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Dead Poets Society



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Tue Oct 25, 2016 12:27 am
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Audy says...



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This is Not Your Lit Teacher's Storybook...



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It is a simple concept. Dead poets rise again in real life modern times to attend the most prestigious poetry academy and battle it out for a chance at the Pulitzer. Think William Shakespeare meets Dylan Thomas meets Sylvia Plath - romances, shenanigans, and murder mystery unraveling just in time for the Homecoming ball.

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Benvenuto a Firenze...


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This is your campus.

Behold, the grand city of Florence, where you were accepted into the Accademia Firenze, school for musicians and poets, where the days are long and the nights enchanting. The time is now 7:13 sunrising. First years orientation ceremony begins in less than an hour.

You. You feel a wave of nausea as a distant bell calls out to you. There's something inside of you. Some kind of dead poet who longs to wake into this world. Begin your reincarnation by copying the below information and filling it out on the right side column so that you may breathe his or her life upon this world.

Code: Select all
Note: A yearbook photo will be taken for you during orientation, or you can choose your own image to turn in.

[b]Name:[/b] {Must be a Dead Poet}
[b]Year:[/b] 1st year: you're 15. 2nd year: you're 16. 3rd year/final year: you're 17 a legal adult in Italy.
[b]Label:[/b] See the examples below. Pick a One to three word Highschool Click descriptor that you feel best goes with your given poet, you may exaggerate or be historically inaccurate, it's okay. Examples: Emo orphan child, Energetic TypeA Perfectionist, Cool laidback drummer.
[b]Physical Description:[/b] What do you look like? What color is your backpack? What kind of items do you carry in it?
[b]Personality:[/b] Here you can be more in depth than your label.
[b]Background:[/b] Feel free to go based on history, or invent your own. You want Shakespeare to grow up around abusive parents who divorced when he was three? That's fine! Be creative.
[b]Character Flaws:[/b]
[b]List your Interests (other than poetry) and any clubs you May Join/Have Already Joined:[/b]
[b]Up for romance?[/b]
[b]Up for friendships?[/b]
[b]Up for enemies?[/b]
[b]Other[/b]: Anything else you can think of!


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A Box of Old Photostills Sits Upon Your Desk...



You open the box and peer inside. Who wrote these?

Spoiler! :

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Tue Nov 01, 2016 3:47 am
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Audy says...



Arc 1

Florence and Beginnings

Walt

Whenever I come back to Florence, it is as though every joint and sinew of my body simmers with an electricity; and from this, I know I am where I'm meant to be.

Here, the sun strikes my beard, and the effect of its warmth is not unlike the spirit of Picasso himself, his whisper-breath descending over each of my hair follicles and thawing from them, my soul. What can I say? The spirits come alive in Florence, and I have grown to come alive here as well, whistling as I traipse down cobblestone streets.

I make my seasoned way through the narrow crooks and alleyways, past the rich smells of leaven loafs of the panetterias and the colorful displays of Regoli's, and in a matter of a morning, I arrive at the gates of the Accademia Firenze. I stroll past the elaborate fountains of the common square, where a group of second years stood hooting and daring at each other to jump into the fountain's waters. I give a wave of my hat in support for this plan, and then find my way to the edge of the woods at the top of the hill.

I am still early, I know it, but a part of me wishes to gaze down from the oak upon the hill at the giddy first-years yet arriving— one in particular catches my eye, as he seemed a rather remarkable, beautiful fellow with a long, chiseled nose and dressed in all manners of silks and sunset colors. He seemed to carry with him a freight's worth of baggages and was having trouble directing his entourage through the labor of hauling it.

Oh my captain, I will have to room with one of them this year, that is going to be an interesting time.

If I can talk to one or two of them and recruit for the Weekly. Eliot did a disservice, after he graduated and left the rest of us behind with me as Editor-in-Chief. Why me, and not Ernest? I never understood the man. And now he has left, and I shall never again have the chance.

"Walt!" A familiar voice breaks me out of my reverie. "Get down from there! You're going to fall and break your neck."

To my chagrin, the voice belonged to none other than Eliza. She was seated at the base of the tree with a book and strange dried roots in her hands. I was going to ask her what she was doing with that, but I did not want to stress her out, as I could see she meant the command as a kindness towards me, so I ambled my way down obediently, stray leaves and pine cones trailing after.

