Tuesday, April 13, 2010

first-person narrative exercise [workshop, 04/13/10]

I was four-years-old when Colin proposed. It was snack time and he casually offered me a celery stick and a ring from the toy box.

"Let's get married, everyone else is doing it," he said.

"Okay," I responded. "But let me eat my snack first."

The playground wedding was set for the same day underneath the metal monkey bars. It was brief and bizarre, a copy of what we saw from The Little Mermaid without the ship and sea witch.

"Now you're married forever," the girl who presided over the ceremony said.

"Forever?" I asked, as panic set in. I hated the word. "Forever" meant, well, forever. It meant a lifetime. I had already cried enough when my goldfish Gilligan died and my dad said he'd be in Fish Heaven forever. I wasn't prepared to handle a world where Gilligan was gone but I was married to Colin forever.

As snack time ended, I gave Colin back the ring, but he refused to accept it.

"It's yours," he said with a shrug. "You can keep it forever."

The next day, Colin moved away and I never saw him again.

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