An Archaic Venture: Part 1

Even the most ignorant person would be able to recognize their fear, their hesitance. Pulling my grey, woolen clock over my face, I tried my hardest to avoid the stares of all of the townsfolk, and to not to think about the inevitable things they were thinking. It’s the fake princess. The pseudo. The kingdom’s little lie. They were all trying to hide their thoughts, but their expressions gave them away as they just stood there, trying to get a decent look at what the fake princess really looks like.

Finally, one little boy speaks up, interrupting the empty silence. “Is that the princess, mother?” He asks, tugging on his mother’s pale lavender tunic. Her astonished expression quickly turned to embarrassment, and she rapidly hushed her son by putting her index finger to his inquisitive lips.

Not wanting to cause any further disruption to these townsfolk’s day. I rushed the rest of the way through the town centre, regretting having taken this route. My brown leather boots clopped against the stone roads as I ran, unable to do more than glimpse at the admirably beautiful architecture. The town centre was considerably small, being a single stone fountain surrounded by local vendors, but it has always been an extremely busy area, attracting travelers from all the kingdoms with its inexpensive goods, lovely citizens and clean and comfortable inns.

Queen Vendelynne, my mother, paid a lot of attention to Lavita, the capitol of her kingdom, Falaydan.

Almost into the forest, almost away from all of the people, an arm wrapped around my waist, and another around my chest, restricting both of my arms. I quickly stomped one of the attacker’s feet with the heel of my boot, loosening his strong grip enough for me to slip out of it. I whipped around to face the attacker, causing my cloak to fall off. Fortunately, though, this allowed me to easily reach my two silver daggers, which I held in the protective stance Kaleb had taught me: one leg behind the other, both bent, with one bent arm holding a dagger in front of my face, and the other in front of my sternum, both blades facing the attacker.

The attacker, recognizably male, crossed his arms over his chest, his face still hidden by an alleyway he had pulled me into. We both just stood there for a second, and I tried to resist the urge to adjust my knee length dress, the midnight blue fabric and the white underskirts flowing with the wind, the white collar sticking up from the bodice digging painfully into my neck and the corset constricting my breath.

“I’d recommend putting the knives down,” he said, and I instantly recognized that sarcastic, cocky voice.

“They are daggers, thank you very much. And you are quite aware of how paranoid I am about precautions. Being a fake princess isn’t all fun, you know,” I replied. My paranoia was legitimate, as I never went anywhere without some source of defense. Always ready for when someone will try to kill me because I’m an accidental princess.

“Just because your father isn’t of royal blood, does not imply you are not a real princess, Delylan,” Kyler said, emerging into the light. His white tunic was in desperate need of a wash, as was his brown button vest and   black trousers. His brown boots, almost identical to mine, both being comfortable and easy to move around in, were perfectly clean. Priorities.

“You didn’t see the way everyone stared at me this morning!” I exclaimed.

“Curiosity, Del. It’s a weakness even to the strongest of us, and I sincerely doubt that people would kill you for it. I mean, the person that they would want to kill is your mother for having an affair with a fuller, but since she is the queen, and treats her people so well, no one bothers to care about what she did,” Kyler explained, and I understood what he was saying (although I do not wish for my mother to be killed), I was just to stubborn to really internalize it.

“Anyways, how should you know what it is like? Your father is an inventor!” I exclaimed. Kyler’s father, Mr. Ross, was one of the most interesting people I have ever met, always full of new ideas.

“He’s actually a delusional halfwit. If it wasn’t for your mother’s support of my family, I wouldn’t be able to afford anything. Not even from the town centre vendors!” He countered truthfully. Even considering Mr. Ross’ creativity, he never earned much coin for his inventions, and Kyler’s mother abandoned them right after he was born. My mother supplied Kyler with money and an education, being the gracious woman that she is.

“I think he’s a genius. Anyways the townsfolk did not appreciate me interrupting their lives. They all stared at me like I was some kind of miscreant,” I explained. Kyler lifted a corner of his mouth into a smile, mockingly, crinkling the his golden skin. His dark green eyes appeared to laugh, and he combed one his dirty hands through his overgrown, messy, dark brown hair, which grew almost to his eyelashes. Even considering the coin mother gave him, he continued to refuse to be sanitary. And yes, this is something that really annoys me.

“I see you have left your hair down today,” Kyler pointed out as I picked up my cloak, and put it back on. He’s the type of person to make this unusual accusation. My long, wavy light brown hair was in fact down today, with the exception of the long strands in the front, which I had braided and tied together at the back of my head. I just smiled in response, as we continued to make our way towards the forest.

