The Challenge: Use these phrases in a story, 'How can a Creator not create? How can a Writer not write? How can Love not be love?'
Disclaimer: All of the characters in this story are completely fictional. Any similarities to any real person is merely coincidental.
I was sitting at my desk, tapping my fingers quietly against the smooth wood surface. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil.
The teacher had been blabbering on for a while now. It was Bible class, and so far it was very dull.
I began to write a story on the piece of paper, but I was feeling uninspired.
"How can a Creator not create?" the teacher asked the class, looking up from her book.
Then it hit me. I wrote down the words, "How can a creator not create?" to begin my story. Then I thought. What could that mean? Is this a superhero with the power to create?
"How can a Writer not write?" the teacher asked.
I smiled. "Hey! This is good stuff," I whispered quietly to myself as I copied the words down to my paper.
"How can Love not be love?"
I paused. "Nahh," I sighed.
I continued to work on the paper, adding in some explosions and witty dialogue. It was going pretty well.
Oh, I haven't introduced myself. My name is Jimmy Tyke. My mom calls me little Tyke, for whatever reason. Probably because she'd like to think I'm still small and helpless. But I'm not!
Anyhow, the teacher spotted me writing my paper and dropped her book. She strolled over to me and said something like, "What you doing fool?!"
Yeah she talks like that. I'm pretty sure she's a gangster. I mean, she even has a violin case! And I've never seen her play the violin, so I wouldn't be surprised if there was a Tommy gun in there. She took my paper and crumpled it into a mess then threw it in the trash. She walked away.
Another idea! I flipped out a piece of paper and began to write:
The teacher, Mrs. GangBanger, walked out into the parking lot, a Thompson sub-machine gun in hand. She open fired upon the innocent people, as they walked towards Wal-mart. She laughed evilly as their blood flooded the area.
Then the teacher caught me again. Unfortunately this time she read the paper. "Am I Mrs. GangBanger?" she asked, obviously in shock.
I opened my mouth to reply, but when no words came out, I shut it.
She shook her head at me and crumpled up the paper again. "Stop writing or I will have you suspended."
She walked away and I flipped out another paper. I began writing about a monster attacking the city:
The monster swiped at an F16 plane as it soared by. The plane flew into a vertical climb, just as the monster fired fire from his nostrils. Then four army tanks surrounded the monster, just as it slashed the plane in half with its face.
Then the teacher caught me. Again! She read it aloud. Then she asked, "Is this monster me too?"
"No not exactly. If you let me finish it, I would have added a disclaimer."
The teacher shook her head at me. "Give me your backpack," she ordered.
I reluctantly handed her the backpack. She began to walk away, but little did she know that I had another paper in my hand.
I'm starting to see the truth in that statement. How can a writer not write?