'Creative writing,' he said slowly, small eyes scanning the room but obstinately refusing to rest on individuals, 'is an art form'. The girl sitting next to me drew back slightly with his every second word, his slack mouth sending spittle flying towards us.

'I won't hand you loads of sheeets,' he continued, proceding to hand out loads of sheets, 'as I thought we should get right down to it'. He moved nervously from foot to foot as we compiled structured character profiles, looking at his watch every two minutes.

After each 'sharing' with the rest of the group, there would be silence, and we would look towards him for a word, perhaps even a nod of approval, but none ever came. He remained impassive, twitchy and bored, as if he had somewhere else to be desperately. Perhaps he'd double-booked.

'I'm afraid that's it, folks!' he exclaimed, animated for the first time since having entered the room.

'Sorry to have rushed through it all!' he shouted happily and not at all remorsefully.

'I'll probably never see you again!' he crowed, his vast frame moving with surprising agility backwards through the door.

And he was gone.




Written a while ago in magic Moleskin pages.