There’s something beautiful about a completely blank piece of paper, just as there is in an untrampled field of freshly fallen snow, or a present that has yet to be unwrapped, still tied up with a bow. Its pureness seems to call out for admiration, and yet at the same time, its emptiness demands that one give it one’s attention. The page compels the writer to deface it with something of their own, just as the snow seems to urge children to play in it, and the present urges one to unwrap it. The act of writing destroys whatever barren beauty the blank sheet held, but replaces it with a soul created by emotion. Every word is a small flame of passion in the brightly lit darkness, kindled only by its author and perceived only by its reader.

So then, what starts the process? Where, and how, and why, and what. The start of writing. Of giving a thing a soul. Obviously a story cannot come from nothing. Even science has admitted that nothing can be created or destroyed, that matter is only to be used and reused and dies and is born and so on and so forth, ad infinitum. The page is the kindling, the pen is the match, and yet the writer has to be the one to light the fire. So it follows that any good piece of writing must begin with the writer, and with his or her thoughts and ideas, prejudices and vices. And so it must be with every writer, and so it is with myself. The blank page beckons, teases almost, and asks me to put on it whatever I want and feel, to begin something. To give it life. It’s a relaxing process, or so I’ve always thought. Spilling out whatever I can find within myself, unimportant as it might be, not because I want others to find it, or because I think others will want it, but because I enjoy filling in the vague ideas in my mind, or at least finding somewhere less claustrophobic to put them. By putting my mind onto pieces of blank paper, I can see it more clearly, without the disorientating lens of my own self doubts and fears. The process of writing, then, starts with my own knowledge and emotions. It is the half-formed dreams, the unclear fantasies and hazy memories, pieces of the creations of my own mind made real, set down before me in black and white, to imbue themselves into the minds of others. It begins with a piece of my own soul being painstakingly wrestled onto paper, in order for it to become the formed whole of the paper itself. And it begins like this:

Blank papers are arranged in front of me, a pen in my hand. Steam drifts lazily upwards from a mug of coffee beside me, and I take a sip. In the background, music continues to play, the soft murmur of a piano. I listen to the music as I sit, the usual gentle harmonies and occasional dramatic crescendos that so often accompany the scratching of my pen. Outside, rain pelts soflty against my window, and a few dim rays of winter sunlight pass into the room, forming long splashes of color on the carpeted floor. Time passes, maybe minutes and maybe hours, and still I don’t move. I can’t concentrate. I have no desire to write. Whether I write well or poorly depends on the day and the hour, but I can almost always write. And so I place the pen down on the paper, and I sip the coffee, and I sit and wait. And more time passes.

And then I laugh. Not loudly, more of a quiet chuckle really, but still a laugh. I can’t put my pen to the paper, I can’t create any discourse, and I cannot even think of what I should be writing, and today it doesn’t matter. Because for the first time, I don’t have to write to see clearly.

Writing, for me, is a form of escapism. It allows me to distance myself from my own thoughts. But there is a limit to the curative effects of writing. Despite whatever endorsements therapists may give it, writing is not some sort of mythical panacea. I can use it to define myself, to put my thoughts into their respective proverbial boxes, and to dot the i’s and t’s of my fantasies made real. And yet, I cannot read my writing as something new. I cannot learn about myself by defining the parts of myself that I already know. I cannot talk to words on a page. I cannot love paper and ink, not in any way that the paper and ink can reciprocate. Anything I can write will be a piece of myself, able to instill emotion, but having none of its own.

But a person is something with a mind of their own. A person is something you can share yourself with, and have something shared with you in turn. A person you can talk to, learn about, learn from, cry with, laugh with, and still have something new to do with after all of it. The act of writing allows for the rebirth of your own ideas into something tangible, but the act of loving allows you to take something from yourself and create something new, with the help of another. And a person, in short, is something you can love that can love you in return.

