Oscar sat hunched over in his desk, his head propped up by a forearm. His palm had pushed up on his cheek to the point that it almost entirely obscured his right eye. His left eye stared absently at the hair-thin line of sunlight which peeked out from under the shade covering the classroom’s only window. This was the only portion of the classroom not plastered with inspirational posters sporting quotes from famous authors. Mr. Rivera was probably talking, but Oscar only heard the occasional drip of water from the faucet which someone hadn’t fully turned off.
A brief interruption of the strip of sunlight by someone walking by outside was enough to jar Oscar out of his inattentive state. He pushed himself up and leaned back, stifling a yawn, and tried to make himself think about what Mr. Rivera was saying. Something about a culminating assignment for the unit, apparently. Oscar shuddered involuntarily at the memory of past essays for this writing class. He hadn’t been able to read a book without trying to formulate a universal theme since the semester began. Oscar forced himself to look back at the teacher.
Mr. Rivera’s eyes almost matched his coal-black hair, and his neck was eternally encased in a stiff white collar. In fact, the entirety of his wardrobe seemed devoid of any wrinkles or creases. He began passing out the assignment, his speech completely transparent.
Running a hand through his hair, Oscar glanced down at the paper as it slid to a stop on the false wood of his desk. He started to turn away, then abruptly looked back and began reading carefully. This time, the class had to write a short story. There were, however, a number of requirements. Oscar studied the instructions intently, going back to ignoring whatever it was Mr. Rivera happened to be saying.
When the bell finally rang and lunch began Oscar quickly packed up and left. After so long in the dimly illuminated classroom, he spent several moments gazing up into the bright, cloudless sky. He then strode swiftly through the chattering throng of students, briefly jumping up onto a knee-high wall and walking along it to avoid being slowed down by the crowd. Unconstrained sunlight seemed to ricochet from every surface. Oscar’s winding path across the campus eventually brought him to Ms. Raymond’s classroom, where he knew Jonah would already be.
Having both eaten beforehand, they launched straight into continuing their argument on the societal merits of religion, talking over the din of conversation which filled the room every lunch. They ultimately reached a truce and the conversation turned to Oscar’s assignment.
“I’m quite glad that I actually get some choice in the topic this time. An opinion essay would be better, but at least this isn’t thematic analysis,” Oscar said.
“Yeah, but if I’m remembering correctly the story does need to have a theme,” Jonah replied, his brow furrowing slightly. “Can I see the assignment sheet?”
Oscar dug around in his backpack for a minute, eventually finding the paper and handing it to Jonah, who scanned it briefly before stating, “Doesn’t look like he’s changed it since last year.” He paused. “What are you thinking of writing about?”
“As I’m sure you’ll be shocked to learn I want to do something sci-fi or fantasy, and to avoid the rabbit hole of worldbuilding I think I should set it in a universe I already like. Warhammer 40k, or maybe the Pact Worlds from Starfinder?”
Jonah pursed his lips and shifted around a bit in the desk he sat in. “I wouldn’t recommend that. I did something similar when I was in that class, and Mr. Rivera basically ignored all the plot and world stuff I found interesting and graded it entirely based on my descriptive language. There really isn’t much point trying to write the kind of thing you enjoy reading when the assignment is all about imagery.”
He picked up the paper again, gesturing with it as he spoke. “I think you’re basically supposed to convey the whole story symbolically. I mean, think about the essays you write in that class. Everything has to be proven based on imagery, not what actually happens in the story. I think that’s the intent here too.”
Oscar sat silently for a moment, then plucked a paper clip from the floor and began unfolding it methodically as he pondered. He sighed, then said, “I guess you have a point. I really don’t know what I want to write then.” The bell rang. He stood up slowly. “I’ll have to think about that.”
“You should still try to have fun with it, you know,” Jonah said, rising as well.
“Yeah, yeah, I will,” Oscar called over his shoulder as he strode out into the hallway.
Oscar walked home, his head at a fixed angle towards the ground. He moved quickly, periodically attempting to match his steps to the sections of concrete in the sidewalk. The distance between the lines was slightly longer than his stride, so he always gave up after a minute. The sky had become entirely overcast in the few hours since lunch, causing the gray of the sidewalk to creep up into everything around it.
As Oscar approached his house, he wrenched his mind back to the short story. He had spent much of his last two periods agonizing about its topic without reaching a satisfactory conclusion. It should be something I’m actually enthusiastic about, he thought. I do like writing. Sometimes, at least.
He reached his house’s walkway and climbed the steps, which were covered in dead leaves. It took a minute of fiddling to unlock the door, but he eventually got inside. Without removing his shoes, Oscar dropped his backpack and resumed walking through the house.
Maybe I should just pick a theme first and write something really obviously allegorical. That might at least be funny. He snatched a rubber band from the dining room table, stretching and twisting it in his fingers. No, I would probably spend too much time trying to get the symbolism right. He stopped walking, but his left foot continued to tap the floor.
Wait. What if I write about this process itself? He was striding around again, even faster. I’ll write a short story about some high school student who has to write a short story and doesn’t like the requirements, and agonizes over what it’s going to be about, and decides to… yes! Oscar’s lips broke past his frown, bubbling up into a smile, but he paused. The concept is kind of abstract though, and it’s all supposed to be about imagery. I’ll have to throw in some really heavy-handed color symbolism or something to balance out all the thinking. Yes, I’ll do that.