"Walt! Eliza screeched. She had to jump up from her spot as the leaves fell in her long, wavy hair.

"No need to fret Eliza, the earth is a part of you as you are a part of it. Embrace the blessing of the earth!"

"Ugh!"

This year will be different, I say to myself, smiling. This year, I will aim to be a completely new, and improved Walt.





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Thu Nov 03, 2016 5:11 pm
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StellaThomas says...



Oscar Wilde

Ah, Northern Italy. Its rolling hills and terracotta roofs are just about the only type of countryside I can handle without dying of boredom. And here, the beautiful Firenze, nestled in the middle of it all, the bright river and yellow buildings, so inviting, so warm.

I stroll through the courtyard of the Academy, picking out the characters I see there. One particular fellow, with a well-appointed beard, looks my way and I must say I am quite stricken by his gaze. I must investigate as to his identity later on. For now, I direct the men I hired through the gates and follow the instructions on my welcome letter to the rooms that I rented for the year. Originally they wanted me to have a roommate - a bedfellow! I hardly could think of anything more dreadful. No, instead I chose the best room I could find from the limited options, and hope it is just roomy enough.

(that is, that there is enough space, not that it feels enough like a room. What does it take for something to feel like a room? I would have thought four walls and a ceiling were enough. Although you cannot discount triangular rooms. Or conservatories. But then, triangular rooms are a preposterous notions, and who ever does count conservatories?)

My rooms are adequately proportioned. The men from the station leave my belongings - four trunks only - down and I am left, for the first time, alone.

The first thing I do is check the mirror and - yes, I am still as handsome as I was when I boarded the train in Paris. Excellent.

Then I turn to the trunks, and am unsure what do do next. I flap my arms. (Nothing happens).

I mean, I assume that the school will be providing valets? Not that I need someone to dress me - being dressed by someone is so passé these days - but it is important to have a man who knows his way around a trouser press. Or am I expected to sort that by myself as well?

No. Surely not. This is meant to be a place of good standing.

But still, after ten minutes, nothing happens. I unlock my first trunk, and toke out a few books and set them on my drab little nightstand, then find, wrapped in tissue paper, a wonderful lamp of blown Murano glass that I bought for this occasion, which I set up. Then I unpack my ties and cravats.

That leaves me thoroughly exhausted. I can't go on like this.

I pat my breast pocket - for therein lie my precious cigars - and go out to have a smoke. After all, I'm here to have fun.
"Stella. You were in my dream the other night. And everyone called you Princess." -Lauren2010





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Lumi says...



e.e. cummings

"And thou, O LORD, art a shield for me!"

Dad's sermons were always boring.

"My GLORY! And the LIFTER! Of! My! HEAD!"

But the flappers by the podium certainly made things more interesting. Edward smiled to one, and she winked, shook her hips in his direction, and became a duck that immediately flapped onto his place in the pew with his sister, covering him in feathers and bites and QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK--

--dammit, he realized, it's my alarm.

The groggy teen fumbled with the contraption, smacking its bells around and wondering where the blazes the true quacking sound came from--until he realized that, in fact, it was not his alarm, but a duck below his window sill that had set up camp by a loaf of rye bread that had fallen from his pantry overnight.

"Go! Get!" He huffed and shrugged on a sweatshirt and cigarette at the same time, stylishly, and mumbled something egregious about 'the goddamned French with their goddamned ducks.'

As he grabbed a piece of bread from the grass below the window, a giggle startled him. Her name was Silver-something, a second-year, and she was...gifted. "Isn't it a bit early in the year to be eating off the ground, Edward?"

Ed grinned and shrugged, leaning on the window sill. "I gotta work on catching something before physical exams come up, right? May as well start with a bang."

Silver-something quietly hummed as she left him; but her haste made him realize how late he was running. In fact, if it weren't for the duck, which at this point he was sure had pissed on the bread as well, he'd still be chin-deep in church flappers.

And oddly enough, he was okay with that notion.

He grabbed a half-empty messenger bag from the floor and a lighter from the window sill and stuffed his hands in his pockets for a leisurely stroll to the oft-worshiped campus. He quietly wondered if Dante The Hardass had softened up any over the break.

He was willing to bet six layers of hell he hadn't.
I am a forest fire and an ocean, and I will burn you just as much
as I will drown everything you have inside.
-Shinji Moon


I am the property of Rydia, please return me to her ship.





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Virgil says...



