I wrote this (probably) 4 years ago for (probably) a Writers Craft class in high school (Grade 13, OAC, something silly for only Ontario students to go through). I used to write overly-needlessly-uselessly dramatic stories about really simple things - often things I see, say, on a teachers desk - that usually ends with some horrific realization on mankind. I wrote about Chris Benoits' arms once, and it amused those around me so much that I was asked to read it infront of the class and it tore the place down. If I find it, I will post it. Though I think this is a better piece. I will post more of my high school essays and what-not here, because dammit, I was smrt.

Unseen Glory: The 3-Hole-Punch Story

Standing there. Silent. Suspended. Secluded. Alone. Glistening in the light, the mighty 3-Hole-Punch rests stoically, waiting for its time to truly shine. A figure passes; will it? Will it. will it? Will it. will it? Will it. will it? It won't. Again, passed by. Tears are for the weak, one must remain strong in times of darkness. No Tears. No Love. No Light. Just Silence. It's sort of sad, in a way, to watch such a proud and noble thing as this just go unused, undiscovered, unappreciated, unloved. But life, in it's own little way, is sad. We live. We die. Yet the hole punch, the hole punch is forever. Forever tormented, forever punching holes in stuff. Generations shall pass it by, from Grandparent, to Parent, to Child, to Parent, To Grandparent, maybe an Aunt or Uncle once in a while, a drunken college-frat brother, some brash young wild buck with eyes that will look into your soul and discover all the lies that you worked so hard to hide, the woman you loved but tore your heart out when she too discovered the lies, and so it goes, holes in the paper of infinity, the circular pieces of the damned, the rubber collection plate of mortality, the shuffling of the documents in the book of forever, occasionally taking a page out and putting another in.

And still, there rests the hole punch, it's base and its lever form a crude, yet provoking bill of a mouth, waiting to devour whatever is placed in its mighty jaws... Yet always pressed to be closed to be open. The lion is king of the jungle, Zeus is king of the gods, the hole punch is king of the desk, and man, man is king of nothing. Not destiny, not time, not fate, not life nor love, not anything. Except for one. In the tiny world of the desk, the microcosm of mankind, a place of order and disorder, man controls one thing and one thing only; And there it sits, while man tries to foolishly control life and love and fate and time, there stands the 3-hole-punch. Silent. Secluded. Alone. Waiting.