|
Post by pulitzer on Sept 23, 2009 17:40:25 GMT -5
WHEN EVERYTHING FEELS LIKE THE MOVIES - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - YOU BLEED JUST TO KNOW YOU'RE ALIVE, [/b] [/center][/font][/size]
I don't have nice shoes. I can't afford nice shoes like professors here have. The kind that glimmer without an inch of polish, the leather kind with the laces starched stiff and the rubber still smooth. Naw, I wear big black Doc Martens that leave scuffs on the floor. The second half of my lunch break was wasted on those unsightly smudges. Know why? Because I'm an idiot who thinks the same shoes which scuffed the floor will also etch the smudges out. Or at least, an idiot who blames the students before thinking that maybe, just maybe, it's his own damned boots that are causing the problem. And why the hell am I taking time out of the one personal hour I have before those of the teenage species slouch into my chairs and drool on my desks to try and scrape out scuff marks on a floor that's not even my problem. That's why they hire custodians, Borden. At least you get paid just a little more.
I lean back on one of the desks and look up at the wall, tilting my head at my Renaissance Artists poster series. Leonardo, Rafael, Donatello and Michelangelo – what the students don't know is that I still call them the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. “Hey, Leo,” I growl in my bearish bass tone, eying up DaVinci with a hard black stare. “Why the hell did you teach. And were you ever sorry.” I dunno how I got into teaching. I don't even like children all that much. I suppose teaching here is better than teaching at a public school. There are nothing but idiots at a public school. Idiots who think all they have to do is sit and doodle for an hour and a half to pick up their fine art credit. No, I couldn't teach at a public school. I'd have abuse accusations by the end of the first quarter, all those whiny pains in my ass. This school is much different. Kids come here because they applied – and were accepted. These kids want to be artists. These kids work to be artists. They're here because they want to be. And they're here because someone very hard to impress said they were good enough. Or their daddy paid a shitload. “And Mike.” I glance at Michelangelo, studying him – longer, harder than Leonardo DaVinci. You see DaVinci everywhere. Michelangelo, not so much. They make movies and shows and all that crap about DaVinci. People know who Michelangelo is – but you never really see him. He's a thin, bony man, with wispy gray hair and beard. And dark eyes. Soulful eyes. He looked kind. “You painted him on the side of a building, you must have some idea or else you're a liar, or maybe just fucking crazy...” I glance at the floor – the pallid salmon faux marble with all kinds of god-knows-what lying on it giving it a thin tint of gray – then back at Michelangelo. I narrow my eyes. “Did you see God?”
Obviously not getting answers to a theological mystery from a poster of a dead guy, I push off from the desk I was leaning on and stride to my own, much larger station at the front of the classroom; off of which I pick up a bottle full of the lifeblood of my universe (that'd be scotch whiskey. Administration has either never noticed it on my desk or never cared that much). A quick swig and I set it back down, replacing it in my hand with a stack of papers pertaining to third hour's lesson about pop art. They've told me it's better to explain art history in chronological order, but I just say fuck it and skip around to whatever, whenever and whoever the hell I want. Andy Warhol was a creep. But a kinda cool creep. I gaze balefully up at the clock with its... satanic black numbers and... hellfire red hands. Five minutes.
[/font][/color]
|
|
|
Post by dunno on Sept 24, 2009 18:13:05 GMT -5
`I can't find the words to speak... Kristopher had missed his first two classes of the day that morning. He’d somehow managed to not only sleep through his alarm, but his roommate getting ready as well. With as loud as Sera was on a day-to-day basis, he was mildly surprised that it was possible to do. Nevertheless, Kris didn’t wake up until about a quarter through his second hour class. He’d decided to just not bother and took a shower before getting what he needed for third hour, art history with Borden. After making sure his dreads were completely dried out, he tied them back as usual and pulled on a grey hoodie before leaving the dorm room. He knew the halls would be practically empty because the students were supposed to be in class at that moment, at least for a few more minutes. They’d be let out soon in order to have enough time to get to their third hour classes.
At least he wouldn’t be too early, he thought as he walked down the hall. His eyes scanned the different posters that lined the walls as he walked until he stumbled slightly, then he went back to looking down at his feet like he usually did. The hood of his grey hoodie was up and his iPod was blasting in his ears as he walked, two of the simplest forms of hiding from people… Not that there was anyone to hide from at that moment. He stopped just outside the art history classroom and stared at the door.
Mr. Borden could have a temper at times and could be known to shout. Kris didn’t really mind because the guy was honestly a great teacher from what he’d experienced to date. But, he didn’t know how the teacher would be about a student showing up early… especially when said student should’ve been in the last few minutes of second period at that point. He finally decided he should just go in instead of standing out in the hall more. Then he was faced with another dilemma. Should he knock on the door or just go in?
