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Doodle: hey I wrote a super short story on the train!
She slid a pencil across the desk and took her seat in the front of the room. The sun had already begun to set and would be freshly gone when the class began. It was not the best option, but she weighed the options and determined this provided the path of least resistance. It wasn’t so bad in August, and even through October there were perks. But he’d switched classes, taking his Indian summer smile with him. The November wind moved quickly in replacing the warmth of the harvest air. The chill would grow more severe; soon she would stop caring about the pencils being carefully coordinated with the days of the week, the cycles of the moon, and eventually even the sharpness of a point. In another week she would stop bringing pencils altogether, grabbing chewed pens and dry highlighters. The lights flickered, humming along in a harsh rhythm that killed creative brainwaves on contact. She pulled her three subject notebook from her backpack and, after ensuring the pages were flush with the edges of desk, began carefully doodling designs for bands near last week’s notes, haunting the memory of a text book written in a room not unlike this one by another former class president who sharpened his pencils, took a Monday night class, and dreamed of creating life in the margins of his history notebook.