He marched to the large window overlooking the front porch and gazed out into the street. The clouds parted, and radiant sunlight illuminated Oscar’s face.
A brief interruption of the strip of sunlight by someone walking by outside was enough to jar Oscar out of his inattentive state. He pushed himself up and leaned back, stifling a yawn, and tried to make himself think about what Mr. Rivera was saying. Something about a culminating assignment for the unit, apparently. Oscar shuddered involuntarily at the memory of past essays for this writing class. He hadn’t been able to read a book without trying to formulate a universal theme since the semester began. Oscar forced himself to look back at the teacher.
Mr. Rivera’s eyes almost matched his coal-black hair, and his neck was eternally encased in a stiff white collar. In fact, the entirety of his wardrobe seemed devoid of any wrinkles or creases. He began passing out the assignment, his speech completely transparent.
Running a hand through his hair, Oscar glanced down at the paper as it slid to a stop on the false wood of his desk. He started to turn away, then abruptly looked back and began reading carefully. This time, the class had to write a short story. There were, however, a number of requirements. Oscar studied the instructions intently, going back to ignoring whatever it was Mr. Rivera happened to be saying.
When the bell finally rang and lunch began Oscar quickly packed up and left. After so long in the dimly illuminated classroom, he spent several moments gazing up into the bright, cloudless sky. He then strode swiftly through the chattering throng of students, briefly jumping up onto a knee-high wall and walking along it to avoid being slowed down by the crowd. Unconstrained sunlight seemed to ricochet from every surface. Oscar’s winding path across the campus eventually brought him to Ms. Raymond’s classroom, where he knew Jonah would already be.
Having both eaten beforehand, they launched straight into continuing their argument on the societal merits of religion, talking over the din of conversation which filled the room every lunch. They ultimately reached a truce and the conversation turned to Oscar’s assignment.
“I’m quite glad that I actually get some choice in the topic this time. An opinion essay would be better, but at least this isn’t thematic analysis,” Oscar said.
“Yeah, but if I’m remembering correctly the story does need to have a theme,” Jonah replied, his brow furrowing slightly. “Can I see the assignment sheet?”
Oscar dug around in his backpack for a minute, eventually finding the paper and handing it to Jonah, who scanned it briefly before stating, “Doesn’t look like he’s changed it since last year.” He paused. “What are you thinking of writing about?”
“As I’m sure you’ll be shocked to learn I want to do something sci-fi or fantasy, and to avoid the rabbit hole of worldbuilding I think I should set it in a universe I already like. Warhammer 40k, or maybe the Pact Worlds from Starfinder?”
Jonah pursed his lips and shifted around a bit in the desk he sat in. “I wouldn’t recommend that. I did something similar when I was in that class, and Mr. Rivera basically ignored all the plot and world stuff I found interesting and graded it entirely based on my descriptive language. There really isn’t much point trying to write the kind of thing you enjoy reading when the assignment is all about imagery.”
He picked up the paper again, gesturing with it as he spoke. “I think you’re basically supposed to convey the whole story symbolically. I mean, think about the essays you write in that class. Everything has to be proven based on imagery, not what actually happens in the story. I think that’s the intent here too.”
Oscar sat silently for a moment, then plucked a paper clip from the floor and began unfolding it methodically as he pondered. He sighed, then said, “I guess you have a point. I really don’t know what I want to write then.” The bell rang. He stood up slowly. “I’ll have to think about that.”
“You should still try to have fun with it, you know,” Jonah said, rising as well.
“Yeah, yeah, I will,” Oscar called over his shoulder as he strode out into the hallway.
Oscar walked home, his head at a fixed angle towards the ground. He moved quickly, periodically attempting to match his steps to the sections of concrete in the sidewalk. The distance between the lines was slightly longer than his stride, so he always gave up after a minute. The sky had become entirely overcast in the few hours since lunch, causing the gray of the sidewalk to creep up into everything around it.
As Oscar approached his house, he wrenched his mind back to the short story. He had spent much of his last two periods agonizing about its topic without reaching a satisfactory conclusion. It should be something I’m actually enthusiastic about, he thought. I do like writing. Sometimes, at least.
He reached his house’s walkway and climbed the steps, which were covered in dead leaves. It took a minute of fiddling to unlock the door, but he eventually got inside. Without removing his shoes, Oscar dropped his backpack and resumed walking through the house.
Maybe I should just pick a theme first and write something really obviously allegorical. That might at least be funny. He snatched a rubber band from the dining room table, stretching and twisting it in his fingers. No, I would probably spend too much time trying to get the symbolism right. He stopped walking, but his left foot continued to tap the floor.
Wait. What if I write about this process itself? He was striding around again, even faster. I’ll write a short story about some high school student who has to write a short story and doesn’t like the requirements, and agonizes over what it’s going to be about, and decides to… yes! Oscar’s lips broke past his frown, bubbling up into a smile, but he paused. The concept is kind of abstract though, and it’s all supposed to be about imagery. I’ll have to throw in some really heavy-handed color symbolism or something to balance out all the thinking. Yes, I’ll do that.
He marched to the large window overlooking the front porch and gazed out into the street. The clouds parted, and radiant sunlight illuminated Oscar’s face.
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