Microfiction, macroheart

I got bored, and decided to rewrite my Half-Yearly story in 100 words. I could have done it in less, but I wanted to keep the essence of the original, and do clever things with gerunds. With no further ado:

*****

A student re-rereads the question.

‘Belonging.’

His story doesn’t fit.

Pens are scratching everywhere, transforming paper into prose; words to worlds.

He stares: blank paper, frantic mind.

Time passes.

Pressure begets panic. He writes a sentence; it doesn’t fit. His hands shake. Eyes wide, he seeks a truth to tell. The page stays narrative-free.

The ceaseless hive is shredding through lines; ripping through booklets.

His eyes close. Why compete? Those fitter are surviving; he drowns. It’s almost like—

The student’s eyes open. He writes.

He shreds through lines, rips through booklets.

Under his gaze, Paper becomes prose. Words become worlds.

*****

Before you critique, remember that 100 words is a preposterously short amount to tell any sort of story. In the first 5 minutes, I cut 600 words. In the last 30 minutes, I cut 20 words. It is ridiculously difficult. (And it might just excuse the billions of words I write elsewhere on this blog.)