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Sneak
2010-04-08, 09:43 PM
This was an assignment for school (I'm a junior in high school). Don't worry, I already turned the assignment in and received a grade on it, so I'm not looking to cheat or anything like that.

The assignment was to use a line from Julius Caesar as an epigraph and write a personal narrative story (it had to be true). Here's mine, intended to be mildly humorous. Oh, and I tried to use as much alliteration as possible...just for fun. :smalltongue:

Comments would be nice/welcome/appreciated/several other words.

Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings. –William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

The esteemed reader may not concur, but it is my experience that those dear post-school-year summers are, invariably, interminable. In June, after the nine-month scholastic gestational period within the wombs of the finest educational institutions of our great American nation, summer is born, a great big seasonal bundle of joy, heralded by hot weather and happy high-schoolers. As June turns to July and July turns to August, the big bawling baby boy brought by the end of the yearly work crunch and the beginning of family vacations matures, turning into an irresponsible young graduate with a degree in deep-sea cartography, perhaps, or some equally useless pursuit of pure pleasure without an eye to practicality. And as the years begin to pass, the parents of that young graduate—charming and delightful as he may be—begin to wonder: “Say, Harold, when do you think that boy will move out of our basement?”

It was during one such summer that I had come to be sitting on this particular floor (uncomfortable), in this particular house (rural), in this particular country (India), in this particular fashion (awkward). The summer wanderlust had overtaken me again, and as I scrambled to get away from the bloody burning barrenness (perceived, perhaps) of my beautiful hometown, my love for Asia and my tolerance for intolerably interminable plane flights dictated that I spirit myself off to India on one of those sturdy student-based organization-led excursions offered by such esteemed companies as ‘Rustic Pathways.’ After the expected yawn-fest that was the plane ride, the ever-so-awkward intra-group introductions, a few lovely days in the ceramic city of Leh, and another (thankfully, shorter) flight, I ended up in the quaint Ladakhi village of Disket (or Diskit, perhaps, for the few signs in English could never make up their collective minds)—for the homestay portion of the trip. The group was split up to go off with different Ladakhi families, and I, paired off with Paul, a particular pal of mine, was led to my new home. It was a foreign affair for sure, a dusty, fenced-in place with cows in the yard and one of those hole-in-the-dirt squat-style latrines that makes Western girls shriek. We were told that the grandmother was the only member of the family home at the time, and we were soon ushered into a carpeted antechamber by the aforementioned adorable mass of smiling, non-English-speaking wrinkles with a friendly “Juley!” (the Ladakhi equivalent of “hello,” “goodbye,” “thank you,” and “you’re welcome”—now that’s a culture that knows how to recycle). It was three o’clock in the afternoon.

Paul and I waited for perhaps an hour there, sitting on the floor, sharing our thoughts on the situation (we were both slightly nonplussed) before: behold, the mother and son had returned. The latter briefly came in to greet us and share his name, although neither of us caught it that first time, and we were both too abashed to ask for it again. The son (aged 16) then invited us to explore the village, which, for some bizarre reason, he referred to as the bazaar, and after a fairly brief walk in his company (we returned at five o’clock), he retreated into the rest of the house and left us in the little side-room again. We waited some more, hazarding a few guesses as to the purpose of the room. “Storage room” emerged as the favorite given the stacks of boxes in the cramped corners. After some more idle chatter and a few good-natured jokes, we returned to silence and waited some more, having already surrendered to whatever curious custom of the locals was keeping us boxed in the room full of boxes.

It was now around six. Soon, six said “Seven, take over,” and seven was surreptitiously succeeded by eight. Our bellies had already started their irritated rumbling, and we feared our legs had atrophied. Worriedly, we looked at each other, even less plussed than previously we had been. Had the entire program been a ruse, a cheap trick to lure unsuspecting rich white boys to their starvation-and-boredom-induced-dooms, isolated amidst the claustrophobia of this boxed family miscellanea? Had our humble household hosts simply forgotten about their hungry guests? What was the correct procedure in the situation? Should we bow to meek guestmanship, staying firmly put until they either remembered us or smelled our rotting flesh, hanging off skeletons bearded and bored? Should we explore the house, find a member of the family, and attempt to breach that blasted language barrier with an impromptu game of charades? Should we behave like true American boys, stamping around and yelling until someone came to serve us?

