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

Hard-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— 



What now? 

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 it. 


Okay okay. 

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 the simple? 

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 composes. 

(soft whistle) 

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.

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