A new love, then, creates an extremely special kind of excitement. Said another way, a new love is a weird sort of something brilliant, and amazing, and completely blindingly stunning. This is the kind of emotion that a thousand poets, philosophers, and Valentine's Day card creators have struggled with describing throughout the centuries. It’s an indescribable feeling of pure joy mixed with pure hope. Thoughts of a future shared in the arms of another. A constant reminder that forbids you from not smiling. A snow day, christmas morning, start of summer sort of happiness. The knowledge that there is a person who understands you better than any other, and who allows you to know them in that way in return. A person who you will implicitly forgive, even while still arguing with them. It will be hard, sometimes incredibly painful even, and entirely worth it. There’s something telling about the phrase “falling in love”. Because you can be hungry, happy, sleepy, or horny, but you can only ever be “in” love. That’s because love is more than just an emotion. It’s a state of mind, a way of feeling, and a way of living. It’s sharing yourself with another person, a mixing of souls if you will, that makes you never want to be seperated from them.

Writing is a time for self-reflection, and for sharing what you think with whoever may care. It gives life to your thoughts and color to your daydreams. But love, a life beyond writing and one’s self, is something beautiful that is entirely beyond anything you could make on your own.

So if I can’t write sometimes, I’m perfectly okay with that. I can always write again another day. But, at least for now, I’m going to enjoy the beauty of a new beginning.

The sun sank slowly behind the city, and lengthening shadows stretched out from the ruined remains of the stucco apartment buildings. Yana watched idly from where she sat as the last few golden rays sank beneath the rubble and ruin. She felt the warm air dissipate and be replaced by the cool, dry air that marked the ending of summer. Clouds gathered above her and obscured the multitude of stars that gazed unconcernedly upon her. Sometime not soon after, a few drops of rain began to fall, sinking immediately into the dry, cracked soil. Yana’s mother had always called them tears from heaven. She didn’t know if she found that comforting or not, but she liked the memory of her mother’s warm voice whispering it to her.

The rain continued to fall, and soon there was a small shower of it falling quietly over the city. It made a pitter-patter noise on the plastic tarp above her before running off the sides. Yana took all this in from underneath her makeshift shelter, which was nothing more than a few blue canvas strips stretched around her like a tent. She took stock of her situation, the cold and wet, plus the dull pain in her stomach, the one she had learned to ignore, and the sharp pain in her leg, the one she couldn’t ignore. After calmly considering her options, she decided to continue to wait. She would wait forever if she had too. And so she sat, and the rain fell, and the ever-present sound of the far-off boom of guns continued on.

After what seemed like years, she saw what she had been waiting for.

He was slightly taller than her, and while he had been fairly fit before, it was clear that any kind of substantial muscle or fat had been used up long ago. He wore a torn up pair of shorts and a pair of tennis shoes that were a size too small, with a small hole through the bottom of the left shoe, as well as an old t-shirt that bared the logo of a foreign clothing company, one she had never heard of. His jacket, soaked with rain, was buttoned all the way up, except for the top slot where the button had been ripped off. He had an old American baseball cap over his dark, uncut black hair, one that an aid worker had given to him a long time ago, before the aid workers had left. His face was shadowed by the hat and the clouds, but she didn’t need to see it to know what he looked like. A tanned, slender face, brown eyes with heavy bags under them from lack of sleep, a small cut above his right eye, and a warm comforting smile that she saw less and less often. Even in this place, he was almost handsome. Without him, she would have surely died months ago. It was hard to scavenge for food when one of your legs was a dull throbbing pain at the best of times, and a screaming agony at the worst. But keeping her alive had cost him dearly, as his gaunt frame showed. He had never abandoned her though, although she had feared that he might, and for that she would owe him forever.

“How is your leg?”, he asked, dropping with a grunt onto the blanket covered ground beside her and leaning his head back against the wall, his tired eyes glancing over her with quiet concern.

“The same as ever”, she replied, putting as much confidence into her voice as she could. It was, in fact, much worse. She had abandoned any hope of it healing on its own long ago.

“You’re as bad a liar as ever. I’ve been able to see right through you since you learned to lie. You should have learned by now that it’s not worth the effort.” The left corner of his mouth went up slightly at that in a bad imitation of the grins that he had, at one point, never seemed to be able to wipe off his face. He sighed then, and looked up at the tarp roof with closed eyes. “There wasn’t any medicine that I could find, nor any that anyone was willing to give me. No food either.”

