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Francesca's Story
My first vivid memory of a time when stories took the lead in my life is back in my early primary school days. I would've been no older than six or seven. It was out in the hall where our bags were hung up outside of class. I had brought my stuffed tiger to school and, well, look, I can't be completely sure. I mean it was years ago, but for the sake of this retelling, let me see if I can create a scene here.
Let's see, I was holding my toy, its soft fur warming my neck as I carried it against my chest. My school bag hung on a hook against the wall. I fiddled with it's zipper. The bell that signalled recess had rung moments earlier, and I was hungry. Seconds passed, the bag opened. A plastic lunchbox was nestled at the bottom. My stomach growled and a cheeky grin sprout to my face. My snacks were mere inches away. Food, I thought. ​
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Then I saw it, to my left. Oh, it was beautiful. The sharp corners. The glossy cover. The redhead laying on a rock with a yellow fish floating beside her. That's right. The Little Mermaid book had snatched my attention, much like how I wanted to snatch it out of my classmate's hands. To be clear, I didn't. For a moment there I just stared at it, envying the blonde girl who managed to get ahold of such a gorgeous copy of a definite classic, and suddenly resenting my toy tiger. You're just a toy, I can imagine myself saying to it, a look of disgust flaring my nose. I can't read you.
To make a long story short, I ended up exchanging this girl my tiger for her copy of The Little Mermaid. Looking back, I suppose that was where it all began.