Free your ride: #6
Here is the prompt:
writer’s block
Now write:
I have come here to write, but my words are lined up at the door. They are lazy children swinging metal lunch boxes — Holly Hobby, Skeletor — against corduroyed knees.
I have come here to write, but my words are lined up at the door. They are full-bladdered children wiggling willy nilly at the water closet, striped sleeves pulled over nervous thumbs. Whiney, impetulant children who have had too much juice to drink.
I have come here to write, but my words are lined up at the door. They are leaderless children, pestering one another about the neck, about the elbows, about tiny crooks of knees, waiting for an absent teacher. So grouchy she has become, this tardy molder of brains. So contemptuous (Is that a word?) she is, so split at her ends. She is nipping from a copper flask in the teacher’s lounge, distracting herself with vending machines and carpet stains. She will leave them there, she thinks. Each child slouching in v-neck sweaters. She will abandon them fully, as she can no longer bear the clumsy manner in which they bobble down the hallways — narrow pathways, so straight, they can only hint at containment (stupid line). Whoever designed these pedestrian tunnels did not understand the inflated bravado of young people-rockets on their way to recess. Goddamn these dependent little creatures. How they wait so mindlessly to be led. Can they not shoot out waving autonomy’s flag?
I have come here to write.
