The Darwin Schools of Nibbling

Collapsed Hopes?

You have a vision. You build your dream.
And then it all comes tumbling down.

Tough luck.
It was ultimately built on nothing anyway.


The Nibbling Society
for Beefy Nihilism

Hi, I’m Logan. Little Logan, they affectionately call me, which is honestly kind of rude, but also fair. There is, physically speaking, not much of me. I’m built sort of like my hometown of Nibbling—small, overlooked, and weirdly stubborn about existing.

Anyway.

One day, Rosetta Butterball—also kind of tiny, solidarity honestly—walks into our classroom at Darwin Junior High, where I am surviving the social wilderness known as 9th grade. She announces an essay contest and tells us we’re supposed to write about our school so outsiders (apparently including you, dear reader) can take a little tour of the educational fever dream that is Darwin Schools of Nibbling.

Here was the topic:

My Best Day Ever in the Darwin Schools of Nibbling

At first, I was not exactly thrilled.

My best day happened in second grade, and revisiting second-grade achievements as a freshman feels dangerously close to becoming one of those adults who still talks about scoring four touchdowns in high school football. Grim stuff.

Then Rosetta announced the prize:

A week of private writing seminars with her husband, Professor of Story Hector Klumpp.

Reader, I nearly floated directly out of my chair like a suspiciously emotional blueberry.

You should know something mildly embarrassing about me: I want to be the next Roald Dahl.

Not in a creepy “children fear me but also weirdly trust me” sort of way. More in a James-and-the-Giant-Peach-but-with-better-dialogue kind of way.

Writing feels like the one thing my brain does without immediately embarrassing me.

And Hector? Taking classes from him at NCCC has been my dream since third grade, which I fully understand is elite-level nerd behavior. Some kids dream about becoming famous athletes. I dream about story structure and tragic flaws. Basically, I was born ninety years old.

A whole week of private tutoring from Hector?

I was absolutely locked in.

So I wrote about the best day of my Darwin school career: the day I won the second-grade spelling bee.

Honestly, it tells you nearly everything about Nibbling.

Here’s a snippet from my essay:

Impressed that a 9th grader like me knows what Nihilism is?

Don’t be.

In Nibbling, first you learn to read, and then, almost immediately, somebody asks you to spell Nihilism. It shows up on vocabulary tests beginning in second grade, because apparently our educational philosophy is: Why enjoy childhood when existential dread is free?

I’m being so for real right now, Nihilism is in every spelling bee.

Tradition says whichever lucky child gets the easiest word—Nihilism, obviously—doesn’t ask for the definition, but gives it aloud because we all have it memorized:

“The rejection of all religious and moral principles, in the belief that life is meaningless.”

Nothing says “elementary school magic” quite like watching seven-year-olds quietly question the meaning of life between juice breaks.

Maybe you’re not impressed.

But Rosetta was, and honestly, that was the golden ticket.

I won the contest.

For my prize, Hector and I stayed in one of Roger Tedsworthy’s rental cabins—through Rent-A-Cabin, naturally—in the foothills of the Strange Uncharted Mountains. When he proposed this cursed location, I thought I was cooked. But somehow, impossibly, the whole thing turned out even better than I imagined.

Once my nervous system stopped absolutely glitching about being so close to the Strange Uncharted Mountains, I began to see my dream scenario–just me and Hector Klumpp, alone to talk about writing?!

And Hector didn’t just give me a few lessons and disappear into professor business.

No.

For a whole week, we basically became writing hermits.

Every morning Rosetta made omelets while Hector and I disappeared into story discussions so intense they probably violated several wilderness regulations. We devoured the best of Robert McKee, picked apart my stories with a fine-tooth comb, Shawn Coyne style, and discussed plots with the seriousness of tiny literary criminals planning an extremely elaborate heist.

At one point, I caught myself thinking:

This must be what Charlie felt like inside the chocolate factory.

Only instead of chocolate rivers, there were story arcs.

Instead of Oompa Loompas, there was Hector muttering things like, “The protagonist’s internal contradiction is underdeveloped.”

Different aesthetic, same vibe.

I’m not saying my life peaked there.

But if one day I become a famous writer with an unnecessarily dramatic author photo on the back of my books, I’ll probably trace it all back to that second-grade spelling bee and one absurdly perfect week in a cabin with my literary hero.

Which is weird.

Because sometimes the best day ever sneaks up on you wearing the disguise of a spelling word no second grader should reasonably know.