Wizard Story
It was a cool night. The sun had just gone down and the stars were beginning to come out. The waves were barely visible, but I could hear them crashing against the shore. As usual I was doing my nightly beachcombing. My father used to come with me every night, but now he was much busier with work than he used to be. He worked for the Heathwood Bay Post and was always busy working on his next big article. My mom was also a writer. She published recipes and articles for a food magazine. There was always a lot of pressure on me to become a writer like my parents, but I just didn’t have the knack for it that they both did. I was actually a worse writer than they both thought. If I didn’t get an A on my next short story assignment, then I was in danger of failing my creative writing class. I had hoped that going for a walk on the beach would give me inspiration for a story, but my mind was just as blank as before.
I kept walking along in the dark, with nothing but my flashlight to guide me. That’s when I saw it; and old trunk floating in the water. My eyes lit up and I rushed over to it. Had I found a pirate's treasure? The chest looked really rusty, and there were symbols printed onto the side that I didn’t understand. Perhaps it was some other language. I smashed the lock open with a rock and quickly opened the lid. To my surprise, all that I saw inside was a stack of papers. It looked like a script with three staples holding the small stack together. I pulled it out, disappointed that there was no treasure or even anything remotely valuable. I looked at the front page and read out the words: Wizard Story. Right under the title was more of the foreign language that I didn’t understand. Feeling let down by my mediocre find, I decided to call it a night and head home.
“All right everybody, tonight is your last night to turn in your final drafts, so work hard. If you still don’t have your final draft finished by tonight, just turn in what you have. Also, everyone remember that the New Yorker is giving students around the country an opportunity to have their short story published in their issue next month. I will be submitting all of your stories at the end of the week. I wish you all good luck.” Mr Grey’s words barely reached my brain. I hadn’t even begun my rough draft yet, and final drafts were due tonight. I had no idea what I was going to turn in for my final story. As the bell rang for school to get out I was still sitting in my seat.
“Chris.” Mr Grey’s words snapped me awake, “I trust that you’ve been working hard on your short story? You’re aware of how close you are to failing this class aren’t you?”
“Yes Mr. Grey I’m almost finished actually.” Lies. “I should have it done by tonight.” I couldn’t tell if he could see through my obviously fake smile or not, but that seemed to content him for now. I hurried out of the classroom as fast as I could.
As soon as I got home, I burst through the door and ran upstairs to my room. What was I going to do? I’d never failed a class before. My parents were going to kill me. As I paraded around my room in a frenzy, I eyed the stapled together compilation of papers on my desk. No. I couldn’t do that. It was plagiarism. I must have stared at that story for an hour. I read it when I was on the beach. It was a tale of a wandering wizard who dies and travels to another world. There, he meets a beautiful princess and he saves her from an evil demon king. It was one of the best short stories I had ever read, which was why there was no way that I could turn it in as my own. I sat in silence for what felt like an hour until I came to my decision.
I never should’ve done it. I never should’ve turned that story in as my own. I was sitting down in front of the desk of Mr. Grey; sweat started to bead on my face. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that please?” I said in disbelief.
“Sure Chris. You have just won the publishing spot in the New Yorker for your short story, Sorcerer’s Tale. If all goes well, it should appear in next month’s issue. Congratulations!”
My heart sank into the floor. People around the world read the New Yorker. If the original author read their story in the magazine, then they would sue me. “Thank you Mr. Grey, I feel very honored.” The harsh fluorescent lights in his office started to become too much for me, so I thanked him once again and left.
The walk home was difficult. The air was a perfect temperature. I could glimpse the beautiful setting sun over the ocean, through small gaps in the trees. There were no cars to stop me on my way home; no red lights or inconveniences. I did not deserve any of this. I was not walking home as a successful student author, I was walking home as a plagiarizing criminal. Hundreds of kids all over the country had been trying their best, writing near masterpieces to try and get their short story published. And what had I done? I’d stolen some story I found on the beach. I honestly hoped that the original author would sue me sooner than later, so I wouldn’t have to deal with the guilt. But he never did.
A month went by and my story was published in the New Yorker. It received widespread acclaim from fiction writers around the country. My parents decided to buy me a new computer as congratulations for winning. Everyone in my life was showering me with praise on my story, but I was suffering. I never left the house anymore and I just holed up in my room and wasted my life. After a year, when not a single story came out of my room, my parents began to worry. I stopped talking to my friends. I stopped beachcombing. I stopped living. One day however, I received an email.
The evening I received the email was not unlike any other evening. I was sitting in the dark, with only my computer screen to illuminate my sleep deprived face. My room was a mess. Dishes were piled high on my desk and clothes were strewn about carelessly. My cat stopped coming into my room, seemingly because of the smell. As I was starting to fall asleep at my computer, I heard a buzz coming from my phone. I received an email. I hadn’t gotten an email from anyone other than my extended family in almost 6 months. I pulled it up on my computer, and started to read.