Jack Kerouac

It always confused me how stories started. In the middle of a life or right before an event that is deemed important. The characters are born into the story, just like that. Without warning, and with little trace of who they were before. Why doesn't the story start when they're born? I guess it's only a snapshot in a roll of film and they say that one picture equals one thousand words and I don't know why I haven't changed my hobby to photography.

I am born in front of the Accademia Firenze gates. The sun spreads across my broad shoulders and I add to the flood of bodies that are waiting for the gates to open. I'm just waiting for them to swing open again. I stand in the back and examine the new faces and I let the energy of the new school year travel through me like it is electricity.

There is a divide of space in-between the bodies. The third years--the few amount of them, are gathered at the back, while the first years seem to already have limbs through the gates. And I am stuck inbetween their teeth with the rest of the second years. The gates open and everyone disperses to do their own thing. I walk the stone tiles like they are a tightrope, placing one foot in front of the other, the weight shifts back and forth.

I lean against the wall of a building and watch the people talk. My ears hone in on their conversations and I study them. I close my eyes and try to tell where they the noises are coming from. And this whole year I'll be trying to understand where people are coming from. I drift like the leaves and I will fall to the ground all the same.

"Scoping out the boys and the girls, eh?" Eddie asks, holding out a cigarette. I take it and he lights it inbetween my two fingers. He picks up an orange leaf from the ground and holds it by the thin stem, letting the small flame of his lighter envelope it. Eat away at it.

"Yeah." I say, because I know he won't accept another answer. "Thanks." I say, inhaling the smoke and let it manifest in my lungs.

"We all need it. My pack's almost gone because of this, I feel like a charity." he shakes the pack that he's been passing out. Just like him.

"You are a charity." the bottom half of my face breaks into a smile and he leaves with the wind.

Homer rings the large bell that sits in the middle of the open area and I am reborn. The same bell that I heard for the first time last year. He shouts, "To the auditorium!" in a loud voice. The auditorium happens to be a room with no roof with a large set of stone seats that sit in neat rows. The flood of bodies are like a river flow that can't be fought and I enter the auditorium and sit down. I watch everyone else file into the room where the only roof is the sky. I silence the cigarette underneath my heel like the crowd does; in a slow simmer until the noise amounts to nothing.

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TheSilverFox says...



Pablo Neruda: Yo quiero ir a la Accademia Firenze

This was indeed all foreign to him, yet marvelous in its own charming fashion. The city screamed of age and beauty in its terracotta roofs and closely-packed houses through which small alleyways and roads provided a rustic charm. It smelled of cooked bread and seasoned wines that added to the general sensation of antique charm in the city of Firenze. As the taxi drove through marginally quiet roads and squeezed its way between countless cars, it was hard for Pablo to look out the window without being awed. He didn’t know exactly where he was, couldn’t speak the language of the land, and was a fish out of his Cuban sea, but there was the prospect that would be staying here for the next couple of years that was inviting. Then he could learn of the true nature of this city, memorize its nature and mannerisms as one would to an old friend, and have his own adventures with his fellow students.

First, of course, he had to make it to campus.

The voyage had been rather dreadful and lengthy, and storms had provided a few delays around Gibraltar. He was concerned that he hadn’t made it in time for opening ceremonies, and had paid the taxi driver a little extra to head as fast as he could to the address stamped within the contents of the last letter his parents had sent him. They had been kind enough to assist him in that regard, although he’d already had the location of the school memorized in his mind. If he was going to have a new life, he had decided it would be the utmost importance to figure out where it would be.

Thankfully, by the time the green taxi screeched to a halt in front of the wide iron gates of the Accademia Firenze, those said gates, framed by imposing and tall brick walls, were only beginning to open. Now, a crowd of students poured in to the academy’s imposing courtyard, of which Pablo knew he would have to wait a brief amount of time before seeing. Ricardo gave the driver a tip, kicked open the door, and lugged his suitcases out of the back. Rushing to the best of his abilities, he dragged the suitcases onto the sidewalk, upon which the driver departed.

And then, while pulling the wheeled suitcases (although one had the typical faulty wheel that made it more inconvenient to drag along), Ricardo couldn’t help but smile as he walked into the imposing and grand academy courtyard. A beautiful fountain with elaborate statue carvings formed the center of the expansive space, with stone paths extending in the cardinal directions from it. Grassy fields coated much of the area, with a few hills and trees scattered about among them, and was fringed by magnificent and towering Baroque buildings. There appeared to be an open auditorium with stone seats to Pablo’s far left, which the boy surmised was likely going to be a place he would visit soon.