He honestly didn’t have a clue as to what he should do then. With a small sigh, the teen decided just to go on in, hoping that Borden was at least in a semi-good mood. He looked around the mostly empty classroom before his eyes landed on the teacher. A small, reluctant smile formed on his face as he stuck his hands in his hoodie pockets, turning off his iPod with one hand. The highly socially awkward teen just stood there silently, not quite sure what to say or do as usual. As his face reddened slightly in embarrassment, he found himself wishing not for the first time that he wasn’t so… well, like he was. *** boren/open;;tag 467;;word count hope you don't mind i popped in ^^;;comments
*Graphic and layout (c)Alice* [/i][/size] [/right]
|
|
|
Post by pulitzer on Sept 29, 2009 23:13:22 GMT -5
WHEN EVERYTHING FEELS LIKE THE MOVIES - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - YOU BLEED JUST TO KNOW YOU'RE ALIVE, [/b] [/center][/font][/size] Now see, I was born with abnormally sharp ears. Not sharp as in pointy, that'd make me an elf which is probably the farthest you could possibly get from me; keen, I mean. Keen ears. I've always had an incredible sense of hearing. But when you become a teacher, even the dullest of senses heighten. It's like being thrown out into the goddamn jungle (or going blind). So when the kids whisper about how you have eyes in the back of your head, you can hear them perfectly! Tap. Tap. Tap. Not at all rushed. An almost cautious tempo. I glance at the clock again and furrow my brow. There's still two minutes left before third. I was just milling about my hearing, I'd have heard if the bell had rung early. I take another sip of scotch, hoping there's actually a student out of class when he's not supposed to be and that I'm not just out of my mind.
I squint at the clock again. Numbers. Where the hell did they come from, those alien little symbols used to torture man into insanity by boredom (my I'm feeling philosophical today). That's right – I don't like numbers. Teachers are supposed to like numbers, learning is fun, numbers will support you every single day in your daily life... I say fuck that shit. I'm much more of a word person. And much more of a music person. If the world was written in notes, I'd have thrived so much better in it. A, B, C, D, E, F, G. So many different aspects of the universe compacted into seven letters representing seven sounds. It's crazy.
...Music?
It turns off as quickly as I hear it. Wasn't something that would be stuck in my head; but other than that fact it most certainly wasn't in my head. I crane my neck around – aha. That'd be it. “Ryan,” I huff at the boy, turning myself around on my desk to face him. His hair turned me off at first, I figured he'd be a punk. You know, all that “gangsta” crap where white kids pretend they're from the ghetto until they get all their teeth knocked out by someone who's actually tough. But in all reality he's a good kid. Not just not a bad kid – a good kid. I like him. He's like a little... turtle, though. He's all tucked up in his little shell of a hoodie with his iPod and I just wanna... prod him with my claw until he comes out. He could be a lot of things; but this shy little man ain't goin' nowhere. “You're two minutes early, you probably realize this.” I lean over and eye him analytically, with my elbows resting on my thighs, the Warhol lesson still clenched in my hands. “Luckily for you, you don't cause trouble so I don't really care.” I glance down at Andy again. God he was weird. “Take your seat. What were you listening to.” My attempt at cordiality fails due to the fact that I suck at actually asking questions.
[/color][/size]
|
|
|
Post by dunno on Sept 30, 2009 18:11:46 GMT -5
`I can't find the words to speak... The blond teen nodded slightly when Borden stated that he was two minutes early. Then he just kind of stood there as Borden went on to explain why he didn’t care. Kris couldn’t help but feel slightly relieved at that, though the stoic expression on his face didn’t change any. When Borden told him to take his seat, the blond nodded slightly again before going to the seat he always occupied during class, faltering only a moment when the teacher asked what he’d been listening to. “Oh, uhm, “Bleed it Out” by Linkin Park,” he answered as he set his bag on the floor next to his seat. People were usually surprised to find out that the teen listened to anything other than rap. Sure, he had quite a lot of rap songs in his music library, but he honestly preferred rock music over it. The majority of the rap songs he had actually had a meaning other than booze, sex, drugs, and violence. No, the teen would much rather listen to the Scorpions or Green Day than Lil’ Whatever-His-Name-Was. Though he knew people always seemed to group him in with certain types of people based on the way he dressed.
He didn’t really mind, though. They could think whatever they wanted. As long as the people who actually mattered knew the truth about what he was like, he didn’t care what pre-notions people had about him. Though, it was kind of annoying to have adults automatically assuming that he was going to be a bad student or someone who was in the Spray Paint clique just based on his appearance. He personally didn’t try judge people like that; though he knew a lot of people did, and sometimes he found himself doing it as well before mentally scolding himself. He’d learned that people could surprise you. Like, he never figured his roommate, Sera, would be the type of guy who’d rather be outside kicking around a ball over shopping; but, after learning more about the eccentric teen he found it fit with everything else.
Kris frowned a little when he looked at the clock. It was way too close for time for the bell to ring. Sure, the quiet boy loved classes, but he hated the fact that it meant there’d be a lot of people in one room. In all honesty, it wasn’t really a large classroom, but it was too big for Kris’s liking. It held way too many people, in his opinion. He’d definitely prefer it if classes only had three or four students in it. That’d make it easier for him. *** boren/open;;tag 436;;word count all is good. ^^;;comments
*Graphic and layout (c)Alice* [/i][/size] [/right]
|
|