The statement hung in the air, an unspoken prediction of what was to come. It wasn’t new to them by now. There had been no medicine and little to no food for a long time. Before, there was always something to be found, another hidden can of soup or buried stash of vegetables, to stave off the inevitable for a bit longer. Sometimes there would be aid workers in white helmets there to dispense something nutritious, though tasteless. Recently however they had found less and less. Now there seemed to be nothing left, and no amount of pretending or persuading would let her continue to believe that it wouldn’t be too long before more was found. Their luck, along with their food, had run out three days ago.

Some time passed before either of them spoke again, and she sat listening to the sound of the rain softly pelting the ground in front of her, interspaced by the measured, ragged breaths of the boy beside her.

“Alexei?”, she asked quietly. Shouting or even talking normally didn’t seem appropriate at the moment. So she whispered, just barely speaking loud enough to be heard above the sound of the rain.

“Yes, Yana?”, he replied without turning to look or even open his eyes.

“Do you remember when mother used to tell us stories when it really rained and stormed hard; when the power went out and all we had were candles?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And she would say that the rain was only tears from heaven, and that the thunder was the sound of fireworks?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think, then, that the tears were from people in heaven, crying for all of the people on Earth that they missed?”

“It is possible, I suppose.” They both knew that this wasn’t true. They each knew what rain really was, and what the scientific truths and facts really were. But facts were depressing, and it was, as it always is, easier to indulge a dream world than to face a harsh set of facts that will never change.

“Do you think, then, that mother and father are up there, watching and crying for us right now?”

Alexei grimaced as she finished her question, and he opened his eyes to stare across the rubble at the vast expanse of dark, cloudy sky. It was a long time before he spoke, and at first, she didn’t know if he was thinking, or if was refusing to answer. But when he did speak, it was in a lost and utterly despondent way that he rarely let her see. His veneer of hope and confidence was one that he rarely let slip, but when he did, she knew that she was hearing exactly what he thought and felt. In those moments, she thought, he became wiser beyond his fifteen years.

“Yana, I don’t know if they’re up there. I don’t know if there’s anyone up there at all. No one does, not even those who claim they know that there is. All I know is that I would like them to be up there. And I would like, someday, to meet them there myself.”

The rain continued to fall unabated, and Yana chose to believe that they could be tears if she wanted them to be. She could hope that they were. That was all that anyone could ever do.

And so, she began to cry too. And the boy put his arm around her and drew her into him. At first, she thought that he was shaking from the cold, but then she realized that he was crying too.

She cried for herself, and for all the people crying in heaven, and, she thought, if there was only one crying in heaven, or none at all, then she would cry for that reason too.

She cried for all the other people in her city, all the ones who were stuck here like her, and for all the ones who had once been happy here like her. She even cried for the people who fired the guns, who kept her here, and who were even now fighting and dying. They had families too. They had secret passions and loves, and they all clearly had something they were willing to die for, whether it was an idea, a country, or a soul mate. She pitied them as she pitied herself. They were, after all, just people, even if they were, in their blindness, pretending to be something inhuman; to be butchers of their fellow man.

She did not even spare the leaders of the slaughter from her tears; they too were too human. They fought to protect a nation they had been raised to protect, as corrupt and tyrannical as it was, or they fought to raise a new and better nation from the ashes of the old, one that would be founded on blood. The ends, for them, justified the means. A few dead now would save hundreds in the future, they thought. This is the way things are and this is the only way to affect things, they thought. History and circumstance compel me to do these things, and I must, can, and will do them, they all thought. No man is ever a villain in his own mind, and no action perpetrated by any man is ever thought to be purely for evil’s sake. Therefore, she cried for them, even as they killed her.

The rain finally began to abate, and for the first time that night she saw the beautiful stars in the sky above her. They hung in their millions throughout the black expanse, each tiny pinprick of light a silent, stalwart sentry set to watch the planet below them, each returning to duty night after night and season after season with predictable and reassuring regularity. She knew, however, that not even one of these fiery spectators cared at all for her. The sight reminded her of a poem she had once had to translate, back when there had been a school and classmates and such things as poems.

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

We have to dread from man or beast.

