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The practice of plot twists has become far from an originally contrived concept. That is why from the minute I was born I wanted to revolutionize the convention. Racing with famous writers such as M. Night Shyamalan, I hurried down the birth canal into the hands of an expectant mother and a very shocked father.
Met with the usual procedures with which newborns were greeted in the oppressive country of Belarus, I proudly faced the apologetic doctors and emotionless nurses. They handled children as if they would eminently provide them a strike at the bowling alley if the proper amount of vulgar force was applied.
In another section of the hospital, my father was speaking to the false prophet, his demands sounding much like a person seeking a refund. The medically certified man restated that he must have misread the communistic equipment. He regretted the false hope and planning that had raced through my dad’s eager mind. He was sorry that the wrong sexual organ turned his plans and dreams into nothing but a fantasy.
My mother was joined by her husband later, too blissful that the painful procedure was over, forgetting the earlier strained phone conversation which had caused her beau to literally tumble out of his chair. From the very beginning I was more successful than the multi millionaire genius that Shyamalan has become. From my very first breath I had caused my own father to submit to the sheer power of the legendary story telling tool; I successfully executed the plot twist.
Due to medical inaccuracy, my mother had no trouble accepting her newborn child; at least this one had survived. Fortunately for me, I was the girl that lived. Unfortunately for me, this meant certain social stigma and practices had to be followed. I was a female in a society that had just suffocated its own communism.
I was suffocated by the lack of power a female organ can get you in the societally arrested country to which I was born. I was drowned by the deficit amount of teachings and skills passed on to women. I could not sing, I could not swim, I couldn’t ride a bike. I was permitted to scream, sink, and fall off vehicles, however.
Seven years of successful submission later, a broken pencil served its martyrdom and provided my family and I a one-way journey to the opportune land of America. My father was the wielder of Excalibur, scratching out the winning numbers of a green card lottery ticket. My mother and I were the fallen society before Arthur, mourning the loss of one of the most precious things: home.
Ignoring the land of the free was easy for my parents; they proceeded with carving out a niche for themselves while entertaining my existence. By the change of setting I began to realize what stark differences I had absorbed. Meek, shy, and terrified of these new surroundings, I stood out like a sore thumb trying to be a delicate hand model. The safe enclosed spaces of Belarusian teachings had transformed into large air strips of playtime, black and white had exploded with the thousands of hues from which they were composed.
(( a start to a story I've been trying to piece together for a while. would love some input)
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