The clock read 10:12 AM. As he sat in his desk beads of cold perspiration flowed down his forehead. It felt like he had finally received the eternal damnation that awaited him. He contemplated over and over the chimerical thoughts in his head that wouldn’t stand a chance against a grader of any prestige. His feet became drenched in the double-layered socks he was wearing. Suddenly the room felt cold, dark, and empty to him, even though the class was full of students. At this point he was oblivious of the time. Eleven minutes had dissipated and still there was not a spot of black ink on his paper. He had to think of something fast. He glanced around the classroom and saw that everyone else was totally enthralled and seemed t
As he sat in his seat he reminisced the days of his adolescence when all he used to do was roughhouse and play outside. So if you ever feel like you cannot do something just remember the boy that did. He asked himself, "Oh why did this day of forlorn composing have to come!" He had known for a month that he had to write a story, but he procrastinated until the hindmost week. o have no trouble writing their paper. Most of them he could not even explain, but they flowed from his head onto his paper in a godly fashion that no one had ever seen before. A place where the trees and fields of green grass stretch out across the land forever. A place where the ponds are chock-full of fish and you always get a bite. Then suddenly it hit him all at once like a ton of bricks. Those days were over and he decided there was no looking back. His mind became a raging torrent overflowing at the seams with ideas. He had been sitting there laid back like a couch potato for more than an hour and still not even a skid mark of black ink. A few strands of his own luminescent brown hair fell down onto the paper. In fact, it was the greatest story ever written by anyone, anytime, anywhere. A place where maybe he could spark an idea for the greatest paper of his life.