dead poets society one-shots

steven meeks

"mr. keating? mr. keating? sir?" neil called the english teacher that you and the boys were all following interested in his old annual. the man didn't seem to mind, though.

"say something!" you encourage.

"o captain, my captain?" neil says and mr. keating stopped which made all of you giggle.

"gentlemen, lady." he greeted.

"we were just looking in your old annual." neil said handing him the annual.

"oh, my god." mr. keating said. "no, that's not me." he joked and all of you laughed once again.

"stanley 'the tool' wilson" john said kneeling.

"what was the dead poets society?" neil asked him.

"i doubt the present administration would look too favorably upon that." mr. keating said.

"why? what was it?" neil questioned once more.

"can you keep a secret?" the old man asked and all of you nodded, the most curious one kneeling with mr. keating. you stayed up, close to meeks.

too close. so close your arms were touching and you could feel the fresh scent coming out him, probably a soap. it smelled delicious. you purposely brushed your hands too and he was extremely warm. you look up, seeing a very curious and focused meeks. his freckles so visible you could count them and his glasses well put on, a color that somehow matched his ginger locks, the sun hitting his face made you wish you had a camera with yourself to capture the moment. his skin looked so good, you should probably ask him what was his skincare, although it was probably just the fact that he was a demigod. oh my, you were so deep in love with him.

you don't even remember when it started, but you knew it was a silly crush, it wasn't even that strong but with the years, it grew bigger, bigger, and bigger. until you couldn't help it anymore. you were so damn in love with him that you could give him the world. he deserved it. you shook your head.

"the dead poets were dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life. that's a phrase from thoreau we would invoke at the beginning of every meeting. see, we would gather at the old indian cave and take turns from reading thoreau, whitman, shelley, the biggies. even some of our verse. and in the enchantment of the moment, we'd let poetry work its magic." mr. keating explained.

you were awestruck. that's something mr. keating do to you, such a way with words, you could listen to him for hours, and agree endlessly with whatever he was saying. what a wonderful person that man is. the dead poets society seemed lovely, you couldn't help but wish you had participated in one of their meetings.

"you mean it was a bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?" knox asked and you mentally facepalmed.

"no mr. overstreet, it wasn't just guys. we weren't a greek organization. we were romantics. and we didn't just read poetry. we let it drip from our tongues like honey. spirits soared, women swooned and gods were created. not a bad way to spend an evening, eh?" mr. keating asked and you smiled.

"not really." you replied, although the question was rhetorical.

"thank you, mr. perry, for this stroll down amnesia lane. burn that. especially my picture." mr. keating said and you all laughed.

"dead poets society." neil whispered.

"what?" cameron asked and the bell rang.

"i say we go tonight." neil said and you smiled, probably the biggest one of your life. you heard "tonight?" and "wait a minute" and you could not believe people wasn't agreeing with this straight away.