Member-only story
“Look… I’m going to tell you the truth here. Writing is nothing but getting as high, or as shit-faced as possible, then grabbing all of the shit that hits you in your face, scraping it off, tasting it; what works, what doesn’t; throwing the shit against the wall, and what sticks? That, puppies and princesses, is how a great story is born.” Maxwell James surveyed the landscape of eyes in the lecture hall, as they examined right back. Some of the students whispered to one another, having heard stories of the young professor, prone to entering Monday lectures looking like, and often smelling like the weekend.
The thin, graying educator rubbed the stubble on his face, cracked a half smile, took a sidestep away from the podium, grabbing his café du monde and a piece of baguette, “any questions you have, please, let’s hear them,” and dipping his bread, as if playing with his food, before stuffing his bread into his mouth, his cheeks suddenly puffy like a field rodent hording survival nuts while trying to stare down the unexpected eyes, frozen for a few moments in time, decidedly scurrying, bored of the game, as well as hungry from the taste permeating the lining of his jaws. Pro Max, as the students liked to call him, even if administration thought it to be too casual, set his coffee down, wiped his hands together, and took the joe in both hands, like a careful kid, not wanting to spill.
