Short Story | Fiction

The Story about The Story

One day, a little boy had an idea. It wasn’t brilliant, nor was it unique. Nonetheless, it was his idea.

“I want to write a story!”

And so with youthful passion and childish abandon, he wrote with all his heart. There was no room for thoughts or even emotions – just a story impatiently bursting on paper.

It took him five minutes.

Excitedly, he ran to his siblings and showed them the story.

“Haha, this is ridiculous,” his brother said.

“Oh, this is hilarious,” his sister said.

Then he ran to share it with his friends.

His closest friends said, “Well done! It’s great!”

But some did say, “Bah, there’s no point in reading it anyway.”

His best friend took a look, and with a smile, he said, “Lots of typos, my friend.”

He even showed it to his crush, who said, “It’s nice… but boring.”

The next day, he brought it to his teacher.

He got a C+.

But he was happy anyway.

And so soon he forgot about his little story. But little did he know how that his story will have its own story.

A few years went by, or so it felt, when suddenly on his email he received a mob:

“Your idea came from the devil!”

Shocked as he was, he checked the web – and with his mouth agape he browsed through each discussion thread… it seems that a friend posted his story online with his name on it, or maybe someone picked up his crumpled sheet and fancied sharing it as it is.

But it was just a story, no harm or malice meant. He didn’t even remembered how the story went.

And so the hatred came like rain… from a simple idea that didn’t even gave him any gain (except for the negative fame). Until one night in his bedroom, he heard a knock. It was his father, who heard his obvious sobs.

His father asked, “Mind telling me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing much, really.” He stupidly lied.

With a sly smirk and a laugh, his father simply sat beside him, and with a gentler, more friendly tone, he asked again. “Really. What’s wrong?”

And so the boy lead his father to his story, about the story of a story that made everyone so noisy, and how the story came from being – and how the entire hysteria showed no meaning.

The father silently read some more, smiling a moment here and raising an eyebrow there. The boy twitched and frowned, worried whether his father would be mad or proud… and with teardrops rolling, he remembered all those voices again:

“Haha this is ridiculous!”

“Bah, there’s no point in reading it anyway.”

“It’s nice… but boring.”

“Your idea came from the devil!”

Until he realized his father has just finished reading the story.

With weak courage mustered, and with hopeless despair, he heaved a youthful sigh and said, “How was it? Was it really that bad?”

His father looked at him straight, as much as a father yet still a critic. And yet so much more.

Then with a wink, his father said, “So, can I be part of the story?”

* * *

This allegory/story is the result of my frustration over some people who keep posting hate stories / fake origins about planking, DOTA, and other stuff with innocent origins but which people unfairly demonize. Since I’m tired of ranting, I decided to use my only other weapon left: purposeful writing.

Truth and grace, everyone. Let love prevail to understand.

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