To Break a Dam

         I apologize for this introduction, but I need you all to know why this was written. As the summary blurb said, this is an essay that was written for my English class. We're studying descriptive writing and rhetorical devises, which is why a couple of things may seem out of place. We were required to place an alliteration, an allusion, and a metaphor in our essay. You will definitely recognize them when you see them. Also, the description really starts after the first couple paragraphs, so be patient and don't get bored. Trust me, I think you'll like it! Any helpful comments are welcome! Enjoy!
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To Break a Dam
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         One day - during the winter of my freshman year, I believe - my class was handed an assignment as part of our fiction unit. As the paper touched my hand and my eyes scanned over the requirements, my heart sank. I was to create a short story in one week, confined only to a single setting, with the development of only one main character. I’m not accustomed to writing short stories- I prefer long novels, full of rich detail and featuring a compelling plotline. Having to squeeze so much into so little made me feel as if I had to fit a square peg into a round whole. It was going to be extremely difficult to create an intriguing story that barely had time to develop. I felt as if I wouldn’t be able to express all that I needed to, like I had to compress any creativity and ideas into a very simple, almost childish, plotline.

         As the week trickled by, I simply put this assignment in the back of my mind, hoping that I could leave it to bake and rise, returning to it a few days later to find it ready and eager to be written. But, as I reached two days before the first deadline, I sat at my computer, hands still on the keyboard, mind blank with frustration. I knew I couldn’t write a short story. It was too short to be worth writing, too short to be of any interest. My mind was racing, reaching desperately for inspiration, any glimmer of creativity that would turn into a blossoming idea. But nothing came.

         I was experiencing a ruthless attack of writers block. In all actuality, it’s not a simple block between you and your ideas - more of a mammoth wall of epic proportions- a dam, so to speak, which is holding back a glimmering pool of ideas. I stood on the dry side, staring hopelessly up at a dam that reached beyond the clouds, wondering how to get to other side.

         Time continued to ebb away. Frustration mounted as I began to feel desperate. On the verge of blinding anger, I forced myself to stomp my way through the key elements of a short story. Well, I thought, a character would be important. And a character generally needs a name. Not having much of an idea of what I would be writing, I threw together a name that sounded unique to me: Firson. And you know what? He could be my age—actually, on second thought, maybe a little bit older.

         Little did I realize, the dam had sprung a leak.

         Thoughts of what Firson looked like, how he walked, and what he did all started to grow in my mind. He stepped through different eras, flying through backdrops like mad, finally finding a home in the medieval era. But the setting was still a problem.

         Cracks had spider-webbed away from the original source of leakage, leading to multiple fractures along the dam’s surface. Sweet inspiration forced itself through the tiny holes, squeezing itself through with tremendous pressure, jetting out, almost reaching me, beckoning me to take it by the hand. I was breaking down this malicious dam, slowly but surely discovering what it had to hide.

         And then, quite suddenly, I found the inspiration I needed. From somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, a candle sprung to life. It occurred to me that one setting doesn’t necessarily mean a small room. It can be one place, but a big place, one that stays the same throughout, but technically changes as you move along it. A forest. A wild forest, holding unpredictable danger deep within its overgrown depths, placed in the dead of winter, drowned in snow and freezing temperatures. And Firson… he had to go through it.

         With a resounding crack, the dam burst, with me at the bottom, arms open in pure ecstasy, waiting for the flood of inspiration that was needed for my story -- any story. At once a world was thrown up into my head: a land of kings and war, of rich and poor, the mighty and weak, the happy, the bleak, of forests and mountains, of sky and ocean, of people and animals, of religion, dialect, love, hate, hunger, death, despair, hope, life. A rushing torrent of delicious inspiration flowed through my dancing fingers, painting a eligant picture of black and white. Words were brought to life under my direction, flowing brilliantly across the page, a magnificently mesmerizing myriad of ideas and events. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and yet, I didn’t care. This power of imagination swam through my veins, coursing through my body. I wrote with the end in mind, because it seemed to me, contrary to my earlier beliefs, a short story can be filled with just as much plot and development as a long, sometimes tedious, novel.

         Just as quickly as the torrent had come, it was gone, shut off behind a never-ending dam. But that’s okay. I now knew that no matter what genre of writing I tackle, that reservoir could be accessed again. I know now where the cracks lie.