Wrote this at 3:11 AM.

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Wrote this at 3:11 AM.

Post  Cantaloupe on Wed Mar 03, 2010 3:19 pm

Another dreary day. Another dreary math lesson. Another dreary set of mentally recorded conversations between other students and the teachers. Another dreary lending of a #2 Ticonderoga pencil to the one who sits across from me, behind this fabricated barrier. Another dreary, neon-colored mass-produced notice tacked onto this fabricated barrier between us detailing some event that this organization is holding -- something about an ice cream and pizza party-slash-parent-teacher meeting. Another dreary realization that this meant that while we were off fattening ourselves up and laughing at some animated movie about a group of domesticated housecats wandering around London unaware of all of the dangers that lurk, the teachers would be telling our parents every little quirk, every little mistake, every little odd mannerism, every little toe out of line that we may have unknowingly committed in the past quarter of school. Another dreary realization to be cast aside like all of the others conjured today. Another dreary little long division-related question whispered from your lips as you lean to the side, trying to see me past the wall between us. Another dreary little response of "Figure it out yourself; if I can do this then you definitely can." Another dreary little pout given a split-second before you resume your upright seated position on the other side of the wall. Another dreary little smirk released by the knowledge that you'll most likely get the question wrong, considering your level of intelligence when it comes to mathematics and anything school-related in general. Another dreary resuming of my blank facial expression, this default programmed into me by the past year of living this same dreary day over and over again. Another dreary thought popping into my head: what if I just got up out of this metal chair and walked out of this compact little space I'd become so occustomed to? Another dreary answer calling out from the other corner of my mind: they'd find you and drag you back kicking and screaming. Another dreary correction from yet another voice: No, you would be perfectly submissive to them, likely crying or begging for mercy as their sharp, cleanly cut and polished nails dig into your upper arm as they force you to follow them through the hallway toward the office of their superior, as though their claws will pierce right through the flesh and muscle and scratch and scrape at the bone underneath. Another dreary and slight shudder given at the thought of the sound a fingernail scraping at a healthy human bone would make. Another dreary little dart of my eyes to a lock of your curly, tangled brown hair visible from the edge of the barrier. Another dreary little sigh as I lean over to meet your frustrated gaze as you whisper, "I don't understand it!" Another dreary little explanation of how nine would go into twenty-nine seven times with a remainder of two, and how you would then bring down the next digit and divide nine into whatever the two and the other number would create together. Another dreary little frown given from your familiar, sweet face, muttering, "I knew that" as you once again pull yourself back into sitting against the back of your chair. Another dreary little pause, before you lean sideways again, with another whispered declaration: "We should just leave." Another dreary half-nod given to you in response. Another dreary dawning that, no matter how much we hope and pray for an escape from this dreary, monotonous 45 minutes, the only thing that can save us is another dreary toll of the school's five bells ringing in unison in a harsh A flat, as we both glance at the clock above us and we begin to stack our books and binders atop one another, largest on the bottom and gradually getting smaller. Another dreary creak as our chairs are pushed backwards across the roughly carpeted floor. Another dreary check on the list of times I trip on the three-step case in front of the door. Another dreary, sarcastic remark about my lack of coordination uttered by you for the rest of the small room to hear. Another dreary set of chuckles from the other students, as I look away from the rest of the room and to the locked door looming before us. Another dreary understanding that they've forgotten to unlock the door for us to finally escape this hellhole of a study hall and join the rest of our class and continue our feigned normality as we have for the past 93 dreary days of school that have preceded this one. Another dreary, fifty-something year old teacher pushing past us, a set of keys jingling in her pocket. Another dreary rememberance that even if we did attempt to just up and walk out, we wouldn't even be able to get past the door. Another dreary disappointed glance exchanged between us as this realization dawns on the both of us. Another dreary click of the lock. Another dreary little creak of the door as it swings open. Another dreary session comes to an end. Another dreary day draws to an end. Another dreary morning. Another dreary school day. Another dreary math lesson. Another dreary set of mentally recorded conversations between other students and the teachers...
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Re: Wrote this at 3:11 AM.

Post  LaBohemien on Mon Mar 08, 2010 5:15 pm

Wow.
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Re: Wrote this at 3:11 AM.

Post  Cantaloupe on Mon Mar 08, 2010 11:26 pm

good way or bad way.
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Re: Wrote this at 3:11 AM.

Post  Scooby-Doo on Mon Mar 08, 2010 11:31 pm

I like it. Very nice indeed. But I think it looks bad, and sloppy, as one big paragraph. It sends a wave of "this is tl;dr" to the readers just at a glance. Separate into several paragraphs.

Secondly, it gets a little boring when starting sentences with "another dreary xx". Especially in a huge paragraph.

But I love at how the end you go back to the beginning. Really good. love it. C:
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Re: Wrote this at 3:11 AM.

Post  LaBohemien on Tue Mar 09, 2010 4:56 am

Good way. Creative. But... what Libby said. Split it up. Even if it's meant to be like that, it's really tfl;dr
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Re: Wrote this at 3:11 AM.

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