I wrote this as my English final. It's written well enough, but I'm not sure if my theme is clear enough. Constructive criticism and praise are appreciated equally.

“Abracadabra!” he said in a final attempt to restart his computer. James sat down, face in hands.

His day had, thus far, been completely miserable.

A frigid shower had loudly greeted him that morning, despite the obvious tardiness he was already experiencing, foreshadowing a dismal day. His teachers constantly seemed to scowl at him, for reasons he couldn’t—wouldn’t— recall.

He tiptoed into his first class halfway through. He found he’d failed a midterm essay. He took two unexpected tests, and was positive he’d done negatively. He was subjected to various forms of lecture torture. He had a highly embarrassing science lab which resulted in three broken vials, spilled sulfuric acid, and one rather irate teacher. Even the brief interim of lunch, which ended too quickly anyway, caused vexation via long lines. It was a relief to see the day end.

Walking home should have given him solace, but instead he got completely soaked; some people wonder why he doesn’t like rain.

After peeling off his saturated apparel, James relented to working on an English project whose deadline was becoming less distant, before the desire to procrastinate lead to mediocrity.

Naturally, his lovely laptop crashed when he attempted to open Word, and refused to be revived. One could imagine why elation escaped and exasperation entered.

The sighing teenager’s pale claw gripped a pencil and found it flew fluidly over a clean sheet of notebook paper. As letters, words, and phrases appeared to materialize of the pencil’s own accord, an awkwardly graceful calligraphy formed vague sentences regarding one thing, a concept, James kept losing focus on.

His readily wandering mind considered various possibilities he barely had the dexterity to record half of. He supposed this would, colloquially, be termed brain vomit. Of course, if his cerebrum was emitting such a discharge, it would, logically, be sick. He considered this a possible explanation to his readily wandering mind.

James was intelligent. He took somewhat advanced classes, and received mostly A’s and B’s. His report card had never been penetrated by a failing grade. However, during class, he found he didn’t care much for any of his subjects nor did he care about them. Did it really matter if he could label the reproductive organs of a flower in intimate detail? Besides—perhaps because—he found science loathsome; he didn’t care about excelling there.

He’d rather peruse things more interesting. He’d rather learn about Freudian dream analysis, Buddhism, jazz, or ice cream. He’d preferred the study of Magritte to mathematics; he found John Lennon more interesting than John the Baptist; he liked C. S. Lewis more than computer science. Who cared about chemical compounds when he could be creating ciphers?

His selective apathy showed: high scores in ‘creative’ classes, English, Spanish, and art, but mediocre, when adhering to his standards, grades in science, math, and geography.

He’d rather read fiction stories or first hand experiences, more interesting and relevant things. James didn’t want to string numbers into equations that always seemed to spit out the wrong answer. He’d rather study a subject with no wrong answers, only different creative explanations.

Of course, life wasn’t so kind. Eventually he could study those things he found so fascinating, but where would that leave him? Teaching others? He had no desire to go to school for the rest of his life— that seemed an unimaginably painful fate. Besides, grading papers would be too ample of an opportunity to procrastinate.

Truthfully, he found himself stuck in society’s humdrum, a true product of the media’s influence. Sometimes, he wondered why he bothered, that perhaps he should just give up, running away until his body exhausted and gave up.

He enjoyed the art shown to him better than he could make it, a vexing cause for solitude. He was average but smart, shy but social, clever but silly. His personality hosted a plethora of contradictions and rarities. He was unique but failed to do anything but sulk about his individuality.

His dreams and desires conjured within the doldrums seemed so whimsical he couldn’t really see himself in any of the professions that interested him. Besides, he didn’t want to pick up the unsavory habits of the writing professions; journalism, poetry, and novels seemed too distant relative to reality. Cryptology required too much math, linguistics too much specialization. Every option was just too easy for him to shoot down. He was grudgingly trotting down a road to a dead end with only internal mental objections.