Kyler and I had met when I had almost reached age six, and he eight. I had been wandering through the forest with Kaleb, and ran into Kyler, who at the time had been relaxing on a branch of a tree. He taught me how to climb a tree that day, and we had communed as often as possible ever since. Being two years older than me though, and being of lower class blood, he has had to begin to figure out certain aspects of his life, such as marriage and work, although such things he has blissfully ignored, and in their stead attended my lessons with Kaleb.

“What is it like, being sixteen?” I asked him, the question appearing from out of nowhere. What I actually meant to ask what it was like being sixteen, and not having to worry about the pressure of royalty, but I did not wish to insult his lifestyle.

“Very similar to being fourteen, with a little more pressure to find a bride,” he replied, not even questioning my peculiar question. That’s why we were such good friends really: we didn’t question each other, but we did a lot of questioning of everything else.

“You’d be lucky to marry some old wench!:

“Well, I do not see you being so lucky when it comes to affairs of the heart,” he said, shoving me lightly, and I shoved him back. He looked over at me, his eyes looking into my dark blue ones, and raised his eyebrows, at which I nodded in reply. Suddenly we were both running, charging through the forest, the sounds of branches breaking loudly sounding into the cloudless blue sky. When we finally reached the training grounds, practically at the exact same time, close enough that a winner could not be decided, we were both very out of breath, and collapsed for a couple minutes to regain our ability to breathe properly.

“Get up, ye old hags!” Kaleb shouted at us. We very slowly stood up, turning towards Kaleb for instructions as to what we were to do today. Kaleb wasn’t much older than Kyler and myself, or at least didn’t look a day over twenty five. His blonde hair had been tied back just above his neck, emphasizing his face made up of all muscle and harsh lines. His outfit was identical to Kyler’s, although quite a bit cleaner. His murky grey eyes glared at the two of us, and we both stood up a little straighter.

“Kyler, ye lookin’ even worse than usual today, ma boy,” Kaleb exclaimed, astonished at Kyler’s dirtiness. His accent shown clear, as he was from the Skarinian Kingdom.

“Oh, I disagree entirely. I think I would make a lovely wench, actually. I could work in the brothel, I am such a comely creature,” Kyler replied, at which I had to giggle silently at the image my mind created. Kaleb just gave him a stern look, at which Kyler just shrugged at.

“Okay so today we are going to be working on your sword skills-”

“YES!” Kyler screamed out for the entire kingdom to hear. Shooting him another one of his piercing glares, Kaleb handed both of us identical silver swords, with a hilt engraved with script I couldn’t understand.

“No armor?” I asked him, testing out the weight of the sword. Considerably light, and the blade reflected the sun’s glare, beautifully made.

“No armor,” he answered, almost smiling (which is as close as I have ever seen him get to actual smiling)

“Where did you get such bloody fantastic swords?” Kyler asked, laughing at his sword’s utter perfection.

“Someone owed me a favor, and happened to be good with an anvil,” was all Kaleb would say, and then motioned for us to move onto the training grounds, where the grass is replaced by sand.

“Um, where are the dummies?”

“You two are going to practice on each other,”

“What?!” Kyler and I screamed in unison.

“I would not call myself a betting man, but Kyler has quite the advantage here,” Kaleb said walking off the training grounds and back onto the grass. I snarled at his back, but then turned around to face Kyler, accepting Kaleb’s challenge.

Kyler smiled at me, squinting his eyes to find any of my weak points. Wherever they were, I tried my best not to make them shown. After a couple seconds of just standing there, we both came to realize (with a bit of encouragement from Kaleb), that we were actually going to fight each other, although we also knew that it wouldn’t be much of a fight considering we would both hate harming each other.

He took the first swing, which I blocked and counter attacked, which he dodged and counter attacked, which was a pattern that continued for quite a while before I finally found his weakness, when I actually bothered to consider his weakness having something to do with the lower half of us body. When he swung his sword, his left knee would jam into place, leaving it vulnerable for at least a couple seconds after an attack, which I would assume is from when he had once fallen out of tree and messed up his knee pretty bad.

On Kyler’s next attack, I blocked his sword with my own, and swung my right foot around to his left knee, pulling it forwards and sending him off balance. While he regained his stance, I was able to turn to my left, allowing me to do a roundhouse kick, delivering my left foot to his right shoulder (not a hard enough blow though to actually cause any serious damage), knocking him to the dusty ground.

