(nischa) I write poems to burn by firelight ┋Ride the cyclone

I hate this town.

I stomp down the crowded hallway, each step louder than the last. The flickering fluorescent lights above me seem to echo my mood. "I hate this town. I hate this school. I hate everyone here. Tomorrow's supposed to be the weekend, but I won't even get a break because of that stupid choir competition at the Fall Fair," I grumble to myself.

I push open the choir room door with more force than necessary. The room is decked out in Fall Fair decorations, bright banners, and a lingering scent of popcorn. Ocean has clearly overseen every detail; her stamp is evident in every corner.

Penny and Ricky are seated together, Penny chattering away while Ricky listens. Ocean, is at the center of it all, fussing over the decorations and ensuring everything is just perfect. She shoots me a look as I enter, her expression a mix of annoyance and relief. — Noel, you're five minutes late. — she says, her voice sharp and insistent.

I meet her gaze with a dramatic sigh. —The world isn't going to end just because I'm a bit behind, Ocean. It's not like this choir practice is going to solve world hunger or something. —

Ocean's eyes narrow, her patience clearly worn thin. — It's not about the world ending, Noel. It's about getting things done right. We have a competition tomorrow, and I want everything perfect. We can't afford to be sloppy. —

I feel a flash of irritation but bite my tongue. No need to give her the satisfaction of a retort. Instead, I look around and notice Mischa is missing. I frown. Where is he?

Just as I'm about to ask, the door swings open and Mischa storms in. — Yo yo yo, hello everyone. — he says.

Ocean's eyes narrow as she takes in his entrance. — Mischa, you're late. — she says, her tone sharp.

Mischa shrugs nonchalantly and takes his place, his gaze briefly meeting mine. I look at him and smile, and he responds with a quick, almost imperceptible grin.

Ocean's frustration is palpable, but she doesn't press the issue further. — Let's just get started. —she says, trying to regain control of the rehearsal. — We need to rehearse our song for the competition: The Uranium Suite. —

As we start to rehearse, I'm drawn to Mischa's voice more and more. For someone who's been put in the choir as a punishment, his voice is unexpectedly angelic. The contrast between his rough exterior and the smooth, melodic tones he produces is striking. I find myself appreciating how his voice blends seamlessly with the choir. It's not like I'm obsessed or anything! I just... genuinely enjoy the sound of his voice.

After a long rehearsal, Ocean finally lets us go home. I trudge along the familiar route, passing by the monotonous houses of our town, each one blending into the next with its predictably dull facade. Finally, I reach the most boring of them all—my own house.

I open the door and call out, — Hi, Mom! — Her voice answers from the kitchen, but I don't linger. Instead, I head straight for my room, eager to escape the mundanity of the rest of the house.

My room is the only place that isn't dull. The walls are a vibrant mosaic of my life's passion: poems I've written, posters of various artists and musicals, and my favorite, an old, faded poster of the movie Blue Angel. I love that film; its raw emotion and haunting beauty resonate deeply with me.

I sink into my desk chair, reaching for my notebook and my favorite pen. I let the silence of my room envelop me, a soothing cocoon that allows my thoughts to flow freely.

Opening my notebook to a fresh page, I let my thoughts drift. The lingering echoes of The Uranium Suite and the memory of an unexpectedly angelic voice inspire me. I begin to write, letting the words flow naturally: