By Liz Regan

“You have fifteen minutes to write a story in the third person point of view. Begin now.”     The writers scramble to position their keyboards, papers, pens, eager to launch their electrifying tales—all except one—Tabula Rasa.
“Anyone home?” she thumps her forehead.  No response, empty, a whirl of dust bunnies. Tabula Rasa wipes her brow, scattering droplets.  She’s new to the writing class, a toddler among the mature. Third person POV?  She reminds herself, a story told through the eyes of the main character.  Tabula doodles a hangman. She frowns, grasping for a start. Panic looms.
Tabula studies the writers sitting around the table. The man next to her is Homerun Writer Ace. He wields writing much like a homerun hitter wields a baseball bat. His digits sprint across the keyboard, the words chiding his fingers to move faster. The Ace once shared an account of a lad who lived a B+ life but had A- moments. The youth sat in a tree playing his guitar. A hippy girl came by, climbed up and joined him with her guitar. Together they strummed chords and sang Leonard Cohen and Judy Collins. The lad asked her to dinner. The girl accepted. Maybe they married. The Ace didn’t say.
On Tabula’s right is Psychmaster, game-girl of story construction. The Psychmaster uses a ballpoint blue ink pen. Her pages are a sea of cobalt waves on white.  Neat work, schoolgirl penmanship, three overflowing pages, fifteen minutes.  How does she do it? Spinning stories about the homeless with such intensity, Tabula can smell them, see them and wishes she didn’t have to be concerned. But Psychmaster draws her in and Tabula finds herself liking the hairy and earnest characters even though she doesn’t want to.
Next to Psychmaster, sits the Artist.  She paints magical pictures with sensual words, and creates walk-right-in, sit-right-down settings. Her dialogues speak of the nether world, her characters dance with fairies and butterflies and her plots court wickedness, adversity and bravery. The Artist fashions the fantastical as real as is breathing. Now she sits, done, sipping Perrier.
Nine minutes left and Tabula’s page remains terminally Rasa. She peeks around the group frantic for any inspirational handout. She spies the Character Writer who celebrates people and families, and mixes eccentrics with atonement and salvation. The Character Writer’s heritage draws on Ann Tyler and John Steinbeck—her words always worth the read. Seconds tick.
“DO SOMETHING!” Tabula reprimands herself. The words “blank slate” explode in her mind and she moans. She looks to the head of the table. There sits the Commander-in-Chief, the master teacher, the mid-wife who births the group’s creativity. Scores of little people, all sizes, all ages, all colors, all abilities pour out of her ears, nostrils and mouth. The little people clamor and shout “Me first. Put me in your story. It’s my turn!” They’re like spoiled children, elbowing each other out of the way, demanding to be included on her page.
“Wait! Everyone will have a chance,” the Commander tells them. She types away, 500 words, 15 minutes. The Commander should be canonized for such a feat.
Two minutes left. Tabula senses defeat, no words, red face, humiliation. She checks her mind… not even a blip. In haste, she scribbles a sign in bold black letters For Rent.  Throwing caution to the wind, she hammers the sign to her forehead. Maybe a family will move in or a circus. Seeing no one, Tabula Rasa snatches the marker and in desperation adds, First Month Free.
Liz Regan is a member of SLO NightWriters, the premier writing organization on the Central Coast of California. She lives in Morro Bay and thanks Susan Tuttle – writing teacher extraordinaire! – and her classmates for letting her borrow them for this story.