In Which Christopher Castle Is Thrust Into the World

An Original Work of Fiction
By Croftie

Professor H was a melancholy man of unusual proportions. Overdressed for spring in a gray, flannel suit and a felt hat, he was more melancholy than usual as he wandered beneath the trees looking for a patch of shade. Students congregated in groups across the courtyard. Some chattered in the sun like self-important parakeets. Others squinted industriously as sunlight slanted off the pages of their books. Professor H paused to examine the grass next to a tree root. Deciding it was not dry enough for his taste, he sighed and moved on, skirting the students cautiously, unwilling to intrude upon their repose. He had wandered into youth’s domain– the sun, the shade, and the picnics all reserved for men and women who tossed themselves fervently onto wet patches and anthills. Although uncomfortably aware that he was trespassing, he was eager to be close to innocence and ignorance of worldly concerns– like death.

As a professor of these same men and women, he was daily reminded of his own mortality, an inconvenience only somewhat relieved by the fact that their presence furnished him with a cozy, cluttered office. The pride of his academic life, the office was by no means large. Its diminutive size suited him just fine because the close quarters condensed his belongings, lending him the pleasing appearance of affluence. Books were crammed lengthwise, sideways, all ways into the bookcases. They clustered in heaps in the corner, in stacks under the window, and in trails along the walls.

The desk was buried beneath shifting dunes of lined paper. This beachy landscape was composed of his poetry, for which he was known as the Greatest Living Poet in the English Language. In no particular order, the poems spilled from drawers, across the telephone, and over a coffee mug that had been lost for two months.

Professor H never threw anything away. He kept every book and every copy of every manuscript he had ever written. He saved his students’ term papers as relics of their haunting naïveté. They were from a time when young people hunted a single word by lamplight through long, sleepless evenings. A time before their love of poetry was corrupted by the language of the real world: canned slogans, Internet jargon, and popular fiction.
College is a time of anxiety and innocent arrogance, he mused, stepping over sleeping bodies. On some, this age never draws to a close; they are caught forever in a glimmering society of self-importance. The belief that their occupations have significance is a force necessary to survival¬. Human life¬– such a fragile thing!– is secured by a delusion of grandeur. We must believe that the world might shatter around us if our pen slips or a word is committed out of place. We must believe we are important, or we might very well go mad.

Pondering the meaning of life, Professor H grew very sad. His shoulders stooped as lines of poetry pressed down upon him. Most distressing was his knowledge that his thoughts were unoriginal. Philosophers and poets far greater than him made their livings exploring the delusions and illusions of humanity, but they still held a certain fascination. How extraordinary, he thought, that we choose to ignore such a simple reality. We consciously thrust the knowledge of our own unimportance into the far reaches of our minds. Nevertheless, our innate knowledge of it drives our very existence with desperation, constantly reaffirmed by the fragility of mankind, and the inescapable devastation of time.

But these are not the things that students think about. Professor H frowned beneath the budding trees. Oh, to be young again, with life coursing through a body unhindered by grave thoughts. Heavy with philosophy, his domed brow lowered against the breeze. Professor H sighed as if his ancient heart would crack.

“Professor H, Sir!” A voice rang out across the courtyard and feet skidded on the gravel behind him. Professor H rushed towards the English building, his suit jacket growing tighter and warmer with every harried breath. This, of all days, was the one on which to avoid students. Graduation morning– when misty-eyed fledglings rushed at him from across the campus to pay their last regards, to profess their undying appreciation for his mentorship, to acquire his personal address for continued communication. They sought him as if it were his last afternoon on earth, and with each word of gratitude, accompanied by damp and mournful expressions, he died again and again, with each confrontation.

“Professor H,” the voice grew anxious. A student, come to pay his respects to a dying man. Wrapt in melancholia and warm flannel, Professor H was in no mood to be grieved over. He loosened his tie and quickened his pace, anticipating the cozy office and leather chair. Just as he reached the door, a body came hurtling between himself and his sanctuary.

“I’ve found you.” The body said, quite unnecessarily.

“So you have.” Professor H sighed. “Good afternoon, Mr. Castle.” The body now had a name: Christopher Castle. Defeated, Professor H turned down the lake path as Christopher Castle trotted beside him. Although curmudgeonly, Professor H was a kind man at heart, and proffered a gentle word to his pupil.

“Congratulations, Mr. Castle. Our acquaintance is coming to a close. What will you do now, with the rest of your life?” Christopher smiled down at his beloved professor. He stood tall, clear-eyed, handsome, and rosy with the flush of youth upon him.