I pointed the tip of my sword to my neck, about to say something witty, when a messenger came running from the forest, and up to Kaleb. The messenger whispered in Kaleb’s ear for a little while, in which time Kyler stood up, and Kaleb started to nod in understanding. Turning to us, he explained what was going on. “It appears as though there’s some trouble up at the castle. Ye mum, Delylan, would like you and Kyler to get up there immediately,” and then the messenger whispered something else into Kaleb’s ear, “and it appears I’m s’posed to join ya,” Kaleb said, obviously not very pleased with the idea.

“Is everything alright?” I asked, worried.

“Truth be told, I don’t really know,” Kaleb replied, and the three of us (the messenger has messages to send) mounted two of Kaleb’s horses, Kaleb on one, Kyler and I on another.

Her Renaissance: Part 2

The next few days considered in a similar suit, with quite a lot of boring. Alex and I always spent study hall together, discussing the weirdest of topics. I liked him. I really liked him. Not in a romantic way, but we became really good friends really fast, and every second I spent with him I enjoyed so much. He was something I looked forward too when I woke up in the morning, and the reason I was anxious to go to sleep at night, to see him the next day. He was the only good friend, let alone best friend, I’d had in years.

On Friday, after school, I decided to do some thinking. Thinking was a favorite pass time of mine, where I could relax in solitude. I found thinking calming, and so I thought of it as my type of yoga. Another thing I found calming, was water, and so I decided to walk to this park that’s just down the street from the high school.

The park was nothing special, just a lot of grass, a couple trees, and along the side of the cliff separating the land from the water was a sidewalk. Behind this sidewalk, were some conveniently placed benches, at one of which I took a seat.

I looked out across the lake from my bench, calming my thoughts and blocking out what was happening around me, which I read somewhere was referred to sensory deprivation. Because of the grey, dreary day it was, no one else was around. My mom was probably sleeping, so I had this period of independence, that today for some reason or another, a perfect opportunity to have some solitary thinking time.

What interested me about looking out into this vastness, was the way that water eventually met the sky. The water obviously continued, as of course did the sky, but from my perspective, and if I didn’t know any better, I could easily say the water and the sky coalesced to form an in between space. The alternative way I occasionally found myself thinking was of considering the way the water meets the sky expressing the concept of both going on for infinity.

As I felt this newfound calm senselessness wash over me, I began to hear small voices come near me. Two small children, one boy, the elder one of the two, and a girl. The girl, looking to be only about two, ran to the edge of the cliff. A man, whom I presumed was their father, was quite a bit behind the two children. As he saw his daughter racing towards the edge, I could the see the panic in his face.

I instantly snapped out of my zoned-out tranquility, and suddenly realized what was going on. The girl was about to slip off the edge. I was about to get up and race towards, when someone else had already beat me to it. The boy, I recognized, was Alex. I jogged lightly towards where he was holding the little girl.

“Why are you here?” I asked inquisitively. He held the little girl with one arm, like she weighed no more than a feather. Her brother had run back to children’s father, who came up to Alex and I.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you. If you hadn’t of been here, I don’t know what I would’ve done. Thank you,” he said, taking the young girl into his own arms from Alex, putting his face against his daughter’s. “Never, ever, do that again Ellie. Ever,” he said to her, and thanked us again before leaving with his children.

“At least he appreciated my heroism,” Alex said to me, flexing his biceps. He was wearing a t-shirt, because obviously he’s insane (it is quite cold), which very acutely showed off his muscularity.

“Good job. Anyways, back to my earlier question. Why are you here?” I replied.

“Well, my dad is still at work, and my mom is at a business trip in Australia, so I decided to wander around saving young children about to throw themselves off cliffs while beautiful young women nearby stare like crazy people at water,” was his answer. He tucked his hands in his pockets casually, while all I could think was that he had called me beautiful. And then crazy. But still, he had called me beautiful.

“Are you stalking me?” I asked, suddenly realizing that it was definitely a possibility. He did seem to know where I was quite a bit of the time.

“I prefer the term ‘examining with great interest’,” Alex said flirtatiously, stepping towards me slightly, to lessen the giant gap that had been between us. His being next to me definitely proved the height difference we had. I was pretty short, and he was pretty tall, so he towered over me.

“Well, as you may have learned from your examinations, I am quite boring. I stare at water and stuff,” I said, trying not to read to in depth into the whole stalking thing. We started walking back towards the street together, his hands still in his pockets (not looking cold at all, I might add) while I shivered fiercely within my sweater.

