It's so weird to post this on a forum, but I simply cannot find anyone who's available to take a look at this story. In one of the silliest assignments ever, I am supposed to write a five-page tale in the style of early Nathaniel Hawthorne. Could anyone give this a look over and point out anything that seems ridiculous?
Sputtering into the station, a small bus gently parted diffused wisps of Autumn fog that drifted aimlessly through the early morning air. Bracing themselves against an unexpected chill, the bus?s small group of passengers disembarked, all more or less showing the signs of a difficult journey. Quick to notice that the bus station was closed, the riders huddled their way back to the relative warmth of the bus cab, leaving a middle-aged man standing alone on the crumbled curb separating the station lot from the small highway that led to this stop. This solitary figure stood peering in the darkness at the indistinct lines of the rising Appalachian foothills that surrounded the area. Likely a more spectacular sight in better lighting, the Appalachians themselves were hidden on this night and it was indeed difficult to see anything clearly more than a hundred yards away.
?I wish there was something more I could do for you sir, but I never would've guessed we would be detoured so far out of the way in order t' get here. Usually you could probably get a taxi or a lift from someone else heading downtown, but I?m afraid there?s probably no one around here who could drive you into town,? said the bus driver, approaching Martin Stadtlich. ?If you don?t mind hoofin it, the town?s not too far from here. You just need to walk about a half a mile back up the way we came, and then if you take a right you?ll be on Main Street. Downtown's just a bit farther down that way and if you're looking for the campus, you'll likely as not be able to find it in no time. This is one of our smaller stops and that school is right near the center.?
Thanking the driver for his directions, Martin set out on walking on the shoulder?s highway, pulling a small, dark suitcase behind him. Inside the case were two sets of soiled clothing and folders filled with lesson plan notes for the coming semeseter. His clothing trunk and a footlocker full of books had been sent ahead; they would be waiting for him when he arrived to assume his chair in the department and his University-provided lodgings. A few moments later, Martin heard the fuel door slam shut and turn to see the bus pull away with a rumble of the tired diesel engine.
After long hours of ever-present vibration in the bus, the silence of the countryside was a welcome relief. The sky above Martin was pitchy ? textured by cloud, yet impenetrably dark; though by the first week of September the moon should have been slowly waxing, Martin decided that its seeming absense was due to the shroud of clouds and fog between him and the heavens.
Martin suddenly found himself approaching the center of the sleeping country town. Realizing that he had been daydreaming as he walked, Martin took his bearings too see if any of the nearby buildings matched the directions he had received in the mail with his dormitory assignment. For its centermost four blocks, Main Street was lit by a succession of antique gas light poles that had been converted to use brighter, more modern halogen lights. In the unusual glow cast by these streetlights the buildings took on shadowy aspects, but working his way outward from the courthouse, Martin was able to locate the avenue which led to the campus.
As he passed through the iron gates of his new home, Martin felt for the first
time in days the awkward twinge of self-doubt. Arriving unannounced, fatigued, and in the early morning was never how he had pictured the first day of the rest of his life. Modest enough to realize that his entry-level position in the history department at this obscure (but respected) private college in the foothills was hardly prestigious, Martin had nonetheless his first stroll happening during the cool, golden afternoons he had seen pictured in the University guidebook. Out of all the curriculum vitae he had been sent out, only this one college had replied ? and their immediate response had not been with a typical request for an interview, but a small box of University literature and his class list for the coming semester. The realization that the nondescript box was an invitation to finally pursue his true calling in life was the happiest moment of Martin's life, and even the trials of the bus ride to Kentucky could not diminish the throbbing of his heart at the realization that he would stand before his first class in a matter of days.
