in - spire :: {kyubey

[Deleted]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][bg=C9C9C9] Crescent-- -

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][bg=C9C9C9] "I bet Mr. Avos would like to tell us the answer." Mr. Woolsley's sarcastic tone rang through the air as the simultaneous curious neck-pop of the other classmates turned their eyes to meet Crescent's. "Four." A couple quiet snickers from across the room snuck their way into the air as the hand pressed firmly against his head as a rest had slipped from underneath him like the word out of his mouth. The mention of his name snapped him awake (or maybe it was the pencil somebody lunged at him) into a question, not relating to any form of math, so it gave the hyenas some excuse to laugh to themselves for once. "Next time, instead of sleeping through my class maybe you should attempt to pay attention, considering this is biology, it might interest you to." Instead of taking note, Crescent was busy scratching the temporary tattoo of his left hand on his corresponding pale, baby cheek. Once Mr. Woolsley turned his back and attention away from him, Crescent muttered an interesting string of words before whiping the remaining drool from his cheek and onto his pants. Catching his attention was the three page packet of work sitting on the wood-appearing desk that had definitely not been there beforehand (but one of the grey, low residing sneakers did managed to dislocate themselves.) Crescent has a knack for working fast, but over thirty questions in the remaining six minutes did not seem very plausible, plus it did not assist that he slept through most of Mr. Woolsley's review of it. After a quick think over of his predicament, his remedy was, like usual, not to do it, but instead flip it over and scribble tiny notes and drawings to himself for amusement. Actually doing classwork disinterests him, and disinterests him fast. The whole system is boring, having to research body systems and antibiotics was not on the high end of life for him. Rarely did he even begin his classwork

[/s](yet somehow still passing by cramming before tests and passing with high scores by a wing and prayer.)[/s] He finds it almost redundant actually, and would rather silently protest on the empty margins of notebook paper in class than survive through the lesson. So redundant at times however, to where he'll make tiny bets with himself to see how many reasons he can make to why he does not want to be at school. Likewise, his tiny evidence of restraint against education had been sketched into the backside of his wasted packet.

1. Didn't even bother starting my homework
2. I have to make a funeral for my cat
3. languiu langouru tired
4. I have no idea what we are talking about
5. It's probably going to rain
6. Mr. Woolsley smells like donk
7. Parker Moresley won't shut up
8. This pencil su

The recent silence that had fallen over the room was broken into pieces as the bell rang abruptly through and bounced upon the walls. Mr. Woolsley said something about homework, but Crescent did not pay it much mind since he planned on not doing it anyways. Instead, he was preoccupied with stuffing the packet farther into packet with his disrupted list into his backpack while the majority of the other students already sprinted to the exit to their next class. Tucking the packet safely in the sack however would have been easier, had somebody's size nine shoe not stomped across the spot where he threw his late breakfast, splattering an, otherwise untouched, syrup packet and glass container over the contents inside his backpack.

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[Kyubey]

Maisy Kenner

I often wish I was smarter.

When I was little, Mom and Dad told me all kinds of stories about college. Apart from the Capitol, we're the only place in Panem with a well-known university, and being admitted is an honor few receive. Even though Dad dropped out after he met Mom, he still tells me all about the interesting classes he took, and how rewarding it would be if I studied hard and got accepted one day. Mom's a little too busy with work to pay attention to my studies, but I know she'd like me to follow in her footsteps and become a sharp, intimidating businesswoman.

I just don't think I'm cut out for it.

My parents don't make a big deal out of it, of course. I'm not dumb, exactly, and I never truly worry about failing my classes. But I see how effortlessly some of my classmates absorb the lessons while I have to write down every word. I can never spend time with my friends during the week because I have to devote so much time to my homework. The smart kids don't have to do that. They just understand.

With a sigh, I pencil in an answer in the work booklet. I've been working on this problem for much too long. Maybe I'll ask the teacher about it during lunch.

I hate biology...

A sudden commotion breaks my concentration, and I look up from the pages of organelles and cell structures to see some people -- Mr. Woolsley included -- picking on Crescent. My brow furrows a bit as I look on, and I twiddle the pencil between my fingers, as I often do when I'm distracted. My class is full of bullies. I've talked to a few of them, and I hear a lot about their lives through the grapevine. Inevitably, they're the kids with little to eat, whose parents have to work miserable hours just to keep a house or buy clothes for their children. The worst ones have parents who beat them.