“I think you underestimate yourself, Rosalind. I believe staring at water can be very interesting.”

“I could definitely write some poetry about it.”

“Oh how the water sways, amidst the morning haze, with children almost dying, while I sit there longingly sighing,” Alex recited on the spot, faking an English accent for his performance.

“I was not longingly sighing!” I said, laughing.

“One would beg to differ,” he replied, joining my laughter with his own. We continued to walk without any actual destination in mind. We had a period of silence, mostly because I was too cold to speak, before Alex reignited conversation.

Cherry Blossom Effect

When my mom was alive, she’d always tell me about how she and my dad had met. He had been the lead (American) guitarist in the heavy metal band Death Division, and while he was touring in Japan, he was introduced to my (Japanese) mother, an actress. They fell in love, got married, moved to the countryside of a small town back in America, and they retired from being a guitarist and an actress. They got mediocre jobs in this small town, and eventually gave birth to me. I’d never been unhappy with my parents, because to me they’d always be the lead guitarist and the actress from this story, and that’s pretty awesome. 

When I was only eleven, one day I went to school and my dad went to work, like usual. My mom was a substitute teacher, and didn’t have work that day. Apparently, she had fallen asleep with the stove still on, and the house burnt down with her still soundly sleeping. Since we were out in the country, nobody found out until my dad got home from the office he had worked at. Her body was never found. 

Stricken with grief, for some reason my father returned to his rocker ways. We moved into a small apartment building in the Shibuya ward of Tokyo, Japan, where my father had first met my mother. She had taught me Japanese, as she believed I should know the languages both my ethnicities. The transition to such a big and busy city was hard, but it was something to distract me. I grieved over my mother for quite a while, but I knew she wants to me to be happy, wherever she is now. My father, though, has never quite returned to how he was before she died, three years ago. My mother was the love of his life. 

“Hey dad, I’m heading to school now,” I proclaimed. 

“‘Kay, have a good day,” he replied. He was sprawled out on the couch, his (dyed) black mullet unbrushed, his band tee shirt and his jeans in desperate need of a wash, and his pale blue eyes bloodshot and sunken in. It’d be a miracle if he managed to get to the corner store he worked at in the state he was in. I don’t even think they’d let him in, employee or not. 

I gave him a little wave and a smile as I headed out the front door. There were occasions that I was mad at my dad for being in such a sad state, but I really did pity him. I managed to get over my mom’s death, so I do feel as though he should move on too. I’m happy for the time I spent with her, and I do very much believe that she would want us to be happy. That’s why I just continue on like nothing happened, because I knew she’d want me to. 

Sakura Public Academy definitely wasn’t that prestigious, but most of the people there were pretty cool. I don’t aspire to go to college or university or whatever, because I know that once I graduate I’m gonna have to start supporting myself. I’ve accepted this, and will just make the most out of the free education I have. 

“Ady!” Hanae shouted. With her Japanese accent, ‘Adelaide’ came out a little weird, so we decided to shorten it to ‘Ady’. She and I sort of (literally) collided with each other when I started at Sakura, and somehow we’ve managed to become best friends because of that. I will admit, though, her quirkiness and optimism has definitely made life a little brighter. 

Her pink colored, curly hair was (like usual) in lopsided pigtails, which at first seemed a little weird (the whole pink hair thing), but after a little while in Tokyo you get used to that sort of thing. Even so, I’ve never managed to get used to her constant cosplay outfits, and today was no different. Her Sailor Moon outfit was accurate to the smallest details, with knee high red boots and a blue and white sailor’s dress with a big red bow on her chest. 

Hanae embraced me in a hug, and if some witness to this didn’t no better, they’d have thought she was my little sister, based on the fact she was at least a foot shorter than me. It was always very hard to believe she was a second year, when I was a only a first year. 

Following close behind her, were the other two in our little misfit clique. The first is Riku, a very intelligent and mischievous boy that is Hanae’s neighbor. At the top of the school in terms of academics, he is capable of acquiring a scholarship to a better school. It is a mystery why he stays, although my theory is that he enjoys being condescending to those who don’t share his level of intelligence. Also, I say mischievous because that boy always has something up his sleeve, and never seems to lost control of a situation. He doesn’t even get angry, ever. 