The stars, those silent watchmen of the night, all seemed to her at that moment like spectators visiting the ancient colosseum, uncaring visitors who, like many, heard the news, saw the destruction, and moved quickly on to something else with a shake of their head and a shrug of their shoulders. What could they do? They were like the stars, many miles away, with their own concerns and worries. She did not blame them any more than she did the men who were here, fighting and killing. If each were in the others place, if the man far away was fighting and the fighting man was shaking his head, then still nothing would have changed. They were each capable of the same things, so why blame one for doing what the other had not, but would, do? Still, if only all men could be indifferent towards others, and not only some, then maybe there would be no need for fighting or shaking of heads at all. But what kind of world was it where only indifference could end suffering?

“Alexei?”, she asked as she watched the moon crawl overhead.

“Yes, Yana?”, he replied, his voice heavy with weariness. She wondered for a moment if she had awoken him, but one glance at him showed him to be staring attentively at the moon as well.

“Do you think the war will end soon?”

“No, Yana, although I hope that it might. It will only end soon, though, if one of the sides gives up without being forced to. And I don’t think that will happen. There’s still a lot more blood that can be spilled.”

She was quiet for a bit after that. He had answered her honestly, even if his forecast was grim, which was something he usually stopped short of doing. She may not have known how to lie to him, but she at least knew when he was lying to her. She didn’t blame him though; he did it only to try to comfort her. A lie told for someone else isn’t ever really that much of a lie at all. A lie only becomes an evil thing when it’s told for the benefit of the person telling it.

“Do you think that the war will ever end?”

Again he paused before answering her, and this time she knew that he was thinking.

“If you mean will this war end, then my answer is yes. All wars end eventually. But that doesn’t mean that new wars won’t be fought exactly like this one was. One war always seems to lead to the next until the reasons for all of it become very confused. This piece of land is so-and-so’s, or this religion isn’t the right religion, and so on. People must be crazy; we make war so much it’s almost as if we like it.”

Yana could see why he would think that. She had seen many people since the war had started, alive and dead. All of them had been involved in the war in one way or another, that much was true. But she had never seen any of them look like they were enjoying it.

“Do you ever think things will get better?”

“That’s… a difficult question. A realistic type of person might say no, because things have been this way forever. A pessimist would say no and give up. I have to say yes though, as much as I want to say no. I have to believe that things will get better, not because the alternative isn’t great, or because I’m blind to reality, but because I know that things can get better. That people can be better. Before the war came here, people would say that our leaders were war hungry, that the enemies our country confronted were ruthless, mindless, emotionless machines of rape and destruction, and that the foreigners were worse than all that. But father would never hear of it. He simply didn’t believe that a whole group of people could be all bad. He used to say to me, ‘look for the helpers. Every time there is a problem, there are always people who will come to help.’ And I think he was right. I think that there will always be rescuers. And I hope that someday, the whole world will be full of only rescuers, so that no one will ever need rescuing.”

Yana sat and thought about what he had said, and she stared with him at the bright night sky above, a place far removed from the rubble that surrounded them. She clung to the boy and he clung to her, and together they clung to each other. She hoped that he was right, and that some day the world might be full of rescuers, and that the tears in the rain would then be happy.

And in the distance, the guns boomed on.

Before I go into the actual purpose of this writing, I would like to add a brief preface to explain to my rare, unwary reader what they may-or-may-not be reading for the next few minutes, depending on whether or not they (they being you) decide to spend your time on me. There are those out there who would assume that I, being a teenage boy, with all of the associated peer pressure, would never be caught dead reading, liking, and, god forbid, loving, a John Green novel. That being said, I have never in my life been called a stereotypical teenage boy, and I take pride in breaking such artificial societal norms by proudly acknowledging, through the complete anonymity of the internet, that I do, in fact, really like John Green books. So where am I going with this? I just finished reading Looking for Alaska, and while I’m quite aware that I am very, very, extremely late to the party, I would like to toss in my two cents, for anyone who cares. (This is, after all, my own account, and I can do as I damn well please, even if I have produced something which is cringe-worthy even to me.) At the end of Looking for Alaska, protagonist Miles Halter is asked a question. It’s essentially the same question that’s been asked throughout the entire book. At the end of a newer version of the book, which has an updated reader’s guide, John Green himself asks his readers what their own version of an answer to that question would look like. So here’s mine, in all of its raw, “written by an amateur, teenage writer who uses far too many adjectives” glory.

