Young Writers Society

Second Time Around: A Tragic Tale of Young Epic Romance, Eragon, Sharp Scissors and Combustible Objects

It began on the Eve of a Random Date, 2004. I was a young lass then, inexperienced in the dastardly world of love and literature; indeed, back then I thought that Paolini might make a honorable crush.

Those were the glorious days I remember; the days when LEGOs were The Thing In Fashion – and I was the queen of my own locked-in universe, prancing about in short skirts and princess hats, my eyes blazing with the spirit of immature and unconditional love for all that passed under my spotted button-nose.

As it so happens, on the Eve of Random Date, I had come across my mother’s hidden stash of classical CDs, including the nefarious volumes of tango music, Pachelbel’s Canon and Beethoven’s Ninth. Alas, alas, it was not those that caught my eye, but Ravel’s Bolero!

Upon setting it into the unmanageable CD player with kick-butt subwoofers that was my mother’s tragic reminder of the past years, I was at once entranced with the drum-beat and clarinets quietly celebrating with many trills and well-placed octave leaps. And thus I took Ravel’s Bolero and put it into a quiet and hitherto unsuspected cherished corner of my large, prepubescent heart.

And so I lived in silent love towards that petty piece of music, Ravel’s Bolero, and in equal silence cursing the infatuation that kept it in my CD player, keeping away the other CDs vying for my attention. O, how many there were! Harry Potter, Star Wars, Car Talk!

Until, at last, in the year of 2005, Eragon oozed its way into my line of sight. The stoic narrator with the decidedly tolerant tone of voice entranced my ears; I listened to it even more often than Bolero, doing my paltry embroidery by the light of my shaded lamp late into the midnight hours of the evening.

Ah, do not curse me for my childish loves! Let me continue my sad, sad tale.

Unfortunately, in the same year as I mentioned earlier, my dearest sister, Imogene* also fell into feverish love with the Eragon CD set, and we began to have quarrels about which presence the CDs would live in: Mine or hers?

And so we argued, day after day, week after week.

And then disaster struck.

Imogene, in a fit of anger, hid my dear, stupid Bolero, claiming that she had broken his heart sufficiently and sent him away to the monastery of legend where broken CDs and tapes are sent to, never to return to their loves.

And so I became angry, and the Eragon CD went back to the library.

There was not a day that went by that I did not mourn the untimely loss of Bolero, and I prayed daily that its soul may rest in peace, and that its plastic heart may become re-forged into something that could forgive Imogene and I for our childish wars.

Years passed; I developed a taste for Beethoven and Pachelbel. Bolero became a knife in my heart, disturbed only when I remembered its metallic, shiny cover. And still another year passed, and I became infatuated with Simon & Garfunkel and even Tchaikovsky, Bolero fading fast from my collective consciousness.

In the Year of 2007, several things happened that wiped Bolero’s quiet-to-loud strains completely from my still-foolish mind. Our house caught on fire when someone left cork board around, the stupid fool; there was a drought, concerning the fates of my mothers’ precious crop of tomatoes; a flood and severe thunderstorm warnings throughout my expanded universe, and I cut my finger open when trying to slice some grapes, which were not that tasty anyway when I got back from the hospital. My tastes had long since abandoned Eragon as worthy thought to chew on; I had, in a small way, grown up.

Just when I had forgotten Bolero, I opened my bad-quality CD case (bought for a single dollar) and there it was, gleaming up at me! (Though, admittedly, he looked a little worse for wear; what trials had he gone through to come back to me? I don’t think I shall ever know fully; he was never one for unmelodious conversation.)

We had been reunited at long, long last, and now he sits, in my CD player, as the Harry Potter CD will, for some nauseating reason, not play without skipping horribly.

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Who thinks I should be killed for writing this? :*sees all the raised hands*: Awwwwwwww....

Okay, anyway, this was mostly true. I changed my sister's name to Imogene, it's her favorite name -- on my blog, she is known as "Sister 1." Yes, there is a Bolero CD, yes, it is in my CD player ATM, and yes, Sister 1 hid it after I didn't let her listen to a "Eragon" CD and I found it last week.

I wrote this with the kind of romantic air I associate with the story "Black Beauty". I was somewhat obsessed with it at the age of seven and read it religiously. The kind of "oh, woe is me, the tragedy I've been through" kind of thing. XD

Also, if you're going to try to critique this, don't bother telling me about Tell vs. Show. XD I don't have a good enough memory for that.

Humor is so hard to write when you don't have a vague idea of what the boundaries are. >.>

~Sumi