Free Amy Inspired by Bethany Pierce

finished typing:
    In terms of character development, the descriptions of Roseanne were quite detailed but did not delve beyond the purely physical. She was easy to visualize, yet her motivation remains mysterious. Did she or did she not really wish to be with Rinaldi? This reader is inclined to think not.
    All in all, an interesting extrapolation of Shakespeare’s timeless plot.
    Amy
    On Monday the students were polite in their critique, but it quickly became apparent that they found nothing of merit in Lonnie’s story. He spent the entire half hour writing in his notebook. I wondered if he was even listening. Inevitably, it was time to move on to the second story, which was about a sophomore in college who didn’t know whether to stay in school and get married or break up with her boyfriend and pursue the life of the stage. The character pitched back and forth for twenty pages. It was unreadable, but as it did not take place in space or involve ray guns and burning suns, the students were much kinder. They liked accessible, familiar settings: This was the most disappointing failure of their imaginations.
    When the class ended I handed Lonnie the copy I had personally marked up, my typed comments pinned to the top. He accepted both and fled.

    When I returned to my office two hours later, I was surprised to find Lonnie standing outside my door, his story in hand. He was beaming.
    “Lonnie, how long have you been here?” I asked.
    “Not long,” he said. “Just an hour and a half.”
    “You should have made an appointment.”
    “I was just leaving work. I work down the hall, you know.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “Anyway, I just had to say thank you, Ms. Gallagher. This is great—this is so great.”
    “I’m glad I could be helpful,” I replied.
    “I mean, usually just my mom reads my stories. She has to like them because I’m her son.”
    I smiled. “My mom always did the same.”
    He kept his eyes carefully trained to the right of my head. It gave me the uncomfortable feeling of trying to meet the gaze of someone who was cross-eyed.
    “So you like science fiction?” he asked.
    “I adore science fiction,” I said. “It was all I read in high school.”
    “I read science fiction like voraciously.”
    “I thought you might be a fan.”
    “I’m so into it.” He folded his arms across his chest, fingers tucked tight in his armpits. He briefly caught my eyes before lowering his gaze. “So who do you like?”
    “Who do I like?” I leaned back into the wall. “Where to start … Douglas Adams, Isaac Asimov, Madeleine L’Engle, Jules Verne … Oh, and of course George Orwell and Margaret Atwood.”
    “You ever read Neil C. Barker?”
    “I haven’t, no. Would you recommend him?”
    “Barker is good stuff, premium.”
    “I have a pretty long reading list as it is,” I replied, “but I’ll be sure to write it down. What’s the title?”
    “It’s not one book, it’s seven,” he said, almost impatiently. He ripped a scrap of paper off the corner of the response I’d taken such pains to type up the day before. Using his knee as a flat surface, he wrote down a list of titles in his indecipherable chicken scratch. “ Land of Doom is the first, but you can read The Flaming Arrow of Night and Brother of the Begotten without it.”
    He handed me the paper. His hand trembled ever so slightly.
    “Thanks.” I slipped the notebook scrap into my coat pocket.
    Simultaneously, we realized that he had used up all he had planned to say. He licked his lips; they were shiny up top from the cherry ChapStick.
    The strap of my bag was digging painfully into my shoulder. “You want to come in?” I asked. “I’m on my way home, but we can talk about your story for a few minutes if you like.”
    “I can’t,” he said, stepping back from the open door as if it were a trap. “I have to go—a thing—it’s mandatory, so I have to … I’ll see you next week.”
    He turned and hurried down the hall, backpack