Taliesin93
Condemned
It was a dreary morning, though no more than usual, for all our mornings are dreary in England. The black visage of St. Kilda’s College gradually turned to its natural brown and grey as the sky behind it grew red and then yellow in the morning twilight. Slowly the fields and the sidewalks crowded with students. Other than one, they all wore the same drab clothes and sullen faces. They felt themselves to be less students than prisoners, which, in a way, they were. For this was the college where other colleges sent their problems. This was the place society sends those youngsters they knew not what to do with. But even the roughest gems can be cut and shaped into the desired form. These classrooms would cut these gems into bricks for the wall, one way or the other.
Into one of these classrooms entered Mr. Clarkston At 52, Mr. Clarkston was a cross man, as almost inevitably he would be, for no man sets out to be a lowly master of a bunch of delinquents, especially by his age. Whatever dreams he once had must have been shattered along the way and whatever hopes he had for his life had disappeared like the steam over his morning tea. Presently he began the ritual of reciting the names of his wards, at least the names that their parents had deigned to give them.
There was William Jones, from Cardiff, as there had always seemed to be a William Jones from Cardiff. Son of a navigator, mother already burdened with too many children, they sent this boy here because he would not behave and was too unruly to be sent to the mines.
Cornwall was represented by Colin Trevallyan. Son of a miner, he actually adapted to the scholastic life quite well, but it was for all the wrong reasons, sneaking in contraband and making quite the devil of himself selling whatever he could pick pocket.
From the Midlands came a farmer's daughter named Rebecca Smith. This quiet girl did not seem to have anything wrong with her, which almost seemed to be the problem. Lack of socialization, a tendency to stare off into nowhere land. Nothing seemed to raise either her grades or her spirits. Unlikely to find either a skill set or a husband, she was sent to us because no one could make sense of her.
Finally, there was the last new student, a most unique transfer. Mr. Clarkson called out for him in class presently.
“We have a young man who has come to us from the United States. A Mister Skyler Johnson. He lists his address as 9080 Ventura Boulevard, Reseda, California.” He looked again at his paper and saw “the valley” scribbled in pencil beside the address. “What ‘valley’ is referred to here on your registration?”
“San Fernando, dude!”
“San...Fernando, I believe that to located in California, if I am not mistaken”
“Homebase is in Reseda, but I go wherever the concrete waves take me ya’know? San Dimas, Encino, Venice beach to see the babes. Sometimes I feel like all of SoCal is my domain, man. Like they say, bro, all I need is a skateboard and a star to steer her by. Ya get me”
“I see.” Mr. Clarkston searched in the depths of his knowledge to place any of the boys' geographical references. “So... Cal, southern California. Are you saying you are from Los Angeles?”
“Cha-yeah, but we refer to called it L.A... teach”
“Thats quite enough Mr. Johnson.”
“You can just call me Skyler, bro”
“I will call you by your surname. And I am not your ‘bro’ you will address me as Mr. Clarkson”
“For sure man, for sure, man” Mr. Clarkston took a further look at the shape that had somehow entered his classroom. The student was wearing a neon-yellow shirt, with an indecipherable storm of triangles, checkerboards and lighting in the middle. His hair was long, unkempt and blonde. In place of slacks, he wore loose fitting denim trousers, and his shoes were an odd concoction of rubber, foam and lace. He slouched diagonally across his chair.
“Sit up straight on your chair,” The boy's head twitched, as if he wasn’t aware that he had done anything wrong. Nevertheless, he shrugged “OK” and sat upright.
“And furthermore, what on Earth are you wearing?”
“My threads? Got’em at the Galleria. Do admit though – I am feelin’ a little underdressed” he motioned to all of his uniformed colleagues. “But I promise will totally be a regulation uniform, just as soon as I can find the mall.”
“Mall? There is no ‘mall’ here, laddie, but you will be provided a uniform as soon as it can be arranged”
“Excellent.”
