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The story

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 to have no trouble writing their paper. 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. As he sat in his seat he reminisced the days of his adolescence when all he used to do was roughhouse and play outside. A time when all he had to worry about was how many cowboys or Indians he had killed in the woods. Those days were over and he decided there was no looking back. He knew now that he was doomed to fail. 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. As he basked in the turmoil of his own incompetence he tried one last time to imagine a place where it was always bright, sunny, and warm. 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. A place where maybe he could spark an idea for the greatest paper of his life. Then suddenly it hit him all at once like a ton of bricks. His mind became a r...

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The story. (1969, December 31). In Retrieved 05:24, August 23, 2014, from