As oppose to the hug I got from Hanae, I simply got a salute-like wave from Riku, which makes a lot more sense considering we did just see each other yesterday. He stood a couple inches taller than me, and was very wiry in frame. His black hair was considerably short, without one hair out of place. Riku’s dark eyes smiled behind his glasses, and I could totally see a smirk (that counts as a smile). Riku could also pass, based on appearance, for someone much wealthier than he is. Another mystery, I suppose. 

Synesthetic Cynosure

Certain moments in time seem absolutely perfect, and especially so looking back at them later. Memories where everything appears to be simply beautiful, whether it’s the memory of a performance, a first kiss, or just a time when you were with your best friends, laughing at each other like there were no cares in the world.

            These memories, I believe, would taste like strawberries. Not just any strawberries though, but some especially fresh, juicy strawberries, where their sweetness seems to coat your mouth like syrup, tasting almost like candy.

            When I was first diagnosed with synesthesia, the first thing that my doctor told me was that other people don’t think the same way I do. Other people(thankfully he didn’t imply ‘normal’ people) don’t taste memories, or feel words, or colorize letters and numbers and words. I couldn’t imagine not thinking the way I do, but I agreed with him that I shouldn’t express my feelings with other people that often, due to the constant criticism expressed in this day and age. Throughout that appointment he had basically explained to me that I was a complete weirdo, and that everybody would think so if they found out about my condition and the ‘unique’way I think.

            I believe the scientific side of synesthesia is that when I stimulate one of my sensory pathways, this triggers automatic experiences in another or multiple other sensory pathways, so basically all of my senses are connected to each other.

           Also, there are many different types of distinguishable synesthesia, but according to most of my doctors I have a mix of most of them.

           The diagnosis was four years ago, and I remember each and every second of it like it was just yesterday. That memory was not sweet. It was bitter, like coffee, but also a bit sour like the super sour Skittles my little brother Cory likes to eat. I’ve never like the taste of sourness.  

            “Delly, sweetie, it’s time to wake up!” My mom shouted from the bottom of the stairs. I can never understand why she calls me Delly, as I believe that Delilah is a perfectly suitable name, all smooth and creamy,  and dark brown like chocolate.

             My mom and dad had not taken kindly to my diagnosis. I don’t know whythey thought it was such a bad thing to have synesthesia, but they had fought passionately with many different doctors, that had all examined me with the same end results. Eventually, they were so angry at the doctors, that they started fighting with each other.They got divorced when I was nine.

            I’m pretty sure that most people my age would blame themselves for my parents’ divorce if they were in my situation, but I’ve never seen the point. I am fully aware that it was my condition that had gotten them fighting in the first place, but I believe that if they were fighting so much at all, maybe they just weren’t right for each other in the first place.

            Eventually, my mom started dating this other man named Darren. Darren is nice enough, but he basically treats me like I’m a complete idiot. In his mind, me having a condition that doesn’t actually affect my overall intelligence in any way, somehow makes me stupid. I’ve actually come to the conclusion that he treats me the same way he treats his four year old daughter, Felicity, who is as cute as a button, and based on her gorgeous blonde curls and bright blue eyes, will become an absolute beauty when she’s older.

 I guess having synesthesia is just who I am. I wouldn’t know how to cope without it, and am happy to see the world in such a different way. 

Her Renaissance: Part 1

Today, I woke up thinking that something interesting would happen, which, as the day continued, did not appear to be the case. My first couple periods were utterly uneventful. Very boring. I am not a big people person, so I didn’t talk to anybody throughout any of my periods, unless forcefully instructed to. Kept my head low, answered when called on, and didn’t really think too hard. I actually spent most of my English class twirling my choppy, shoulder length hair around my finger. And I’m not the hair twirling type.

Like most high school students restricted to school property during free periods, I decided to go to study hall, and finish my English project. Setting myself into the ninja mindset, I stayed to the sides and travelled through the twisty-turny maze of the halls. I nodded politely when students I took classes tried to engage in conversation, but mainly kept to myself. I wasn’t, nor ever intended to be, in the mood for unnecessary socialization.

The other thing I tried to avoid was my brother, Leonardo. My parents had originally bonded over their love of the arts in the Renaissance period, my father’s love for Shakespeare and other writers and play-writes of the era, and my mother of the painters and sculptors. Thus came the name Leonardo, after the infamous Leonardo da Vinci. Leonardo was four years older than me, a senior, and a very sociable one too. He was on the football team, wasn’t that bright, and was physically quite attractive, as the hundreds of girls he’s had over in the past four years have informed me.