In his youth, Martin had studied history and education, and even graduated with some distinction from the state college in his hometown. From the moment he began his studies, there was no question in his mind that a career of education and scholarly research into the annals of the past would give his life meaning. Immediately after graduation, a message from his brother-in-law had arrived, notifying Martin that his sister was critically injured in an automobile visit. When it became obvious she would not recover most of her freedom of movement, Martin's visit in their home turned into a sabbatical while he helped tend his sister and their children. Six months later, Martin left the household in the care of a professional nurse that his brother-in-law had hired. Unable to find a teaching position at the time, he had found work managing a small restaurant back in his birthplace, while tutoring high school students part-time to keep himself fresh. When the Fall next arrived, the struggling restaurant owner was unable to find a replacement for Martin, who grudgingly agreed to stay on through the busy season.
Almost thirty-five years had passed since his graduation when Martin, now the owner of the restaurant, woke up one morning in his small apartment above the dining room. He had been bedridden with a terrible flu for a week and his abortive teaching career had been drifting in and out of his mind during the fever. Years ago Martin had given up tutoring when the old owner had left the store to him in a will, but time had never diminished his interest in the past; though the moments of free time were few, Martin still occasionally found time to read the major works in his field. In a moment of regretful decision, Martin realized that at his age, with no practical teaching experience, he could at last admit that he would never be an educator. Somewhat freed by this revelation, he opened a small drawer in his nightstand filled with letters ? making sure he found one addressed the local University where he had received his degree ? written in his late youth and asking if he might be considered for a position. Though the aging man had known even when he wrote them that he was no longer a realistic candidate, he had always been afraid to face the stark reality of a written rejection. Something was different today; Martin Stadtlich was ready to close the long chapter of regret and longing in his own history and settle for whatever happiness he did have in his current station. In a jesting mood, he stamped the letters and had one of the employees deliver them to the post office.
Soon after his letters were mailed, the fevers grew worse and Martin's acquantainces began to worry about whether he would survive this bout with illness. Though he seemed more content, a certain light that had always been in his eyes was missing. That is, until the astonishing delivery he received during the worst fever he had yet experienced. Since that moment, Martin's recovery had been surprisingly sudden. Thanking God for this second chance and not wishing for any delay to prove this providence imaginary, Martin set out as quickly as possible from his hometown towards whatever future he could make for himself.
After making a circuit around the grounds, Martin wearily stood before the entrance of Ganfield Hall, an aged brick building that stood solidly enough near the center of a small greenspace on the perimeter of the school. It dawned on Martin for the first time since the bus had been detoured that he may not be able to enter the residence hall at this early time of the morning. After lifting his suitcase up the stairs leading to the front entrance, Martin pulled gently on the broad doors in front of him. They resisted at first but eventually the brass hinges squealed gingerly and allowed him admittance to the hall.
Inside, the quiet murmuring sound of an old-fashioned steam heating system was the only sentry to greet the newcomer. ?At least I can sleep here in the foyer where it's warmer for a few hours until I locate my room in the morning,? Martin said to himself, sitting down in a small armchair near the center of the room. As he was leaning back to close his eyes, Martin noticed a row of mailboxes along the far wall. Three-quarters down the row, a mailbox with his name stood with the corner of a manila envelope sicking out. Curious, Martin walked to the mailbox and pulled out the package. On the top it was marked ?334,? and within he found a key. ?Of course I certainly wouldn't mind sleeping on a real bed tonight,? Martin smiled.
After a bit of a struggle to get his case up two flights of stairs, Martin was grateful to find that his key fit perfectly into the lock. The small, but cozy, associate professor's room (right down to the flaking plaster on the exterior wall) was just as he imagined it. Thinking to himself that he would be happy to spend the rest of his life living out his long-awaited dream, Martin was fast into the most fitful sleep he could remember without even pausing to remove his jacket.
Weeks passed in Martin's hometown and even the younger members of the community had fond memories of his friendly, searching expressions and interesting anecdotes about the history of the area as he visited his guests' tables during dinner. Those friends who had been the last to speak with him told of the moments right after he had finally unburdened himself of the letters that had been saved up for so long. Everyone could only agree that his final moments living in his longtime home were marked by a contentedness they had never before seen on his weary face.
