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Wrong.

She sits on the grass, watching hues of red, gold, and brown flutter to the ground, her pen tapping against her notebook impatiently. The fallow blank page welcomes her new ideas, waiting for her idea of a story to blossom. Her thoughts drift as she imagines her teacher scrutinizing the inky words on the page. A laugh escapes her lips, hanging in the air. He would ask for the papers in his deep voice and she would pretend to be worried with the work she has turned in. Her utmost confidence in it disappears, just so her teacher would not expect much of her and so her peers would not think she was conceited. When the page would be passed back, it would be filled of red marks: things that needed to be changed, the mistakes that weren’t allowed, and the sentences that didn’t make sense. But since when do her thoughts make sense? She shakes her head, talking to herself, ”No, that won’t work.”





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