Hey, guys, I'm a student from Australia and was just wanting an honest review of my creative story that was assigned from my school. Thank you for your time :)
When I was just a young boy, my father and I would go out to the coast to explore the white sparkling sand that resembled thousands of stars. We would spend hours jumping and dancing in the icy blue sea that was so clear, it was clear as glass. When we became tired, father and I would watch every cloud forming their mysterious shapes and we would use our imagination to guess what it was. These monumental days went on forever. A never-ending journey of exploration of the golden beach that my father and I have once claimed land, the land once we cried with laughter and understanding the beauty of the fiery sunset. As 20 years have passed, I’m standing on the very same beach with the same dancing flames of sand, radiating my toes as I admire the beauty that nature as created. I cannot help but think of him. He would always carry a map and would say “the gods are always going to trick you Charles, that’s why we follow the map.” And now what’s left is grief and pain inside of me as if he had shared his feelings and disappeared.
To me, I admire him as an explorer not some kind of Geologist or Cartographer. He would often go out to the world for months and each time he came back he would tell me stories of mystical creatures he had found and fought, treasures he swore was made from diamonds that was too blinding to take. Even though I loved his stories and I screeched with excitement whenever he told me. I would hide my annoyance of him leaving me again and again. “Pa, why are you leaving again and why does it have to be so long?” “Well son I don’t want to disappoint you with my stories, besides explorers go out with a bang,” he said with a cheeky wink.
The harsh reality behind my father’s stories was never up to my expectations. Every trip he made he became more obsessed with his projects; every trip he took his office would be filled with coloured post notes that would make you sick if you stared at it long enough. I would always be waiting for him to get home. My favourite spot was at the door whenever I would hear his footsteps I would be the first person to open the door and whenever I do I swear the door would get lighter. He would greet me and pick me up, spin me around as if it was just me and him in a different universe. When he was in his office, I would sit beside the closed door with my ear pressed on the wood trying to figure out what his project entailed. I would imagine that he was the only genius, figuring every riddle that had come to challenge him. Whenever he had figure out the riddle he would burst out of the door followed by a gust of wind and laugh, with me up in the air laughing with him we would dance and sing while he showed me his work of art; the maps. I’m glad that I had captured these moments, because as time has passed he had forgotten our tradition of summer days at the coast and even so, me too.
How I come to finally realise that he was gone when I couldn’t find my inner youth. How I realised time was playing games with me every minute, every second he would change into a different man, but obviously, I didn’t realise that I was just a simple child. As time goes by he would go for months in his “adventures” and lock himself in his office for eternity trying to memorise the ghastly post notes trying so hard to keep it fresh in his mind that he became obsessive. His sickness grew every second when he spent time in that room. When he finally opened his door, instead of picking me up and cheering for his victory he slammed me across my face. The burning and tingling sensation spread effortlessly while hearing the painful words of “go away, you are useless and distracting me from my work”. My mother rushed in and comforted me saying “It’s alright Charles he’s just tired, let’s just leave it”. After that, I never saw him as a man, as a father or even an explorer I had once admires and aspired to be. He was now just an obsolescence who is obsessed with rocks; he’s no one to me. He would occasionally let out a scream of frustration because he would have forgotten or couldn’t solve a text and worst of all he would pack his wrecked leather suitcase and not knowing where to go.
One summer morning mother and I smelt something burning. It was like a trail of black wings guiding us and once we open the door, the horror laid on display for us to see. The burning of his art turned into nothing but flames and he was lying in the middle of all the mess with the very first map he had ever created with an emotionless expression.
I’m now pulling myself out of the past and jumping back to reality, I now know I have the power of forgiveness. I knew he had a choice to stop, a choice to restart his life but he didn’t because he thought he was chasing his dreams and nothing could’ve stopped him not me nor time. Life is unexpected and people change: in my case, it wasn’t for the better but my father was suffering and I forgive him even if he decided to leave me forever because now he is in peace, I guess that’s what makes me human. How I can take this lesson and carry this through my journey. I brought out the urn of ashes and set it free with the crystal sea while I burned the once beloved map watching it float its way to the next destination.