Ascended

3.

It was a Monday morning. The grogginess and late-night regrets were poignant in the air and the wave of caffeine induced peers slowly stumbled through the small doorway of the class. Silence hung like a choking cloud of incense. The silent cello throbbed its beating in out ears to an abrupt stop.

The silence lingered; brittle and weak with lead in its bones.

The thing is it could have broke, because we were daunting creatures with blackened hearts and crumbling pastry-skin. Hollowed eyes, sunken cheeks and drugs hot and apparent through our veins. But this was a fucking Monday morning, and we were to tired to try.

Sitting in the overused chairs with nail indents and lead imprints left from years of boredom the door opened and closed with a rushed bang. "Okay, listen up." As the room quieted and seats were taken, peers waited for the final, dismissing word of the professors rehearsed speech he probably gave to many before us. The professor placed an embedded golden rectangle on the table; Mr. Blake it said. Turning to my desk I reminisced on past memories. We all know we're only here to escape the scrutiny of our parents and awaiting for the moment to meet a new fuck partner and a future best-friend.

"I just have a few words to say and then you can go and get to know your new peers for the next semester, or two if this course interests you, but I want to start off with getting to know you. Now to start, no I don't want you to come up to the front and give us snip-bits of the new buddy you've been shagging, nor about the woes of your life."

A few giggled girls upfront like school girls. Is sex really that humorous? It might have also been because the professor stood like those statuesque mannequins at the mall or that he was ordinarily humane to say the least. I don't know what grabbed my attention. Maybe because his eyes looked like the black surface of coffee cooling in frigid air, or his hair hanging in spiral curls at the nape of his neck. Nothing particular stood out from him. He didn't have sharp edges, pointed bones or a rugged surface. He didn't grab the rooms attention, but he just was. Maybe it was the unsettling, mundane exterior of his that held his eyes; a natural disaster in itself. But I saw the still air before storms and the crackling of lightning light his eyes up. Like God purposefully put sparkles of stardust his eyes.

"I want us to start off with an essay of self-expression. It can be a poem, a song, a freaking drawing if it pleases. But it must show the raw depth that is in every single one of you. This is a creative writing class and I want to see the darkest, most primal parts of yourselves. You won't scare me off, trust me I've seen into minds with the potential of serial killers and saints. Now, let me tell you something about writing. Don't ever let it be anything other than honest. You think Edgar Allan Poe became one of the most widely recognized, enormously adored writers because he censored his misery? Be cruel. Be brutal. Be realistic."

By this time he let silence ring through the room. Everyone held their breath, fingers trembling, hearts stuttering and thumping with the emotion of adoration he held in his voice. The subtle ring of suspense hung like a cloak on our hearts. "We all know as writers that melancholia is putrid, but it sure as hell is beautiful. Be creative and use this moment to say what cannot be spoken." And with those words he sat at his desk and the scribble of his writing was heard throughout the room.
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I don't know why I made this more poetic than it needed but it's my writing so. Hope you enjoy this short chapter.