I run my fingers back and forth across the slick cover of that thick, thick paperback: The Complete Stories by Flannery O'Connor. Over thirty stories, climaxes, “points of grace.” Probably a hundred distinct personalities, each with his or her own way of walking, own way of holding a pen, own way of seeing the world. And here I sit, dumbly staring at a blank notebook. The first half of Creative Writing was easy. Poetry, I can do: capturing, illuminating single moments. Short stories are a different matter. I seem to be missing the thread that ties all the poetry, those snapshots of life, into a story. I have till Monday. The alarm on my watch beeps, reminding me to take my birth control pill.

Sighing, I stand to fill my glass of water yet again. Maybe the staff thinks that because most college students are used to shot glasses, these things seem big. The dining hall is dark and swallowing, a handful of writing campers like myself scattered among the huge oak tables. A lineup of past college presidents soberly watches from their stately positions on the wall. All elderly, al white, and probably all Presbyterian, appropriate in such a fine Southern institution. I shudder at their vacant stares, helplessly “once important,” and head for the kitchen, brighter and firmly located in the present.

I step into the lighted warmth of the room and am hit with the familiar smell of unidentified frying meat. I briefly consider getting something else to eat while I'm up. Briefly. The browning lettuce in the salad bar and two-or-three-day-old cornflakes make me appreciate the cool clarity of water, and I turn to the drink fountains. I no hurry to return to the somber air of the dining hall, I let a weathered black man step ahead of me in line. His coarse, thick features and graying hair made me suddenly too conscious of my petite frame and my fine pale hair, pulled back into a bun. I shift uncomfortably in my thin lavender sundress, too aware of my smoothly shaven legs. The contrast with his faded blue stained maintenance shirt and roughened jeans is obvious, and I lower my head . I focus all of my attention on the inadequate glass in my hand and, disliking confrontation, hope he won't speak.

He does, though, in a gruff but smiling voice, “Whatcha here for?”

I briefly imagine myself entering a prison, this initial contact with another human being a test, the first impression that will determine how intolerable my days will be. “The writing camp,” I answer, half smiling, half shuddering at the thought of myself in prison.

“Heh, heh, heh. You can write about me,” he chortles sardonically. “My name is Lou. I've worked here for 25 years, and I'm a hard worker and…” I take a step back as he leans in confidentially, “…and I need a raise.”

I smile in acknowledgement, as he awkwardly lifts his glass to the Coke dispenser. Then my eyes pull sharply into focus through my glasses. Lou has no right hand, but rather a metal claw, now gripping his glass. I stare at it. How bizarre. Shaking myself out of the stupor, I refill my glass and head back into the dark dining room. The Claw occupies my thoughts for the rest of my solitary lunch. Now that would make a great story. Who is “Lou?” How did he lose his hand? Some grotesque accident with heavy machinery…a lawn mower? No, hmmm…a hunting accident? No…the Vietnam War, maybe? More importantly, how can he be a maintenance worker? How can he clean and fix things without both hands? Is there perhaps some softhearted employer or supervisor that couldn't bear to fire Lou after the accident? Or does “Lou” have another job? Is the Claw real or…? This is going to take some work.

No longer resigned to sink into the mire of writer's block, I stack Flannery and my notebook, tuck them under one arm, and balance the unsteady tray on my free palm. I wrinkle my nose and rid myself to he lifeless “Veg-all,” the bland mashed potatoes, and what is universally known as “mystery meat,” clanging the tray onto the metal cart. As an afterthought, I grab a pear on my way out, perfect for an afternoon snack.

The sun is blinding, and heat pushes on me from all directions. My room would be cool, but it just isn't inviting. Even without a roommate (I am the lucky single in an odd number of girls), the room is as tiny as a laundry room, complete with the dull finish of the mundane, and its bare institutional walls seem to inch closer together each day. I find myself heading towards the groves behind the main campus, away from white reflecting sidewalks and heat-soaked asphalt.

I walk along, enjoying the cool tickle of the grass through my sandals and humming different tunes. I try to think about my story, Lou and his claw, but I keep running up against dead ends. I don't really know anything about Lou or missing limbs or the Vietnam War. Write about what you know. Write about what you know, they say. I'm a straight-A student who doesn't know a thing about real people or real pain. And who do I know, attending a private school in the South for twelve years? Wealthy, white bigots with lazy children. What can I write about that won't sound trite or superficial? Frustrated, I flop down on a grassy patch. The trees are far enough apart so that I can see the sky. Te swift clouds soothe my raw judgements, and soon I am dozing.

Some time later, I awake. Still groggy, I stand and stretch, yawning. I take my glasses off my face and begin cleaning them with the skrit of my dress. Without warning someone knocks me down from behind. As I hit the ground, everything goes silent, and a shadow creeps over the world, as in a solar eclipse. Then, slowly, like a records player starting up after a power failure, I can hear a low but clear, “Bye…bye…Miss American Pie…” There is a huge weight on my chest, and it is hard to breathe. Through the dark fog in my mind, I can now make out a single image, freshly painted—my pear, green and ripe, wavers slightly before my eyes. “Drove my Chevy to the Levy…but the levy was dry…” I watch in horror as a metal claw closes slowly 'round the fruit. I try to scream, but all I can hear is “Them good old boys…drinkin' whisky and rye…” The juices drip from the pear, falling between my legs, and I am hot and sticky and smothered in pain. The image begins to ripple away like a reflection on a disturbed pond. “Singing this'll be the day that I die…” The dark, aching heaviness is overwhelming. “This'll be the day that I die…” Then nothing.

It is almost dusk when, sore and groggy, I finally pick myself up off the ground. My hands feel around in the grass for my glasses, and I put them on again. I stare down at my wrinkled dress—no rips or stains. My eyes scan the ground, traveling to my bok and then to the pear. But it isn't mutilated like it should be; in fact, it is whole and untouched. A sudden fire of shame and rage lights up my veins, and everything burns crimson. I rush to the pear and hurl it at the nearest tree, smashing it to pieces. I vomit and sink to my knees, sobbing. All of a sudden, everything seems strangely real, even through my blurring tears. I grab my notebook and I write…and I sob…and I write…until the lines on the paper fade with the setting sun.