Q. How will you -you personally- ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering? Now that you’ve wrestled with three major religious traditions, apply your newly enlightened mind to Alaska’s question.

In the past few short years, I’ve thought a lot about death, after-death, suffering, joy, and whether or not any of it really matters whatsoever. I’ve probably thought about it more than any teenager has a right to, as it’s a well-known fact that teenagers are young, ignorant, and relatively unqualified to answer the questions that minds much greater than my own have spent centuries pondering. In short, I should have had much better things to do than mope around wondering what happens when people die and whether or not I should care. But I also believe that everyone has to make their peace with these questions at some point, and that because of this, I am entitled to my own insignificant opinion, which I alone will believe despite the multitude of other beliefs of other people, all of which will be totally believed in by them alone, as they struggle blindly through the labyrinth with me.

Some say to believe in God, and in an eternal afterlife. As a kid who went to catholic school, this is certainly what I was originally taught. Some say to believe in nothing. As a person who’s interested in great writers and philosophers, I can count more than one of those who’s believed in not believing. I’ve heard some say that forgiveness, the key to moving on, allows a person to navigate the labyrinth. Many, real and fictional, have said that the only way to escape the labyrinth on your own terms is to do so by your own hand, straight and fast. I’m going to let that last one sink in, because it’s true even if its wrong. There is only one way to truly escape the labyrinth, and we’re all going eventually. And maybe any other solution was created just to make us feel better about ourselves while we wait. And maybe any other solution doesn’t matter because we’re all leaving eventually whether we like it or not.

And maybe it doesn’t have to be about escaping the labyrinth. Because you cannot be alone in it. Everyone else is in there too, clinging to one another as we grope around in the darkness. And maybe the only way to accept that we’re leaving isn’t by rushing for the exit, letting the pain of knowing it’s coming, knowing you can’t stop it, knowing that the labyrinth itself is slowly killing you, drowning in the fear and shame of what you’ve done with your time here, and what you haven’t done, but by holding on to that knowledge that you’re not alone.

I’ve never had anyone close to me die. It’s a rare statement, and I’m grateful for it, though probably less so than I should be. But I’ve though about death, I’ve feared for the lives of people that I’ve known, and I’ve cried more for the deaths of fictional people than I have for real people. I’ve cried over the possibility of the meaninglessness of it all. And I do think that Heaven is just a fantasy meant to comfort us. But I still have to find a way to live, just like everyone else. And so I live by embracing life. There will be an end to my life, and I accept that, and in one of the greatest ironies of my life, I accepted long ago the statement that starts the book that prompted me to write this. When I die, there will be a great perhaps; perhaps I die forever, and perhaps I don’t. And so I love laughing, and I love crying, and I love books filled with fictional characters that are just as real to me as people I know, and I love food and music and sex and really witty jokes, and above all other things, I love the few people I really know. I accept that my life will end, and so I will live it doing my utmost to be good, and to love, and to occasionally get into trouble. Because what other way is there to live, knowing that you were quite literally born destined to die?

There’s also one more thing. I love history, and have since I was very small. I like the stories of people, both the common and the great, the evil and the innocent. I read the letters they sent to their wives, what they put in their wills, the books they wrote and their poems about trees, the moon, love, and everything else. The infinite passions of a thousand million souls, now all dead and gone. Because I think remembering, like loving, is an equally important part of living in the labyrinth. There will be those who you will one day never meet again, and there will be those who leave before you do, and the pain of losing them can make you hate them, hate yourself, hate others, and ruin who they were. But by choosing not to forget them, they don’t really die. Their jokes, the way they looked, the way they made us feel; all of these things can live on in us after they go. So, I say to experience life. Do it for yourself as much as you do it for them. But remember those you miss. Don’t forget them. And when it’s late at night, with the stars shining above you, the calm darkness blanketing the landscape and a warm breeze blowing on the wind, think of those you miss, and while they may not be with you, and you won’t feel them beside you, they’ll be with you, as they once were, all the same. And know then that life isn’t about escaping, or dying, or finding a greater meaning. Because there simply may not be one. It’s about knowing people, and loving people, and being good. And if you can do those things, then escaping won’t seem so important after all.

