Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 13.0: March 2nd, 2009
Untitled
by Belinda Roddie
The bell clanged its five-minute warning as students giggled and shuffled their way back into the hallways, blurring into a swollen mass of crimsons, blacks, and grays. To many, it actually felt like a blessing to be inside a school that looked more like a Gothic fortress, the sun glaring through the stained glass windows as whatever cool air drifted down the corridors past the students as they hurried to class. It had been so horribly warm for March, as if the weather was trying to tempt each prim and proper teenager in that school to believe summer was coming sooner than they thought. Whatever was causing the heat was disorienting each student as his or her eyes fluttered from a textbook to gaze at the world outside.
Gregory was skipping biology today like always. He didn't really care about photosynthesis or mitochondria. He sat in the courtyard instead, the warm zephyrs tousling his dark hour. He had taken off his uniform jacket and loosened his tie so that the sun beat down on the back of his neck, warming him up as he flipped a page of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby in silence.
Sometimes the courtyard, bedecked in greens and yellows, was the only place where Gregory could focus. It wasn't often that he could concentrate on his studies at home with his parents consistently screaming at each other, and he usually stayed in the library to study. And even then, its imposing walls of books among overly extravagant spiral staircases were too much for the sophomore to handle. Outside, even with the sound of traffic at the nearest road, he felt more comfortable, more secure. He was happy to stay away from the teacher's bark and the schoolgirls' awkward female chatter.
The rasp of a clearing throat broke Gregory away from his book as he stared into the eyes of Professor Bronte. Behind the older man, the monstrous frame of the private school loomed as if to signify the man's authority, but Gregory heard no words of reprimand for ditching class. Instead, he watched who he thought was the strictest of economics teacher turn his eyes toward the stone benches and pillars crowned in green, the trees that lined the courtyard and were beginning to grow white with blossoms.
"I thought I was the only one who really noticed how relaxing this place was," said Professor Bronte, and to Gregory's silent awe, he looked at the book on the boy's lap and smiled. "So, you like Fitzgerald?"
The work you see here has only been slightly modified for mechanics and errors since March 2nd, 2009.
by Belinda Roddie
The bell clanged its five-minute warning as students giggled and shuffled their way back into the hallways, blurring into a swollen mass of crimsons, blacks, and grays. To many, it actually felt like a blessing to be inside a school that looked more like a Gothic fortress, the sun glaring through the stained glass windows as whatever cool air drifted down the corridors past the students as they hurried to class. It had been so horribly warm for March, as if the weather was trying to tempt each prim and proper teenager in that school to believe summer was coming sooner than they thought. Whatever was causing the heat was disorienting each student as his or her eyes fluttered from a textbook to gaze at the world outside.
Gregory was skipping biology today like always. He didn't really care about photosynthesis or mitochondria. He sat in the courtyard instead, the warm zephyrs tousling his dark hour. He had taken off his uniform jacket and loosened his tie so that the sun beat down on the back of his neck, warming him up as he flipped a page of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby in silence.
Sometimes the courtyard, bedecked in greens and yellows, was the only place where Gregory could focus. It wasn't often that he could concentrate on his studies at home with his parents consistently screaming at each other, and he usually stayed in the library to study. And even then, its imposing walls of books among overly extravagant spiral staircases were too much for the sophomore to handle. Outside, even with the sound of traffic at the nearest road, he felt more comfortable, more secure. He was happy to stay away from the teacher's bark and the schoolgirls' awkward female chatter.
The rasp of a clearing throat broke Gregory away from his book as he stared into the eyes of Professor Bronte. Behind the older man, the monstrous frame of the private school loomed as if to signify the man's authority, but Gregory heard no words of reprimand for ditching class. Instead, he watched who he thought was the strictest of economics teacher turn his eyes toward the stone benches and pillars crowned in green, the trees that lined the courtyard and were beginning to grow white with blossoms.
"I thought I was the only one who really noticed how relaxing this place was," said Professor Bronte, and to Gregory's silent awe, he looked at the book on the boy's lap and smiled. "So, you like Fitzgerald?"
The work you see here has only been slightly modified for mechanics and errors since March 2nd, 2009.
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