Redemption

Here is an interesting phobia I had never considered before. It is currently possible for me to inhale my own hair.

Last year, in Mr. Hoehne's class, I wrote, what I consider, to be an incredible stain upon my history as a writer. I took a concept that I was thoroughly enamored with, combined it with the enthusiasm for drama in human action that I took from The Dark Knight, and sprinkled it with ineptitude so profound it makes my hair stand on end. The piece, was the literary equivalent of a grade-schooler drawing stick figures exploding with gore upon a pointless and tactless battlefield of crayon. I am ashamed to say that Mr. Hoehne, in his apparent wisdom, took me aside and talked to me about the piece. He informed me that I was indeed the infamous and unnamed student whom he told the class had horrified him and his wife, and asked me if I was alright, whereupon I assured him I was appropriately horrified at my own creation as to be sane.

Here, however, this story takes a twist. In my latest english class, focused almost exclusively upon analytical essays and the formation of the unknowably exact and confusing organization of arguments, the sole opportunity for creative writing has given me the chance to redeem this story in my mind. I believe I may have succeeded. The story may be different, but the concept that enthralled me is still there, and I believe it shines through. I am tempted to take it upon myself to polish this tale and make it shine like nothing else, then to present it to Mr. Hoehne with a note simply saying "I am sorry for unleashing that monstrosity into the world, but here is what I meant to do. Is it not good?"

That said, I'm afraid my current teacher won't care for it because it's over eight pages when she expected about two.