There I was, writing for a silly little contest that was going towards my quota. While some might’ve been doing it for the reward money, my motivation had its roots in the verdant fields of “it being part of a grade” and the fact that I adored writing. Though of course having an extra fifty dollars could never hurt. As I laid my legs on the grey plastic table and my foot gave into its nervous tic of shaking, I laid my school-issued, craptastic laptop onto my lap and began typing the next paragraph of my submission.


My fingers brushed through my dirty-blond hair as I tried not to ease drop on the two gossip-girls behind me. Well, it might not have been considered ease dropping by most but I still felt it was rude. My creative writing class was not only the best part of the day because I had an entire hour dedicated to writing, but it was also a very free environment. With tables that were shaped like those little aliens from Galaga. Hey! There was an idea! What if I wrote a story about aliens? I certainly had a broad range of knowledge on the field, considering most of my stories already for Sci-Fi-esque. I facepalmed as I realized what I was doing: Falling back on what I’m used to. I couldn’t do that, I had to learn to explore and try new genres. I might do horribly and not even place in the contest, it could be the worst story I ever write! But if I didn’t take that risk, I’d never know. Heck, it might turn out to be my best story yet! With new determination I went back to the figurative drawing board. I took my legs off the table and sat in a more traditional position. I still had no idea what I was going to write, but I now knew what I wasn’t going to write: Nothing Sci-Fi or Fantasy-related.


“Hey Annabel, wanna buy some jerky?” Peanut, a senior writer in my class, asked the girl standing in front of me, it was then that I felt the pangs of hunger in my stomach. I now wished I had finished my sandwiches instead of giving them away, what was I thinking? I didn’t even like the chauvinistic jerk.


“Eh, why are you selling them?” Bam, the ball was back in Peanut’s court. Annabel began walking over towards her friend.


“They’re for my GCAN club!” She responded in her high-pitched, excited southern accent, pulling a plastic bag full of preserved, flavored meat-sticks from her purse.


“Well, I don’t like beef jerky but I like you so here’s a dollar.” Annabel said, walking over and handing Peanut a dollar. Peanut reached into her cheap plastic baggy and pulled out one of those delicious, mass-produced gas-station meat sticks. I felt my stomach confess it’s jealousy and grinned as she threw the beef-jerky at me. I tried to catch it with one of my hands…only to propel it further into the air. Time seemed to slow down, like in a bad movie, as the snack began to fall slowly back towards the floor. The only problem was that it was right above my head. I tried to jump out of the way, but felt that would be way too overdramatic and just let the meat smack my head.


“Thanks.” I said dryly, my only response being barks of laughter from around the room. Oh yes, another joke at my expense, lovely. But I was malnourished from not having any breakfast that morning so instead of a blank, soulless stare to properly express my feelings I simply dug into the jerky. It was juicy, surprisingly so, and extremely spicy. My white face turned bright red and I jerked towards my water bottle, falling to the ceramic floor without a sound. I wasn’t one to make noise when I went through actions. Muffled laughter followed me when I shuffled to my feet, but the inferno that was ravaging my mouth and turning every crevice into wasteland so devoid of moisture that Death Valley would step back, hold its arms up, and admit defeat before the obviously superior levels of dryness that were present in my mouth at this particular moment was cleansed by the purifying waters of Nature Valley. The flood waters contained in mere plastic brought life back to places abandoned by colonists thousands of years before, little mouth rabbits moved back in and the Native Mouthinans returned to their ancestral homeland for all eternity as the delicious bottle of water was chugged with meticulous care.


Okay, I tend to exaggerate. Bottom line is that I drank the water.


I sat back in my chair, brushing myself off and preparing to return to my storyboarding. Perhaps I could write something about cowboys? I’ve been considering a good Western for a while now. Ooh, maybe I could do a Steampunk Western? Yes! With robotic horses! I groaned as I realized what I was doing, Steampunk was still a form of Fantasy; “old habits die hard” was once again proven true.


I decided to take a quick break to check my text messages so I pulled out my crapple, its blue casing the only thing preventing it from having been smashed a thousand times over. I had no text messages, not like I ever responded to half of them, but my phone’s screen saver caught my attention. All it was was a painting of a painting and the words “Yo Dawg I heard you liked paintings” written in comic sans below the picture. Inspiration struck me like a wrecking ball and I began typing with renewed motivation. This would either be the start of something incredible, or the beginning of a ginormous waste of time. But one thing was for sure, I hadn’t tried this before! It was such a simple idea as well! Writing a story about a story, who would expect that?


I had the perfect beginning, as well!


There I was, writing for a silly little contest that was going towards my quota. While some might’ve been doing it for the reward money, my motivation had its roots in the verdant fields of “it being part of a grade” and the fact that I adored writing. Though of course having an extra fifty dollars could never hurt. As I laid my legs on the grey plastic table and my foot gave into its nervous tic of shaking, I laid my school-issued, craptastic laptop onto my lap and began typing the next paragraph of my submission.