Mirrored Magic
folder
Romance › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
6
Views:
991
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Romance › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
6
Views:
991
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
School [] loohcS
Disclaimer: The poem in italics that Elita murmurs is by William Blake, it is entitled The School Boy I do not claim ownership over this poem. It is incomplete here, but can easily be found online if the reader is so interested.
I apologize for the shortness of the first chapter.
* * *
School loohcS
Walking into her class, Elita glanced at the class register and sat down in her assigned seat. The stares and the whispers of the other children flowing through her ears and back out, biting and cruel.
\"I heard that she\'s a witch.\"
\"I wouldn\'t be surprised, look how long her hair is!\"
\"She\'s so weird, do you remember her essay last year?\"
\"I heard she lives with her Aunt, that she\'s an orphan...\"
\"Probably killed her own parents\"
\"Witch.\"
\"She\'s just staring at the window.\"
\"Creepy.\"
\"She is.\"
Every year, it was the same. But Elita wasn\'t bothered, she looked at the other students through her hair, and settled her glance back to the marked wood before her. Reaching out she softly caressed the wood, trailing inconsequential patterns along its laminate surface.
\"Settle down class. Settle.\"
Elita felt a tiny wet ball flick against her hair, reaching behind her she wormed it out of her hair, and dropped the spitball on the floor with indifference. Folding her arms on top of the desk she laid her head on the cool surface, her eyelashes brushing against the words. FAGGOT! She closed her eyes, and walked into her mind.
There surrounded by a field of roses was a swing set, she sat on it and pushed off with both feet, she folded her legs in, and then straightened them out, then in, then out, gaining height as she went along, inhaling the pungent smell surrounding her.
\"Elita...Elita..ELITA!\"
Raising her head slowly, hair still covering most of her face she looked at the redenning face of Mrs. Pickingham. She smiled and sat up straight, nodding her head. Mrs. Pickingham sighed, \"Well, class lets try and make Mr. Blake welcome.
Blake...Blake...
But to go to school in a summer morn, O it drives all joy away! Under a cruel eye outworm, The little ones spend the day In sighing and dismay.
Elita wondered if he looked anything like the poet, she was seated in the front of the class, towards the windows, closest to Mrs. Pickingham\'s desk, a quick dart around the class room showed no new faces. So that must mean, he is in my row.
Ah then at times I drooping sit, And spend many an anxious hour, Nor in my book can I take delight, Nor sit in learning\'s bower Worn through with the dreary shower.
Suddenly realizing that she had been mumbling all the while, she blushed, she heard steady breathing from behind her. So that\'s where he was, she felt prickles on the back of her neck as she felt him lean forward, gently clearing her throat she whispered,
How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring!
\"Elita!\" cried Mrs. Pickingham. \"Please, pay attention.\"
Shaking the hair out of her eyes, she pushed her fingers against the pencil slot and with a soft, patient gaze looked at the frustrated teacher. As soon as the teacher turned, she felt the familiar wetness at the back of her head, reaching out to get it, she froze. He had placed his fingers and weeded out the offensive paper, she didn\'t dare look, but she distinctly heard a swift flick and a muffled yelp. Bringing her hands forward she looked at the clock. Only 5 more minutes till recess, she looked at Mrs. Pickingham\'s large bottom, her eyes sparkled and a soft laugh escaped her lips as she remembered the Roscharch mud splatter.
She heard him shuffle quietly and anticipated his next move. She was about to bend down to get a piece of paper when she felt his finger press against the material on her back. She remebered feeling his hands in her hair and recalled how thin and long his fingers were. Tracing down the cotton, she felt him imprint an h onto her shirt, then an e, then an l, another l.....
Hello Elita.
The bell rang.
The smell of roses lingered.
I apologize for the shortness of the first chapter.
* * *
School loohcS
Walking into her class, Elita glanced at the class register and sat down in her assigned seat. The stares and the whispers of the other children flowing through her ears and back out, biting and cruel.
\"I heard that she\'s a witch.\"
\"I wouldn\'t be surprised, look how long her hair is!\"
\"She\'s so weird, do you remember her essay last year?\"
\"I heard she lives with her Aunt, that she\'s an orphan...\"
\"Probably killed her own parents\"
\"Witch.\"
\"She\'s just staring at the window.\"
\"Creepy.\"
\"She is.\"
Every year, it was the same. But Elita wasn\'t bothered, she looked at the other students through her hair, and settled her glance back to the marked wood before her. Reaching out she softly caressed the wood, trailing inconsequential patterns along its laminate surface.
\"Settle down class. Settle.\"
Elita felt a tiny wet ball flick against her hair, reaching behind her she wormed it out of her hair, and dropped the spitball on the floor with indifference. Folding her arms on top of the desk she laid her head on the cool surface, her eyelashes brushing against the words. FAGGOT! She closed her eyes, and walked into her mind.
There surrounded by a field of roses was a swing set, she sat on it and pushed off with both feet, she folded her legs in, and then straightened them out, then in, then out, gaining height as she went along, inhaling the pungent smell surrounding her.
\"Elita...Elita..ELITA!\"
Raising her head slowly, hair still covering most of her face she looked at the redenning face of Mrs. Pickingham. She smiled and sat up straight, nodding her head. Mrs. Pickingham sighed, \"Well, class lets try and make Mr. Blake welcome.
Blake...Blake...
But to go to school in a summer morn, O it drives all joy away! Under a cruel eye outworm, The little ones spend the day In sighing and dismay.
Elita wondered if he looked anything like the poet, she was seated in the front of the class, towards the windows, closest to Mrs. Pickingham\'s desk, a quick dart around the class room showed no new faces. So that must mean, he is in my row.
Ah then at times I drooping sit, And spend many an anxious hour, Nor in my book can I take delight, Nor sit in learning\'s bower Worn through with the dreary shower.
Suddenly realizing that she had been mumbling all the while, she blushed, she heard steady breathing from behind her. So that\'s where he was, she felt prickles on the back of her neck as she felt him lean forward, gently clearing her throat she whispered,
How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring!
\"Elita!\" cried Mrs. Pickingham. \"Please, pay attention.\"
Shaking the hair out of her eyes, she pushed her fingers against the pencil slot and with a soft, patient gaze looked at the frustrated teacher. As soon as the teacher turned, she felt the familiar wetness at the back of her head, reaching out to get it, she froze. He had placed his fingers and weeded out the offensive paper, she didn\'t dare look, but she distinctly heard a swift flick and a muffled yelp. Bringing her hands forward she looked at the clock. Only 5 more minutes till recess, she looked at Mrs. Pickingham\'s large bottom, her eyes sparkled and a soft laugh escaped her lips as she remembered the Roscharch mud splatter.
She heard him shuffle quietly and anticipated his next move. She was about to bend down to get a piece of paper when she felt his finger press against the material on her back. She remebered feeling his hands in her hair and recalled how thin and long his fingers were. Tracing down the cotton, she felt him imprint an h onto her shirt, then an e, then an l, another l.....
Hello Elita.
The bell rang.
The smell of roses lingered.