Blah blah disclamer blah.
When I started righting this, it was supposed to be an introduction to a KisaPOV poem by the name of 'Say Not a Word'. However, having written the first paragraph, it became apparent that this was not going to be the subdued, resentful little passage I sort to set of a rather angsty poem. But I was having such fun righting it that I didn't stop, and a plot soon formed in my head. And so hear it is
I do hope no one is offended by my little description of the class 'hierarchy', it's written purely as fun. However, I've insulted just about everyone that will ever reed it, so I guess it may be a false hope. Oh well.
The Misfortune of Being Me
Countdown
A class is an interesting entity, delicately constructed from many pupils, somehow managing to balance a fragile mix of types and trends. There is a hierarchy, a food chain, whether it is wanted or not. Right up there at the top, the alpha, lounges the ranks of the popular. Girls who are pretty, boys who are cute, people who can play spots and date and predict the flows in the tide of fashion. Directly below them are the ass licking, up sucking, hangers on that want oh so bad to be popular, but somehow, just don't make the grade. Then there's your regular norms, don't stand out much, but more than just the background. They may not command a huge amount of respect, but they survive. Now we begin to approach the primal ooze at the bottom of the pile. First we encounter the geeks: fairly out of it and prone to bizarre obsessions, such as dungeons&dragons, and righting fanfiction. Then right down at the bottom you get the nerds, dregs of the dregs: acne, bad sweaters, and physics books. In the corridors of the school, they have less rights than even the laboratory mice.
So that's it. Nice and tidy. Well, maybe not all that nice, unless you're at the top, but certainly pretty neat. Except...
Oh there's always an except, because clean as you're narrow little theories may be, life never plays by the rules. In fact it's playing a different game all together.
And so at various levels, and, for some reason, slightly to the left and written in biro, are
the WEARDOWS, the outcasts, the social rejects, the freakishly disturbing that that play
poker with tarot cards, and will inevitably grow up to ride motorbikes with skulls on them.
Yer, you know what I'm talking about.
And it is on these that we must now focus. More specifically, it is on ONE of these that we
must now focus. A girl. A small, pretty little girl with tawny blond hair, and eyes that
may, where you desperate to make her seem normal, be call a very light grayish brown. You
may, but you would be lying. They are gold, no two ways about it. What there is also one
and one only way about, is that falls, completely, utterly, and without even a hazy,
indistinguishable shadow of a doubt, right into the category of 'outsider'.
She is Kisa Sohma.
She is also the mental and emotional equivalent of a ticking time-bomb. That is, she looks quietly inconspicuous at first glance, is giving off some audible sign that something is not wright, and, when she goes off, it is going to be hell for those in the blast radius, and dammed obvious for those watching. And she will. Very, very soon.
Observe.
"Look at here eyes" a smirking girl whispered to her friends, just loud enough for our ticking time-bomb to hear. "There not even human. She's not even human"
-tick tick-
"I heard she won't even talk to her mother." One boy hissed.
-tick tick-
"And she trails around that Honda girl that was here last year."
-tick tick-
"Hay, maybe that's why she doesn't like it when boys stair at her. Maybe she's bent."
-tick tick-
"Queer little Sohma, Queer little Sohma" Another girl singsong.
-tick tick-
"-not even human-"
-tick tick-
"-her own mother-"
-tick tick-
"-Queer little Sohma-"
-tick tick boom-
She stood up sharply, knocking her chair backwards with her speed.
"Kisa Sohma" the teacher snapped "What are you doing?"
She said nothing, but trailed her hand across her desk, pushing her book sideways onto the floor.
"Miss Sohma, I asked you to-"
An important point to interject hear is that while a person can, under severe circumstances,go for nearly a year without speaking, they cannot, unless they are completely self-sufficient in every sense of the word, go by with out communicating. And so following this year of silence, Kisa had developed one hell of a glair. Or rather, not so much a glair, as a stair that could convey all the pain and confusion she bottled up inside. And if pain and confusion where alcoholic beverages, Kisa would be an excellent while cellar. This being true, her look stopped the teacher in her tracks.
She turned and subjected the rest of the class. Everything went very quiet. The quiet of a collective that knows the prime-charge has gone off, and are waiting for the big explosion.
Kisa picked up her bag and left without resistance.
The big explosion is imminent. And, like a true blast, people will wake up in the morning wondering what the hell just happened. And probably, by the time Kisa is through, with concussion.
So, what do people think? Was the bomb metaphore over done, cos I wan't sure about it. More importantly, what did you think of the opening pasage?