Yancey completes what is surely an assignment meant for 3rd graders

Creative writing prompts are the worst. They are seriously so bad, you guys. I loved my creative writing classes and teachers in high school and college, don't get me wrong. These were wonderful, gentle people who'd often grow beards in the winter because that's what people like them often do, and I find it charming as hell.

But the prompts? Hoo-boy, terrible. The problem is, they're a necessary evil. For as lame and hamfisted and unoriginal as it all is, they solve the #1 problem -- of, like, 4 billion problems -- every writer has, which is ironically enough ACTUALLY USING WORDS TO WRITE SOMETHING.

So I guess kudos to creative writing prompts for getting us to write. They're like that awkward, weirdo neighbor you convinced to make-out with you for the first time in order to give you the confidence to aspire for higher make-out standards.

The second prompt on the Ten Creative Writing Activities webpage includes four sets of 10 things. The four sets are Character, Setting, Time and Situation/Challenge. The assignment calls for students to pick four numbers at random -- one for each list -- and create a story with the ingredients they've chosen.

Without looking at the list, my number selections are:

2 - the number of testicles I have
9 - John Lennon's favorite number
4 - the number four
4 - the number four, again

My writing ingredients are thus:

Character - a photographer
Setting - a college library
Time - after a big meal
Situation/Challenge - a death has occurred

Wow. What a terrible and ridiculous prompt. Ladies and gentlemen, I present the world premiere of the original short story...

To Kill a Mockingbird

Scout Finch loved calling her father by his first name -- Atticus. She also loved clandestine shut-ins who may or may not be extremely fucked up in the head. She also loved a college library.

After a big meal one sunny morning, Scout asked her father, "Why is everybody spitting in your face and generally hating you these days, Atticus?"

Atticus said, "Because they're racist dicks."

"That's cool, Atticus. I don't know what any of it really means anyway because my innocence has yet to be completely shattered by the murder of Tom Robinson at the end of the book. Anyway, Atticus, I need to go see if the weirdo down the block has left me anything else in a tree."

"Okay," he said. "I'm just going to modestly battle racial injustice some more."

Scout checked the tree and found a camera. Scout was now a photographer. She took a picture of the shut-in's house and showed all her friends where the guy who eats birds lives. Then some guy tried to kidnap her, but the shut-in turned out to be a hero and thankfully murdered the guy. Don't worry, though. The sheriff said it's cool and that the guy fell on his own knife, which was a complete lie, but the law allows for some fibbing once in awhile if the parties involved are alcoholic racists and heroic shut-ins who still might be fucked up in some singular, disturbed way.

The End