Melanie Hill, 47, teaches creative writing at a local state college. The exact location is immaterial to this story, other than she has ready access to broad skies. Her classroom features stadium-style seating. Twenty rows deep and ten rows across. On most days, 40 students attend her lecture.
"Alright, class, let's examine this bit of prose poetry." She projects it on a large gray screen.
The eye of the storm is wishful thinking.
A blanket of tranquility stretches over Asia.
I see shattered lives in that eye. A tempest overdue.
In that moment, I am curiously at peace.
“Thoughts?”
It's an eager bunch, large-eyed. Hands elevate and wave, opinions are spewed at her like porcupines fired from a Gatling gun. The janitor will mop up the mess afterhours.
That evening, on her back deck, Melanie cradles the night sky, sees her whole life, and sighs.
Across the valley, her student, the quiet kid who always sits alone in row 20, writes of eyes and porcupines.
In class, he never says a word.