Unfettered

My God, again, I am dizzy from the brilliant writing of my sophomores. They write with such unfettered passion and fury. However, unlike other years, these comrades have power over their writing. They control every letter. I am both inspired and jealous.

My mouth feels dry, imageless, like everything I write here is sand compared to their clear stories. They twist plots with ease, and dig deep into their characters fearlessly. Yet, they paint vibrant images with the precision of calligraphy. The ghosts of their characters haunt me deep into the night.

I am surrounded by writers...and it makes me weep with joy.

Creative Writing Unit

My students possess amazing creative writing abilities. I just previewed a final draft, due Monday, from a student who's writing is like a calculus student's algebra: flawless and subtle. The story fluctuates between reality and memory, easily moving from one to the other (unlike Faulkner). The author focused on three colors to drive his story and the memory of the character. To top it off, you are the character; the story is written in second person.

I'm excited to see these pieces published online. I must remember to ask my husband about that. Mass Creative Commons license?

Regardless, I'm basking in the brilliance of my students. Their eyes illuminate the world for me.

Tim's First Love

The door creaks open, awaking dust from the floor with light. There she sits, stainless steel shinning proudly. Tim gently walks in, afraid of spooking a wild beast, and his converse shoes leave pads of movement on the dust floor. The red vinyl feels cool; he always had taken care of that glitter seat. Gently, he caresses the chain and rubs the residue of last year’s grease between his fingers and his heart jumps at the excitement of oiling her up again. Fingers wrap around her neck, Tim sternly pulls her up from the ground and walks her outside. He oils her chain, bounces her wheel to check for life. Lifting one foot onto a pedal, he pushes off the ground. 'The hardest part is always the liftoff', he thinks. Quickly, he swings his hips, balancing himself on top; she bucks slightly at the forgotten weight. Soon, she settles down and lets him maneuver her around the backyard. Tim looked down at the world he was now no longer a part of. Everything seemed farther away, less menacing.

"Tim!" Erin shouts from the bedroom window, "I thought you were going to mow the lawn!"

Startled, the unicycle drops Tim and falls to the ground like a opossum playing dead. Resigned, he rolls her back to her spot in the garage.