Bless you, dear reader, we just didn’t know what to do. So, naturally we defaulted to the hungry, uncomfortable status quo, there on that little carpet in that little room with all those clear plastic boxes surrounding us. And there in that most static of status quos did we sit—for another good hour before returning to our waxing worry once more. Where would we sleep? Were we expected to sleep with the boxes? Should we try to find a working phone somewhere and call our contact in the village? If our hosts were just going to ignore us, why did they agree to host us at all? Was it some sort of status symbol, or did they do it purely for presumed monetary benefit? And most importantly, where we were going to get something to eat?

And there we sat—O, reader!—for another accursed hour. We couldn’t hear any movement. They’ve gone to sleep, we thought. “Now we don’t even have the option of trying to get help.” Had we done something wrong, we wondered? Were we being punished for some perceived insult to their family honor? No, we decided, it couldn’t be our fault. The fates had just been against us that day, you see, and there was nothing we could have done about it. If we had gone outside the room, the ceiling would have collapsed. If we had found a phone, some sort of short circuit in the device’s internal wiring would have undoubtedly secured the demise of the both of us. No, no, there was nothing we could do. One can never control how long one waits. It was out of our hands.

But even with all that, we still felt that surely some sort of satisfactory ending to our sad saga would be seen. Surely we deserved that much. For nothing could be worse than this endless purgatory, this endless ignorance and questioning! We couldn’t just be left hanging like that, without a proper ending to our tale beyond more interminable waiting! Oh, esteemed reader, surely you agree?

And then we waited.

Lulz.

WarKitty
2010-04-09, 04:18 PM
This was an assignment for school (I'm a junior in high school). Don't worry, I already turned the assignment in and received a grade on it, so I'm not looking to cheat or anything like that.

The assignment was to use a line from Julius Caesar as an epigraph and write a personal narrative story (it had to be true). Here's mine, intended to be mildly humorous. Oh, and I tried to use as much alliteration as possible...just for fun. :smalltongue:

Comments would be nice/welcome/appreciated/several other words.

Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings. –William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

The esteemed reader may not concur, but it is my experience that those dear post-school-year summers are, invariably, interminable. In June, after the nine-month scholastic gestational period within the wombs of the finest educational institutions of our great American nation, summer is born, a great big seasonal bundle of joy, heralded by hot weather and happy high-schoolers. As June turns to July and July turns to August, the big bawling baby boy brought by the end of the yearly work crunch and the beginning of family vacations matures, turning into an irresponsible young graduate with a degree in deep-sea cartography, perhaps, or some equally useless pursuit of pure pleasure without an eye to practicality. And as the years begin to pass, the parents of that young graduate—charming and delightful as he may be—begin to wonder: “Say, Harold, when do you think that boy will move out of our basement?”

It was during one such summer that I had come to be sitting on this particular floor (uncomfortable), in this particular house (rural), in this particular country (India), in this particular fashion (awkward). The summer wanderlust had overtaken me again, and as I scrambled to get away from the bloody burning barrenness (perceived, perhaps) of my beautiful hometown, my love for Asia and my tolerance for intolerably interminable plane flights dictated that I spirit myself off to India on one of those sturdy student-based organization-led excursions offered by such esteemed companies as ‘Rustic Pathways.’ After the expected yawn-fest that was the plane ride, the ever-so-awkward intra-group introductions, a few lovely days in the ceramic city of Leh, and another (thankfully, shorter) flight, I ended up in the quaint Ladakhi village of Disket (or Diskit, perhaps, for the few signs in English could never make up their collective minds)—for the homestay portion of the trip. The group was split up to go off with different Ladakhi families, and I, paired off with Paul, a particular pal of mine, was led to my new home. It was a foreign affair for sure, a dusty, fenced-in place with cows in the yard and one of those hole-in-the-dirt squat-style latrines that makes Western girls shriek. We were told that the grandmother was the only member of the family home at the time, and we were soon ushered into a carpeted antechamber by the aforementioned adorable mass of smiling, non-English-speaking wrinkles with a friendly “Juley!” (the Ladakhi equivalent of “hello,” “goodbye,” “thank you,” and “you’re welcome”—now that’s a culture that knows how to recycle). It was three o’clock in the afternoon.

