Fight Fire With Fire
I thoroughly enjoy music. It opens up a world of positive melodies and a colourful minded attitude. No one knows what came first - song or bird - but inspiring either way you put it. But not when you have a teacher like Miss Cackle. It was a suitable name for that sort of witch of a teacher; Miss Cackle was a stout, bespectacled woman with sharp green irises and a rounded nose on which her glasses perched like a nesting bird, sinking into where the flab lay. She also had a round, double chin, which was unusually far away from her bottom lip. All children seemed like irritants to her - she despised us all, especially the ones taller than her (and that was most of them). She hates children.
We entered the classroom: colorful artwork and poetry on the walls, decorated with a scatter of printed music notes. There were clutters of music stands around the front of the room, and at the back there were several keyboards with small, oak-wood stools beside them. There were a few oak-wood desks each with three seats behind them and colossal bookshelves held other musical instruments like the flute and the clarinet. Miss Cackle entered the room, huffing and forcing her body to the front of the class. She made frequent effort grunts whenever she had to do anything - she even had to do it when she took the lid off a whiteboard pen to scribble something on the board.
“Sit down, you swines! Sit DOWN!” her voice was like an electric shock; people darted left and right trying to find a suitable place to sit. Should I sit on a stool by the keyboards? Or at the desks? There wasn’t much time to decide, as most of the seats had already been taken. Quickly, I dashed over to the nearest seat behind a table. How would I be able to talk to my friends (or ex-friends) from the opposite side of the classroom with this monster of a teacher around? Ughhh...