Sputtering into the station, a small bus gently parted diffused wisps of Autumn fog that drifted aimlessly through the early morning air. Bracing themselves against an unexpected chill, the bus?s small group of passengers disembarked, all more or less showing the signs of a difficult journey. Quick to notice that the bus station was closed, the riders huddled their way back to the relative warmth of the bus cab, leaving a middle-aged man standing alone on the crumbled curb separating the station lot from the small highway that led to this stop. This solitary figure stood peering in the darkness at the indistinct lines of the rising Appalachian foothills that surrounded the area. Likely a more spectacular sight in better lighting, the Appalachians themselves were hidden on this night and it was indeed difficult to see anything clearly more than a hundred yards away.
?I wish there was something more I could do for you sir, but I never would've guessed we would be detoured so far out of the way in order t' get here. Usually you could probably get a taxi or a lift from someone else heading downtown, but I?m afraid there?s probably no one around here who could drive you into town,? said the bus driver, approaching Martin Stadtlich. ?If you don?t mind hoofin it, the town?s not too far from here. You just need to walk about a half a mile back up the way we came, and then if you take a right you?ll be on Main Street. Downtown's just a bit farther down that way and if you're looking for the campus, you'll likely as not be able to find it in no time. This is one of our smaller stops and that school is right near the center.?
Thanking the driver for his directions, Martin set out on walking on the shoulder?s highway, pulling a small, dark suitcase behind him. Inside the case were two sets of soiled clothing and folders filled with lesson plan notes for the coming semeseter. His clothing trunk and a footlocker full of books had been sent ahead; they would be waiting for him when he arrived to assume his chair in the department and his University-provided lodgings. A few moments later, Martin heard the fuel door slam shut and turn to see the bus pull away with a rumble of the tired diesel engine.
After long hours of ever-present vibration in the bus, the silence of the countryside was a welcome relief. The sky above Martin was pitchy ? textured by cloud, yet impenetrably dark; though by the first week of September the moon should have been slowly waxing, Martin decided that its seeming absense was due to the shroud of clouds and fog between him and the heavens.
Martin suddenly found himself approaching the center of the sleeping country town. Realizing that he had been daydreaming as he walked, Martin took his bearings too see if any of the nearby buildings matched the directions he had received in the mail with his dormitory assignment. For its centermost four blocks, Main Street was lit by a succession of antique gas light poles that had been converted to use brighter, more modern halogen lights. In the unusual glow cast by these streetlights the buildings took on shadowy aspects, but working his way outward from the courthouse, Martin was able to locate the avenue which led to the campus.
As he passed through the iron gates of his new home, Martin felt for the first
time in days the awkward twinge of self-doubt. Arriving unannounced, fatigued, and in the early morning was never how he had pictured the first day of the rest of his life. Modest enough to realize that his entry-level position in the history department at this obscure (but respected) private college in the foothills was hardly prestigious, Martin had nonetheless his first stroll happening during the cool, golden afternoons he had seen pictured in the University guidebook. Out of all the curriculum vitae he had been sent out, only this one college had replied ? and their immediate response had not been with a typical request for an interview, but a small box of University literature and his class list for the coming semester. The realization that the nondescript box was an invitation to finally pursue his true calling in life was the happiest moment of Martin's life, and even the trials of the bus ride to Kentucky could not diminish the throbbing of his heart at the realization that he would stand before his first class in a matter of days.
