Shit Stories: Part 1 Introduction

First and foremost I would like to thank my W T C Dowling for his worthy contributions and I must say that I look forward to hearing something of a weekly unkown, useless but highly amusing word definition. That's the stuff we like to see. Maybe you can actually teach me a thing or two about my blog because I did not realize that you would be able to post blogs on my page.
It's all good though, I am glad.

I must say that your little series of 'shit' poetry has really inspired me and so here is a little Shit Introduction to a shit little story that hasn't really been thought through and is very likely to not develop into anything other than...yes, shit.

So thank you Will for your inspiration and I don't really mind if this shit makes anyone cry, laugh, twitch or whatever. I found it and decided to share. This is for all those anonyms to tear into. What a beautiful sunny day, I will drop the blinds now and hide in a corner.

A Tale of Vast and Promising Proportions: Part 1 Introduction by: M.M. Ayala

It all started a long time ago. I don’t know exactly when but I am quite sure that it was a long time ago. Back then things were different. Not wholly different from the way things are today, but quite different nonetheless. It reminded one of another world somehow; of something long gone and irrevocably lost. But not forgotten and that’s the important part. At least that’s what I always thought. In reality, what one remembers is what one chooses not to forget. That’s what he always said back in the days when things still seemed to matter, to contain some kind of meaning.

I can’t afford to be late again; it would be the second time this week and today is only Tuesday. Mr. W. already ridiculed me in front of the entire class last week for having the worst attendance imaginable. University. I didn’t think they took attendance or cared for what you did.

The bell rings. Damn. This university was different. I should have known. I should have known that this university has one course and one professor whose rules would be completely different. And I should have known that I would find myself in that class as the one student Mr. W. hated. The one professor that everybody loves.

“Mr. T. How nice of you to join us. I am gratefully put at ease that everything is in order and that you are unpunctual.”

I wince and force a sarcastic smile, looking at the floor the entire time. Never challenge Mr. W. Never. He will leave you reeling in self pity. To this day I will never forget how he embarrassed me in only the second week of the course.

“Thomas I don’t understand how you have managed to arrive late every day of this semester. If you have more important matter to attend to, which is hardly imaginable, then I suggest you don’t bother showing up at all.”
I start to answer, “At least four times I was late” by less than a minute and class hasn’t even…” but almost immediately I realized it was a mistake.
“I decide when class starts! You will hardly be successful in life if you can’t adhere to a simple schedule. Everybody else seems to manage just fine. Do you think you are special? Tell Mr. T. why did you join my writing class?”

I never got a real chance to explain myself and I don’t really remember the ensuing conversation. My face had gone bright red and I was facing the floor. I am not good at eye contact. He explained to the whole class why I would never succeed and why my first assignment – observing and describing a stationary object and making it the protagonist of a 250 word short short story – had so miserably failed.

My object had been a lamp. An omniscient observer able to turn night into day and day into night. Not only could it see everything at all times but it could decide who could see what when.

I had liked the idea at the time but have since developed something that might be considered a chronic fear of lamps and would revert to candles if my eye sight weren’t already terrible enough.

I took my seat towards the back of the class. Ever since that day I always sat in the back. “Only the rebels, and rebels without a cause I may add, willingly sit in the back of the class Mr. W. proudly declared to the class.”

Giggles ensued.

I hate hate this class. I despise these students. How did I end up here?

Only five guys in a class of thirty. One gay, two nerds, one zombie and me. The girls worshipped Mr. W. and he knew it. That fat ass. That over eaten gravy stuffed fatsoe.

The sun was shining, the leaves were wet. Reflections danced on the windows and even the trees that rustled in the soft breeze seemed amused by misery. “Today we will discuss what I refer to as pre post-modernism and narratives traces of the self in…”

M.M.