Paul and I waited for perhaps an hour there, sitting on the floor, sharing our thoughts on the situation (we were both slightly nonplussed) before: behold, the mother and son had returned. The latter briefly came in to greet us and share his name, although neither of us caught it that first time, and we were both too abashed to ask for it again. The son (aged 16) then invited us to explore the village, which, for some bizarre reason, he referred to as the bazaar, and after a fairly brief walk in his company (we returned at five o’clock), he retreated into the rest of the house and left us in the little side-room again. We waited some more, hazarding a few guesses as to the purpose of the room. “Storage room” emerged as the favorite given the stacks of boxes in the cramped corners. After some more idle chatter and a few good-natured jokes, we returned to silence and waited some more, having already surrendered to whatever curious custom of the locals was keeping us boxed in the room full of boxes.

It was now around six. Soon, six said “Seven, take over,” and seven was surreptitiously succeeded by eight. Our bellies had already started their irritated rumbling, and we feared our legs had atrophied. Worriedly, we looked at each other, even less plussed than previously we had been. Had the entire program been a ruse, a cheap trick to lure unsuspecting rich white boys to their starvation-and-boredom-induced-dooms, isolated amidst the claustrophobia of this boxed family miscellanea? Had our humble household hosts simply forgotten about their hungry guests? What was the correct procedure in the situation? Should we bow to meek guestmanship, staying firmly put until they either remembered us or smelled our rotting flesh, hanging off skeletons bearded and bored? Should we explore the house, find a member of the family, and attempt to breach that blasted language barrier with an impromptu game of charades? Should we behave like true American boys, stamping around and yelling until someone came to serve us?

Bless you, dear reader, we just didn’t know what to do. So, naturally we defaulted to the hungry, uncomfortable status quo, there on that little carpet in that little room with all those clear plastic boxes surrounding us. And there in that most static of status quos did we sit—for another good hour before returning to our waxing worry once more. Where would we sleep? Were we expected to sleep with the boxes? Should we try to find a working phone somewhere and call our contact in the village? If our hosts were just going to ignore us, why did they agree to host us at all? Was it some sort of status symbol, or did they do it purely for presumed monetary benefit? And most importantly, where we were going to get something to eat?

And there we sat—O, reader!—for another accursed hour. We couldn’t hear any movement. They’ve gone to sleep, we thought. “Now we don’t even have the option of trying to get help.” Had we done something wrong, we wondered? Were we being punished for some perceived insult to their family honor? No, we decided, it couldn’t be our fault. The fates had just been against us that day, you see, and there was nothing we could have done about it. If we had gone outside the room, the ceiling would have collapsed. If we had found a phone, some sort of short circuit in the device’s internal wiring would have undoubtedly secured the demise of the both of us. No, no, there was nothing we could do. One can never control how long one waits. It was out of our hands.

But even with all that, we still felt that surely some sort of satisfactory ending to our sad saga would be seen. Surely we deserved that much. For nothing could be worse than this endless purgatory, this endless ignorance and questioning! We couldn’t just be left hanging like that, without a proper ending to our tale beyond more interminable waiting! Oh, esteemed reader, surely you agree?

And then we waited.

Lulz.

Not bad imo...although I'm kind of curious now what happens after the waiting...