Join Date: March 20, 2006
Location: Tullahoma, TN
As the Bell Tolls
Let me preface this with a few words...This story was first written on a spur of the moment kind of thing. I was being made fun of my weight, and having a very bad day. this Story goes from moody to upbeat to who knows what, depending on my mood. It is based and/or inspired by true events in my life. some of the names are true. My writing style is GREATLY influenced by my main man Tom Wolfe, who you should go check out, as well as Mr. Mark Twain's "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn", and all the books i have ever read. I beleive that its one of those books that is most rewarding after reading a lot, unlike Living Receivers story. There is a large amount of cursing sexual, and drug refrences, so read with caution. That being said, here it is.
Please enjoy Phillip Norfleets, As the Bell Tolls
Rrriinnngggggggggggggg. Time for class now. Or was class ending? I donâ€™t remember. The only thing he remembers is the bell, shrieking in his ears, the horrid high-pitched angry yellow sound of the hammer hitting the metal 20 times a second to form the sound that is both our executor and our savior. Set to universal school clock, it always runs on time. 8:00am. 8:45. 8:50 TIME FOR CLASS! 9:25. 9:30. 10:15. On and on and on, continuously, for all eternity, the bell rings like a harpy, drawing you in, then devouring you in a fit of tireless hunger.
Brett Jaggert (what a name!) was woken by the infernal ringing. He had been sleeping through his dismally boring Spanish II class. SeÃ±or Garcia was not pleased, but there was no getting through Brettâ€™s thick, hollow skull. Brett was Brett, and there was no way you could change that. â€œLet the little fucker sleepâ€, Garcia thought, â€œitâ€™s his GPAâ€. Thatâ€™s what mattered at Bell Academy. GPA, Test Scores, Academics. Sports too, but no one cared to admit it. 20 Varsity sports, from water polo to Lacrosse, each one with a full roster, accepting the weird, not-really-sport sports, like Frisbee.
Anyway, Brett awoke and packed his stuff and left. Time to walk across the street to a new building, and go to Chemistry. I hope they burn stuff today, he thought. Otherwise, chemistry was just another nap. Sometimes, when they were doing a Laboratory experimentation day, they got to use the Bunsen Burners. Brett always burned shit he wasnâ€™t supposed to, like pencils and note cards. He was barely passing.
The Chemistry teacher, Mr. Rice, cared a little more than SeÃ±or Garcia did. If a student was struggling, he placed them in study hall. Mr. Rice was middle aged and single. Although he aged well, he never really took the time to settle down and find someone. He had been teaching chemistry for 21 years, since he graduated college. The students, in general, liked him. He had won more awards for great teaching than any other teacher. However, he also didnâ€™t bother with Brett. As the saying goes, â€œYou canâ€™t teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and annoys the pigâ€. You saw those kind of sayings around here, in good olâ€™ Bell Buckle, Tennessee.
Brett was walking across the street, and stopped in the middle of the cross walk. Something caught his eye, somethingâ€¦different. He glanced around, searching for the disturbance, and found it. Patrick Lurwood was wearing a tie-died oxford shirt! There was a uniform here at Bell Academy, and that was not standard issue clothing. Usually on Tuesdays, all boys were required to wear a button-up, oxford shirt with a regal neck tie in the school colors. Pat (short for Patrick) had tie-died his white shirt, and was wearing it like nothing!
I mean, what a fucking ass-hole! Seriously, who wear something different! I have to wear the same shit, and so should he! I mean Jesus! Brett was very upset at this oddity. But, he wasnâ€™t the only one. Pat and his Magic Rainbow Shirt, as it had come to be called, had been turning heads all day with his mysterious and fucking crazy shirt. I mean, it was just a shirt! But, after becoming used to seeing nothing but white shirts for so long, such an outrageous difference was bound too cause ripples in the water. Anyway, this didnâ€™t upset Brett to long, no. Brett was not the man (16 is man) to let things bother him. If 4 years of Lacrosse taught him anything, donâ€™t let little poke-checks like that son of a bitch and his fucking shirt bring him down. Take the blow, shrug it off, and keep on trucking. And thatâ€™s what Brett did, all the way to his 3rd Period class, through which he had a nice, restful nap.
Ms. Amy Mitchell was having trouble concentrating. She was trying to fill out demerit forms for various offenses. Late to class, Mr. Murphy! Button that shirt, Mr. Reynolds. You hemmed you skirt to short, Ms. Stauffer! But today, Amy Mitchell was dealing with a different kind of problem. Patrick Lukwood had been wearing a tie-died shirt! Never in her 4 year tenor has Dean of Students had Amy encountered such aâ€¦different (yes, thatâ€™s the word) offense.
This was a special kind of infraction. The kind of rule-breaking with a purpose this is no mere vandal, not a punk trying to wear what he wantsâ€¦no. Thisâ€¦Patrick was trying to make a STATEMENT!!! The nerve of fucking kids these days! He took a perfectly good, expensive shirt, and turned it into some piece of shit hippie crap. Doesnâ€™t he know how stupid he looks in those fag clothes of his?
Of course, Amy Mitchell couldnâ€™t voice her real concerns. Technically, there was no rule in the student handbook banning the dying of school attire. At least, in this years addition. Next years will be amended, of course.
Amy had come to rely on the handbook for a basis of Guerilla warfare. Those model students, usually girls, who followed the rules, didnâ€™t stir the waters, fitted in with their peers, those girls were immune to her wrath. But, those long-haired (if you can call off-the-collar hair long) boys, smoking pot on the weekends and jacking off to videos of girls fucking each other, those boys that didnâ€™t do their homework and played video games instead, all of the multitudes of not-perfect peopleâ€¦those people were her victims. She would look for something, even so much as a frayed pants leg or some hair in your eyes, anything that treaded closely to the bold lines set out by the rule book, and she would pounce, administering her form of harsh punishment of weekend work-sessions to the unsuspecting masses. That was Amy. That was Politics.