Now he walked in and amongst a crowd of various students walking about and enjoying themselves. Some of the older students seemed to be trying to dare each other to jump into what was probably cold fountain water, and were supported by the wave of a hat from a tall man with a large beard. The latter was a striking and interesting character, and Pablo watched as he made his way towards one of the campus’s hills. They’d probably meet each other at some time or another, as Pablo had a feeling that he would probably get to know all of the students in the area, thanks to there not being that many.

In the meantime, Ricardo directed himself and his luggage towards one of the structures. It was the rigid and newer-looking of the ones in the area, and he had to guess it was where the students’ rooms were. In the process, he had to catch up to a flamboyantly dressed, colorful man with an entourage that was attempting to carry and organize his absurdly large amount of baggage. That seemed to be rather the challenge, as there was four large trunks to be carried, and the entourage was having a hard time picking it up and carrying it. Whoever this individual was, and why in the world he this was this meticulous, he was nevertheless outpaced by one kid with a couple of suitcases. Pablo ignored what felt like a pair of eyes boring into the back of his head.

The teen opened the main entrance and entered a small, quiet lobby. There was no individual at the receptionists desk, and an ornate fresco marked the ceiling. A few doors to the front and sides doubtlessly led to the some of the rooms and services of the complex. Walking across the polished floors, Pablo made his way towards the elevator, with the key to his room, sent by the academy when his request had been accepted, in his hands. He had resolved to exit the area before the flamboyant man made an effort to have all his items lugged into the small space, which would prove rather tenuous and difficult, and now was stuck listening to boring elevator music before arriving the 2nd floor.

From there, it was a simple walk across a narrow hallway with a green rug extending its entire length, polished hardwood floors, and columns halfway between each two doors on each side of the space. Light filtered in from a window on the other end of the long hallway, as did small windows from each of the rooms, which cast their own faint light upon the space. Clearly, some people had been here before him, as sounds emanated from some spaces, and a few of the windows had shutters over them. Pablo looked at the key in his hand and made his way towards the room with the same key number etched in a small plaque by the entrance. He’d had to share this space, as the cost to get his own room would be too substantial for him and his family. Now there was only the hope that this other fellow was decent and respectable.

The boy opened the door, and found a quaint room. There was a bunk bed in the far corner, a cabinet against one wall, a desk with a lamp beside it, another desk and lamp against a second wall (upon both of which were two odd-looking boxes, but Ricardo resolved to look at those later), and a bathroom to the far right. Blinds covered the window, and it was evident that there wasn’t anybody in the area. The top bunk, however, did seem to have a gray-blue bag on it, and one of the desks had pencils, paper, an iPod, and a camera. The roommate must’ve unpacked their belongings and left the area to go exploring or something to that extent.

As Pablo set his suitcases beside the bottom bunk, he felt the urge to do the same. So, it was only fitting that, at that moment, a large bell sounded. Realizing that he now likely had to go to the open auditorium, as that seemed the best place for a meeting to occur, Pablo unlocked the door, slipped the key in his pocket, and ran out into the new world he'd found himself in.

Not a bad first day so far.
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
a persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo
non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero,
senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Inferno, Canto 27, l 61-66.





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Tue Nov 15, 2016 8:52 pm
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EverStorm says...



Elizabeth Browning
As I wave goodbye to Walt, I think about my room. I haven’t unpacked yet, I think. I push myself up to begin the pleasant walk back to my dormitory. The dried leaves and herbs fall to the ground, and I scoop them up in my hands. These would be important for my Natural Science class. I think of my previous years, my schooling and how much I always tried to be in my teacher’s good graces. All the work feels worth it. I’m finally able to relax and know that I’ll get high marks.

As I walk, I pass by Mr. Tolkien. I smile pleasantly. He has always been kind to me, and I always looked forward to seeing him. But now, I can’t stop and talk.

“Ms. Browning!” He calls to me. I turn around. I smile, but it’s only because I want him to hurry. I really need to get back to my room.

“Hello, Mr. Tolkien, how are you?” I say.

“Fine, fine,” He says, “But there has been a slight change in your dormitory situation.” I narrow my eyes, internally cringing.

“What do you mean, sir?” I force myself to say. I already know the answer though.

