Something new for this week.
A favorite English professor of mine always like to have us write to start out each class. A way to get the brain functioning, wiping away from our lobes whatever knowledge we had retained from the previous class, was always the excuse. I still believe most professors believe with pureness of heart that their class is the only one that matters.
But his class was the one I never skipped.
Sometimes it was a simple assignment. Write about what you ate for breakfast, or honest to goodness, what you want for Christmas. Seriously, he once had us write a letter to Santa for credit.
My absolute favorite quirk of his was the 100 word story. Once a week, we owed him a story, with beginning, middle, and end in exactly 100 words. It might not seem that difficult, but I was watching Pulp Fiction every other day at that point. Try not to be wordy with Tarantino on the brain.
I'm going to start doing that once again. I'll post a few from time to time. Here is the first.
BUCKET
He sat at the table, eating my chicken, completely unaware of the man in the pantry.
James was never too observant.
The note on the bucket should have told him not to touch it.
A footprint on the floor that didn’t belong to either of us.
We were not alone. Someone does not sneak into an apartment and hide in a pantry without intent to do us harm.
I knew he was in there, gun loaded, counting the seconds. It would have been easy to warn James as I snuck out the front door.
But he was eating my chicken.
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