I have written a series of poems and such, as well as a rough draft of a short story. I'm posting them, and you can all read them if you wish. Story first, then poems n' such!
St. Peter
The old man stood before St. Peter’s gates, looking up at them. They were old, and it seemed oddly fitting to him that the gates be locked, even now, so many years after. He walked towards them, key in hand, remembering a life he had left so long ago, the phone call he’d had just an hour before, from the man he had thought was dead. Slowly he unlocked the gates and pushed them open, and began again the walk across the courtyard, remembering the days of so long ago.
Erik knew that the only person who would come through that door in the perceivable future was Anton, the custodian. The man was a beast- he weighed nearly three hundred and fifty pounds and stood about six foot six inches tall. He also believed that anyone smaller than him was inferior, and there only to be mocked. Erik made the perfect target, barely scraping the five foot mark and weighing about a hundred and sixty pounds. He looked, quite frankly, like an obese version of a sixth grader with a mind straight of hell. He adored practical jokes, and was constantly plotting them, especially on Anton.
He lurked in the darkness behind the statue, waiting for Anton to pass through the door. He’d set up his favorite trap- a bucket of water balanced atop the door, left just the barest bit ajar. It was the only way up to the antenna tower, and he’d made sure that there wasn’t anyone up there when he started his preparations. Anton was assured of walking through that door, especially because Erik had called and told the maintenance people that his television wasn’t getting any reception, and to have them send the custodian out to fix the antenna. All that was needed was a matter of time.
Footsteps echoed down the hall, and approached the trapped door. Erik smiled, the grin of a child who knows his trick is about to work perfectly. Too late he realized that those footsteps were not those of Anton- they were too authoritative, too measured. Anton walked like a slob, but this was the epitome of the pure German aristocrat. There was only one in Erik’s school- the Headmaster.
The door opened, revealing the Headmaster’s meticulously combed hair, trimmed mustache, and distinctly Prussian face. He had the barest instant to realize what was about to happen, and then the deluge of water hit the Headmaster, seeming to sluice off of his head in waves.
Deathly silence filled the air, an almost tangible thing, waiting to be broken. The Headmaster’s voice echoed through the tower, a soft whisper.
“Erik . . . We know it’s you. All you have to do is step out from your hideaway and admit your guilt, and all of the pain can be avoided. . .” His voice trailed off into echoes, lost amid the shadows of the tower.
The Headmaster began walking towards the statue, his walk a careful measured movement that would have no doubt been imposing if not for the steady accompaniment of water dripping from his head onto the stone floor. Erik could not help snickering at the sight, and immediately realized his mistake. The Headmaster pivoted instantly, stalking towards the echoes of the ill-fated sound.
The Headmaster reached his cubby, and with the unerring accuracy born of long years of teaching, seized Erik’s ear and began the long trek back to his office, pulling the screaming student along by the ear.
All activity ceased in their passing. Students looked up from their work, teachers ceased their lectures, and the few visitors gaped in open amazement at the sight. The teachers smiled in quiet satisfaction, pleased that the only problem child in St. Peters had finally gotten his due. The students gazed on in fear, knowing that with the slightest misstep it would be them in that iron grip, headed towards the office no student ever sees, save for those who will never graduate, those who will walk into that office and leave the school the next day. The visitors, mouths agape and shock imprinted on their faces, followed the bizarre procession as it wound its somber way through the hallowed grounds. After it passed, they whispered among themselves, wondering why they should send their precious children here, to a school that so blatantly abused them. Several walked off, noses high in the air, as if the school had suddenly become a distasteful odor that could be banished through sheer arrogance and determination.
Finally the pain stopped, and Erik slumped into a chair in the Headmaster’s office. The Headmaster himself sat down across the desk from him, his huge leather chair looming up behind him like a medieval throne.
The voice emanated from the darkness, an apocalyptic pronunciation of doom. “You know, of course, that after what you have done there it is impossible for us to allow you to stay.”
“Why not? A prank now and then never hurt anyone.”
The Headmaster’s shadow leaned forward from the chair. “You know very well the crimes you are accused of. Your behavior has been atrocious, and because of you, our school’s pristine image has been tarnished. You will, of course, not be expelled. You will resign from the school due for financial reasons, and in return we will speak favorably for you anywhere you choose to go.” Erik bristled at the very idea. “And if I refuse this . . . generous . . . offer of yours, what will happen?”
