Serving students and faculty since 1971

I have a special way of writing and it begins by not writing. I slouch in my seat like an old man far far away eating biscuits and drinking tea while reading old dailies on the side of the beach. After I have settled into my slouching position, I begin to look at the Hindu writings on one of my wrist beads. I remember that an old friend bought it for me and I am looking forward to the time my friend dies so that the bead will mean more. The thing with looking at my wrist is I always have two beads on and I have never remembered how I got the second one but each time, I still end up thinking of how I found it. I probably stole it. Sometimes, I would stop looking and I will remember: a movie, a dance, a time, my exes or some important nothings. When I remember, I feel. I feel a longing for something special to come from me. I wonder why I wasn’t hung on a cross or shot fifty times to eventually survive or even be dead only to speak from afterlife.
I sat in the frigid class, sleeves up and folded, staring at my beads thinking of creative ways to tell my professor I write by not writing. I stared at the white projector board, tainted with too much info, and acted like I was reading it. However, I read that board with only one hope: there was no way in hell my professor would know I had nothing to write.
“You have 300 words: write a scene that shows you at work writing.” I hated the prompt. I write because I always have nothing to write and he had the audacity to prompt me. I was irritated because nobody died in the freaking prompt. There was no talk of afterlife or my martyrdom on a rugged cross.
I have this special way of writing and it ends by eventually writing. All I need to do is to sit my butt long enough in a chair. I had sat in the class for good amount of time, rested my heavy arms on the fine wood needing polish, ignored the curious eyes of my professor. I had done all that remembering, looking and feeling before I just wrote of how this story all began.