Better Judgment
Lynyrd tapped his pencil absentmindedly on his desk as he gazed blankly at the page. The instructions seemed simple enough – “Use the outline provided and be creative.” The problem was he didn’t really have anything to say.
The first assignment on the Creative Writing syllabus was to “define a poetic metaphor for the villain” and that was nearly meaningless to him.
Professor Wakefield walked deliberately to his desk, grabbed the pencil from his hand and slapped it down on his desk with a loud crack. “This is a quiet work period Mr. Skinner. I’ll not tolerate disruptions. Contrary to popular belief, music, especially discordant drumming, does not contribute to literary brilliance.”
He hadn’t realized he was tapping. “Huh, oh yeah, sorry, too much coffee I guess. You know, trying to stay awake and all...”
“Your inability to stay awake reveals your contempt for the worth of creative writing but that should not, nay, must not infringe on the rights of serious students.”
He picked up the pencil and twirled it nervously around his fingers. “Sure, no problem… I didn’t mean to cause an uproar. I just have a little nervous tick. I’ll try to keep it down.”
“See that you do.” She grabbed the pencil from him and moved triumphantly down the row of desks holding it victoriously in her grasp as a trophy.
He shook his head slightly to clear the assault from his mind. That was a bit of an overreaction. She must’ve gotten up on the wrong side of someone’s bed. I wonder if I’m going to have to put up with that kind of abuse all term just to get past this class.
He considered the assignment. It’s hard to define a villain when I don’t really have a story in mind. These Profs always try to make it harder than it needs to be. I’m a physics major for criminy sake. I’m just taking this stupid writing class to fill in an elective. I don’t need a pain in the butt about it.
He tried to recall something from what he had read that he could plagiarize. The only novel I’ve read lately is some drivel by H. G. Wells and it didn’t seem to have a villain, unless you count the socialist propaganda he was spewing, and Wells didn’t consider that villainous.
The sheet of paper he had decided to use had a light beige tint to it that gave him an uncomfortable feeling. The professor had made it clear that while she accepted digital input, she preferred “… the touch and feel of a good old-fashioned hardcopy. The form captures the passion of the reader’s imagination far better than the sterile efficiency of digitized pabulum.”
Despite her poetic bent, he determined to follow her none too subtle hint. He hadn’t noticed the tint of the paper when he grabbed the package from the bargain bin of the student store and now it seemed pretentious and likely to project more emotion than he intended. Reprimanding himself for the musing, he shifted the paper slightly to the left and rested his hand uncomfortably on its pristine surface.
Keep it simple! No need to get all hung up about this. It’s just an elective. I just hate to bring my GPA down over something dumb like this. Old Ms. Wakefield wouldn’t agree with that, but that’s too bad. I don’t have time for all of her politically correct BS. Speaking of which, she made it clear that she was not a “Ms. Wakefield”, she is “Professor Wakefield PhD.” and is correctly addressed ONLY as “Professor.”
So what? What, she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s not married? I suppose it pays homage to some pronoun agenda she’s glommed onto trying to stay young or maybe she’s just trying to keep the student horndogs away… She’s pretty good looking for an old lady. I mean, she’s too old for me, but she was probably pretty hot when she was younger.
Ha! That’s it, time travel. I’ll write about going back in time and meeting her when she was a hottie. That ought to get her attention. I’ll have to change the names to protect the innocent or maybe I should make her ‘not-so-innocent’.
Old H. G. did a time machine before he got all hung up on socialism. Maybe I can just use some of that. His hero built a machine in his secret Victorian workshop. That’d be hard to make believable now days. The best I could do is to use the school’s physics lab and it would be hard to believe that a Podunk school like this would have that kind of equipment. Hmm, yes what kind of equipment would that be? I mean, in a movie you could just have a bunch of flashing lights and Frankenstein sparks and stuff, but in a book you need more substance as to why it could possibly travel through time.
I could just use a Harry Potter thing and make it a magic spell. No, that’s too lame…
A crumpled ball of paper flew across the room, bounced off his head, and came to rest at the foot of Professor Wakefield. “Mr. Skinner, do you have something else you’d like to share with the class?”
Lynyrd pulled himself away from his wanderings. “Huh? Ah, no. I – I was just thinking.”
“Your thoughts should be less disruptive. Now pick up your trash and get out of my class.”
“But I haven’t finished my paper.”
“You’re finished here. I’ll not stand for your tomfoolery disrupting my lecture. This class is for serious students that appreciate the finer arts expressed in creative literature.”
“But I didn’t do anything. I was just sitting here.”
“You heard me. Get out.”
Lynyrd slapped his notebook closed trapping the class syllabus and his blank sheet of paper as he rose to leave. “Alright, have it your way. I wouldn’t want anything to be disruptive in creative literature.”
“Don’t forget your trash.”
He halted his progress toward the door, scooped the errant projectile from the floor and scanned the likely suspects at the back of the room.
Squeezing the paper into a tight wad, he considered tossing it at Guy Coleson, the most likely suspect. His better judgment overcame his lust for revenge as he scanned the stunned faces of his classmates and left.
