Spoke to a creative writing class last week, taught by my friend Tanya Eby. Read a few pieces, did a scene with she-who-shall-be-called-Coco (it’s a long story, trust me), shut off all the lights and did “Baba Yaga” in my Tom Waits voice, stalking up and down the aisle.

At the end of the class, Tanya ran everyone through a flash writing exercise: Select a word and write on it for three minutes.

Coco won the coin toss, so her word was chosen: “Scratching.”

Tanya started the clock, the students bent over their papers, and the three of us did our best on the whiteboard.

At the end, and a couple of post-bell pronoun changes later, here’s what I had…

Scratching

It’s red and swolen and I can’t help but think:

“Should’ve known better.”

I’m scratching now, again, and I can’t help myself.

It was the music,

The insistent thump,

The whining grind and scratch of the DJ,

The warm press of bodies on the dancefloor,

Especially his, especially later

When we were alone.

And I forgot, I did,

I should’ve known better,

But he was so insistent.

And now I’m scratching.

In case you’re wondering, I had the whole thing in my head after in the first 30 seconds . . . but the last four lines took nearly a minute.

I haven’t had so much fun in weeks.

At any rate, this is copyright Me and all that sort of thing.

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