Today, fortunately, my ninja skills prevailed, and I was able to avoid Leonardo and his arrogant and idiotic friends.

You would think that study hall would be all quiet, with all the students working or reading very intently. Our study hall would be the perfect environment for this scenario, doubling as our library, with several tables fitting around five people each placed around the room. This scenario though, was never the case.

Today, study hall had the perky, chatty girls attempting to whisper to each other at an off to the side table, in a corner (their attempts at the feat of whispering, however, continuously fail), a couple jock guys throwing paper airplanes, which probably contained notes in them, across the room, and some punk/goth guy taking a nap. Not one person appeared to be studying, except for, when looking more closely, a boy seated at the hidden back table.

I carefully walked towards him, cautious to avoid anyone’s gaze. The hidden back table wasn’t exactly hidden, but no-one really ever sat there. It had always been my favorite spot, knowing that nobody stat there, well, except for this guy. I noticed that the boy was around fourteen or fifteen, so probably in my grade, and conclusively, would not have any intent, as the saying goes, to bite.

For a while he didn’t look up, entranced by whatever he was reading on his laptop. As I was taking out my books and trying to quietly place them on the table, though, his eyes lifted slightly to look in my direction, directly across the table from him. The boy closed his laptop halfway, revealing his entire face.

“Alex Wills,” the boy said, extending his arm. His eyes were an icy blue, almost the shade of the whites of his eyes, but still identifiably blue. As he moved his face though, sun rays cast upon his eyes revealed actual whiteness near the pupils of his eyes that his shaggy brown hair had shadowed.

“Rosalind,” I replied, reaching out my own hand, gripping his tanned one. Even shaking hands, I could feel how muscular he was, which was kind of hidden by his somewhat lanky figure and horrible posture.

“It’s a pleasure, Rosalind With No Last Name,” he responded. The only way I could think to describe his voice was perfectly uneven. There was a slight raspy tone to it that cause his voice to crack in places, but his voice still sounded melodious, and I had the weird visualization of him reading poetry. I mean, I’d listen to that.

“Ashling. Ashling is my last name,” I explained, embarrassed.

“And what is the story behind your name, Miss Rosalind Ashling is My Last Name?”

“The Shakespearean protagonist from As You Like It,” which was really quite obvious. Based on how literate this Alex Wills appeared to be, I would assume he would recognize a Shakespearean name, so I continued. “My parents were trying to choose between Rosalind or Rosaline. In the end, the cross-dressing in order to have a man fall in love with her name won over the seemingly first love of an eventual star-crossed lover name. My dad is a big Shakespeare lover, and my mom loves roses, so it worked for both of them.”

“I’m not a big Shakespeare fan,” he said, and I gawked, to which he shrugged in reply.

“You’re insane.”

“I get that a lot,” he said, reopening is laptop. He continued with whatever he had been doing before I had sat at the table, but I was not in the mood to work on my project when I had a boy who WASN’T A FAN OF SHAKESPEARE sitting in front of me. So yes, I hated talking to people when I didn’t absolutely have to, but this, this boy, was not going to go without further questioning. I have no idea how to explain it, but I just felt like I had this obligation to talk to him, that I really should understand the insanity of this boy.

“I know this is weird, considering we just met, but I was wondering if I could ask you a question,” I whispered, and he shut his laptop halfway once again, I myself though, continued to look down, trying to make this attempt at actual vocal contact (without instruction) as least painful as possible.

“Ask away,” he replied, crossing his arms over his Beatles’ ‘Revolver’ t-shirt.

I looked up at Alex, noticing the genuine icy hue, but still sincerity, in his eyes. “Have you ever wondered what people are really like?” I asked, and he raised one of his eyebrows questioningly.

“A further explanation is required,” he replied, leaning back in his chair, tilting it onto its back legs. Being something I was very paranoid about, I felt a strong urge to tell him to keep his chair on the floor, but I didn’t want to sound like some kindergartner. I think he noticed my annoyance anyways though, as he set his chair back on the floor, smiling that sub-concsious, crooked smile that most guys do. It was different with him though, it seemed a lot more like an actual smile than it did on other guys.

I rotated my chair sideways to the table, leaning my arm onto my desk beside me as I replied. “Well, if you really think about it, so much of what a person comes off to be like is influenced by  modern social expectations. So I guess the expectations they fall under to comply with are lightly based on the type of person they are, but strip away these social expectations in their entirety, and they could be a completely different person.”

