The delicate green bottle was etched with
flowered vines, and inside there was scented oil of cardamom and rose. Scents
of promise. Desire. She felt a warm hand between her—
What. Sir. What sir.
Flynn, what are you doing.
You said writing should stir the senses, so—
I didn’t mean write soft-core porn.
Look, Flynn, it’s the first day
of writing camp so maybe this wasn’t clear. Short and simple, fifty
words or less. I want to hear your voice. Your
voice. Don’t re-write
Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
Short and simple.
Yes. And no more…hands. Alright, people, let’s go,
let’s see if there’s actually a writer in this room.
She wore a dress of yellow ferns, and a white wolf lay beside her. In the forest home, bright fairies and dark elves—
Don’t take that tone with me, missy. I’m old
enough to be your…uncle.
So is J. K. Rowling.
Look, Flynn, it’s really very
simple. All I’m asking for is...a red barn. A maple tree. In your voice. Not this unicorn poop. Dark fairies. Bright elves.
Bright fairies. Dark elves. There’s no hands in
Alright folks, let’s move it along, we’ve got a
lot to cover.
The hot blade flashed, and sliced her cool, white skin,
and blood dripped from—
Where’s the barn? Where’s the maple tree, Flynn—where’s
I decided to go back to senses-stirring.
Don’t decide, Flynn. Don’t stir. Don’t decide. Just,
compose. And try to focus, please. Everyone else, quiet, while Flynn here
She took side streets, and kept her eyes to the pavement. She loved him, somewhere. Or remembered when she did. It was a crisp autumn day with a royal, cloudless sky, and she longed for one as dark as apothecary glass.
Well. Well now. Not bad, Flynn. Not bad… alright
people, we’ll take a thirty-minute break for lunch and meet back here at…1:15.
What is it Flynn.
Flynn, I asked you for something simple. Finally, I got
it. And I heard your voice. The truth—I thought it was damned good.
Thank you. Sir.
Alright, Flynn, alright, you’ve only got thirty
minutes. Run along. Catch up with the others.
What now Flynn.
There are no others, Sir.
I am not lonely while I write, Flynn. Ralph Waldo Emerson.
It's just a setting, isn't it, Sir. This isn't really a camp.
This isn't really a story. And there's no pea in this whistle.