Pacing, pacing, always pacing. Professor Carmen scratched at his beared, nose scrunched with a childish annoyance. He worked his way up and down the diminished patch of brown carpet in his study, tweaking at the questions that coiled in his mind. Fragments of some darker colour marked his eyes; once vibrant and skylike, now resembling cracked sapphires. They paced themselves, just like his feet, around the room.
There was always some form of inspiration in this room. The walls where covered in old and new paper, maps, poetry, vast calculations that only he could make sense of. The sandy curtains on the window where designed specially to let in just enough light. Across the room from them sat the perfect maroon couch - pillows so thick they could swallow a small child. Originally that had been it's purpose, but there was much trouble getting the worry-wart parents to sign the consent forms.
The best thing in his study would be the antique desk and chair. Made from fine, dark oak, still in good condition. He liked this more than anything else, simple because he enjoyed the feeling of being able to sit on something that was older than himself.
He moved across the room to the history board. A rectangular pinboard above the couch, from which a collection of old newspapers, useless statistics and fading photographs spilled over the edges.
He'd had a good run, but he wasn't out yet.
Never in his life would he allow Professor Maple to take over his class, allow the stench of a coffee-breathed fool to spoil the air, or taint the view of the classroom with that gracelessly bad comb-over.
Why not Mrs. Dane, with her flower obsession, or caretaker Willard, with his knack for making even the murkiest floors shine? Why did it have to be a crackpot old fool?
He sighed desperately and saught a roll of paper from beside his desk, straightening it out with his dry, bony hands.
With large, beautifully curved calligraphy he started to write;
Shaving foam.
Bubble wrap.
Skateboard (preferably disposable).
Safety matches.
Snowmaker.
Bogies.
Soon he would die, he knew that. He couldn't bear the torment his class was to endure.
A slight, youthful grin crossed his face.
He'd have to ensure Professor Maple had transferred by the time he popped his clogs, wouldn't he.
But for writing, I'd strongly suggest you change "itched" to "scratched".
Check out the anime group, won't you? [/shameless plug]