Young Writers Society

So It Goes
A contemplative essay on Tralfamadorian influence on contemporary American fiction

Even from a young age, Steven loved libraries. He yearned to spend time in them. The dry smell of paper and glue holding together thousands of fantastic worlds, each one similar, yet different. Other children his age were interested in gushy, supernatural melodramas where true love existed. Steven was not so simple-minded. He was interested in great literature, like his father before him, and his father before him. His father took perhaps a bit too keenly to Steven’s love of literature. He constantly poked and prodded at Steven to get him to read this or that. This annoyed Steven to no end, but to appease his hot-tempered father, he read the novels suggested to him, and more often than not, he enjoyed them.

Often they would discuss what was to be read, and the next morning, Steven would arrive to his first class and pull out some great novel his father salivated over. As of late, however, Steven had been preoccupied with exorbitant amounts of schoolwork. They had not talked about books in awhile. So, when he went to his class and pulled out a small volume from his bag, he was immediately beset by confusion. It was smallish, and had a large maroon “V” on a sort of sandstone background. It looked lame.

He cracked open the minute tome and began to read. Suddenly, unexpectedly, everyone around him froze and took on a soft grey hue. Time had frozen, or he had frozen in time. To this day he is not sure which it was. Despite his being frozen in time (or time being frozen around him, he still isn’t sure which it was), he continued to read all two hundred and fifteen of its pages. As he read its last words, the color returned to his peers and they resumed moving about and living. He was not too surprised when this happened.

He returned home that day, and his father grinned at him cheekily. His father asked if he’d read it. He said yes. His father asked what he thought of it. At this, he stopped, unsure of what to say. He said he would get back to his father on it. He went to his room and ripped out some pen and paper and sat down to write. As soon as the ballpoint met the college ruled paper, his surroundings were drained of color. Time had once more frozen around him, or he had frozen in it. He still isn’t sure which really happened. So, in his time frozen state, he began to write.

His writing went like this.

(insert remaining 10 pages of essay here)