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 Posted: Mon Jan 03, 2011 10:58 pm
Stories, happenings and whatevers will be posted randomly on this page. For reference/clarity, they are arranged in this post on the first page.
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Posted: Mon Jan 03, 2011 11:12 pm
✶ A C A D E M I C _ ( M I S ) A D V E N T U R E S
...part I
"Everyone, take out yesterday's homework problems, and be ready to solve one on the board if I call on you."
In his life up to this point, Zoran had never heard so many words he dreaded crammed together in one sentence. It had to be a record or something.
The usual rustling and shuffling of papers filled the classroom. Reluctantly, Zoran fished around in his bag, pulling out a sad-looking, wrinkled piece of paper that might have passed as a napkin of some sort. He sat looking down at it for a moment. One problem-- solved with a stranger's help, as he vaguely recalled-- stated quite confidently that x=3.
Except for a shaky pencil sketch of a Seviper being tied in a knot, the rest of the paper was blank.
Zoran slid down further in his seat, blowing air out of his cheeks. At the front of the room, the teacher stood by the whiteboard, glancing around for potential victims. It was time for desperate evasion tactics.
He hunched forwards over his desk, making himself as compact as his bulky, six-foot-one stature could possibly allow. Unfortunately, this evasion tactic was bound to fail if the person sitting in front of you was a skinny, four-foot-nine excuse of a Sudowoodo. It was, for all purposes, a very small mountain hiding behind a twig. And it was utterly ineffective.
"Let's see.... Mr. Dumas? Problem #5, please."
The Zangoose got slowly to his feet, his insides having suddenly solidified into lead. If he hadn't been trying to change himself, he'd have made a mental note to pound the crap out of that Sudowoodo kid later.
The march up to the whiteboard was unbearable. It felt like every gaze was trained on his back, every whisper a sneering jab at his inabilities. He was clutching his homework sheet, wondering through a haze why he'd even brought it, since question #5 was utterly blank. The hell's wrong with you? You've walked up to a one-on-one fight to the death, marched into a prison cell without blinking. Why can't you walk to a damn whiteboard and figure some stupid math problem?
His back appeared calm, solidly imposing, to the class as he faced the board. But Zoran's fingers shook as he uncapped the marker, copying out the problem as slowly-- and as drawn out-- as he could.
(cont. in part II)
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Posted: Mon Jan 03, 2011 11:22 pm
✶ A C A D E M I C _ ( M I S ) A D V E N T U R E S
...part II
#5)
6x - 2 + 2x = -2 + 4x + 8
He took a step back, the edges of his vision swimming, and stared blankly at what he'd written.
Do..... to both sides? Subtract.... 6? Why were there three x's?
It was no use. Nothing was coming to him. Still as stupid, as incapable as ever. Zoran clenched his jaw, feeling heat rising to his face as the whispers and titters grew louder behind him. Why....... why couldn't he do this? Was he destined to give up, after all, despite all he'd been telling himself...?
"Factor out 2 from both sides," said a soft voice, barely a whisper, to the right of him.
The Zangoose gave a start, jolted out of his self-loathing. He glanced to the side, and nearly dropped the marker in surprise. The teacher was whispering the words out of the corner of her mouth, though her eyes remained trained on the class.
"All of those units can be divided by 2. Factor it out, and put what's left in parentheses after it." Zoran paused, highly uncomfortable, unsure of how to deal with this strange situation. Still.....
Turning back to the board, he slowly began to work out the problem. Factor.... 2 from everything. Looks like I got a 2 now on both sides.... divide 'em? Do to both sides, what you do to one......
10 minutes later, the class murmured softly amongst themselves. Zoran stood, an almost comical look of surprise on his face as he stared at his handiwork-- a long column of messily scrawled numbers, nonetheless followed by a clear, definite conclusion. X was equal to 2.
"Good," said the teacher-- whom he now noticed to have very, very blue eyes-- and smiled.
The Zangoose could barely manage a brief jerk of his head, a muttered reply... then, a hasty retreat back to his desk. Once there, still in shock over what he'd accomplished, Zoran managed a glance from around Sudowoodo boy's head. The teacher had drawn a star by his problem, then turned to face the class with another smile. "Next, problem 6. How 'bout you...... miss McFarlan?"
