My fiction writing class is turning out to be an endurance test in spitting out short stories to be consumed and critiqued by my peers on a weekly basis. This is the slow start to one of many recent submissions....
Carole Jensen stood frozen in the middle of the train, bracing her bent legs in a surfer stance, determined not to grab hold of the fingerprint stained pole. Her haunting obsession with whose hands and whose head was there before her was paralyzing. She hadn’t left her apartment in six days. This was twice as long as the last time she became crippled with fear at the mere act of turning her doorknob. The very thought of getting dressed to be judged by all the onlookers she would inevitably meet in the street was an obstacle she didn’t have the strength to leap. So for three days, she ate spicy black beans from a can, stared at her sullen complexion, and plucked gray hairs from her head with sterilized tweezers.
She received a call this morning from the private investigator she had hired early spring. He found something. Something he couldn’t divulge on the phone....
Mmmm, can you guess where I found the inspiration?
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