The Plot Sickens: Free Write & Reflection

      It was Christmas Eve. Fog stuck to the tarmac at Lindbergh Field. Tomorrow was Christmas, yet Morgan was stuck with the night shift at the security line, again. Every year her coworkers found a way to convince her to take the shift.

Her mind was elsewhere when she asked the frantic passengers where they were going and why. It was ridiculous that her boss required her to be happy to greet these average, boring, unremarkable passengers. Each traveler had the same story. Everyone wanted to get home to see their families; Morgan would smile and wish them luck, secretly hoping their Christmas would be ruined, just like her own.

      It wasn't like she had anyone to see tonight, anyone to come home to. If she wasn't in this horrible place, she would be at her tiny apartment on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise, eating microwave popcorn. Some part of her deep, deep down, is proud of herself for letting her coworkers spend time with their families, but on the surface, she hates every single one of them and the mundane life they share.

      All of the stories she heard were the same, until a man Boston bound came through her line. Mark Potterson had dark brown hair, so brown it was almost black. It was the exact opposite of Morgan’s light blonde hair. His grey eyes had a strange emotion in them. It wasn't frantic desperation, like the other passengers. It was a lighter emotion, like a playful golden Labrador. He was unlike any person she had ever met. His apparent innocence is rare in this day and age.

       He was headed for Boston, on an American Airlines flight that was only half filled. From the instant Morgan saw him, she knew he was what she was waiting for. Someone in her life that brought her joy; someone who would help her escape her boring life. But he was walking away, about to hop on a plane that would fly thousands of miles away from her.

       Morgan couldn't let him get away; she couldn't go on living like she did now. She asked Henry, her overly peppy and extremely irritating partner, to cover for her while she went to the bathroom, but the bathroom wasn't her destination. She sprinted to the ticket counter to purchase a ticket for flight 3463 to Boston. The flight boarded in 3 minutes, so she ran to the gate, and her future. As Morgan was boarding the plane, she caught a glimpse of Mark’s rich brown hair, which fueled her desperation further. She couldn't let him get away. The doors closed, and somehow Morgan found herself in a seat next to Mark. During the first hour she would peek over at him every other minute, but finally she gathered enough courage to do what she wanted to do since she saw him waiting in line. She smiled like she never had before, and squeaked out, “Hi, I'm Morgan”.

Reflection: "The Plot Sickens" by Fanny Howe is a short essay about the flaws of young writers. She talks about random violence and unsolved stories. My free write deviates from Howe’s claim about young writer’s violent stories. My story has a hero, which Howe said was rare to find among this generation of authors. Although my short story never reveals that Mark actually saves Morgan, he inspires her to save herself. “Clearly these young writers can’t figure out how the solve the problem they have invented in the first few pages”. This statement was not true for my story, as Morgan finds a better life in Boston. I was able to solve the problem I created within a few hundred words, exposes Howe’s article to not be completely true.  Howe says, “For me it was not the violence per se; it is the fact that violence enters the story without benefit of the plot, as if by metaphysical caprice”. There was no violence in my story, so that disproves Howe’s theory about senseless and random violence in my case. I do believe her claim is true for a lot of students however, because I have found that my classmates did add senseless violence to their stories. Her article does have some truth, as I have found myself adding random violence into my other stories and pieces, just not this particular one. I do believe that most of Howe’s claims are true about young writer’s flaws, however it is clear that they are not applicable to all writers, all of the time.

Perfecting the Unperfect - Self Deprecation

Kelly Nelson

Mr. Kefor

February 24, 2015

People claim that nobody’s perfect, but I am not like everyone else. I have always striven to be perfect. I need to be better, smarter, and stronger than all of my competitors, no matter the situation. My perpetual demand for perfection has caused me quite a bit of strife.  

In Mrs. Carline’s fifth grade class we had a class-wide competition. The winner was determined by who spent the most time on Study Island, an online studying site. Naturally, I wanted to win the contest, but my real drive was not allowing anyone else to think that they were superior, sharper, or smarter than me.

For a few weeks I added Study Island to my daily routine, and I maintained my place at the head of the class. The competition was tough in a class full of vicious 5th graders, as anyone would expect. All of my friends logged on dutifully every single night. Every single day we would come in with a paper signed by our parents that stated how many minutes we had spent studying the night previous. I witnessed kids falling behind by only neglecting their work on a single night. I realized that I absolutely could not be one of those delinquent kids destined for a life of failure. I assumed that if I didn't log onto Study Island, Mrs. Carline would look at me with disapproving eyes, even though it wasn't a mandatory assignment. Mrs. Carline had trusted me, and was always considerate, understanding, and cordial towards me. I did not want to ruin the relationship we had. She had let me hand out the smiley face stickers!  My fifth grade self refused to see that disappointment on her face, or on my parents’ when I lost that competition.

I was living my dream of perfection until that one momentous day. The day that quite possibly was the worst day of my entire fifth grade year. I had an intensive level one ballet class the night before that left me utterly exhausted and unable to function properly. I never forgot to do Study Island, but that one dark night, I did. I burst into class the next morning, elated to see how everyone else did the night previous. Eagerly, I took out my paper as I usually do, until I saw it. The blank space that did not have my mother’s signature and the time I spent on Study Island. My entire world was falling apart, and I was running out of time before Mrs. Carline came over to check my paper. Time seemed to slow down and I couldn't come up with a single solution. Failure wasn't an option.

Finally, a solution came to me to fix my life altering issue. I quickly wrote down 20 minutes in the time slot and frantically scrawled something that looked similar to my Mom’s signature. At the same time I was writing, Mrs. Carline materializes next to me, catching me red handed, and red faced. She gives me the look of disappointment that I was trying so hard to avoid. She simply tells me that I have to stay inside for recess today. I was grateful that she chose not to make a scene in front of the entire class, which surely would have ruined my social life forever. What would my friends think of me? They would never talk to me again. I will have to swing alone on the playground! Mrs. Carline knew me well enough that a public humiliation would be going too far, and I was extremely grateful for that.

That day during recess I stayed inside and sat in my usual desk. Mrs. Carline finally makes her move to come talk to me. She approaches me and says exactly what I knew she would. Her words of reprimanding are said with kindness, and she sweetly tells me that forging signatures is a bad habit to get into, that can have horrific consequences. Her hair brushes in front of her face as she politely mentions that next year in middle school, they take situations like this a bit more seriously.

By this point in the lecture I had already run out of tears.  My fifth grade self cried because I was not perfect anymore. I had made a mistake that Mrs. Carline would always remember me by, or so I thought. I had not cried like this for a while, but it felt good to relive all of the pressure that had been building up. The fifth grade is a very stressful one, with all of the worrying about whether or not you got a 4 or a 3 in math.

Once my tears of embarrassment and imperfection had dried, I instantly rebounded and laughed with my friends at lunchtime.

From then on my perfectionism carried me through middle school, softening with age. In sixth grade the first B I received on a quiz lit my face up in a quick flash of red, hot embarrassment. I continue to hold myself to a higher standard, although I now understand that if I do my best, any result is okay. 
My desire for perfection still rages inside me and escapes in odd places. My books have to be perfectly aligned and in alphabetical order by the last name of the author. My homework has to be done early, never late at night. I have never had a teacher that hasn't liked me, and I will try my very best to keep it that way. My fifth grade self was a perfectionist, and so is my 9th grade self.