Untitled on 10/10/12 at 01:05:20 PM

Gabriella Adair

A boy observing his class

Flash Fiction Rough Draft

 

            Silence over whelms the room. Minus echo’s from down the hall. I can hear each stroke to this paper.

Each of them has a different form some choke the pencil up high, others aggressively try to write through the paper. Some sit back so far as though the papers smell horrific. Others would put their faces in there paper if they could. What drives them? The silence, working like small ants on an ant farm, the mind of an artist at work using words to portray just one simple, or complex image.

No distractions, everyone is in a separate state of mind, different worlds gathered all into one place. Each hand racing like nascar drivers. Yet, all are racing their own thoughts, no other drivers. Racing, speeding, fighting to get thoughts to paper as quickly as possible.

The strength and endurance runs electrically through the room. Each touch of pen to paper sends a static jolt through the mind. Chatting, and exchanging of ideas begins, but when I look up hear nothing. Looking, wondering, waiting; which style will I like best? It surely will not be my own.

There are many different types of racers: crooked, slanted, sloppy, and neat. But what would they do without their feet?

Will the rhyme? Will the think? Only they know what will come next for the extravagant characters they create.

It is our right to write as we do. Everyone should try it, why don’t you? I only kid when I write like so. Though others may not think the same. Is it possible we have a true Dr. Seuss in the bunch? Only time will tell for that clever one.

As soon as we were taught to write, a feeling of love over whelms you. It controls you no matter what. As the energy and focus in the room die down. Everyone wants to get the final copy out. The true question is will they have the strength to share the win, or not?