A rude gesture or insult may cause a reactionary stir of annoyance in me, but it takes something more than that to cause anger- I’m not easily provoked. A misplaced word, a careless thought spoken aloud. Something biased and evil and ultimately wrong. Something perhaps not even intended, but worse still if it is. A verbal assault on the ideas and people that I hold dearest to my heart. This is what it takes to light the match. Anger, in my experience, starts as a slow burn. A fire like a lit fuse which inches ever closer to an inevitable explosion. Sweat begins to build in my clenched palms as a cold chill goes down my spine. My chest begins to tighten as all of my other concerns begin to drop away in the moment, my mind focusing on that which has captured my hatred. The muscles in my arms contract, and my mouth goes dry. I can feel adrenaline begin pumping through my veins, and my breathing comes faster and faster. I yearn, in that moment, to spring into action- to attack. And if I let myself, I can. An idea is a thing which I can yell at, scream at, and argue against, passionately, until there’s no opposition left to me. A person is a thing I can punch, and that’s the simplest option of all. We all fantasize about hitting or raging against the little personal injustices of the world which we all experience every now and then, but most of us will never move beyond that self-indulgent day-dream. And neither do I. I simply focus all of my hatred into a stare which I hold until I feel the last of my emotional bulkheads slam into place, containing the fiery inferno of my fury, leaving behind only frustration.

Oliver had been standing in the same spot for the past fifteen minutes, staring contemptuously down into the metal cauldron before him. The pot was, at this point, supposed to be happily bubbling away with a light green foam rising to the top. To Oliver’s dissatisfaction (though not quite surprise), it had slowly congealed into a dark brown sludge. Oliver mentally checked through the list of ingredients and instructions which he was supposed to have followed one more time; first the two scoops of sweet-ander powder, then the five kektares of crushed mallontar, followed by five minutes to allow for boiling and gentle stirring, and then no more than three cups of crepitus solution.

He did this all without taking his eyes off of the mixture in his cauldron, which was slowly moving from brown to black. At this, his eyebrows contracted even further as the look on his face grew more and more confused. He had added the sweet-ander and then the mallontar, yes? Of course he had. He remembered almost dropping in the entire jar of sweet-ander as he had been scooping it out. Think then. Had he let the solution boil for too long? He could almost here Professor Trenkit, Master of the Potions Department, yelling at him; “The only way to ever learn to create a proper potion is through careful attention and dutiful focus. Two things in which you are sorely lacking Mr. Soren.”

Meanwhile, the cauldron began to make ominous rumbling noises.

So what had he done wrong then? It was a common enough question for him. He turned to glance again at the potions manual which he held lying open in the palm of his hand. Add two scoops of sweet-ander powder. Five kektares of crushed mallowtar. Five minutes to boil and stir. Oliver could hear birds chirping outside, and for a moment he wished that he was one of them. Perhaps one of them was one of his fellow classmates, transformed, watching him through the window as his last chance to get into Chickenpox School of Magic and Such boiled into a thick black sludge before his helpless eyes. And then Oliver noticed the exact wording on the last set of instructions. He had never been a careful reader, and it occurred to him at that moment that one should probably never skim the instructions when creating a fire-starter potion. The exact wording, unfortunately for Oliver, called for three drops of Crepitus powder. The cauldron, as if to emphasise the point, began to smoke.

A smarter wizard might have used what precious time was left to utter a few incantations of magical defence. A smarter person might have used the time to flee. Oliver, in a telling display of both his own personality and magical abilities, used the time to say three words.

“Oh of course.”

And then the entire tower was engulfed in a thick black smoke.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE SEVEN SACRED SAPS DID YOU DO SOREN!” boomed Professor Trenkit as he waddled furiously up the hallway, his arms flapping madly and his customary robe billowing out like a bright pink sail behind him. Oliver had learned long ago that the very best and brightest wizards went on to work in high paying careers creating fellowships and instructing youngs Kings-to-be, and that Professor Trenkit, being worthy of neither adjective, had therefore become a teacher. Oliver also knew that if he was not about to be reduced to a smoldering pile of ash via Trenkit’s hate-filled stare alone, then he was almost certainly about to wish he had been once Trenkit finished listing the long litany of punishments which would be created specifically to torture him. Oliver took all this in with a quiet sort of acceptance, as if he had almost expected an outcome similar to this, even while a small part of his brain began screaming as it realized that he would soon have to explain this to his Uncle Landen, the great Lord and Master of the Astrological Arts.

