Guy Writing Rape Story In Your Fiction Class Probably Means Business

Story by Egon Sinclair 

| Published Oct 6, 2009

In recent weeks, University of Nebraska-Lincoln students taking the course "Intro to Fiction Writing" have become increasingly leery of classmate David Langang. Last Friday, attitudes toward the fifth-year senior computer science major shifted from "smile politely so maybe he won't take you out when he shoots up the place" to "straight-up freakin' terrified."

The sudden shift occurred immediately after a class reading of Langang's first assignment.

Langang's debut into the world of fiction — which can generously be called a short story because it has characters and can be read in a single sitting if you believe suffering purifies the soul — focused predominantly on the repeated sexual assault of its female protagonist.

"Since these are fledging writers, I told them it would be best if they drew from life experience," said Robert Yates, the English graduate student teaching the class. "But, goddamn ... I meant like sailing or working at a bakery or something."

Most students decried the work as "more of a 'how-to' manual" than an actual story. This opinion was further reflected in the comments they wrote in the margins of their copies of Langang's story, observations such as "Oh, dear God,” "Yep ... this is still going on" and "Does every flashback really need rape in it?"

Students' discomfort with Langang's story was exacerbated by the 350-pound pariah's poorly conceived mustache, unashamed ownership of at least six fedoras and erratic breathing whenever a girl sat beside him because the only other seats were next to the teacher.

Although initially charming, Langang's habit of approaching girls after class to tell them how much he enjoyed their stories quickly became a source of alarm, due in part to his awkwardly long handshakes and tendency to steer the conversation toward how wonderful their shampoo smelled.

"Um ... Robert said our stories needed to be 10 to 15 pages," said Talitha Reynolds, a sophomore English major. "This ... thing is more than 30. And there's not really a beginning ... or an end. I guess on page 11 there’s a fairly poignant treatise on whether destructive behaviors leave an indelible blemish on our understanding of what it means to be human.

"But on page 12, it goes right back to rape.”

Throughout the class discussion of Langang's story, entitled "Untitled Story #14," more than half his classmates excused themselves, citing at least a dozen separate "thing(s) to take care of."

“It’s apparent how much, uh…r-research you did?” Yates stammered, nervously shuffling his stack of papers to avoid Langang’s impish grin. “For instance, I now know the chemical formula for GHB and that you need to administer at least 3,000 milligrams. That’s ... that's really something, huh?”

Yates then excused himself to an emergency faculty meeting that was starting “like, right now, I guess.”

"So," queried an oddly cheerful Langang as Friday’s class drew to a close. "Who wants to go out for drinks?"

The offer was declined by nearly all of the females courageous enough to remain in the room, their bravery stemming from a redoubled faith in the Almighty, a mini bottle of pepper spray dangling from a key chain or a decade-plus of martial arts training.

Langang then shrugged off Marina Taylor, the only girl who actually agreed to the after-class rendezvous. The fiction class had recently read Taylor's story about a family of talking house cats, which was "a whole level of crazy" Langang reported himself unequipped to deal with.