By Stillill http://www.fictionpress.com/s/1876143/1/Writing_Class
It Can Take a Semester
"Hello everyone. First of all, please don't call me Professor. I'm reminded of my grandfather. Just call me Ryan. I'm the same age as some of you anyway. This class is going to be fun. Don't worry about it if you don't think you're a 'good' writer. Once you find your own voice, you're set. Now, let's call role and get the syllabus out of the way and than I'll pass around some short stories...."
Miranda Terry leans forward on her elbows to rest her chin in her hands, staring intently at her new Creative Writing professor. He looks to be in his early thirties, at the most, and very attractive. All of the other classes, the required classes, are just a means to an end. She thrives in classes like these. Classes where all she has to do is write. No numbers or having to memorize historical dates. Just creating something out of nothing. Watching stories bleed onto paper. If she could, she'd make a living off of it. She's just never thought that she was good enough for that. Maybe it's not that she's doesn't think she isn't good enough. She's never able to stick to one story line for long enough. Short stories is as long as she gets. By the time she gets it down on paper, her mind is already thinking up another branch. She's satisfied with the thought of maybe combining it all somehow into one crazy novel in the future.
Writing runs in her family. All different types. Her mother thrives off of poetry. Beautifully symbolic poetry. When Miranda writes poetry, symbolism is always an accident and noticed later on. Her grandmother wrote brilliant children's stories. She was never published, apparently it never interested her much.
"Does anyone know where this comes from?" Ryan asks the class just as a thin packet hits her desk. The class is filled with the rustle of papers as students flip through the pages, hoping that there's a title in a corner somewhere.
Miranda glances down and reads a few lines in the middle of the first page:
"He peeked into the trauma room and saw the situation:
the clerk-that is, me-standing next to the orderly, Georgie, both of us on drugs,
looking down at a patient with a knife sticking up out of his face.
"What seems to be the trouble?" he said."
Knowing what it is immediately, Miranda raises her hand slowly. Before Ryan can motion for her to answer, a voice mutters from her right, "Jesus' Son, Denis Johnson, 'Emergency'."
Miranda turns her head to the voice, vaguely hearing Ryan begin to explain why he chose that particular story from the book. The voice belongs to a guy, looking to be about her age, maybe a few years older. She immediately grins at his hair. In her opinion, a guy's hair can't get much cooler than Morrissey's hair. Morrissey has been one of her intellectual heroes for years. This stranger happens to have the Morrissey hair down perfect.
The front poufs up, as if air is trapped inside, just waiting to be released. His hair looks uncombed, making the pouf disarrayed, and judging by the way his eyes are half shut, she assumes that he hasn't gotten much sleep lately. Either that, or he smoked some grass right before class. Either option is likely. She assesses his appearance and almost laughs outright at his shirt, clearly written by hand, reading 'I'm The Monster That November Spawned'. The reffered to song immediately gets stuck in her head. Not only does he have the Morrissey hair, he's a Morrissey fan. This is a guy that she just has to have a movie marathon with.
"Did you need something?" He sounds bored and maybe even a tad bit annoyed. Miranda tears her eyes away from the letters on his chest and looks up into his eyes, noticing that they're incredibly blue.