“SOREN, I SWEAR TO ALL THAT FLOATS, FLIES, AND… AND … PWHUH. LISTEN HERE SOREN, WHEN I’M THROUGH YOU’LL … YOU’LL … FHWUUUUUH”, said Professor Trenkit, who was obviously having trouble with words at the moment. He had very nearly managed to make it to where Oliver was standing, and Oliver was sure that he was presenting a very unflattering sight at the moment. His hair was blown around him at all angles, soot covered his skin, and he was still clutching half of a burned copy of Elementary Potions. As Trenkit approached, several members of the school’s fast-response team, a necessity for any location where magic was being taught, had rushed into the room behind Oliver while hurriedly mumbling the incantations required for a water blasting spell and simultaneously waving their hands in the required steps.

“Sir, I-”, began Oliver before being cut off by an amazingly dramatic flail of Trenkit’s hands.

“Mister Soren, you were given thirty minutes to either complete one elementary potion in order to pass your L.A.R.K. exams or to give up. What part of that instruction led you to believe that blowing apart one of the school’s most expensive towers was required of you?”

Oliver paused a moment for dramatic effect, and to summon up his sarcastic courage.

“In all fairness sir, I did technically complete the assignment”, spoke Oliver, with a degree of feigned innocence which might have made even the fairest and most distressed of damsels blush in disgrace.

Professor Trenkit, for his part, was already blushing quite heavily, though this was perhaps due to him only recently receiving more exercise than he had in quite some time.

“Mister Soren, I have taught at this facility for nearly fifty years, and I have been alive longer than you have three times over. In that time, I can say with confidence that I have never, I repeat, never, seen a student as undisciplined, unprepared, immature, non-talented, and irrespectful such as you yourself are.”

Oliver waited for a time after Trenkit had finished his short speech to allow the man to catch his breath before responding, the sound of water hissing as it touched fire coming in muffled bursts from the room behind him.

“I believe, sir, that the more correct word is disrespectful.”

Trenkit’s mouth opened and closed a few times in disbelief, presumably still moving as a reflex while his brain puzzled out what to do next. Suddenly, a grim, self-satisfied smile spread across his wrinkled features. It was not, Oliver thought, a pretty sight, and seemed to be one that Trenkit seldom performed.

“Mister Soren, for the verbal abuse of your teachers, disregard for student safety, and the blatant destruction of school property, you are hereby summarily expelled from-”

“I do not believe that will be necessary, Professor Trenkit.”

Before them both, seemingly appearing from out of thin air itself (and considering magic he very well may have), stood the tall and imposing form of Headmaster Ingmethorpe. Oliver had rarely seen the man outside of his office, which was on the highest floor of the highest spire. It was said that he had once taken over the British government for a day through the use of bewitching charms just to see if anyone would notice, though it was also said that he taught dragons to sing in his free time, and yet still others said that he was an immortal, citing eerily similar historical photos as proof. He had a stern face, one that seemed capable of being either upset or joyous with the same expression. He was wearing a long and flowing purple cape, the kind that only the most important wizards wore, decorated with glowing blue stars, and a bright green pointed hat that added an extra foot to his already towering figure. The astute reader should have noticed by this point that magical fashion did not hold subtlety in the highest regard, and Headmaster Ingmethorpe stretched even those already near non-existent boundaries. The Headmaster, Oliver could now see, also had one blue eye and one green eye, because of course he did. Oliver had never noticed this before, but it was hard not to miss when the two all-seeing spheres had been turned to him to bore through his soul.

Professor Trenkit, perhaps due to sheer anger, though probably due to a now common state of confusion and loss for words, stared blankly at the Headmaster’s form for a few seconds before responding. He was unused to having so many interruptions to his regular tea time, and the shock of it all was beginning to take its toll on him.

“Headmaster, I was just about to expel young Mister Soren here. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but-”

Professor Trenkit was cut off mid-sentence yet again, something that no other person at Sherrinford Secondary School for the Magically Gifted would have ever attempted. Neither Professor Trenkit nor Oliver had any time to process this thought however before Headmaster Ingmethorpe spoke again.