“You now have a roommate.” He pulls out a slip of paper from his coat pocket, “Actually, two roommates.” I take the paper from him and quickly read it. So, not only do I have two roommates, they are a first and a second year. Great.

“Thank you, Mr. Tolkien.” I turn from him and make my way, slowly, back to my dorm. I can’t even feel the sun’s warmth anymore. It’s just bright. Of course this had to happen, just when I was starting to think that this year would be fun. Now, it would be just another year I couldn’t wait to be done with.

I push open the door to my dorm, and am greeted by a small, smiley girl, who looks to be a few years younger than me. The first year, I assumed.

“Emma?” I say, dryly. She jumps up off her bed and looks up at me.

“Hi, yeah, I’m Emma,” She chirps, a little too quickly, as she stumbles over her words a bit. “You must be Elizabeth!”

“Yes.” I say, feeling rather short tempered. I watch as her face falls. She looks remarkably like my little sister, and seeing that resemblance, my annoyance starts to waver. “Are you excited to be at school?” I say.

“Oh, yes, I am.” She says, happily, but not quite as excited as before. “But I’m worried. I really want to do well, but I’ve never really been able to.” I look over at her bed and desk and laugh.

“Here, let me help you. The first key is to be organized.” I say as I pick up her textbooks off the floor and put them on her desk. Maybe this year wouldn’t be so bad after all.





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Brigadier says...



Ernest Hemingway

Back again for another year at this weird poetry school. Most of the seniors are upset about it being their final year in the magical school where all forms of poetry existed and nobody judged. Truth is everybody judged everybody’s poetry and we all knew it but tried to ignore it. They’re talking about missing the teachers and missing the classes, when in fact most of them are referring to the mad parties and the fun accompanied by them.
I admit it will be different not to go Homer’s PE class and his part in the ROTC club. Hopefully someone else will join that this year so I won’t be completely alone. It’s doubtful considering I’m the only one who consistently goes to the gym and doesn’t forge a note or pay off a doctor or something else highly illegal. One teacher and one student can only go so far for a club.

I continued to unpack my bags and think about all of the things that had happened in the previous year and how I didn’t want most of them to repeat. There was a lot of illegal activities going on last year. The staff replied to the parents’ concerned letters with “We’ll take care of it.” So with that safety message in mind, most everyone let their kids return to this school, whether it was for their education or their parents just wanted to get rid of them.
Ha. Half the teachers here probably do drugs do get through the school year.

Everything in my trunk was carefully folded and stacked, went into the chest of drawers looking that way, and would hopefully remain in this manner for at least the first two weeks. The room was clean for once, there were no beer or whiskey bottles littering the floor, and some cleaning person must have set off can after can of air freshener to get the smoke out of the room. I don’t know how they managed to get the smoke out of the curtains but I was certainly glad the whole place wasn’t quite a smoking lounge yet, there was an entire year ahead of us for that.

I was alone in these thoughts and unpacking until the door slammed shut behind me by my most likely high roommate. I turned to find Walt surprisingly sober, dragging his trunk though the door and then running over his foot. He stood there for a moment, shaking the leaves off of his coat and removing the dust from his hair. I had a lot of questions in mind for him but just in case he wasn’t sober, I started with the simplest one.
“Climbing trees again Walt?”
“You know, I heard that one of the new guys, is hosting a poker party on Saturday.”
And that answers your question Ernest, I thought while deciding the best way to go about the stream of possibilities for advancing this conversation.
“Walt, we’ve been back for five minutes. How did you manage to find out about a poker game?”
Instead of answering, he continued to slide his trunk carefully across the room, before flopping down on the bed. I swear he sat there for maybe five seconds before deciding to do something else entirely.
This Walt, this is why I was trying to get a new roommate this year. Not over some petty feud about chief editor of the Weekly.

I sighed at the leaves sitting in a pile by the door and forced myself to grab a broom and dust pan from the janitor’s closet down the hall. I came back and Walt was searching for something. Instead of saying anything, I just swept up the leaves and placed them in a trash can.
“You know what Walt. It would be nice if swept up your own leaves once and awhile. Or at least told me who told you about the poker game.”
He either didn’t hear me or was too considered by the multiple injuries sustained from climbing trees and running over his foot with his own trunk. I stood there for awhile, broom and dustpan in my hands, just waiting for him to say something.

“I have my ways Ern. The most important thing is to keep connected. To the ways of the universe and the breath of our souls and the gossips of the school. Business as usual.”
“Hmm. Business as usual. I don’t do poker parties. And don’t call me Ern.”
“Yes you do. You just complain about the atmosphere. I don’t see why the emotions bother you.”
“When I say atmosphere, I mean the literal atmosphere, of which none exists. It’s getting shut up in a little room filled with smoke and the scent of coffee and spilled liquor. Not my idea of fun.”

He moved one of the side tables into the middle of the room and took a basket from his trunk. He continued to search through the bin, which is so organized it might as well be a black hole. Finally I heard an ‘Aha’ before a large, heavy potato sack was thrown at me.
“Why are you throwing potatoes at me?”
“Apples.”
“What?”
“I’m throwing apples at you, not potatoes.”

He took the apples from me and sat half the bag of them on the table. Arranging them carefully in the little wooden basket, he then took the other half of the sac and hid it behind the curtains.
“There, now we’re ready for company.”
I had to laugh at this because when were we going to get any company?
“Yes we are Walt, yes we are. You know we should probably get a move on to watch the new students go through orientation. And get all the information possible on the poker game.”
“Ah I knew you’d want to come.”

I stepped back to my trunk and chest of drawers, before closing the lid and grabbing my bag. I made sure I had a key this time, not wanting to repeat last year’s ‘1 Key Fiasco’. We started walking out, made it to the courtyard and the whole time Walt was talking. Those 15 minutes are all a bit of a blur to me, had to block them out when I blocked out Walt.

The courtyard was full of first and second years scurrying back and forth, trying to either adapt to the school life. Or for the second years, trying to get used to this madhouse once again after living with those of the normal society for a few months. I admit the variety of leaves of different colors did remind me of the cabin and my home. We nearly got run over by student after student but seniors don’t really care at this point in their high school career. Now it was just time to try and make it to the opening speech.
Walt took a cigarette from his pack, started to light it and then looked at me before snapping the lid on his lighter.
“What? Just because you don’t like smoke, I’m not aloud to smoke suddenly?”
“At least we’re outside.”
He took the lighter back out of his pocket and proceeded with the previous task.
“Cheer up Ern. This is going to be a great school year.”
No, this was going to be a long school year.

the brigadier rides again!
LMS VI: Lunch Appointment with Death






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Amnesia says...



Emma Lazarus

Florence, Italy.

It's just as beautiful as she had hoped. The air was fresher than what she had back home. She was very grateful for the opportunity to come to this new school. She picked up her belongings and dragged them to the front of her new school. excitement building up in her chest.

When the kind professor Tolkien told her the room number she was grateful. She stepped into the room, Noting in her head that it had three beds as opposed the the two she was told. She shook her head thinking nothing of it and started unpacking, looking at her cluttered bed, which wwas filled with her clothes, and back at her newly cluttered desk, which had framed pictures of her family members all over it and a bunch of notebooks tossed on it haphazardly, she dropped her textbooks on the ground with a thud and then tackled the clothes.

She was still sitting on her bed when a girl walks in. She appears to be a few years older than her walked in.

"emma?" she says a bit too dryly, however Emma is determined to make a good impression.

"Hi, yeah I'm Emma." She says a little too quickly, stumbling over her words like she trips over thin air. "You must be Elizabeth!" she says her voice going high pitched.

The response she got made her smile melt off her face. Elizabeth didn't seem too happy that she had a roommate. but that changed quickly when she saw the state of her things. She helped her organize everything and even looked over some poems she wrote. She definately could look at Elizabeth as an older sister figure.

This year was gonna be great already she could see that.
I want a Harry Potter reboot with Benedict Cumberbatch as all the characters~~Mem
<3 Formerly Remembrance <3

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EloquentDragon says...



T.S. Eliot


Diverse lingue, orribili favelle,
parole di dolore, accenti d'ira,
voci alte e fioche

e peccato


Florence was, as far as Eliot was concerned, a horrible city. Ancient, over-done. A computerized labyrinth of yellow row houses baking under a dry Tuscan sun. It could not compare to London, at any rate, with its rational, immutable grayness. Here, there was the acrid stench of aging passion: of frenzy without substantive result. Eliot’s opinion, summed up succinctly in one phrase was:

“Ugh.”

She had arrived two weeks before school was scheduled to begin in order to adjust and get a “feel” for the campus. Already she was beginning to pick up a good deal of Italian, and for a moment paused to listen half-heartedly to the conversation walking by above her, on the pathway alongside the riverbank.

“La nostra relazione ... non funzionante…”

Fragments. Pieces of a life disconnected and irrelevant to her own. She continued to scribble furiously in her worn leather notebook, simultaneously absorbing and tuning out the sounds of life around her. Pausing for a moment, Eliot leaned back against the side of the grassy river bank, pondering the bridges that crossed the river. What about them was necessary? No, one must not ask about the practicality of bridges. Their function was evident. Their form both crude and metaphysical. She thought of the concept of a bridge: its substance, its materials, what is was that made it a bridge and not a wall or a car or a house or an iPhone….

The sun was just beginning to rise as she continued to overly psychoanalyze the concept of “bridges” in general. Cresting over the horizon, it painted the distantly glinting white tower of the Cattedrale del Fiore gold and interrupted her early-morning musing, which she had specifically allotted time for, by so rudely stabbing her in the retinas. The sunlight also revealed the pollution suspended in the waters of the Arno, shattering the illusion.

The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed…


No. It did not hold the same allure as the Thames. It was barer. Less storied. Eliot nodded to herself as she snapped her notebook closed, stood, brushed her jeans off, and headed back towards the academy.

Passing by the central plaza, she noticed a noisy group of students splashing through the fountains, and pushed her glasses up with distaste. Idiots. She thought. It was altogether too early to be screwing around in the public fountain. At least they were in good company.

Still, when one of the young men, a particularly good-looking one, looked up and accidentally met her gaze, she turned away and quickened her pace, angrily blaming her teenaged hormones for prompting such a reaction in the first place. Eliot marched loudly up the stairwell of the dormitory, reached her room on the second floor, and allowed the door to slam shut behind her. The first year orientation would start soon. She probably didn’t need to attend, but slung her bag over her shoulder nonetheless.

For a moment she stalled to stare out the arched window of her room. Her own belongings were scarce, and she wondered first of all who her roommate was. More deeply, she questioned why she was there to begin with. England had been just fine, after all. Even Paris might have been a better option. But she was here, in any case, and now there was nothing left to be done accept assimilate and dissolve.

Eliot again nodded to herself, and then left for the student orientation meeting which she was sure would be entirely perfunctory, drab, and redundant.

“Ugh,” she voiced aloud.
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Mea says...



Jane Austen



Ah, Florence. The sun-washed epitome of Europe's rich history on display, or, more cynically, the pinnacle of its obsession with the past.

Jane loved it. Italians were so entirely themselves, it was amusing. And Jane had always preferred authenticity. If you're a prick, at least have the decency to realize it. Jane was already looking forward to spending weekends slipping off-campus just to find a coffee shop and watch and listen. She needed to get some of the subtleties down for the still-unnamed Italian accountant that would serve as a perfect foil to -

No, she interrupted herself. You're here for poetry. Save the novels for summer.

The taxi pulled up, and Jane got out and swung her luggage out of the trunk, looking up at the tall iron gates. Firenze. Another year.

She absentmindedly took her room assignment from Professor Tolkien and hurried to drag her case up the polished wood stairs. She only had a few minutes before orientation, thanks to that imbecile of a taxi driver. She reached her room and pushed open the door.

Someone was already inside, perched on the bed and straining to reach the ceiling and struggling to hold aloft a brightly-colored poster. Jane blinked, taking in the Go Green! and Fight the Patriarchy banners already hung up, clashing terribly with the red velvet upholstery. Judith. Her roommate was Judith. This was going to be an interesting year.

Jane must have made a noise, because Judith suddenly spun around to face her. "Oh - hi," she began, but the poster slipped out of her grip and onto the floor with a final-sounding thump.

"Do you... need help?" Jane asked, though the last thing she wanted was to spend the rest of the year with an angry tree glaring down at her.

"No, I'll do it later," Judith said firmly. She looked Jane up and down. "So. We're roommates, then? Jane and Judith - sounds like a bad sitcom."

"Unless this isn't dorm nine, yes, we're roommates," Jane said, moving inside and heaving her suitcase up onto her bead. "Have you seen Wilde yet?"

"I saw him smoking by one of the side entrances, why?"

Jane snorted. "To avoid him." She wasn't feeling on form enough to deal with Oscar at the moment. She opened her suitcase, full of neatly-folded dresses, composition books, and everything else she'd need for the year. At least Judith had left her half the closet, and otherwise her four-poster bed with a nightstand at the side was all she really needed. That, and an outlet...

After a minute of searching, she found one and plugged her tablet in; it had died on the train here.

Just then, her watch beeped insistently. Damn, Jane thought. It was time for orientation. So much for unpacking right away. She turned off the alarm and left the room, not bothering to ask Judith if she was coming. At least Jane wasn't the target of the orientation this year. Once had been enough.
We're all stories in the end.

I think of you as a fairy with a green dress and a flower crown and stuff.
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Sujana says...



Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar felt as if somebody was watching him.

Granted, it was typical of him: the creeping paranoia, the bothersome suspicion of the environment. Nothing felt welcoming, nothing felt...ordinary. Even with his cohorts around him, comforted by the knowledge that birds of his own feather exist, there was an eerie air to it all. The tree branches seemed too eager to shake off its leaves, the fragrance of distilled wine seemed to corrupt the air, and the sun struck the terracotta roofs like a battalion, no mercy in broad daylight. But he was paranoid. Just paranoid, he was sure.

But he swore. He swore he smelled blood.

He'd have luggage to unpack, he surmised. A new room to inhabit. Perhaps a new hindrance to tolerate, or if he was lucky (which he scarcely ever was) a decent companion to share accommodations with. In that moment, though, he was grounding himself to the lobby floor, staring longingly at the fresco above his head. Perhaps if he stared long enough, the queasiness in his stomach would leave. Or perhaps the fresco would stare back, and make everything worse. Those were his options.

"Admiring the artistry, Edgar?"

He jumped, snapping to his sides in order to assess the danger of his situation. Mr. Tolkien stood, instead, apparently taking danger's place for the day. Hopefully for longer. "Well?" Tolkien arched a brow, readjusting his spectacles.

"Oh. Er. I--I--" Edgar attempted to recover his thoughts, unaware of his sudden trembling.

Tolkien squinted, astute eyes studying the boy before him. He sighed. "What is it now, then? An omen written in the sky? A chance premonition? Or perhaps--dare I even suggest it--perhaps you're just anxious?" he said, his tongue bleeding sarcasm, his expression as straight and true as they always were.

Edgar opened his mouth, trying to defend himself. He looked to his shoes, then, trying not to crouch into a ball of fear and the occasional, teary-eyed wail. "I'm sorry," he said, "I know it must be annoying. I just--"

"Worried of the new grade? Afraid you won't find any friends?" Tolkien guessed.

Edgar nodded. He considered the question, then, and shook his head. "I feel as if something--horrendous might occur," he confessed, "I don't know what, exactly. But I just--I have the strangest feeling somebody might--"

He caught the sudden, unearned shift in Tolkien's expression, as if Edgar had said something important.

"--get hurt."

Tolkien calmed, then, letting out a breath of air. He took back his composure, locking hands behind his back. "I can assure you, as I always do," he said, "That Benvueto A Firenze is strictly guarded, and will remain that way until the day we inevitably close our gates. If anything happens to any of our students, we'll be the first to know, and we'll be the first to stop it from getting any worse." There was an uneasy pause at the end of his speech, as if the overseer wanted to add a 'hopefully' somewhere in there.

Edgar looked his teacher down, warily. "You don't sound particularly confident."

The overseer glared at him, and then laughed, trying to shake it off. "It's nothing. It's just--" he chuckled, softly, losing his cool exterior once again. "Lewis told me--"

Edgar's eyes widened.

Tolkien realized what he was doing, then, and shook his head. "No, no. It's nonsense. Mere presumptions." He waved the boy away. "Go, now, off to your dorm. You'll have a roommate there soon enough."

The boy paused, refusing to move from his spot. "Wait," he said, "What did Mr. Lewis--"

"I said go," Tolkien nudged Edgar away, but from the tone of his voice and his posture, it was as if he was trying to shove Edgar into the ground.

"Alright, alright," Edgar fussed, lifting his luggage from the ground. He left, then, walking in his awkward pace towards the elevator. He took a chance and looked over his shoulder, just for a moment, catching a glimpse of a disconcerted Tolkien, seemingly praying to the fresco above his head.
"For with much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief."

Ecclesiastes 1: 18








Do just once what others say you can't do, and you will never pay attention to their limitations again.
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