Sentenced to Writing

Getting my thoughts written down is not always as easy as it should be. That blank canvas is intimidating. What if I mess it up?  When I was a senior in high school, I was in a class where we had to write a one page report every Friday about our week's activities. The class was over an hour long and we had the whole time to write this report, on computers, just one page. Simple enough.  Except every single Friday I would struggle for most of the class period to get a single sentence written on the page. That annoying cursor just kept blinking at me as if it was saying "Aren't you going to write something?" One day I'd had enough. I had my iPod with me, and a set of headphones. I asked the teacher if I could listen to some music while I worked on my report. She had no problems with that, so I sat down, plugged in my tunes, and looked at the computer screen. Five minutes later I had my report finished, edited, printed, and handed in. Needless to say, my teacher was

Prompt: You wake up with an irresistible drive to roam the woods in search of … something. You run out in your pajamas but soon you no longer need them. Taking to the sky with blue-black feathers, you soar overhead until you see one like you. He’s waiting. Crick threw off her covers, stifled in the oppressive heat of her bedroom. Her skin was sweat soaked, her shorts clung to her legs and her wet pajama shirt stuck to her chest. The air felt dead and heavy. She needed to move. Her windows were rusted shut with no hope of cracking them open to let in the cool night air. Instead she rushed out of her room, her baggy pajama shirt catching on the doorknob. “Really, door? Let me go.” She untangled her shirt, acquiring another hole in the already tattered shirt. Her parents’ room was at the end of the hallway. To get to the front door she’d have to sneak past their open door. They weren’t light sleepers by any means, but the floor in front of their room creaked. She suspected they did