Amy Inspired - Bethany Pierce [23]
“Please, Roseanne,” he pleaded. “Please.”
Rinaldi and Roseanne danced together. The burning suns of Remus set behind them, globes as hot and on fire as Roseanne’s bossom. At first she pulled away, but he got the better of her.
Both were exquisitely ready for it to happen. It did happen; Rinaldi and Roseanne were experiencing ecstasy.
In my office, I struggled through Lonnie’s story for the third time. We were critiquing “Rinaldi” in the next class and I had yet to write my response. With one last glance at the handwritten comments I’d made in the margins of his paper, I set the pages aside and cautiously began to type.
Lonnie,
Here we have, in a mere nine pages, a story of epic proportions: two lovers, destined to be together, whose happiness is thwarted by interfering parties (much in the manner of Romeo and Juliet). I appreciate the sweeping scope of the tale, and your attempt, in so few pages, to explore such complex relationships amidst an intergalactic war between the humans and the Zorgath. As a reader who spent the better part of her childhood and junior high years obsessed with science fiction, I particularly enjoyed the creative setting.
I do have to say that the brevity of the piece is, in this case, a handicap. The pacing of the story feels strained, as if too many plot points have been crammed into too few pages. Perhaps focusing on a more specific moment or scene would give the story a better sense of balance.
“Hey, Amy.” Everett had entered the room. “Don’t say hey back: I don’t want to interrupt, I just want you to know that I’m not ignoring you.”
“Actually, I have a question for you,” I said, spinning around in my chair.
“Is it a long question or a short question?” He raised his forefinger. “Clarification: Is it an involved question requiring a long answer, or is it a simple question necessitating merely a brief, perhaps monosyllabic response?”
I cringed. “The former.”
He looked at his watch. “I have a lecture to attend in twenty minutes, three e-mails to write, one to read in the meantime. You have two minutes. Go.”
“What would you do if a student wrote a story and featured you as a main character?”
Everett smiled, a wicked, teasing smile. “You’ve got a student stalker, haven’t you?”
“No,” I moaned. “I don’t know. Here, read this. Page three, paragraph two.”
He scanned over the section quickly.
“Well?” I asked when he handed the story back.
“She certainly bears an uncanny resemblance.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s just coincidence.”
“I’m sure that’s all it is.”
“Yes, he probably had no intention of writing a character who looks exactly like you.” He took his seat and pitched a tepee with his forefingers, tapping them against one another. “Intention being the operative word. He could have—unwittingly, mind you—written this—what’s her name? Roseanne?—in order to purge his mind and body of his sexual obsession with you.” He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. “Yes?”
“Let’s hope not,” I sighed. “Or my love life has hit a new and abysmal low.”
I returned to my computer and allowed Everett time to do the same, but he couldn’t resist picking up the story again fifteen minutes later.
“Is this Lonnie Weis, that kid who works in the copy room?”
“That’s him.”
“Did you ever think maybe he noticed you before he signed up for your class?”
“Everett. This is not helping.”
He scanned the story. “That’s one heck of a Freudian slip,” he said, dropping the story back on my desk. “Good luck with it.”
By this point I had reached the conclusion of my review. I paused, unsure of how to continue. I’d once written a story about a short, balding widower who came to the door selling Girl Scout cookies for his daughter. Having prided myself on my originality, I was crushed when my mother read the story and said, “Oh, you’ve written about Mr. Tilney. What a peculiar man he was.” The line between reality and fiction is a thin one for most writers—one better left unaddressed.
I finished typing:
In terms