“Well, for now, you may wear your own...’threads’. We must first start the days lecture “
“Excellent, makin’ with the learnage, that's why we’re all here, right?” He turned to get an answer from his classmates, but they only met him with faces of bewilderment.
And so ended Mr. Clarkson’s first encounter with this most singular of pupils. In his heart he knew that this was not going to be like any student he had ever had before, but he could define, precisely, what it was about him that made his so...singular.
Into one of these classrooms entered Mr. Clarkston At 52, Mr. Clarkston was a cross man, as almost inevitably he would be, for no man sets out to be a lowly master of a bunch of delinquents, especially by his age. Whatever dreams he once had must have been shattered along the way and whatever hopes he had for his life had disappeared like the steam over his morning tea. Presently he began the ritual of reciting the names of his wards, at least the names that their parents had deigned to give them.
There was William Jones, from Cardiff, as there had always seemed to be a William Jones from Cardiff. Son of a navigator, mother already burdened with too many children, they sent this boy here because he would not behave and was too unruly to be sent to the mines.
Cornwall was represented by Colin Trevallyan. Son of a miner, he actually adapted to the scholastic life quite well, but it was for all the wrong reasons, sneaking in contraband and making quite the devil of himself selling whatever he could pick pocket.
From the Midlands came a farmer's daughter named Rebecca Smith. This quiet girl did not seem to have anything wrong with her, which almost seemed to be the problem. Lack of socialization, a tendency to stare off into nowhere land. Nothing seemed to raise either her grades or her spirits. Unlikely to find either a skill set or a husband, she was sent to us because no one could make sense of her.
Finally, there was the last new student, a most unique transfer. Mr. Clarkson called out for him in class presently.
“We have a young man who has come to us from the United States. A Mister Skyler Johnson. He lists his address as 9080 Ventura Boulevard, Reseda, California.” He looked again at his paper and saw “the valley” scribbled in pencil beside the address. “What ‘valley’ is referred to here on your registration?”
“San Fernando, dude!”
“San...Fernando, I believe that to located in California, if I am not mistaken”
“Homebase is in Reseda, but I go wherever the concrete waves take me ya’know? San Dimas, Encino, Venice beach to see the babes. Sometimes I feel like all of SoCal is my domain, man. Like they say, bro, all I need is a skateboard and a star to steer her by. Ya get me”
“I see.” Mr. Clarkston searched in the depths of his knowledge to place any of the boys' geographical references. “So... Cal, southern California. Are you saying you are from Los Angeles?”
“Cha-yeah, but we refer to called it L.A... teach”
“Thats quite enough Mr. Johnson.”
“You can just call me Skyler, bro”
“I will call you by your surname. And I am not your ‘bro’ you will address me as Mr. Clarkson”
“For sure man, for sure, man” Mr. Clarkston took a further look at the shape that had somehow entered his classroom. The student was wearing a neon-yellow shirt, with an indecipherable storm of triangles, checkerboards and lighting in the middle. His hair was long, unkempt and blonde. In place of slacks, he wore loose fitting denim trousers, and his shoes were an odd concoction of rubber, foam and lace. He slouched diagonally across his chair.
“Sit up straight on your chair,” The boy's head twitched, as if he wasn’t aware that he had done anything wrong. Nevertheless, he shrugged “OK” and sat upright.
“And furthermore, what on Earth are you wearing?”
“My threads? Got’em at the Galleria. Do admit though – I am feelin’ a little underdressed” he motioned to all of his uniformed colleagues. “But I promise will totally be a regulation uniform, just as soon as I can find the mall.”
“Mall? There is no ‘mall’ here, laddie, but you will be provided a uniform as soon as it can be arranged”
“Excellent.”
“Well, for now, you may wear your own...’threads’. We must first start the days lecture “
“Excellent, makin’ with the learnage, that's why we’re all here, right?” He turned to get an answer from his classmates, but they only met him with faces of bewilderment.
And so ended Mr. Clarkson’s first encounter with this most singular of pupils. In his heart he knew that this was not going to be like any student he had ever had before, but he could define, precisely, what it was about him that made his so...singular.
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