-------------------
Penelope
Tiny snow flakes lilted towards the icy ground, covering the lawn with a dusting of sugar. The smooth glass was cool against my cheek and my steamy breath was melting the crystals that stuck to the window. A tree-lined path led from my office building off to the rest of the campus, through a pristine white lawn, speckled with glittering tufts of ice-covered grass. The holidays had shaved the campus of the usual hustle of students, and all I could hear besides my own slow breathing were the ticks of the old-fashioned heaters.
The grounds looked so innocent, like a canvas world waiting to be painted.
Face still pressed against the windowpane, I reached absently to my desk and retrieved a mug of steaming coffee. The smooth ceramic warmed my hands as I placed it on the windowsill. I did not sip it (I can’t stand the taste of coffee) but instead rested my chin on the rim, letting the steam fill me with its rich, velvety scent. I relaxed, closing my eyes; the smell of coffee has always had that effect on me.
A loud creak interrupted the silence.
Startled, I turned around, jostling the mug and splashing a few scalding drops on my brown corduroy pant leg.
“Oh, sir!” a whining, childish voice exclaimed sharply. “Have I engendered pandemonium? I do not intend to intrude upon your cogitation.”
I looked up. There, in the dark doorway, stood Penelope. She was a stout young woman with short, unremarkable brown hair. Her round, pleading green eyes were crowned with short lashes and arching eyebrows that were in constant shock. Though she was not large, her pastel sweaters and pants seemed tight and awkward, like she had recently outgrown them. She was a literature major and didn’t seem to think it possible to say one sentence without words that would send any sane person running to the dictionary. Under her right arm, she held a large cardboard crate.
“I had not fostered the potentiality that—”
“No, no, no,” I cut in, wiping my leg with a napkin. “I’m fine… why have you come?”
Clearing her throat, Penelope strode importantly towards me, her heavy steps muffled by the plush maroon carpet. She plopped the crate on my desk. With infinite care, she pulled from the crate a bundle of newspaper and bubble wrap. I leaned back in my cushioned chair to watch the show.
“Is it your effigy?” I asked. She nodded. Over the holidays, all the students of my sculptures class were supposed to make a painted plaster effigy of a type of food. “Why not wait until—?”
But I was cut short; Penelope had ripped off the last of the wrapping.
There, on my ebony desk, stood the most revolting thing I had ever seen. A circular plywood base painted bright pink sported a thick blue wire. Out of the wire sprouted the Art: a large misshapen lump of a deathly white and moldy-green. The lump must have been ten inches tall and seven wide, in a lopsided mass that was speckled slightly as if it was made of millions of maggot-sized pieces. Though I was disgusted, I had to admit that it was quite well-crafted.
“What is it?” I asked without thinking.
“It's an interpretation,” Penelope said.
“Of what?”
“Oatmeal,” she replied simply.
“Listen, Penelope,” I said, trying not to look at the towering monument. “Your effigy was supposed to be realistic. This is very well-made, but I’ve never seen oatmeal stand up like that… and the color…”
“Do you disagree that my art is a representation of my own inner sentiments on the subject which I have chosen to portray, sir?” She asked, leaning menacingly on the desk, her short hair falling into her face. Little beads of sweat were appearing on her upper lip.
“No,” I said, wheeling my chair back a little. “I agree that in art you are supposed to show your feelings, but that wasn’t the assignment. You will have to make another one—I asked you to be realistic.”
“I did not matriculate in your class to make impeccable reiterations of objects that already exist.” Her pale, round face was slowly reddening.
“Penelope,” I said, in a way I hoped to be reassuring. “This piece is very—erm—well-made, but,” I paused, and then said all in one breath, “What we've got here is failure to communicate.” She stood up and put her hands on her hips, her astonished eyebrows arching cynically. I hurried on, “Can you make a more realistic effigy?”
“I do not aspire to become a—”
“Just answer me simply,” I said, my piles of papers beckoning. “I don’t have a dictionary handy.”
She took a few disgusted steps backwards, her chin sinking into her neck. “Are you insinuating that my verbal utterances are unduly complex? Whilst freely admitting a leaning towards loquaciousness, I must nevertheless protest.”
“No,” I sighed; I had a lot of work to do. “Never mind. This one will do; wrap it back up and leave it here in my office.”
Grudgingly, and throwing me appalled sidelong glances, she wrapped up the monstrosity and put it in its crate, then placed the crate on a chair and strutted from my office. I hid my face in my hands, my wiry whiskers scratching my palms—and laughed.
I swiveled and looked out the window. A small pastel form marched proudly down the white lane, feet leaving tousled snow in their wake and straight hair swishing defiantly.
-----------------------------------
Besides a box to store tools in, that is. 
Anyways, if I see them, I'll redo this lame review.