“What do you mean?” Christopher laughed. “I’m not going anywhere.” Professor H was generally a patient man, but he had drowned himself so thoroughly in bitterness towards young people on this afternoon that even the slightest ridicule could not be endured. Irritation reddened his cheeks, as did tomatoes, spicy foods, wind, and exercise. He steadied his voice before replying.

“Please, don’t mock an old man.” He barked, and turned back towards the college. Christopher looked after Professor H in confusion. How had he offended his mentor? What had he said? In fact, he didn’t remember saying much more than ‘hello.’

“Professor,” he chased after the shambling figure, “I truly do not understand. I’m sorry to have upset you– I really am– but I don’t understand why you are angry.” Professor H looked Christopher up and down. He studied his student’s damp and woeful expression, and found it was sincere.

“Why are you wearing those robes?” he asked.

“These?” Christopher plucked at his black gown, and made a little hop. His robes twirled around him. “For the celebration.” He said. “I had a letter that I should be fitted for robes, so I did. Isn’t there a celebration today?” Professor H sighed. His students were often very strange and he had learned to take their peculiarities in stride. He had, after all, suffered four years of Thomas Quip, who refused to read books, and preferred to write his papers on what he thought the book should be about. Despite the miserable grades he received, Thomas Quip continued to take every one of Professor H’s courses, each semester for the entirety of his college career. “After all,” he had said, “It’s not about the grades; it’s about the literature.” Upon graduation day, Thomas Quip thanked Professor H for introducing him to so many great masterpieces.

“Prometheus Unbound was my favorite,” he said, “Those erotic scenes are simply astounding. My goodness, what an uplifting tale.” That day, Professor H admitted, as a graduation gift, that Thomas Quip’s version was far more interesting than Shelley’s.

But Christopher Castle was not as imaginative as Thomas, nor as irritating. He was mild and hardworking, and Professor H liked him better than many of his students, which is why he continued this odd conversation.

“Today is the graduation ceremony, Mr. Castle. That means you will be graduating from this university. You will be given your diploma and sent on your way, to make a life for yourself in the world.” Christopher grew pale as this knowledge invaded his simple world.

“Nobody ever told me,” he said, horrified, “That I would have to leave school.” His voice broke into a sob, “To leave the university! Oh, why would I even wish to do that? Oh, Professor, please excuse me– there must be some mistake.” Christopher fled down the lake path, his black robes flapping behind him like great, mournful wings. Professor H looked after him, shaking his head.

“Poor child.” He murmured. And for the first time in a long time, he was glad that old age held few surprises.


Eminent political author T.J. Emmet Jr. winked reassuringly at the students ranged before him in rows of black. He knew his speech well; it was the same one he had given at every graduation ceremony for fifteen years. He was amazed that no one had caught on yet. But then, he mourned, as he smiled out into the crowd of young men and women, no one much listens to graduation speakers, anyway. He was not even listening to himself. What could he say that was new and inspiring? He was a politician– he knew intimately the misery of the world and it was not his job to be uplifting. He was leaving for Africa the next morning, and would be giving the same speech to the African youth committee. He would change the words slightly, of course, substituting “Graduates of this fine university” to “Troubled youth of this rich desert land.” It had gone very well in Afghanistan.

Christopher Castle was not listening to the speech, either. He had somehow found himself swept along with crowds of other students, across the football field. Blinded by the hot stadium lights, he had struggled against the crowd, but was shoved inevitably forward, closer and closer to the stage, further and further from the life he knew. How had this happened? He stared up at T.J. Emmet Jr., trying in vain to make sense of his words. So it was true, he was leaving school. This was to be his final afternoon in academia. What was he to do now? His life stretched blankly before him. Christopher had read about Life, but it had always seemed to belong to someone else.

He had glimpsed his parents high up in the audience as the throng carried him along. Waving vigorously, his father peered down at him through a pair of binoculars. His mother, elegant in white, held a bunch of roses in her lap. Were they celebrating, or mourning? He was not sure. Christopher touched his decorative hat. He had thought it was a strange shape, and he still did not understand why it was square and flat. Perhaps these are the hats one wears beyond the school gates. The outside world suddenly seemed alien and frightening– a place where people wear robes and peculiar chapeaux.

Christopher Castle had never been one to dwell too long on misfortune. He dried his eyes and lifted his chin. If he must leave school, then he must. And he would succeed in life as he had succeeded at education. He sat up straighter and strained to understand the words of T.J. Emmet Jr.

