play, busted buttons mend, Ariel's mermaid skirt sparkles to life. "Stitch-Stitch-Stitch" the threads between the theater crew and myself draw together into a strong seam. My needle becomes a cutting edge into the world of laughing and talking and supporting that I had never seen before. In the small cinderblocked and fabric cluttered loft, or the bustling stage, buzzing crowds metamorphize into inviting groups. Here find a fortress as well as a weapon.
I still stumble and spin in circles. Monsters still taunt me and sometimes I still fight alone. The fight is not yet (and never will be) over, but with shining armor of good stories, the sharp point of my needle, and a safe high ground, I can fight off any beast that dares to stand in my way, whether the ghoul be made of paper or of mind.
Despereaux is tiny and strange, but he is brave.
We learn to read together, “The marks on the pages, the ‘squiggles’, ... arranged themselves into shapes. The shapes arranged themselves into words, and the words spelled out a delicious and wonderful phrase”(The Tale of Despereaux, 22). We learn about the darks and lights of the world, of redemption, cruelty, longing, forgiveness and bravery. We are knights in a world full of strange expectations, quests, and lovely princesses. Soon reading becomes a leisurely walk through a haven rather than an endless battle through Mordor. These opalescent stories that had once been a foray, became my most stalwart of
companions.
Books form my armor against a new behemoth. My peers swarm elusively and overwhelmingly. The hive runs through the cafeteria, buzzes and gossips excitedly in small clouds, it clumps, and separates, is joyous and scornful, constantly changing before I can blink. I brace myself against the blunt impact of small talk, and the stranglehold of picking groups. Every time I wade into the torrent I am spun around and spat back out. So, behind the shield of my unpropped book and under the heavy armor of past volumes, I sit on the fringes.
This strategy is just fine until highschool, when the swarm moves closer and becomes even more perplexing. I realize that a shield is no longer sufficient. At times I need to face the hulking beast head on, and for that, I need a weapon. A weapon that I don’t have, so I slowly lose ground until I slide gracelessly into the theater.
"Stitch-Stitch-Stitch" (Song of the Shirt, 29), stars attach to shirts for a WWII play, busted buttons mend, Ariel's mermaid skirt sparkles to life. "Stitch-Stitch-Stitch" the threads between the theater crew and myself draw together into a strong seam. My needle becomes a cutting edge into the world of laughing and talking and supporting that I had never seen before. In the small cinderblocked and fabric cluttered loft, or the bustling stage, buzzing crowds metamorphize into inviting groups. Here find a fortress as well as a weapon.
I still stumble and spin in circles. Monsters still taunt me and sometimes I still fight alone. The fight is not yet (and never will be) over, but with shining armor of good stories, the sharp point of my needle, and a safe high ground, I can fight off any beast that dares to stand in my way, whether the ghoul be made of paper or of mind.