“Daisy, Daisy,
Give me your answer, do.
I’m half crazy,
All for the love of you.”
"Swirling skies of Amarillo, gold, burnt umber, lavender, and lilac paint the sky," a voice reads; "making each of the clouds look like cotton candy from a carnival dipped in caramel. This is what you're capturing in this class. You can really picture in your mind what the author is describing, because of the words they use. They get creative with color names; they don't just name colors, they give you a feeling. Artists take a paintbrush to show you what something looks like, but writers are more challenged because anybody's perspective of the scene description could change if a single word were left out. For example, if the writer had left out the description of the clouds as like cotton candy, we lose sight of how fluffy the clouds look. We don't know how the clouds look. They could be streaks, flat, or they could be like a thick fog. This is why description is so important in creative writing. Everyone, take home this excerpt and use it to inspire you to pick a scene and describe it. I want everyone to bring back their scenes next class."
Elijah picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, and subconsciously, one hand went to pretend to scratch next to the bandage over his eyebrow. He had to make sure it was still there, still covered. He couldn’t let it slip and show the world he wasn’t human; he wasn't normal. Everyone asked non-humans too many questions, and Elijah couldn't answer questions.
It was his first day at this school, and though he was used to his old University, this school’s headmaster had promised something his old school couldn’t:
Protection from him.
Since the night he had been attacked by him, he has haunted him, never leaving his mind, always in his peripheral and sneaking up behind him in his reflection in the mirror. Here, he was promised safety, protection, and best of all, no mirrors. No judgment. Here he could focus on what was most important to him; he could relax. Everything would be different now.
Elijah looked at the gloomy scene that made the campus over again. Rainy skies, a cliff just off the edge of the soccer field where the Pacific appeared to flow forever, a Victorian-themed library to the left, and in front of him, a mini-plaza where there was a bookstore, a cafe, and an attached lounge center. He would have to describe all of it, and thankfully, the library would have plenty of thesauri to help him find the right adjectives. He would reach his word count of 3k easily like this; whether or not it sounded right, however, was a different story.
"Pastels of blue and purple blended with the white streaks like brushstrokes that formed the clouds in the sky. The laughter and shouts of the soccer players on the waves of green fields were drowned out by each loud smack of the pale ocean water against rock and cliff. Old, polished wood built into intricate designs that a single craftsman spent a lifetime carving made up the front of the library, with a large bear holding a shield with a crest on it of gold. Embossed into the center of the shield were the words 'Forever Lost, but Never Forgotten'. Deep forest brown painted each highlight of the curving, bending, and folding designs and an almost vivid cherry black deepened the shadows. A flapping sound can be heard now, and upon looking up, there's a proud but old American flag flying majestically in the wind at the bow of the trim on the top of the library. A set of gold eagle wings sits proudly on the tip of the flag, but the stories the flag could tell would be everything but. Ravaged by war and traumatized by bloodshed, any flag would be brought to heartbreak if not an inanimate object. The gloom of the weather telling of a storm impending reminds an old soldier about the storm he suffered through. He stands before a mirror, decorated as he was in the 'good ol' days', which were anything but. Burning tears brim his eyelids, and dampen his eyelashes. In a fit of rage, he tears off his many medals, now just empty, meaningless pieces of cloth attached to metal, and throws them at the flag. It isn't a proud scene. It isn't a happy scene. It's one of great pain and deep heartache. Life goes on around this flag, but he remains stuck, frozen in time; the earth senses his pitiful cries and weeps from the sky for him."
Elijah ripped the page from his notebook and crumpled it up. It went over the cliff, and in the blink of an eye, was lost forever to the ocean.
"You look lost," a female voice said from next to Elijah, and the white-haired teen was brought out of his daydream. "Hmm?" he mumbled, and the frilliest, most colorful e-girl plopped down a couple of stairs to sit on the exact stair Elijah sat on. The teacher had decided to have their art class outside to inspire the students since the weather had been so mild, and Elijah chose the front steps to the art building because it had the best view of the entire campus.
"You look lost," the girl repeated, and Elijah's eyes immediately went to the white cat ears perched upon her soft pink hair. "You like them?" she asked. "I made them myself."
"You're very talented," Elijah said curtly, just trying to end the conversation.
"Paint me," the girl suddenly said. Elijah stopped what he was doing and looked up at the girl oddly. "I'm sorry?"
"I said you can paint me. It's okay. Go ahead."
Elijah stared at the girl for a moment, and then a small smile formed on the corner of his lips. It had been more conversation than he'd ever had in his entire life without anyone asking, "so how'd you get that nasty scar on your eye?"
"It looks...good, actually," the art teacher said as she studied the colors Elijah used. "You have a real eye for capturing color. Do you have a name for it?""I...I didn't think about it, to be honest," Elijah admitted, and the subject of the painting skipped up. "Crybaby," she said with a smile. "My name is Crybaby."
"Crybaby," Elijah echoed, and the teacher nodded in approval. "I'll talk to the Dean about displaying Crybaby in our next art show."
He smiled; it was an unnaturally beautiful and perfect smile that would make any model insane with jealousy. He stood, leaning back against his ebony desk, and ran a hand through soft, straight blonde hair. He was wearing what appeared to be brand-new white Converse, low-rise, and black joggers that sat low on his hips but ended halfway down his calves, with the bulge of an expensive new designer phone in his front pocket. A black sweater with a pink, grinning cartoon dog in the corner hung semi-loose off his body; a lump formed under his shirt. He saw wandering eyes to his shirt, and he crossed his arms over each other to grip the edges of his sweater. Slowly, he began to peel it off, and it became evident he wasn't wearing anything under the sweater. Dogtags bounced against porcelain flesh which rose and fell in the chiseled shape of abs and a tight chest, and then back down to the V that disappeared into black, skintight boxer-briefs and joggers. They were unreadable like anything would be in a dream, which he definitely seemed. He had delicate, beautiful features for a male; in fact, exactly like a porcelain doll with turquoise eyes and peach lips seemingly finished with a varnish to shine.
"I know what it's like," his voice echoed, but his lips didn't move. "I know what it's like. Monster. Monster. Ugly. Defamed."
Elijah, fully aware he was now dreaming but not too concerned about it, moved forward, his hand outstretched towards the man.
"Doll-like," he muttered, and his hand brushed against a sharp, cold, pale cheek. Instantly, the man smiled as his skin began to crack all over like he was a porcelain doll, and had been tossed aside and broken. The pieces of him shattered and scattered all about, and Elijah crossed his arms over his face to protect himself.
He woke up like that in his bed, panting and in a cold sweat, and confused.