“I’m quite aware of the circumstances surrounding Mister Soren’s proposed expulsion Professor Trenkit,” said the Headmaster without even bothering to turn in Professor Trenkit’s direction, “but due to certain circumstances which I was just about to inform Mister Soren about, I simply cannot allow it to go through.”

“And what,” sputtered Professor Trenkit, now regaining his courage, “could these circumstances possibly be, sir?”

“Oliver, have you ever felt that you were different from your schoolmates?”

Oliver took a moment before answering. The Headmaster’s stare was intimidating, that he could easily admit, but it wasn’t unkind, nor angry. It was simply interested, inviting almost. What really disquieted him, a feeling which a person like Oliver, who was so used to letting the world pass him by without much trouble, was quite unfamiliar with, was the fact that the Headmaster seemed to be heading into some sort of dangerous territory. Oliver knew that he wasn’t about to be punished, but he also knew on some intrinsic, some might say magical level, that something even more important was occuring.

“I wouldn’t say that I ever felt different sir. I just always felt like I didn’t belong.”

The Headmaster’s piercing visage softened slightly at this, and Oliver could have sworn that he saw the ghost of a grin flash across his face.

“And why, Mister Soren, do you suppose that is.”

Introspection was not one of Oliver’s strong suits. He had learned at a very young age that it often lead to sadness and anger and sense of displacement that he would have liked very much to avoid. Philosophy, for that reason, had the bane of his existence ever since he had begun taking magical courses. It was hard to find a teacher who didn’t begin every one of their classes with a line from Aristotle or Erasmus, and every time it took a strong show of self-discipline to prevent himself from rolling his eyes. But it was clear to anyone what the Headmaster was talking about, as the better part of the countryside knew about Oliver’s magical misadventures, beginning with his self-levitating spell disaster in the sixth grade. The shame of having Rose Minton laugh and point as he gave himself a wedgie still burned its way through his nightmares on a weekly basis.

“Well, sir, everyone seems to have a specialty. Tyson is good at transformation for instance. And everyone knows that Eliza is a master at creating love potions. But me… I… well I’m not very good at anything. At most I’m maybe average at most things.”

“Don’t you see though Oliver!”, said the Headmaster laughing, in a deep and self-amused chuckle which was almost more terrifying to Oliver than his stony face had been before, “Don’t you see it at all!”

“I for one certainly don’t see any potential in the boy at all. He said it himself, average at best”, spoke Professor Trenkit in a smug, over confident tone, the kind that schoolyard bullies employ when they want others to believe they are correct.

“And that, Professor, is more of a judgement on you than it is on anyone else,” spoke the Headmaster with contempt.

Oliver meanwhile was still trying to process the Headmaster’s words and actions, which together had created a very confusing picture for him.

“But what are you trying to say about me sir?”

“Oliver. Dear, brilliant, ignorant Oliver. I know all about your dreams of going to advanced universities, and I’m going to tell you now not to bother with that nonsense. Trenkit went to one of those places and look what it did to him. No, I’ve got a much better plan for you. If you’d like, I want you to become my apprentice.”

Oliver had been hit by a stun charm before, more times than he would care to admit, but none of them had felt like his. Ingmethorpe’s apprentice! The man who had spawned so many legends that no one was quite sure which was truth and which was lie and which was some odd mixture of both! Overall though, Oliver was mostly confused. This, at least, was an emotion which he could at last understand and put into words.

“Why me sir? Out of anyone, why me?”

It was, at least, an honest question.

“Because, my scintillating soon-to-be protege,” shouted the Headmaster over his shoulder as he turned to stride down the hallway, laughter in his voice as if there was some inside joke that only he knew, leaving a slack jawed and fuming Professor Trenkit and an eager but befuddled Oliver in his wake.

“Because, unlike every other student at this school, you are unique! You don’t have an aptitude for potions or charms or any one specific thing. You can do anything you set your mind to! You have an aptitude, my dear boy, for magic!”

And with that, the Headmaster motioned for Oliver to join him, and Oliver in turn sprinted down the hallway to run after him.