The final assignment of my writing class was to produce a short story using approximately 300 words. This was what I read to my class.
I wanted to bring my 300 words to be read at our last class. They stayed home, they had caused me nothing but trouble. I gave them every chance to get organized and line up on the page to create something worthy of reading.
Did they do it? Nope! They continued to torture me so I left them at home. Let them think about what they had done to me. They did not deserve to be here today.
I didn’t participate in the power struggle. I was the writer, if my threats of drowning them in milk like alphabet cereal, or boiling them like alphabet soup, did not phase them. What would phase them?
What was wrong with them? I arranged them into sentences and paragraphs. They still didn’t make any sense. I tried to get them to cooperate with me all night long.
They would not read the way I wanted them to. I wasn’t asking for much. Just a short story. Maybe I used to many commas and periods. That would be unlikely since they’re used to being close to them in a sentence.
I tried a few exclamation marks to make things exciting, that might cheer them up. It failed, if the words could speak. Then I would have a hint.
Whoever made up that Nursery Rhyme; Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Oh yeah! Right! They were probably not trying to write a story.
I was fed up, my final threat , which I yelled loud and clear. “I will beat your vowels using the sticks, then crush your consonants with the stones.” Then, I screamed at them “The verbs will die a horrible death, that you wouldn’t want to witness.” Still no response…
Enough of this crazy—ridiculous—nonsense. I swallowed 2 adverbs and went to bed. “I’ll call you in the morning.”