A Writer Writes. Even Mediocrely. (That's the phrase, right?)

Inspired by this afternoon’s conversation with my writing group buddy, Jenelle, this story is based on pw.org’s Prompt: Write a story that opens with your main character doing something that is completely antithetical to his or her personality. Having not written fiction in a long time, here is a cliché short story in which little happens! Enjoy!

Ordinarily, she’d never have said such a thing, but once it was done there was no unsaying it. The entire class, in their half-piano desks, turned; the professor, wearing tweed without irony, furrowed his wiry brows.

Orly tugged on the hem of her skirt, and sputter-mumbled herself into rephrasing. “It – I – You’d asked what reason the main character might have for delaying such an important meeting, and I just think – well, based on the lascivious language the author uses elsewhere in the chapter – well, I just think she might delay in order to … to masturbate.”

A student in the 2^nd row who’d turned around shifted his gaze to the guy across the aisle and raised his eyebrows in Groucho Marx innuendo. The girl to her left, Wendy, simply stared, like Orly was a pop icon, or on fire.

Into the silence, Professor Grant regained his composure by flipping back and forth a few pages of the novel they’d been discussing, and the rustling caught wind through the classroom as other students scoured their books as well.

“Surely, Miss Elliot, we each have an interpretive reading, and yours is quite … creative, but I see little evidence of your so-called ‘lascivious language’ in Motley’s prose. Perhaps you’ve confused our text with The Interpretation of Dreams?”

The few students who understood snickered and made a few last side-long glances toward Orly, now curving her spine low into the molded seat, and consciously willing her foot to stop hyper-jangling as the class resumed its course.

After class, she quickly descended the front ADA-approved ramp and turned left out of the 6pm crowd toward the dusky brick buildings that flanked the Commons.

“Orly!” someone called behind her. “Orly, wait up!” Orly turned around as Mike Gordon hurried out of the mill of students. She paused to mentally check that her skirt still faced forward and hadn’t edged around sideways like it does, and ran her tongue over her teeth for good measure. “Hey, Mike,” she replied, and turned back as he caught up to her, matching her pace, his messenger bag thumping their rhythm.

“That was pretty lame of Grant to call you out like that. I mean, I think what you said made sense. It’s too bad it’s just a bunch of prudes in that class.”

Orly inwardly smiled, and, with more nonchalance than she felt, breathed, “Oh, it’s no big deal. I mean, I should know by now to fly under the radar with Grant.”

“Ha! Then who’d keep that class interesting?”

They walked along into the deepening darkness, the wan peach of street lights punctuating their path until it T-d into Emerson Boulevard. They both came to a stop on the same square of pavement and faced each other for the first time that evening.

“So, I guess you’re off to the library?” Mike asked.

“Why would you assume that?”

“Because it’s where I always see you,” he said, looking amused. “Books splayed open across the whole table like the bodies of Gettysburg!”

Orly laughed. “So that’s what you think of me? Some bookworm, huh?” she teased back.

“No, no, it’s just I – I just meant…” At this, he finally broke his gaze and watched a car pass. “No, I just thought maybe we could study together sometime. I think you'd have a good influence on me, is all.”

“Well, Michael Gordon," Orly said and turned, indeed, toward the library, "it’s about time someone did!”