“Dear Chris, I am the original author of Sorcerer’s tale or as it was originally called, Wizard Story. I am very much aware of how far my story has come. I know it was published in the New Yorker under a different name. Your name. I’ve traveled all the way from Japan to Heathwood Bay, so that we could meet. I have many things that I would like to discuss with you. There is a path leading to the beach off of a street called seaside ave. I will be waiting there tomorrow at noon. I would really appreciate it if you would show up. Thanks, M.”
My heart started to beat really fast. The lights started to feel really bright and I fell out of my chair. Was this the end? Had the original author come to kill me? I was afraid that if I didn’t comply with this person’s demands, they might come after my family. I knew that I had to meet with them tomorrow, and it just so happened to be at the place where it all began. I turned off my computer, and went to sleep.
The next day was cold. It was an overcast day, and the sun was everywhere and yet also nowhere to be seen. I left my house thinking that it would be my last. I said goodbye to my parents, and set off for seaside ave. As I neared the path, I saw a car from a distance. I walked up to the driver’s side and knocked on the window.
“H-hello?” I asked, my voice quivering. The window rolled down to reveal an old man with a silver beard and mustache. He was wearing small eyeglasses, and had a large pimple on his nose.
“Why hello son. Let me get out so we can have a little talk.” The old man got out of his car and stood in front of me. He was almost an entire foot shorter than me! He grabbed a hat from the passenger seat and started off along the path to the beach.
“Come on son, we have some things to discuss.” I was still shaken at the man’s age and height, but sensing no malice from him, I began to follow. We walked down to the beach and went all the way up to the waves. The man looked out over the ocean, closed his eyes, and began to speak
“You know son, I’m not angry with you. All I’ve ever wanted was for my work to get out into the world. I used to travel a lot when I was younger, but now my old bones just don’t have the strength anymore. I’ve been all over the world, but no place on earth is as beautiful as Japan. I ended up settling down with a lovely woman named Ai, who was the love of my life. She passed on a few years ago, and that’s when I decided to send my stories out over the ocean for anyone who might stumble onto them. I never imagined a boy like yourself would claim it as your own, but I’m glad nonetheless that you’ve shared it with more people than I ever could’ve. Ai loved my stories, and I think she’s resting well knowing that her favorite one has reached so many people.” I didn’t even know what to say. All I could do was stare in silence and listen to the old man. He was silent for a long time. Then he spoke again. “I can imagine that you feel a great deal of guilt over what you’ve done, but I don’t want that for you. I know you’ve learned your lesson.” He smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let this one mistake define your life.” With that, he took one last look at the ocean and started walking away back to his car. I decided to sit down and watch the waves for a while. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel lost. I felt like everything had changed. I stayed on the beach until the sun went down. The old man gave me a chance that I never thought I would get. He’d forgiven me for something unforgivable. I knew I couldn’t just let it go. I think it’s time to write my own story.
Conflict #1
I awoke to a throbbing pain in my leg. As I started to come out of my daze, I realized that the battle was over. All around me laid my dead comrades, strewn about in the dead grass. I had been mostly shielded by a giant cart which was carrying our supplies for battle. I soon realized that my leg was stuck under the wheel. In one swift motion I yanked it free, crying out in pain. My foot was twisted the wrong way, I crawled up into the cart to survey the area, only to find more of my comrades laying dead. I figured I was the only survivor and began to let out a sigh, when an arrow pierced straight through the side of the wagon, missing my head by inches. There was still an enemy archer alive! I peeked up for a split second and saw a man standing about 20 yards away with an arrow pierced through his eye. I looked around quickly to see a hatchet lodged in a soldier's chest. I took a deep breath, said a prayer, and threw the hatchet as hard as I could at the enemy archer. It struck him in the chest and he fell dead.
Conflict #2
I’m so tired of killing. I killed my own father. I killed my brother. It all feels the same to me now.
This time I killed them all. My bow has struck down hundreds of men, and now. Feel like my life has no meaning anymore. I am the only one left standing on this battlefield of horror.
I walked past the piles of dead bodies for about a mile. I wish one of them could have just killed me, so my murderous life of suffering could be over. All of a sudden, I hear a noise from behind an enemy cart. My muscle memory from years of killing causes me to instinctively draw my bowstring. Wait. No. I am done killing. As I lower my bow, I hear a soft thud. Someone has climbed into the cart! Again, I unwillingly draw my bow and this time I fire the arrow. It pierces through the side. I must not kill this man. He is my only end to this suffering. I must not fire my bow. I see his head pop up for a split second and it takes all I have to not fire it into his skull. I did it! I have finally managed to spare one life. I don’t care what happens now. I’ll see you in hell father.