In his youth, Martin had studied history and education, and even graduated with some distinction from the state college in his hometown. From the moment he began his studies, there was no question in his mind that a career of education and scholarly research into the annals of the past would give his life meaning. Immediately after graduation, a message from his brother-in-law had arrived, notifying Martin that his sister was critically injured in an automobile visit. When it became obvious she would not recover most of her freedom of movement, Martin's visit in their home turned into a sabbatical while he helped tend his sister and their children. Six months later, Martin left the household in the care of a professional nurse that his brother-in-law had hired. Unable to find a teaching position at the time, he had found work managing a small restaurant back in his birthplace, while tutoring high school students part-time to keep himself fresh. When the Fall next arrived, the struggling restaurant owner was unable to find a replacement for Martin, who grudgingly agreed to stay on through the busy season.
Almost thirty-five years had passed since his graduation when Martin, now the owner of the restaurant, woke up one morning in his small apartment above the dining room. He had been bedridden with a terrible flu for a week and his abortive teaching career had been drifting in and out of his mind during the fever. Years ago Martin had given up tutoring when the old owner had left the store to him in a will, but time had never diminished his interest in the past; though the moments of free time were few, Martin still occasionally found time to read the major works in his field. In a moment of regretful decision, Martin realized that at his age, with no practical teaching experience, he could at last admit that he would never be an educator. Somewhat freed by this revelation, he opened a small drawer in his nightstand filled with letters ? making sure he found one addressed the local University where he had received his degree ? written in his late youth and asking if he might be considered for a position. Though the aging man had known even when he wrote them that he was no longer a realistic candidate, he had always been afraid to face the stark reality of a written rejection. Something was different today; Martin Stadtlich was ready to close the long chapter of regret and longing in his own history and settle for whatever happiness he did have in his current station. In a jesting mood, he stamped the letters and had one of the employees deliver them to the post office.
Soon after his letters were mailed, the fevers grew worse and Martin's acquantainces began to worry about whether he would survive this bout with illness. Though he seemed more content, a certain light that had always been in his eyes was missing. That is, until the astonishing delivery he received during the worst fever he had yet experienced. Since that moment, Martin's recovery had been surprisingly sudden. Thanking God for this second chance and not wishing for any delay to prove this providence imaginary, Martin set out as quickly as possible from his hometown towards whatever future he could make for himself.
After making a circuit around the grounds, Martin wearily stood before the entrance of Ganfield Hall, an aged brick building that stood solidly enough near the center of a small greenspace on the perimeter of the school. It dawned on Martin for the first time since the bus had been detoured that he may not be able to enter the residence hall at this early time of the morning. After lifting his suitcase up the stairs leading to the front entrance, Martin pulled gently on the broad doors in front of him. They resisted at first but eventually the brass hinges squealed gingerly and allowed him admittance to the hall.
Inside, the quiet murmuring sound of an old-fashioned steam heating system was the only sentry to greet the newcomer. ?At least I can sleep here in the foyer where it's warmer for a few hours until I locate my room in the morning,? Martin said to himself, sitting down in a small armchair near the center of the room. As he was leaning back to close his eyes, Martin noticed a row of mailboxes along the far wall. Three-quarters down the row, a mailbox with his name stood with the corner of a manila envelope sicking out. Curious, Martin walked to the mailbox and pulled out the package. On the top it was marked ?334,? and within he found a key. ?Of course I certainly wouldn't mind sleeping on a real bed tonight,? Martin smiled.
After a bit of a struggle to get his case up two flights of stairs, Martin was grateful to find that his key fit perfectly into the lock. The small, but cozy, associate professor's room (right down to the flaking plaster on the exterior wall) was just as he imagined it. Thinking to himself that he would be happy to spend the rest of his life living out his long-awaited dream, Martin was fast into the most fitful sleep he could remember without even pausing to remove his jacket.
Weeks passed in Martin's hometown and even the younger members of the community had fond memories of his friendly, searching expressions and interesting anecdotes about the history of the area as he visited his guests' tables during dinner. Those friends who had been the last to speak with him told of the moments right after he had finally unburdened himself of the letters that had been saved up for so long. Everyone could only agree that his final moments living in his longtime home were marked by a contentedness they had never before seen on his weary face.
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