Short Story: The Acceptance Letter
In English class we were told to write a short story using all the tools we previously learned about plot, character arcs and writing style. I wanted to create a story about a college student who is dealing with an internal conflict and an external conflict. Her internal conflict, the fact that she's anxious and unconfident, resides within her at a time when she needs to be relaxed and sure of herself.
Before this unit I had always thought that stories had to not only be long and involved, but that any good story always aired on the side of Steinbeck when it came to sentence length. But this form of writing challenged me to step outside of my comfort zone in two major ways. First, I needed to tell a story as a comic. I don't pride myself on my pencil in hand or pencil to paper abilities, but this project allowed my appreciation for those who do, to grow exponentially. Secondly, I needed to convey a range of intrinsic, very personal, ineffable emotions with very few words. In the end, though, I figured it out.
. . .
Pilar Polster, 19, was rather tightly wound. On this particular snowy day, she walked in a hurry, head down, with her arms folded together across her chest in an effort to keep warm.
“Damn!” Thought Pilar as she stubbed her toe on an uneven brick in the sidewalk. For her mind was somewhere else today, on a possible internship that would put her on the map. The application process, an act indicative of college itself, required a letter of recommendation. Written by her eccentric art teacher, only time would tell if it did the job.
Pilar continued across the quad, half of her in silent reflection and the other going over possible ways the day could play out. She pulled her winter coat tightly around herself. While the jacket proved impervious to the cold New York winters, the other played soldier to her own insecurities. For it kept her safe against the pervasiveness Pilar would soon realize that comes with being the ideal student. She always turned papers in on time and arrived at her classes 10 minutes beforehand, but she was also chosen as a partner for group papers not for the charisma and bubbliness she brought to the table, but for her work ethic. Her perfectionism was never a flaw to her, or so she thought.
She arrived at her dorm room, swiped her key card and said hello to the security guard. “You see any mail for me today?” She asked, and despondently responded to the shake of his head as she walked toward the stairs. She waited. And waited. And waited. She obliged phone calls from her art teacher and watched the clock like a hawk. “No problem,” she thought, the mail would come.
Pilar awoke from her nap to the sound of footsteps on the iced-over walk. Mail! And not two minutes later was she back in her room, envelope in one hand, letter opener in the other.
Almost like a strike of imperfect lightening itself, the letter opener sliced right through the top corner of the envelope. She quickly butchered the opening with another swipe and told herself again that there is no telling the contents of a letter by the size of then envelope, only by the words on the paper.
We regret to inform you….
Realizing she couldn’t fight it any longer, she lay her head down on her desk in awareness that this time, solace would not come from a trait better adapted for avoidance, but from real tears that she could feel as they slowly followed an invisible path down her face.