“You will be expelled. Not just from this school, but from every private and public institution in the country. You will have earned the honor of being the only student ever to be expelled from St. Peter’s School for Gifted Children, and you will end in the street, forsaken even by your own family. Before you make your decision, however, you are free to return to your rooms and think. But, before you think of staying too long, know that unless your answer is given to me, signed and in writing, along with a confession of all crimes you stand accused of by sunset tomorrow, you will be expelled.”
Erik nodded and stood, turning silently away from the man who had, in less that five minutes, completely destroyed all that he had hoped for. He opened the door and shambled away, wishing only for his own soft bed and a few hours of silence. He began the long trek across the green courtyard, head bowed under the weight of his shame, leaning on the wall for support. Even the stones seemed to distance themselves from him.
He walked close to the wall, not wishing to cross the open common and face the gaze of his fellows. He passed the window into the library, pausing as the full reality of his failure hit him. He could hear voices coming down the hallway, footsteps echoing along with them. The Headmaster’s voice wormed its way outside, falling faintly upon his ears.
“That child is more trouble than he’s worth. Just last week he stole three custard pies from the kitchen, and then yesterday we caught him in the kitchens again, where he was supposed to be cleaning the pots. At least, that’s what he claimed- the cook told us that he was trying to take a keg of last years’ cider. God only knows what he would do with the thing.”
“Indeed, Headmaster. God only knows what he would have done with the keg.” The second man’s voice was unfamiliar to him, but the school had been hiring some new teachers lately, and he hadn’t been able to keep up with all of their names and voices.
“Even the other students don’t trust him. I’ve had four separate accusations against him in the past month, all from different students. Admittedly, I doubt that any more than one of them was actually done by him, but even that is too much. The mere idea of a thieving student here at St. Peter’s school is unacceptable. We have a reputation to consider, and that boy is going to destroy it.”
“Headmaster, I believe I had asked you about a job here, not about which students were giving you trouble.”
“Ah, yes. Counseling, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. Psychological and behavioral.”
“I’ll make a deal with you. Under any other circumstances, you would have been turned away out of hand.
“But why not now?”
“Last year the damned liberals in government passed a law requiring all schools, both public and private to have a counselor on the grounds during school hours. For us, that means a live-in psychologist, something the school has avoided like the plague. Imagine the scandal if we hired a psychologist. They’d think we were a mental institution!”
“What changed?”
“This boy- Erik. He is completely unacceptable, and I want you to try and see if you can work your magic on him.
“I’d hardly call it magic, but it must seem like it to one such as you.”
“Are you implying I am ignorant to the ways of science, Petrov?”
“No, not at all. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. That would be a very grave mistake.”
“As for this boy- You said his name was Erik, yes? I’d like to meet him. Send him around to the guest rooms after dinner, and I’ll see what I can do.”
The voices began to fade, their owners having passed by the window and moved down the hall. Erik very nearly fell over from joy. He had spent three years running on the line between civil disobedience and actually breaking school rules. The Headmaster’s offer gave him a full day of freedom in which to torment the teachers of St. Peters, a just retribution for all the work he had been forced to do over his three years. He snickered, and smiled to himself as he walked back to his room. The Headmaster, calling a psychologist just for him. Dinner was a good three hours away, and Erik went to plot a trick to play on the poor, unwary psychologist. The man had no idea what he was up against.
The hours passed slowly, and by the time dinner rolled around, Erik was actually looking forward to his interview with this Petrov person. He’d talked to some of the other kids, but none of them knew of him or had even heard of him. That struck him as odd, but judging from the conversation between the Headmaster and Petrov, he had just been hired on the spot.
Erik walked the long path out the back door of the dining hall, heading towards the lone building that was the guest house. It had been a library, but sometime about thirty years ago the books outgrew the space and a new home was built for them, and the old building became the guest house. It was an old structure, built of hand-mortared stone, with a thick oak door and wavy glass windows. The lights were on, and a figure moved in the kitchen as Erik approached the door.
His knock was answered almost immediately by a kindly old man with a thick Russian accent. Erik stood in the door, surprised by the man standing before him.
“Well, lad, aren’t you going to come in?”
“Uh, well, umm, are you the new psychologist?”
“Yes. And you are Erik, prankster and troublemaker extraordinaire. Do come in and have some tea.”
The old man turned and shuffled down the corridor to the kitchen, stooping to get under the low doorway.
“Not what you expected, is it?”
“No, I thought . . .”
“What, that I would have a couch for you and nice chair for me? That only leads to trouble.”
“So, why exactly am I here?”
“Because the Headmaster seems to think that you are incapable of acting like a normal human being, and that you are destined to become a criminal.”
Erik nearly leaped from his chair. “I’m not a criminal! I haven’t done anything!”
“I didn’t say you had.”
“But you did imply it.”