“Hmm, why do you ask such difficult questions?” he questioned, still smiling.

“Because asking questions is the only way to ever find answers. Where the questions come from is just a matter of knowing something, and wanting to know more. In my case knowing the weight of social expectations today, and wanting to know how much these really affect people.”

“The art and science of asking questions is the source of all knowledge,” Alex quoted from the novelist Thomas Berger, and then continued. “But as an answer to your question, I have no idea. I believe that these ‘expectations’ as you call them, are what mould a person to show their true selves. Let’s say a man could fly, in a society that looked down upon people who could fly. This expectation of the man to not fly, is what moulds him into what he is, whether he becomes a stronger minded person by flying despite this expectation, and is forced to face the consequences, or if he becomes more socially acceptable, but weaker minded by succumbing to the expectation.” He answered, with the thoughtfulness and sincerity like he had a connection to being a person who could fly. What a curious analogy, though.

“I disagree entirely. I believe that a person accommodates themselves to an expectation. Continuing with your… strange, analogy, if this man could fly, but was expected not to, of course he wouldn’t. Humans are, overall, weak-minded creatures when it comes to sociality. He, as a person though, could be quite strong-minded, but how would we ever know,” I described. Alex had a slight look of sorrow across his face, but only for a split second before he responded.

“If you already had such a clear opinion on the topic, why ask me?” He asked, returning to his smile, allowing me to forget about that slight moment of sadness in his eyes, and return to the conversation at hand.

“What’s so wrong about asking for other people’s opinions?”

“Well, you don’t seem too open to other people’s opinions.”

“Are you saying I’m biased?”

“No, I’m simply implying that my opinion does not appear to be of much interest to you. That is not to say you are not of interest to me. You are definitely quite the character.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

“Flirting is over-rated. I’m merely stating that I’d like to get to know you better, as I’ve so far have yet to meet anyone quite like you.”

I cracked a small smile, while he continued with his crooked one, and returned to working on my English project. Instead of thinking about how literature in history influences modern novella, I instead found myself  thinking about how it could possibly occur that one can quote an American novelist, but not be a fan of Shakespeare, and manages to give a straight answer including an analogy about human flight. The only person who I’ve known that fit into this weird mould, was this mysterious Alex Wills. I guess I’d have to get to know him a bit better in order to make any conclusions, and he did not appear to be against this idea.

After the period was over, Alex and I stood up simultaneously, collecting together out books and returning them to our bags. Just as I was about to leave though, he tapped my shoulder, and I turned around to face him. He leaned against one of the bookshelves, quietly zipping up his bag.

“What do you have next?” He asked, seemingly interested. This Alex, he just seemed so weird.

“Um, science?” I responded, although in a questioning format.

“Ah yes, I have the wonderful class of geography, very close to where I shall assume you have science. Care to join me?” He requested, swinging his bag over one shoulder.

“Um, sure,” I said. We left study hall, and made our way through the whirlpool in silence, much more caught up in not getting killed than actually having a conversation. It wasn’t until we got to the hallways we shared for our next classes that that either of us actually said anything.

“This is where we must go our different ways. I shall be hoping to see you again, Miss Rosalind Ashling,” he said, bowing in quite the medieval fashion. Weird didn’t seem a strong enough word for him. Absolutely delirious seemed a bit more accurate, but good delirious. Very good delirious. I curtsied in reply, or at least some interpretation of a curtsy, as I was quite restricted by my jeans. He laughed, a very whole-hearted, genuine laugh, in which I couldn’t help but smile at.

Secluded Art

There were too many shades of blue. As I circled my brush around the section of my palette solely dedicated to blues, all I could think about, besides which blue to use, was the people who had spent their life discovering different shades of blue. This got me thinking about who was responsible for the original identification of colors, which led me to try and create a color that didn’t exist in my head. It wasn’t until my art teacher started walking around the classroom that I realized how much time I had spent spiraling through this thought process, and how I had yet to paint anything at all.

“This is a true masterpiece,” Mr. Wallace said, observing the blankness of my canvas. Mr. Wallace was a tall, willowy man with very large glasses that seemed to enlarge his brown eyes to a bug-eyed extent. He always wore the same brown and white suit with brown loafers, and his always perfect cleanliness and the pretty consistent show of no emotion on his face made me question his actual ability as an artist. I always thought that artists should be colorful and messy and lively and perky. Mr. Wallace wasn’t an especially fantastic teacher, but he wasn’t condescending, which raised his position among the rest of my teachers quite a bit.

