Heya peoples! Another story. Not sad, not happy, just arty's way of stories. So enjoy! Oh, and btw, do I get extra kudos for having a title with alliteration in it? XD
A grin to split my mouth in two was plastered onto my face.
The reason? The door to the most magical place in the world was open.
A place where creativity was encouraged, not shunned aside for things like the formula of sodium or the square root of 4.3.
A place where the pen was truely mightier than the sword.
This magical place is room 23, second door down the top floor, in the third block--the english classroom.
I entered with a bright and cheery greeting to my teacher, sitting in my seat where my book was, opening my bag as I went, ready to start.
I'm a total nerd when it comes to this subject, but then so is everybody else. Sure, people joke about me polishing an apple and placing it neatly on the teacher's desk with a florish, but it's way too cliched and the others loved the lesson too.
Up on the board was our task: Descriptive Writing. It said we could write about anywhere, so long as our piece was full of good sophisticated vocab and was descriptive.
So I wrote the date and the title and set to work.
What should I write about?
There were so many wonderful places I wanted to describe. First was the classroom I was currently in. The walls were covered bright posters, telling us about grades, punctuation, adverbs...The paint was peeling, the radiator occasionally making a weird noise. But students in here were always so enthuastic, it made up for all those things.
Then there was our table in the lunch room. We always shrieked with laughter, the chatter of students was loud and up-beat, on Fridays music was played and people were singing or dancing...there was the squeak of shoes, the munching of food, the voices of the dinner ladies telling us to go outside, or whether the weather was against us.
But what about my own home? My little brothers were always giggling about something, playing with a ball indoors which bounced of everything, even if they knew they shouldn't, my parents gently telling them not to do it, my mother's tired but cheerful voice asking how my day went, my father asking me how I'd done in whatever I'd been doing, the loud noise the oven made, the sizzle of gas on the cooker, the mumble of the tv, the scent of the flowers in the vases...
There were other places too--the shoppping centre with the arcade, the various eaterys, the clothes stores, the beauty and hair salon. The park with the swings, the slide, the netball courts, the football pitch, the shelter and all those really tall trees. My friends houses where I went for the morning, and then the afternoon, and then the evening, and then it turned into a sleepover.
"Okay class, you can leave! Have a lovely weekend!"
The teacher's voice cut through my day dreaming. I stared down guiltily at my book. Nothing.
Sighing, I snapped it shut and packed my stuff away, hoping to get out. No such luck.
"Soph?"
I whirled around, my face neutral. I hadn't done the work, so I should make up the time.
"I'm very sorry, miss..."
My teacher just smiled at me, opening my book and another person's.
"Why? You've written the most."
It was true. I'd scrawled down the date and title, and everybody else? Nothing.
Tee hee. That's never happened to me, but I thought it'd be funny to write about. English isn't my fave subject either--it's art. However, one of the skills I learned in english was the exaggerate...
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