Part of Slice of Life by Two Writing Teachers

Tonight, we went to see Kinky Boots. We felt a little guilty putting off our homework until later tonight, but Mary Ehrenworth told us to go out and have fun, so it was like a direction, right?

The theater was beautiful, and the seats were great! There’s nothing like the feeling of a show about to start: the crowd gathers, the excitment mounts, we take turns going to the restroom.

As my friend and I walked into the bathroom, we laughed along with a few others. Like an unpopular amusement park ride, the maze of rope to enter was empty in the uncrowded bathroom. We rushed through it, feeling silly as we twisted and turned around the long maze. On the way out of the bathroom, I laughed again and shook my head because the next few people to come in just walked around the rope.

They walked around the rope. I bet those people would be good at lateral thinking puzzles.

Part of Slice of Life by Two Writing Teachers

I sit and  look around. I’m still in slow motion, heart racing. I see a woman. She doesn’t seem to have noticed that anything happened. A car drives by, its driver oblivious. My hands are shaking slightly and I pull over, hazards on.

I take a deep breath in, allow my eyes to close for a moment, breathe out.

Before this,

I lived in a slow motion moment. I drove down the street, watchful but relaxed. Listening to Hamilton, almost home. Suddenly, a van cut across the street directly in front of me. (They made the word suddenly specifically for situations like this, I think.) 

I slammed the brake and watched as my car still got closer to the van as the van continued across the street. I braced for impact, eyes squinted. I hoped I wouldn’t hit the van too hard, I pressed the brake. The van kept going, I kept going. Shouldn’t brakes work faster than this? My hands gripped the steering wheel, and I wondered if maybe I would just scrape the back of the van. 

And then it was over. The van went on its merry way, and I watched as cars passed all around me, unconcerned. 

Now safely pulled over, I call Mr. Thought.

“I’m okay,” I start, because I am.