my entries for the Construct Cup |
I don’t mind it, most of the time. when they ask me if I would read, proof, turn their words into polish—into truths worthy of A’s from their professors’ pens . . . and then, it’s half past midnight, and someone’s at the door with eight pages. she needs ten. page by page, paragraph by paragraph, sentence by sentence, word by misspelled word, we wrestle this crocodile essay— tame it, pray that it doesn’t drag us down, drown us in a sea of false leads and incoherent ideas. I type. I’m faster, but I can’t write it for her—it’s her grade, her work, her sense of spelling that turns even easy words into a red-lined mess that only experience and her help can clean. it’s almost five when we’re done— ten pages, double spaced full of her ideas, her work, my sweat, my sleep— my incipient migraine as I calm my mind enough to find my bed just in time to get up again. Prompt for: May 12, 2016 ▼ |