A.... strange woman, this teacher was. He'd never even noticed it.
(cont. in part III)
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Posted: Wed Jan 05, 2011 12:41 am
✶ A C A D E M I C _ ( M I S ) A D V E N T U R E S
...part III
Lunch was probably the high point of any given schoolday. Zoran didn't even mind his usual fate of sitting alone; all the companionship he needed came in the form of his brown lunch bag.
He sliced the bread in two, bandaged fingers awkwardly handling the knife. Next came a scoop of mayonnaise, double slices of tomato and pickle, and a carefully folded square of ham. Zoran wasn't bad at making lunches. When he was young, too young to fight, he'd been delegated to meal duty for the rest of the gang. Nothing fancy-- he hadn't the slightest how to baste or bake or what Pancetta was-- but boy, could he make a killer BLT. They'd sometimes jokingly called him "the sandwich prince."
The Zangoose's lips twitched as he patted down the second bread slice. Then, the finishing touch: a fine layer of honey, spread lightly on top. Zoran capped the jar with a pop, and sat back to scrutinize his work.
"That looks good," said a voice from nearby.
His head jerked upwards. The teacher from earlier, a slight Dragonair, slid into the spot across from him. "Mind if I sit here?" She smiled serenely at his expression, and without waiting for a response, set her lunch tray down before her. "No time to make lunches in the morning," she said lightly, misinterpreting his death-stare as one of curiosity. "Cafeteria food's grody, but beats teaching on an empty stomach. I'd much rather have that sandwich of yours." She took a bite out of a mysterious-looking taco, and shuddered.
Through this monologue, Zoran had sat as stonily as a Graveler. It wasn't often (if ever) that he had company during school. It was even less often (if ever) that said company was a teacher. In the Zangoose's mind, any sort of conversation with a teacher was synonymous with "You are in deep, deep s**t, son."
"I ain't done anything," said Zoran stiffly, sitting back from his sandwich.
"Mmmh?" The teacher looked at him, taco halfway to her mouth.
"You gonna chew me out or something?"
"Only thing I'm chewing is this guacamole, though the fact that I'm even doing so makes me nervous. Why?"
Zoran eyed the woman suspiciously, but fell silent nonetheless. She swallowed her bite, then smiled. "Eat your lunch. Or I'll do it for you."
He hesitated, but seeing the woman continue her meal peacefully, picked up his sandwich. For a time, student and teacher ate in silence, the former much more rigidly so. It was a strange feeling, Zoran considered as he munched, to be joined for lunch. It was even a little lonely. He remembered the meals he'd had as a kid, sitting and joking with the gang around a bubbling hot pot.
"...Why'd you help me? At the board, earlier."
The teacher looked up. Zoran's eyes were fixed doggedly upon the table as he ate. "I don't need help. Or anyone feelin' sorry for me."
"I didn't think you needed those, either," said the woman, and Zoran looked up, to meet a very blue, thoughtful gaze. "There's a difference... you know. Between you and many other students. And no, it's not intellectual aptitude," she added with a smile, as he gave a derisive snort.
"You try hard, no matter how much you want to hide it. And don't think anyone can't see it," the teacher tilted her head, seeing his frown. "You seem to think yourself a failure-- but really, sometimes all you need is a little push in the right direction. I proved that myself earlier, didn't I?" She crossed her arms with a laugh, and Zoran stared sullenly down at his half-eaten sandwich, at a loss for words.
"As for pitying you... I don't think you're the type of guy that'll let anybody do so." She grinned and downed the rest of her coffee, then sat back with a leisurely stretch. "Don't get discouraged. All you need is practice and persistence, and from what I see you have plenty of the latter. Just practice, and practice... and do your damn homework once in a while, OK?"
The teacher stood gracefully with her tray, brushing crumbs off her skirt. For some curious reason, the muscles in Zoran's legs propelled him to do the same, and he did so, with a minimal amount of fumbling. "Well then. Enjoy the rest of your enviable sandwich," the Dragonair smiled pleasantly from across him. The Zangoose, standing with a straightness that would make Sudowoodo boy proud, could only manage the jerkiest of nods.
