The Unpretenders - Chapter 1

Everyone in the class had been handed their essays back, except for me. "A-plus," said Carol, waving her papers in my face. She probably thought I'd be jealous, but I wasn't. Typical human, I thought to myself. Although, on reflection, that may have been a little harsh. After all, she was ignorant of my true intentions, which had nothing to do with getting a good grade. Nobody, in fact, knew anything about my true intentions. Except for Isobel, of course, with whom I had always shared everything. Well, almost everything.

It didn't take very long for the others to notice my despondency, feigned though it was. "Maybe his dog ate it," said Rick, referring to Mr Morgan's wolfhound.

"No, Rick, he did not," said Mr Morgan, who obviously had excellent hearing. He also had my essay, which he readily produced, as if to prove that it hadn't been eaten by said dog. He then requested that I see him after class about it. Perfect, I thought.

As soon as the bell had gone, I moved my stuff to the desk opposite his and waited for everyone to leave. It was break time, thankfully, so I knew that we would have plenty of time to discuss... whatever. Although, even before any words had been spoken, I could feel that my tummy was in a quite a tizzy.

Julian - that is to say, Mr Morgan - sat with his fingertips pressed firmly together, apparently deep in thought. Then he sighed, somewhat mournfully, and appeared to look to the ceiling for inspiration. Why wasn't he saying anything? He hadn't even acknowledged me yet. The noisy rabble outside, meanwhile, gradually gave way to relative quietude. Was this what he'd been waiting for, I wondered.

Evidently not. For his silence continued. In spite of my social anxiety, however, I didn't experience the situation as being inherently awkward or uncomfortable. He was my teacher, after all, and I was his student. So I felt under no pressure or obligation to break the ice. In fact, I had actually begun to enjoy the heightened sense of anticipation.

"To be perfectly honest, Sophie," he said, eventually, "I'm not entirely sure where to begin."

"Then maybe you should begin at the end," I told him, "and save us both a whole lot of time."

Even before I had finished speaking, however, I realised how rude the retort must have sounded. Isobel would certainly have scowled at me, had she been present. For she had long since identified my tendency to push away the very people with whom I wanted to connect. And I simply couldn't allow it to happen again. Not this time; there was too much at stake.

"It ends with an F," said Julian, heeding my suggestion. "In fact, as a short story, it fails in almost every respect."

"You mean, because it lacks drama, conflict, a coherent narrative, and a clever twist at the end? You mean, because nothing very interesting happens? You mean, because nobody would be able to relate to the characters?"

"Indeed. It essentially lacks everything that would make someone want to read it."

"And maybe that's the point, sir. Because, ultimately, I didn't write the story for 'someone', or anyone, I wrote it for you."

"Well, that would certainly explain a few things."

"Such as?"

"Such as why I felt compelled to keep a copy of it for myself."

"Really? You mean...?"

"Of course. We wouldn't be having this conversation otherwise. What you've written is really rather wonderful. And whilst it may not appeal to many, it does appeal to me. But then, you knew that it would, didn't you?"

I could barely contain myself. "Wow! Yes, you're right. I was attempting to capture the essence of your home world, based on everything that you've ever said about it in class, as well as your amazing artwork, and your exquisite poetry, describing your society. And then there was your inspirational music, of course, which I had playing in the background as I wrote. That helped me a lot; you know, in terms of creating the right atmosphere and stuff. I actually bought a couple of your prints, from Ebay. Obviously I couldn't afford the originals. But yeah... Wow! It's all good. Did you recognise the Hills of Marla from my description of them? I suppose they could have been Earth hills, but I doubt there's anywhere on Earth quite like that..."

I suddenly noticed that Julian had begun to look a little bemused, and the thought crossed my mind that, if I wasn't careful, he might start to perceive me as some sort of stalker. Starseeds get that a lot, apparently. "Have I gone too far?" I asked him.

Julian shook his head. "In a sense, you haven't gone far enough."

"In what sense?"

"In the sense that I'd appreciate hearing a performance of your work. That is to say, I would like you to read it to me."

"What, today?"

"Not necessarily. Whenever it's convenient."

"Why though?"

"It's important to me."

"But why?"

At this point the mid-morning break came to a premature end, at least from my perspective. Evidently Julian had a different perspective: "Ah, saved by the bell," he said. But I knew that if I allowed the conversation to end there, I'd be ruminating on the matter all weekend long.

"No, no," I pleaded, somewhat theatrically, "just tell me why it's important." 

Julian said nothing, but at least appeared to be considering my request. The clock on the wall, meanwhile, which I had been oblivious to up until that moment, seemed to tick ever louder. And I knew that the likelihood of our being disturbed increased significantly with the passing of each precious second. Reluctantly, I stood-up to leave.

Julian cast his gaze in the direction of the door, presumably to verify that nobody was standing outside. Then, five ticks later, he leant forward, lowered his voice to a whisper, and proceeded to justify my obsession with him.

I had to sit down again, almost immediately, as his poetic response to my question rendered my legs quite useless. He spoke of wanting to immerse himself in my words; of feeling them on his skin, of tasting them, of seeing them dance like Sufis off the page, and of hearing them sung as nothing less than the divinely inspired lyrics of a cosmic ballad, which was what he felt them to be. Indeed, he literally sought to experience my writing made manifest through the process of vocalisation. For the true power of words, he told me, was not in their form, but in their vibration. It was how authors shared their writing on his own planet, apparently. And I was now being invited to do the same. 

I didn't know what to say, or what to think.

Julian looked concerned. "Have I gone too far?" he asked, echoing my earlier question.

"Actually, you haven't gone far enough," I said, with a grin, echoing his earlier response.

Reviews

[SierraT]

This is really good. I love the dialogue, and the way it just flows, it's so effortless. I like the main character too, well done! Could you please read my writing? I'd like to know what you think!