“Did I?” The old man smiled behind his teacup.
“Yes, you did. Sugar for your tea?” Erik held up some sugar packets liberated from the cafeteria.
“Please.” Petrov held out his cup. “Now, back to the matter at hand. How would you justify your existence?”
“How would you justify yours?”
Petrov took a sip of his tea and immediately spat it back out. “I should have known. You just couldn’t resist, could you?”
“Of course not. I’m a student, you’re a teacher. What else could I do?”
“Try to be polite for once?”
“Nope, can’t do that- it’d be against my principles.”
“You need some new principles. More tea?”
“Please. By the way, how was the salt? I thought it went rather well with Earl Grey.”
The smallest bit of anger had begun to creep into his voice. “Don’t test my patience.”
“What, can’t take a little joke now and again?”
“Men of my age do not appreciate practical jokes.”
“Only because they make you look undignified and ungainly.”
The man’s voice snapped, “There’s no call to be cruel, young man.”
“So, the old do have thin skins. I’ll have to remember that.”
Petrov had completely lost control. He was being mocked by a 12 year old, and a fat one at that.
“Get out of my house. Now!”
“Eh? Something on your mind?”
“Out, you sniveling excuse for a child! Out!”
Erik stood up slowly from the table, but turned and sprinted for the door as the old man lumbered to his feet.. Erik was out the door and halfway across the lawn before Petrov’s ranting reached his ears. He smiled to himself as he ran.
His revenge was swift and entirely merciless. Each teacher had their own special prank, tailored to their personalities and manners. Professor Widdershins, the stodgy British history teacher, was treated to a fictionalized version of English History involving large numbers of stick figures scrawled over his history books. Mr. Douglas’s algebra textbook was doctored such that none of the examples work out properly, almost always ending in irrational numbers and causing unending laughter during his classes while he stood at the board and stubbornly tried to find his mistake. Even the Headmaster did not go untouched- with the help of a few other students, Erik ransacked the Headmaster’s desk and replaced all the files with blank sheets of paper, as well as draining the ink from his pens and removing the lead from his pencils.
By noon of his last day, the grounds of St. Peter’s were in complete pandemonium. No single student could be caught and punished for a prank simply because each student took the opportunity to have their revenge on their hated teachers. The cafeteria had dissolved into a gigantic food fight, with the kitchen staff barricaded inside and bombarded by everything from mashed potatoes to fried liver and onions from the seiging students.
Even so, at sunset that day, Erik was in the Headmaster’s office, waiting. He’d had his fun, and his revenge, and all that remained was to face the music. He jumped as the door opened and the Headmaster entered.
He walked slowly around to his desk, and collapsed into his throne, his face pale and his eyes sunken back into his head. He looked more like a corpse than the Headmaster, and when he spoke his voice was barely a whisper.
“I cannot help but assume that you began this childish tirade of pranks. Nobody but you would go so far, not with so much to lose. But you, you had nothing- nothing to lose, and nothing to gain. So why not? You’ve had your revenge, and now I get mine.”
He leaned forward, producing a small sheet of paper from within a hidden pocket. “This is the formal notification of your expulsion from St. Peter’s School for Gifted Children. Your parents have already been informed of your disgrace, and will arrive in the morning to retrieve your belongings.”
So long ago, and yet, that one day had had such a profound effect on his life. Lost in thought, he wandered the grounds, remembering the boys that had played under the oak tree, the nightly poker games in the library, the hidden still in the janitor’s closet.
The voice jerked him from his reverie, a wavering shadow of what it had once been, so many long years ago.
“Erik. I didn’t think you would come, not after all these years.”
“Headmaster. I thought you were dead. You weren’t young then, well past your prime, and here I am, old and threadbare.”
The two men moved slowly towards the central building of the school. The Headmaster spoke again.
“After you were expelled, the school lost its reputation. The students stopped coming, and the bills went unpaid. Newer, more liberal institutions opened, and the new generation moved on. We were left, a last vestige of simpler times.”
They went into the tower, ascending the stairs with the slow, ponderous steps of the old, stopping at last before a familiar door. They entered, the Headmaster moving towards his throne, Erik slumping down into the only other chair in the room.
The Headmaster reached down under the desk, pulled out a bottle and two glasses.
“Care for a drink, old friend?”
The two settled in, a conversation beginning. A soft kerosene lamp cast a warm yellow light, fading gently into shadows. They spoke of old friends, students, and where they went with their lives. Outside, St. Peter’s gates swung shut, sheltering them from a world that no longer needed them.
Topic: The Bear takes a creative writing class! (Read 6285 times)
