Test

Preston presses his finger on the space bar, making a long gap on his paper.

He deletes it right away, of course. It's a little ritual he does when he's nervous. Press down on the space bar for five seconds. Delete. Press down on the space bar again; five seconds.

Delete.

He's trying to write an essay— emphasis on trying. It's for a test. It's not that he doesn't understand the topic— as a matter of fact, he understands it quite well. But the words just... don't come. And now there's only a half hour left in the class. A half hour, and he has to write at least a two page essay. Two pages, and currently he only has five lines.

Name.

Class.

Professor.

Date.

Title.

And then of course, the long chain of spaces.

Which he deletes. And then remakes. And then deletes.

Fifteen minutes left in class, and he decides, screw it. Screw this test. The words won't come, so I'll just chug a bottle of word laxatives and shit out as much as I can.

So he writes. He spills out word after word.

He barely even knows what he's typing, he just closes his eyes and punches the keys.

This test is more than just a test. It's a roadblock, and he's going to shit on it, piss on it, jackhammer it to pieces, and then throw the remains off a bridge. Screw the test. Screw the topic. Screw everything.

He finishes, submits the essay without even proofreading, and shuts his school-issued laptop.

Once again, he rereads the words on the board, the prompt that had him so stuck.

FREE WRITE.