First Man by Ava Martell

with lively discussion. He heaped more reading upon me, handing over copies of excerpts from obscure British fantasy novels and sections from Bulfinch’s Mythology.
    Any other teacher would have stuck to the role of simple facilitator, keeping an eye on me and grading my work without actually reading alongside me, but not Mr. Edwards. He devoured the course material with an enthusiasm that matched my own, always eager to bring in additional sources to increase my understanding of the material, even if they never made it into the final paper.
    “In the universes created by the authors of these books, fantasy is reality, and, intentional or not, they are perpetuating a tradition that dates back to the days before writing existed.” Mr. Edwards fell into the lecturing mode out of habit, seeming to almost be speaking to himself as he flipped through a paperback copy of Mists of Avalon . “The myth of the great hero triumphing over whatever evils were set before him has become so much a part of humanity’s collective unconscious that nearly every work of literature or film follows this archetype on at least some level.”
    Glancing up from the passage detailing Morgaine’s priestess training, I added, “I’d almost be curious to try this with other types of genre fiction. Fantasy’s an obvious choice to parallel with mythology since most of the books tend to involve quests and epic battles, but I wonder if the same would work with horror or historical fiction.” I paused, my mind wondering how I’d be able to work the plots of The Shining or Pet Semetary into the hero’s journey.
    Mr. Edwards laughed, and I remember having to bite my tongue to keep from blurting out, “You should do that more often.”
    “Let’s finish one genre before you start integrating every subject you can think of into this project,” he said, reigning my ideas back in. “It’s not a bad idea by any means, but you have more than enough material just with fantasy.” He gestured to the constantly growing mountain of thick books that had taken up residency on his desk. “It’s not as though you selected a subject that lends itself to short fiction.”
    I couldn’t help agreeing. My mythology texts were the shortest by a large margin, and even those clocked in at about 400 pages. I was a voracious reader, but the ever-growing stack was beginning to look daunting, even to myself.
    “I think focusing on The Lord of the Rings for a fair portion of the paper is a good idea,” Mr. Edwards said. “You could easily get bogged down with far too many universes and end up writing a paper that’s too disjointed if you don’t specialize.”
    I nodded in agreement, having come to the same conclusion myself. My mind started to wander as Mr. Edwards listed off a few other books he recommended I reference.
    Our daily sessions had been going on for two weeks already, and with each passing day, I was seeing him less and less as a teacher and more and more as a co-collaborator in this paper.
    One glance at his desk told me that I wasn’t exactly alone in that assessment. Post-it notes peppered to surface of his desk, covered in his spidery scrawl.
    “Game of Thrones? Too long for one semester, find excerpts re: Tyrion.,”
    “Harry Potter – possible discussion re: myths used as behavioral tools for children.”
    The notes went on and on.
    I felt mildly guilty at first for occupying so much of his time with my silly project, but Mr. Edwards’ pleasure at watching the project begin to take shape matched my own.
    The bell rang, startling us out of the insulated world we had created. He handed me a stack of copies he’d made of sections from Game of Thrones and our fingers brushed, just the barest bit of contact. I froze for a moment, looking up into those warm, dark eyes and wondering if I was being a foolish girl or if he felt it too.
    He broke my gaze and quickly said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ember.” He stammered, ever so slightly, on my