"So," the hero boomed, "you are the boy who refuses to read my story?"
The Story That Grew Wings
When he finished, Mrs. Jela smiled. "Aleksandar," she said, "that was not a retelling. That was a resurrection." Preraskazana Lektira Aleksandra
Marko laughed, a sound like rocks tumbling down a mountain. "Old? I am older than your grandfather’s grandfather. And yet, I am still here. Sit down, boy. Let me tell you what the book doesn't say."
Aleksandar panicked. He couldn't bluff his way through an epic. So, on Thursday evening, he sat down with the book, grumbling. The language was old, the verses long, and after ten minutes, his eyelids grew heavy. He rested his head on the open page and fell asleep. "So," the hero boomed, "you are the boy
Then it happened.
But this time, it was different. Mrs. Jela had assigned a Serbian epic poem, "The Death of Marko Kraljević." And she had announced a new rule: "This Friday, each of you will come to the front of the class and retell the story in your own words. Not summarize. Retell. I will know if you haven't read it." That was a resurrection
Then it was Aleksandar's turn. He walked to the front, took a deep breath, and began: