A/n: I was actually going to ask for a writing prompt too!
As far as I know this is the same character as in my other original shorts. Please excuse what I am sure is horrendous grammar. I keep having coughing fits.
Rim—A Spring/Summer Interlude
And why the hell was he here anyway?
He leaned out the lone window in his apartment—over the street and tried to catch the nonexistent breeze. It was one of those days between winter and summer—unbearably warm after the frigid rainy season, but really nothing compared to the heat to come. Inside his tiny apartment, it was stifling though as he waited for the heater to kick off.
He turned back to the table and frowned at the stack of papers. Third term report cards were due. Not that his students cared—not many of them anyway. Sighing he put the stack neatly in his bag and returned to his post at the window. He strained to hear any sound that was familiar: crickets, an owl, a cicada.
He was Stanford educated with two degrees in classical literature and music, yet here he was in this god forsaken city with harsh winters, brutal summers and so it seemed little spring—teaching high school English to the kids who didn’t give a damn, whose priorities were staying alive and walking the line between gangs, police, and the expectations that everyone but themselves seemed to have for them.
His thoughts drifted as he stared into the black night and without realizing it his fingers began to move to the sounds he did hear. To the opening wail of the baby in the apartment next door, the low bass riffs of the cars speeding past, the decrescendo as a car stopped at the light on the corner, the low melody of voices of the people out for a stroll, a high cymbal roll of laughter, the accent of a slamming door.
The words came back to him slowly, softly, Music, isn’t your life son, your life is music.
Original Fandom--Rim: A Spring/Summer Interlude
As far as I know this is the same character as in my other original shorts. Please excuse what I am sure is horrendous grammar. I keep having coughing fits.
Rim—A Spring/Summer Interlude
And why the hell was he here anyway?
He leaned out the lone window in his apartment—over the street and tried to catch the nonexistent breeze. It was one of those days between winter and summer—unbearably warm after the frigid rainy season, but really nothing compared to the heat to come. Inside his tiny apartment, it was stifling though as he waited for the heater to kick off.
He turned back to the table and frowned at the stack of papers. Third term report cards were due. Not that his students cared—not many of them anyway. Sighing he put the stack neatly in his bag and returned to his post at the window. He strained to hear any sound that was familiar: crickets, an owl, a cicada.
He was Stanford educated with two degrees in classical literature and music, yet here he was in this god forsaken city with harsh winters, brutal summers and so it seemed little spring—teaching high school English to the kids who didn’t give a damn, whose priorities were staying alive and walking the line between gangs, police, and the expectations that everyone but themselves seemed to have for them.
His thoughts drifted as he stared into the black night and without realizing it his fingers began to move to the sounds he did hear. To the opening wail of the baby in the apartment next door, the low bass riffs of the cars speeding past, the decrescendo as a car stopped at the light on the corner, the low melody of voices of the people out for a stroll, a high cymbal roll of laughter, the accent of a slamming door.
The words came back to him slowly, softly, Music, isn’t your life son, your life is music.
Maybe there was a purpose.
He just had to start listening more carefully.