Freewrite.
The five of us sat at our computers. The clacking of keys and the clicking of the mouse filled the room. A teacher sat in the room adjacent, mindlessly grading papers and reading the morning paper. His coffee filled the room with an aroma that made me feel warm and nauseous. I hate the smell of coffee in the morning.
“What are you writing about?” asked the girl with the blonde, wavy hair. She had a kind face, but her tone seemed odd, accusatory, demanding. I immediately closed my screen.
“Nothing. Just some stuff.” I couldn’t tell her about my story. She wouldn’t understand the fine nuances, the subtle shades that my words, my phrases, my meanings spread over the blank whiteness of a page. It was art, better than any painting or sculpture. It was beautiful because it was mine, both commonplace and individual; the same letters as everyone else but in a new, bold, and shocking arrangement. It stunned me.
But clearly, she took no offense. The blonde girl turned to the boy next to her. “Writing another snoozer, are you?” she asked with the same tone as
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