Ohlone College
Creative Writing Stories

Page 4
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Someone beside my booth said something to me afterward.

           "He must have wrote something very bad."

I nodded.

When the last cigarette had been struck, the bell rung, and the chatter of typewriters ensued.

I found though, as I watched my fingers type before me, two substrata's above the department that came up with stories in my head, a question welling. It was a killer question, and it through off my flow, so I wrote some confused, horrible shit for a time.

The session seemed to grow longer, and what was normal operating status was a growing claustrophobia. Something altogether new happened as I struck desperately at the keys of my machine: I was thinking about what to write (a growing awareness of what I wrote, that could not be pushed below). So another thought assailed me: was I losing my ability to doublethink?

As each word was struck, the creeping disease crawled up my hands and into my fingertips, stiffening them with the inability to strike. Longer moments passed between stokes, more effort spewed forth to embody each and every word and phrase. Sweat boiled on my forehead, collected on my shoulders and back.


           "Thank god!"

           "Say earthling, what's the deal?"

           "Nothing." So I settled into the chair, a little broken, but relived nonetheless.

           "Nothing? You nearly wet yourself. Nearly wet me too, with all that excitement."

So I looked over, as he began permeating the air with sweet Menthol. He stared back at me.

           "A zucchini."

           "A zucchini, the vegetable?"

           "Yeah. It was a special zucchini, though. You see, it was sentient."

           "A talking zucchini?"

           "Yeah. Talking doesn't necessarily have to be a quality of sentience, though."

           "I don't think zucchini's have brains."

           "I told you it was special."

           "Very good. So anything happen?"

           "Well, I was trying to get the feel of what actually being a zucchini would be like. So that took some time. I never really got around to plot. Ran short on time so I had to serve him up in a vegan lasagna at some socialite event. Yours?"

           "I don't know. It's sort of hokey."

           "Can it be worse than a zucchini?"

            "Well, it was about a boy. He couldn't come up with an idea to write about for class."

            "Ah, classic writer's block."

            "Yeah. It explores the pressures and near insanity of indecision with little characters arguing what to do in his head."

            "So what happened?"

            "He went crazy, got apathetic after he exhausted all the possibilities, finally went to class with no story, and killed his teacher and everyone else in it."

            "Not bad, I should rate it."