I feel for everyone who struggles with our district's poverty. Really, I do. I just wish they wouldn't take it out on others.

Deciding that interrupting class isn't the best idea, I sigh and turn back to my workbook, though I'm distracted now and can't force my attention back onto the blank page. I should be thinking about the functions of a cell. I should be listing them right now, so I'll have more time to help Dad out with dinner at home. Why can I only think about poor Crescent?

Is there a reason he's always so sleepy in class?

Before I can answer myself, the bell rings, and I squeak in surprise. People laugh, of course; I do this every day, even though classes always end with the clanging bell. But their laughter is different than the laughter that was directed at Crescent. They're not taunting me.

I force myself to smile and giggle with the nearby girls as I pack up my stuff, face completely red as I try to slow down my heartbeat. They're chattering about something or other, and normally, I'd join in. My conscience bugs me right now, though. Today was the second time in a week that I stood by while someone else suffered...

Crack!

Someone steps on a bag near Crescent, and syrup and glass go flying in every direction. The other girls have already gathered their lunches, and didn't seem to notice. Only a few other people are still around to see the sticky, slightly dangerous mess.

I wait a few seconds for them to clear out, then I approach the quiet boy. I have to help him now. After chickening out earlier, there really isn't another choice.

"Hi," I say quietly, trying not to draw any negative attention from the bullies, "do you need some help with that? It looks a little...messy." As I draw nearer, I see the extent of the damage. Golden-brown puddles cover the ground near his backpack, while its contents are smothered in sticky sweetness that smells a lot less pleasant now. Scattered in the goop are shimmering shards of glass. Very dangerous. Crescent definitely shouldn't handle this alone.

Smiling to reassure him, I begin to turn towards the door. "I'll go get a teacher to help us clean up the glass."[/blockquote][/size]

[Deleted]

When I was a child, my father used to tell me about the stars instead of nursery rhymes. He saw them as stories and individuals, but mostly because he was an astronomer, yet he would always tell me of the same stories, mostly Pieces. Most nights, us two would set up camp in the backyard near the forest and watch the stars together, where he would point at different stars like I could see exactly which one he was speaking of and tell me the next time that star would be back at the position in the sky. Of course, I couldn't prove him right or wrong on his predictions considering each star looks nearly exactly a like, but at the time I thought that it was amazing how much he knew about something that didn't talk back.

My mother, on the other hand, was more into teaching me how to cook, even though I never paid attention but still ate almost all the food. While we would eat dinner together, my dad would make constellations out of the different food bits left over on his plate, but my mother would slap him on the wrist like she did me when I played with my food. Unlike my father, she was into keeping things organized, from the cookbooks lining the shelves she hand painted to the curls in her dried hair. Any form of mess would give her a heart attack and a shock of joy at the same time because a mess was a mess, but she still had something to clean up. Considering the current state of my bookbag, I'm guessing she was going to ground me for a week but make that homemade cake thing she makes when we go to visit family.

The idea of cake became spoiled fast after being nearly drugged by an overdose of maple syrup. Somehow, keeping a glass container of it in my backpack stopped being the great idea it seemed to be when I packed it in there this morning. Leaving the entire mess of broken shards of glass and syrup on the floor seemed appealing, considering it was Mr. Woolsley's room, but I'd rather just rub some of his precious biology textbooks in the mess first. I had almost gotten away with soaking a book in the stuff before one of the girls in my class came over to me.

"Hi, do you need help with that?"

I couldn't pinpoint her name, mostly because I didn't know she could with mine. Then again, with my popularity with some of these dickbags, I guess it wasn't too difficult to figure out. I narrowed it down to Daisy before she started up to get help from Mr. Woolsley.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Daisy."

Honestly, I said her name quiet compared to the rest of the sentence because I wasn't quite sure if it was Daisy or Maisy, or something in the likes. Still, getting Mr. Woolsley and his one eyebrow over to assist clean up his classroom seemed like the opposite of a safe idea. Luckily, the behemoth himself hadn't realized my current predicament meaning I had time to either clean it up, or evacuate. Although, for some reason, letting the mess sit there until his next class seemed oddly satisfying.

"Do you think we could get away with leaving it here?"

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