1. too much telling and not enough showing
2. overuse of some verbs or nouns
3. overly boring and/or not enough action
4. uneven flow
5. strange introduction?
6. no description of character(s) and/or setting
7. lots of pointless words with no purpose
Anyway, here we go:
Sometimes I felt that the bell was too quiet. Other times I insisted upon its being too loud. But I knew it was illogical for such a bell to fluctuate in volume, and thus supported by the testimonies of other students, I resolved to find the answer in the only place it could be: in myself. Claimed a “perfect bell” by our school and others, it even once warranted a newspaper article (the school newspaper, of course) about its alleged “perfection.”
The reality? It sucked. And in a whole new level of inadequacy. Aside from this seemingly fluctuating volume level, the bell always remained the subject of many hand-covered ears. I, for one, would never expend the energy and break my thoughts just to commit such an act of self-preservation, as I deemed the shrieks of pain the bell often effected (and those it seemingly sought to embody) to be undeserving of the act. It was, in short, a tribute I would never pay to the bell.
Anyhow, such an act would be cowardly in itself, and never would I stoop to such a level. Self-preservation was one thing; the bell was another entirely. It was of no importance after all, however, for the thoughts I so contrived to preserve were often shattered nonetheless by the resounding screeches that had been named the bell. At other times, I felt missing a class would be imminent, as everyday classroom commutes were really only signaled by the mass movement of others nearby. Someone must have really good ears, I reasoned. For how else would this chain be started? But once the first domino fell, the rest could only follow, and I was one of such followers. Sometimes I questioned whether such a position suited me; it felt almost common and ordinary. No, this could not be. For if none were special, then all were special, and vice versa for the opposite. And therefore I was both ordinary and special, something I took much pride in being.
I had been ordinary once. At least that was what I told myself. But it really was a lie. For there remained clear evidence––both online IQ tests and my interactions with those around me had seen to that––of my extraordinary status. Though I never showed it––I had learned to keep my unusual qualities to myself. I knew from the countless accounts in literature and history that it was never a good idea to announce one’s abnormality. And my case was abnormal indeed.
For as long as I could remember, I always had an uncanny ability to mentally do in seconds what others did in minutes, to do mentally in minutes what an ordinary human might do in hours. This hyper-thought processing existed in coexistence with my almost omniscient awareness: not only was I fully conscious of all that was in my peripheral vision, I held a simultaneous curiosity that made me notice the most mundane of observations, from the number of cars in a parking lot nearby to the nuances of footprints in the dirt––from the subtle disturbances of dead leaves and half-footprints etched into the swirling dust, I could unconsciously discern the trails of those before, just as I could predict the paths and goals of those just entering my “field of omniscience.” That being said, I had no Sherlock Holmes-like deduction or so-called “photographic” memory. In some ways I was almost inferior: my physical abilities were in no way exceptional and in every way normal, and my eccentricities in observation sometimes led me into trouble.
When it came to school, the teachers had naught to teach me that I did not already know. I quickly realized that flaunting my acumen, as satisfying as it might be, was just not a path I was willing to go down. From the little glimpse I had seen of such a prospect, I garnered that it was to be of isolation and abnormality. And all I wanted to do was blend in. Sure, I was often bored and uninterested in the banal matters that presented the school curriculum, and I often dreamed of a school that would enrich me with the knowledge that I sought, but it was a futile dream. Anyway, I felt content with surfing the internet and binge-reading any textbooks that came my way; the library in the city was a warm blessing. I even found myself spending hours between the brown walls, reading all that I could find. It was truly a treasure trove of insight.
Recently, however, neither the peeling walls of Haymith High nor the spectral dusk of the Haymith Public Library satisfied me anymore. I had grown bored of the life I was trapped in, and there was no longer enough to satisfy me. As with all high schools, Haymith had always offered––no, forced upon its students––a Health class; in addition to visits by the local police and increasingly predictable anti-drug and sex ed lectures, it always spoke of the positive mindsets that supposedly lowered suicide rates and cured the possibility of depression. Mrs. Naory once said that negativity was the birth of everything bad, and that positivity was the impetus behind all success, but I did not believe so. After all, what was success when life dealt you a hand full of blank cards?
What do you think?
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