Walking To Class

A Short story about a young woman going to school
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girl walking to school
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It's a beautiful morning! Yeeaah! She thinks to herself as she walks down the street to turn towards the long path to the subway because she is full of too much energy and is impatient to wait for the bus. 

The countless houses she passes, she often wonders about the ones that are not cleaned or seemingly abandoned. There is one particular small building that looks like something mischievous might be going on in there whereas there is another one small looking house that looks like an abandoned school building that must have been through a terrible disaster. 

She hoped to write about it in her Journalism class. She reaches the train station but before she goes to wait for her train to arrive, she gets herself a small breakfast while looking at the time on her watch, 7 am. She smiles.

Riding the train on its long commute, she looks at the advertisements and wonders if she can make it better if it's sexist, vulgar, or just plain dumb. She loves the advertisements with the short poem or drawing that is attached to it.

Turning her head, she has a mere glance at the book a young woman is reading and wonders if her job or life is lacking in the excitement that she chooses such a book to read which makes the child next to her reading a graphic novel seem much maturer.   

As she comes out of the train, walks through the transit system, and looks at the posters as swiftly as she passes them by like the triumphant music in her ear, she imagines herself in a position of strange power with two totes bags, the first one with a New York Times newspaper and a New Yorker magazine and another with her laptop. She wearing a pink long coat with a long black pencil skirt and black long boots with an elegant white blouse. She can be anyone she wants a writer, teacher, an editor, anyone.

She arrives at her college and quickens her pace to her classroom because she was keen to be sitting in the front row as she manages to walk through the crowd of other students that were hanging out in the hallway and others was exchanging the latest gossip of last week's celebration that supposedly did not end well. Her professor who is getting her lecture ready for the day is just another true living and breathing testament of her inspiration.

"Good Morning Ms. Leeman." her teacher looked up at her with a quick smile.

"Good Morning Professor." She quickly sits down and soon the classroom is filled with raucous students looking like stiff grown adults who are not in the slighted interest in Women's Literature.

Suddenly they find themselves engrossed in an arousing story of a woman's suppression and the emotional toll it has on her life, disturbing every humane happiness she could find for a happy ending or the bitterness of teenager puberty developing between brother and sister. The story itself is called The Mill on the Floss and Maggie, the main character is BLEH.

As notebooks were flipped through, the pens clicked while the binders snapped shut as the looseleaf paper was taken out and she happened to come upon a poem that come towards's her mind's eye, so she wrote a short poem as she allowed the exhilaration of discussion drone on over her.

A teeny tiny little witch named Ash Wright sat upon a wooden table with a big alright. THUMP! She clapped her hands and wiggled her fingers, exclaiming "Kuwra, kuwra, tha, tha, tha" as colored smoke, both purple and blue rose up from the ground, she looked up with a childlike wonder into the smoke and imagined a dove, book, a lit candle, and a bottle.

Her things landed themselves on her wooden table with a soft thud and while the lit candle burned, the gentle dove sat on her shoulder, the book opened itself and a spell for transformation sang a song her for this Hallow's Day Eve. For she shall have her day of pleasure at everyone's expense while no one forgave her, for her own plight while she opened the bottle instinctively knowing there to be a nectar of kind as she drank it whole. 

Small you may be, not tall but bright, your hair and lips shall grow darker this very night,

Choose your pleasure him or them,

curse who you might,

your feet will dance with a thunderous beat and your tongue shall sing songs that will fill the air with a delicious fright delight.  

Indulge atop in the wicked and the might while you led the rest astray in a marathon of tease.

As the night wears on, there are no setbacks to your charms as you are as kind as Aphrodite as your game goes on,

turn back time to the '90s and dance to the rhythm is a dancer and pucker your eyes at this is your night to that your blonde hair professor 

and when he is ready, beckon him to kiss your lip and suck the tickle out of his throat,

with your bloodline saturated with vanilla and musk emitting a powdery to ensnare the sense, dipping yourself in a mouth of tongues.  

But be warned time is movable, their minds aroused by your charms will remain intoxicated at a drunken man's mind but you will remain if you pass on the night as the sunrise,

you will not be able to eat a sweet without losing a tooth, close your eyes, your nails will curl if you do not fulfill one child hopeful dream, 

make haste and search for that one child whose sweet dream does not cast your doom.

cherries, milk, cookies and cakes, chocolate and tea with pancakes and eggs, an apple, lemon tart with tiny warm hands behold that child with your steady hand,

make an enchantment that will delight the child's eye,

let not the child follow you after, tell the child no name, the smile alone with eyes wide open is all that is needed to cast the impending curse away.

I am a writer, journal keeper and a believer in many things.

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