Canice, a young writer in the Writer's Program at the Creative Institute, struggles to find his creative niche as a writer. It is the year 3010, and the writer's craft is still very difficult. Through him and other characters, MarjeanTherese muses on the writer's craft and any other theme she'd like to explore. It may be mature- do be warned!
Lips. Conch- Shaped, they took in turns to form a pout, then a line, and then a dissatisfied smirk. It opened up to let out a sigh, it stilled in the act as if stopping in thought- what else could her lips do?
Canice Evander, six foot tall, folded awkwardly into an old desk, rambling black blue-tinted hair that fell around his ears and accented his strong jaw, shook himself out of his reverie. With a last furtive glance to Cezanne and her expressive lips- Cezanne, the soft, curvaceous, 4 foot 10, small chested (but perky!), with eyes like melting chocolate and lips that spoke more than her face of her mood- he turned and attacked his own journal with a his ink feather. He was in a writing class, for heaven's sake! Pay attention, Evander!
It was his favorite class too, of all the classes in the Creative Institute. It used very old instruments of writing instead of contemporary pens and notebooks: thick, beautiful journals and feather ink pens that needed to be constantly refreshed. It was the year 3010, and as such these instruments were no longer needed, but the professor insisted on the use of them. Today they were writing freeform, and he had not a clue as to how to begin.
All a writer needs is imagination, Professor Bella boomed from her perch in a desk. A large woman, with a bosom that rose expressively and hands that rose with them whenshe talked, her jovial face creased with freckles and seemed to crinkle whenever she smiled, with a rolled, generous stomach and pudgy legs and hips, she seemed the epitome of motherly teachers, and she was legendary for wearing the craziest patterned A-lined skirts in school. It was whispred that she sew those embellishments herself.
But Canice was having a hard time trying to find a theme to begin with, and his blank page seemed to squeak at him with indignation at being so neglected. He usually did not get these writer's freezes. What was the matter with him? Do his favorite authors have these problems?
Try to think of something you like and start from there, advised Bella at her half-panicked class, who could not believe being left to write without guidance. He glanced furtively at Cezanne again and noticed her lips had returned to a soft little pout that invited kissing. He felt himself stir a bit below at the thought and neck tinged pink at the realization. Then he picked up his pen and began to write.....