A. You must begin with the sentence, “Many years later, he remembered his first experience with ice.”
B. All five senses—sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell—have to figure in the plot.
C. You have to mention the University of Chicago, but please, no accounts of erstwhile high school students applying to the University—this is fiction, not autobiography.
D. These items must be included: a new pair of socks, a historical landmark, a spork (the combination of spoon and fork frequently seen among airline flatware), a domesticated animal, and the complete works of William Shakespeare. Have fun, and try to keep your brilliance and wit to three pages max. (U of Chicago)
“Many years
later, he remembered his first experience with ice,” said Peter. He turned
around only to find that there was nobody listening to him anymore. Sure, the
audience had been fairly large when he first started with the story, but by
now, there was just a dog looking at him hungrily and waging its tail. He threw
at it the remains of the bun in his hands. The dog gave a joyful yelp and
jogged away, waging its tail happily. Great, Peter thought, even the dog doesn’t
want to be with me.
Peter had
always been told by those elder than him that his skills of storytelling were
unlike what they’d heard before. This boosted his confidence, and he thought that
maybe he could use this talent to fill his pockets. After all, the university
he was applying for was no joke: The University of Chicago. Now, after his
first attempt turning out to be utterly disappointing, the University felt like
a distant dream.
Anyhow, he
gathered up his belongings and the remaining of his disappointment and headed
home. Living in the beautiful city, he had always loved walking whenever he
could. He loved observing people and studying them; it definitely helped him
with his storytelling. He was so brilliant that he could thread out wonderful
stories of as simple a case as the woman sitting in the cafe with a cup of
coffee or a bookstore with a portrait of Shakespeare on the door and,
predictably, the inside filled with the complete works of Shakespeare.
As he passed
the big Bo-tree two blocks away from his home, he noticed something had
changed. Being a quick observer, he realized that they had placed a new bench
just underneath the tree. He always thought that there ought to be one right
there; it just seemed like the perfect setting. Tempted, he thought, Why not
spend a few moments here. After all, I don’t have a place to go and tell
stories, he thought sarcastically.
The bench was
empty and there seemed to be nobody around. He threw his bag pack on the ground
next to him and lazily flopped onto the seat. It sure did feel new. The surface
was smooth and safe from uncomfortable bulges. The backrest felt perfect. His
body quickly absorbed the coolness of the bench to calm his heated body down. A
short laugh escaped his lips as he thought about the events of the day. Maybe,
he thought, I dream too much.
He lay there
for a few moments, his arms outstretched and his feet dangling, taking in the
calmness of his surroundings. He listened to the distant roaring of the engines
of so many vehicles. He heard the ruffled footsteps of the passer-bys as they
rushed to another place they had to be, another meeting they had to attend,
another part of their life that was so important. Why hadn’t he such a busy
life? He was only a student, but still, he felt like he had too much time in
his hands nowadays. No matter, he thought, I’m sure I will also be viciously
sucked into that cycle of what they call “professional” life. Running from
place to place, from people to people, all to make some more money? Is that how
life was meant to be?
As the weather
started cooling down and the sun started making way for the stars, he left the
thoughts behind and continued his way back home. The cool breeze blew at his
face, ruffling his hair, and pushing him backwards. But he continued walking,
against the incredible force, until he was at his doorstep. Through the thick
glass of his door, he saw that somebody was already inside, and from the smell
of baked goods and roasted chicken, he could tell that it was his grandmother. She
had promised him a visit after her year-round trip. Carelessly shoving the keys back on the inside
of his jacket, he knocked on the door. From the other side, he heard the a big
bang, which sounded like a pan had fell to the floor, rushed footsteps,
clanking of keys, and finally, the clicking of the door. There stood his
grandmother, clad in her nightgown, a thick, red sweater, and a wise smile. She
leaned towards him and hugged him.
“Grandmother!”
he said. “It’s so great to see you!”
“It’s lovely to
see you too, son,” she replied gleefully, freeing him from a warm hug.
After that he let her talk. She was a talkative woman and it was always best not to interrupt her. She could talk on for days of the things she was excited about. Her eyes would tinkle, her thin lips would form a smile, and her hands would try to paint the pictures of her mind into thin air. It was amazing to watch.
From the moment he had entered the house to the time he had fallen asleep, he had learned a great many things. From learning of the beauty of the Eiffel Tower at night to the smelly, Indian feet in Taj Mahal, he heard it all. He had heard how little the pair of woolen socks was of use in the cold winter in Finland and how shiny the spork was in the Germanwings Airlines. But the best part was that his grandmother had patiently listened as he used his extraordinary storytelling to tell her the story he had recited earlier that day. She smiled throughout, nodding that she had understood, and proudly clapping her hands when he had finished. The last of his thoughts before he fell asleep were that perhaps there was still chance, a chance that his storytelling could survive.
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