1st grader

            As I placed my lunchbox into my cubby, I knew today wasn't an ordinary day. As I gazed across the classroom of thirty-five, I could see the fear in their eyes. My 5"3" first-grade teacher towered above the class and explained to us that we were to write a story about anything we wanted. I remember feeling scared and excited at the same time, for today I was a writer. .
             I distinctly remember sitting in my desk, head leaned back, tossing my big pink eraser into the air repeatedly, desperately trying to come up with a story that would put the other crappy stories to shame. As my fellow classmates wasted their recess time playing kickball and football, I laid in the tunnel slide and pondered my assignment. Other kids were tattling on me for "clogging the slide," but I didn't care, I was a writer. While the other kids gingerly sipped 2% and skim during break, I was nervously nibbling graham crackers, brainstorming ideas for my famous novel. After school other kids ran to tree forts and kool-aid stands, but I went home to write. However, my brainstorming process seemed hopeless. I just couldn't come up with a topic that would grip the minds of those sophisticated second graders to whom we were to read our stories. I was so stumped that it had me up late into the night, barely falling asleep before the nine o"clock news. What I didn't know is that the next morning when I woke up, I would never be the same again.
             From the moment I was awakened by my mom, she knew I was distraught. My footy pajamas were all twisted, and she could tell I was in a bind. Although I usually wouldn't consult my mom on such important matters, I had no choice but to turn to her for advice. I explained to her my situation and she proceeded to toss out some ideas. Of course they were crappy ideas that all the other moms would've suggested, so I went to my dad. My dad is a pilot so he immediately told me I should write a story about a pilot who saved a doomed airplane from crashing.