The venerable speaker, at this very moment, also returned his attention to his speech as it came to a close. This was his favorite part, a rhetorical masterpiece, written originally for the Appalachian foot soldiers preparing for battle with mountain peasant tribes.

“Oh, harried peoples preparing bravely for death, remark to one another upon the quality of life for which you battle today. You may very well perish– be prepared. You may very well slaughter another man– be proud. You may lose an eye or a leg– do not grieve for them, for they are mere trivialities in the steady march of time. The world may not miss you, nor society mourn your passing, but that should not hinder your crusade.” He paused to measure his effect upon the crowd. Some students listened with true enthusiasm– these would go on to become our country’s politicians and economists. The rest of their faces betrayed confusion, desperation, or lines of sleep. Many of these would likely rise to power as janitors and telemarketers. T.J. Emmet Jr. hated telemarketers.

“Come to me, o’ heathens, and renounce your evil ways.” T.J. Emmet Jr. had once been occupied as a religious zealot; in his political career, he had been pleased to discover that some rhetoric was convenient for various and sundry occasions. He lowered his voice, noting which students leaned forward in their seats. These, he would approach later. “We must drive out the rebellious factions and crush them before their authority spreads. For the influence of petty men travels wide and deep and dangerous. O, sinners, beware.” He glared into the video monitors, and the local news station projected his terrible gaze throughout the airwaves.

“Our youths are armed and seek you out to where you hide, quivering in holes carved into the dirt. You cannot squat there long, for we shall hunt you, and with burning sticks, drive you forth into the light.” He turned back to the students and winked. “This is the day for which you were born. This is the day you choose life over death, and death over defeat. There can be no defeat for you, which leaves only victory, or death. What, then, is the point of your meager lives, if not to go out into the world and conquer it? Bend your foes beneath your foot, crack their ribs with gnashing teeth, and tear their flesh with sweeping fists. This is not a time for pity! If there be cowards among you, cast them out and tighten your ranks. There is no room here for the weak, the spineless, or the sympathetic. Launch yourselves into the mountains, men, and slaughter those who stand in your way, those who idle, those who resist, and those who fight back.” Shouts rose from the sea of black robes. Students stabbed the air with rolled parchments. They were ready– the young politicians, the economists, the budding managers– they heard T.J. Emmet Jr. and no one had ever made more sense. They pounded the earth with their feet.

Energized by the crowd, T.J. Emmet Jr. felt a rush of inspiration, and gave free reign to his rhetorical prowess. He suddenly found the very ending he had labored to devise through years of laborious speech-writing courses. It came out, unannounced, unbidden, unhindered.

“That said,” he paused, seeking silence, “death is not becoming to youth. It causes grotesqueries of the soul and mockeries of the spirit. Do not allow the travesties of life to mark your smooth brows with stains of blood. You are the victors, the conquerors, the future CEOs. Go, then, to battle. Go, then, into life with banners blazing and hearts warm with courage. If this is a battle to the death, this, then, is life!” he flung his head back, and his arms wide. The stomping students leapt from their seats, seething with bloodlust, crowding the stage, brandishing their diplomas before them. Those who remained behind, Christopher Castle among them, twiddled their thumbs and sighed.

Smiling, winking, waving, T.J. Emmet Jr. stepped off the podium as flat-board caps rained in clumsy arcs across the football field and two thousand voices rose in despair.


All was silent in the great hall. The curtains hung in heavy folds across the stage, and the chandeliers were dark. Light filtered through stain-glass, shifting from green to gold to red as various saints were touched by the sunlight. Christopher eased the doors closed behind him, and walked down the aisle for the last time, passing between the benches that had stood there since the school was built, so many decades before.

He knelt at the foot of the stage. High above him, at the top of the curtain, three bronze busts watched over the empty hall. The fathers of academia, Shakespeare gazed out from the center, Edison from the left, Benjamin Franklin from the right. For decades, they had serenely witnessed thousands of students cross the threshold out into the sunlit square, and close the doors behind them. Perched above the velvet curtain, the fathers never knew what happened to those who passed beyond their gates.

Christopher searched their faces for guidance, as so many had before him, but found only an unwavering serenity. Suddenly feeling foolish, he turned away and prepared himself for the leave-taking. The fathers watched in silence as yet another lost student crossed the hall, and opened the doors. Christopher brushed off his cap, and switched his tassel from one side of the mortarboard to the other. This, then, was Life!


He took a great breath, closed his eyes, and strode solemnly through the hallowed college gates and into the world, where he was promptly struck by a passing car. Here began Christopher’s advent into what T.J. Emmet Jr. solemnly called the “Real World.”