He could hardly turn back, what would he do differently? It felt like he’d spent his whole life letting others sculpt his view of the world, and when he finally decided to view it from only his own perspective, it seemed like a dull and wicked place. While he watched so many of his peers pursue various goals, he never really set his own ones. He just did his best with what was thrown at him.

Sometimes, particularly nighttimes, James considered giving up. He could easily sit in his bathtub forever. His mother would call but there would be no answer; his father would bang at the door, demanding entrance, but none would follow. Eventually, all the bubbles, which rested upon the water like lilies on a pond, would pop. The water would evaporate, like countless puddles that had been made since the beginning of rain. Slowly, he’d waste away. Losing contact with all, withering away from lack of food, gathering dust, until breath and voice vanished.

Of course, he wouldn’t really do that. There was some small bubble of emotion that pushed him forth in this seemingly meaningless life. Some idea existed, vague images that occasionally drifted across his mind like a threads of smoke diffusing in air. Because of the smoke, perhaps a premonition, he knew there must be a fire, or would be, eventually. This small concept was concentrated enough to keep him grounded. Hope of something better, curiosity of its existence, kept him. The comparative subjunctive kept him there.

Considering his obvious lack of product, he seriously began his essay. He read the prompt aloud to his room. “What makes you unique? Write two pages creatively describing your mental self. Use vivid descriptions, metaphors, and superior vocabulary. Write a minimum of two pages.”

James realized he could write this paper without knowing himself at all, who he was in any respect. He could make up the entire thing— just use the ‘vivid imagery’ he easily conjured and his teacher would eat it up. Of course, the words would not be of him, perhaps of another boy.

This boy, man even, would be a teenager with a real voice and talent; not one painting a self-portrait of some fictional character, not James the child.

James the man would have interesting interests, adventurous adventures, and ideal ideas. He would conquer fears with logic and determination, certainly not ignore them- sliding around uncomfortable issues.

James the hero would comfort friends, actively maintain family ties and be respected by his peers. He would never ignore the ignorant, doubt the dubious or penalize the penalty-makers. A good boy everyone likes with good grades, good work ethic, and a good life, he couldn’t be great— that made dictators, or something like that.

As he brainstormed his fiction, a pretentious Persian strolled into the author’s chamber. The cat moved sinuously, extravagantly so at the tail. Its movement may have mimicked a slick silver slinky down a steep staircase. Its countenance may have contorted into a scowl after reading the previous sentence, if such was possible, aggravated by the obvious alliteration, if it knew what it was. She preferred subtly, yet she was complete hypocrite.

The feline leaped onto a hastily made bed, sprinkled with various literatures and covered in days-old scribbles, sketches, and stories.

Samantha, the cat catalyst, didn’t move with the care her “owner” would prefer, crinkling some incipient masterpieces, her tail swishing with a natural grace. The tip came nervously close to a box of painting supplies, temporarily abandoned in use yet prepared to create at any moment, moving away at the last minute.

But again, the tail swung towards the artist’s box. And, this time, it didn’t miss.

The box almost descended in slow motion, the rattling of jars and brushes barely audible against the swish of falling object. When it slapped the ground with a reverberating thud, the box was awkwardly angled to ensure maximum messiness. Its contents spilled, rolling and clanking against another and the floor. The paint flowed in short tides and long waves, showering droplets and smothering chunks. A vast myriad of colors spread across the beige carpet, creating a psychedelic blend of multitudinous blotches and splats of kaleidoscopic interfusion.

James scowled at his kitty troublemaker, looking at the enormous mess he was be obligated to clean. James vaguely acknowledged the simple beauty of the creation, pondering a photographic interlude, but quickly rid himself of the thought. The horizontal mural showed no distinct shapes or forms, making it useless and unremarkable. He went to get a mop, still felt the need to vocalize a justification.

“Cats are colorblind anyway.”

THE END