As she left, Zoran could only stare bemusedly into the distance. He'd just been lectured, he realized, as was expected. But this time, somehow... it wasn't too bad of a feeling.
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Posted: Thu Jan 06, 2011 2:53 pm
✶ things remembered
...1
When he was young, everything in life had revolved around winning.
His gang, his brothers, filled his head with talk and schemes of nothing else, and Zoran grew up knowing but a single mantra: "Crush the Serpents." He would stand on tiptoes by the window, watching through fervent eyes as his brothers trooped into the night, whooping and hollering their war-cries. Come dawn, he'd blearily rush to the main room, eyes widening in excitement as the men returned-- ragged and blood-splattered, elated.
"Did we win?! Did we beat 'em?!"
The leader would turn with a fanged grin, clapping a hand firmly upon his head. "'Course, son. Mongooses never lose. Never will."
There were times when this wasn't the case, he would learn. But those were times to be forgotten, to be left without a backward glance. What mattered were the victories, the fists raised in unison, the bloody, triumphant dawns.
Zoran had a friend back then. An acquaintance, rather. He was older, one of the regular fighters, but he'd often talk and hang around with the young Zangoose. His name was Petros, and as far as Zoran could remember, he was a nice sort of guy. He'd tell the boy thrilling stories of clashes with the Serpents late into the night, and taught him how to whittle knives out of wood. He'd been a particularly avid fan of Zoran's sandwiches, appearing mysteriously with a grin whenever the boy popped open a jar of mayo.
It had been a long, particularly harsh winter. Zoran remembered that snowy night-- the men were out, hunting Serpents that had stolen from their dwindling food shed. Only Petros remained at base, due to sickness. They'd been sitting in silence, warming as best they could by the small fire, when the man suddenly spoke. Zoran still remembered that look, that strange, sad, feverish look in the man's eyes as he stared into the fire and said, "Is this all there is to living?"
Time passed, life continued, but Petros was never quite the same. Zoran quietly observed the man's silence, the ceasing of his smiles and his jokes, his lack of appetite even for the boy's mayo-tuna sandwiches. He continued to fight alongside the gang, to return at daybreak, bruised and battered-- but there was none of the joy, the euphoria of victory that the other brothers wore on their faces. There was only sadness. But why? Zoran could simply not understand.
It was a night like any other, and the men were preparing to head out. Zoran darted here and there, polishing weaponry, finding spare boots, watching in wistfulness. What he'd give to be big already, big enough to fight! The boy hung onto the doorframe, watching until the men's backs faded into the darkness, Petros among them. He remembered feeling a little strange. Somehow, this time, preparations had been quieter, the looks upon his brothers' faces oddly closed.
They returned shortly after midnight. Zoran jolted awake, groggy and confused; he had been expecting a dawn return as always. Dashing into the main room, the boy grinned, seeing his brothers file in one by one. The leader followed up the rear, closing the door behind him; bright red prints shone on the wood in the dim firelight.
Zoran's eyes fell eagerly to the man's hands, smeared and flecked with blood. "We won again, din't we! How many Serpents this time, leader?!"
His brothers filed past, none of them quite meeting his eyes. Zoran fell silent. The leader had only looked at him, taking a long drag on his cigarette. He looked, and smoked, and finally clapped Zoran hard on the shoulder. "No Serpents this time, boy. Only Petros. The man'd gone crazy. Talkin' for ages 'bout quittin' this life, leavin' us all. Turning 'imself in to the goddamn Serpents and makin' peace. Was about to do it, too, near killed us all-- but we got 'im first."
He clapped Zoran once more on the shoulder, then moved past, leaving the boy standing in silence.
Noone spoke of Petros from that day onward. Zoran didn't either. But he often thought about the man he'd once known, who had told him stories and brought him tiny carvings of birds. Was he happy now, whereever he was? Zoran still didn't quite understand. But he had begun to figure, a little, that maybe war wasn't always just about winning or losing.
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