“I’m sorry, I was just, well, lacking inspiration,” I replied, only partly lying. Before I fell down the rabbit hole of my thoughts, I was actually lacking inspiration. I only knew I wanted to use blue, as I was perfectly capable of deeming my favorite color.

“I don’t really care what exactly you paint, Kyla. I won’t lie, you’ve got some natural artistic ability. Wherever you were when you were staring at absolutely nothing, zoned out in your own little world, just paint that, or however it makes you feel,” he explained. However it makes me feel. How does one paint how they feel? I had no idea, but I still nodded so he would continue his stroll about the classroom.

I closed my eyes, and spun my paintbrush in a circles above the palette. When I opened my eyes, the brush was directly between a deep midnight blue and a vibrant aquamarine. Halfway through eenie-meenie-miney-mo between the two, I decided that I liked the aqua a tad bit more, as I had always preferred brighter colors.

I dipped my brush in the clear jar of water beside me, and then swirled the bristles in the small circle of paint. Gripping the brush loosely in my left hand, I began to make random strokes across the canvas in an up and down motion, not really sure how they would turn out. Surprising enough, they ended up looking like some uneven aqua lines on a piece of paper.

Deciding to jazz up the random lines, I cleaned my brush and started to apply the midnight blue horizontally across the canvas, criss-crossing with the aqua. I don’t know what Mr. Wallace saw in me, but the current art piece displayed in front of me wasn’t exactly proving anything of my creative nor my artistic ability.

It might’ve been my hair, was my guess. A lot of people presumed that just because I had dyed my hair electric blue, I was somewhat artistic. My just below shoulder length tangle of bright hair, which was always in a messy braid, did not imply that I was artistic. It implied that I like blue, I like standing out, and I like vibrance.

“Okay, everyone! Just leave all of your materials here, and we shall return to the exploration of the creative process when we meet again,” Mr. Wallace said, a couple minutes before the bell would ring. Everyone scattered about the classroom, collecting all of their stuff before rushing to their lockers. I followed in suit, carefully avoiding the gaze of, and physical contact with, everyone else.

I wasn’t entirely friendless, I mean, this declaration was based on my belief that imaginary friends and yourself count as friends. In my opinion, I think it’s because nobody really understands me. So cliché, right? Nah, I think it’s just because I’m weird, and people who other people think are weird, have this subconscious thing where they politely ignore the not so weird people because they know that they won’t mesh with them.

Ambiguous: Part 1

As oppose to the opinions of most people, I like to believe that we do not not have a purpose in life. This is very much a selfish belief though, as it is only due to the fact that I don’t want to have to live my life in congruency with some pre-determined fate. I want to do whatever the hell I want, be whatever the hell I want, and become whatever the hell I want. I want to believe that we determine our own purposes in life.

Thus, when I was initially forced into the ‘Religious Studies’ course for my second term, I was quite enraged.

This rage did not simply blossom from my own selfishness; oh no, also from my (sort of) selflessness. I did not wish to offend anyone in that course with my opinionated mind. What if there were Catholics and Hindus and Jews and Buddhists and whatnot that strongly believed we had a purpose in life and that we had to life only the way in which some (possibly existing) deity determined? My impulsiveness and short temper was bound to drive me to punch someone.

If I’d of had a choice, it would’ve been philosophy or English or something entertaining where my opinions of religion would not of had to be expressed. But no: I was too late to decide on my own courses and was thrown into the only class that had an opening. ‘Religious Studies’ it was.

Of course, as I walked into that classroom, the last thing I was expecting was an insanely attractive boy sitting in the back of the room. And this is coming from someone who doesn’t really think anything, let alone a teenaged guy, is attractive.

Apart from this beautiful boy, the rest of the class was very much what I expected it to be; an extremely religious group of teens eager to pursue their love of God/Buddha/Brahman or whatnot. The teacher was also what I expected: some stocky elderly man with a thick white beard, rectangular glasses and a horrifyingly mismatched suit.

Returning my gaze to the hot boy (I only averted my gaze for several seconds, and I expected that he would be the subject of my gaze for quite a quantity of time in the course)  I was pleasantly surprised to find that there was a free desk right beside him. At least some things go my way.

“Joan Lawrence, is it?” The teacher asked, and I shrugged in reply. He obviously knew who I was, considering I was a bit of a legend amongst this high school’s faculty. “Late on your first day… I’m hoping you won’t live up to the stories I’ve heard from my colleagues.” Told you.