WRITING CLASS

The old woman commanded authority. Thomas leaned in for some of it. “Writing is choreographed empathy,” she said. He wrote that down. “Timing is not everything but it is the only thing,” she said. He wrote that down too. She cleared her throat for a longer enlightenment. “I have days when my writing is better and days when it’s worse,” she said. “I have days when it’s wetter and days when it’s burse.” She rushed at him, stepped back, cackled, stabbed herself in the face with her own fingernail. She was insane. Thomas turned and grabbed the gate. He shook it. In the larger unlocked room, a ghoul with a keyring clipped to her hip appraised him to the point where she removed her headphones. “Let me out,” he said. “Let me out,” he screamed. The old woman tapped him with the stabbing finger, effervescing menace. “We are here for good,” she said, “and gear for hood.” Thomas squeezed two desperate knuckles through the bars. The ghoul grinned and clamped her headphones back on.

©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas