Shannon: a dead poets society fan fiction

chapter 5

October 25, 1959

life at Welton has settled into a strange routine. I’m starting to feel more comfortable here—though I still find myself yearning for home more than I’d like to admit.

Today, however, is shaping up to be different. I’m wandering around after classes, trying to find some quiet space to write in my journal. The leaves are starting to turn, hints of orange and gold creeping into the green, a reminder that change is always in the air. I stop by a large oak tree, the perfect spot for some solitude.

As I settle against the trunk, notebook in hand, I pull out a pen and start scribbling down thoughts about the poetry we’ve been reading. The gentle rustling of the leaves provides a soothing backdrop, and I’m lost in my writing when I suddenly hear footsteps approaching.

“Hey, you!” a voice calls, breaking through my concentration.

I look up to find Richard Cameron walking toward me, a slight smirk on his face. He’s one of the boys in our English class, always sitting in the back, watching more than participating. There’s something about him that puts me on edge, and today is no different.

“Hi,” I reply cautiously, unsure of what he wants.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, his tone casual but his eyes assessing. There’s something almost predatory in his gaze, and I instinctively want to shift away from the tree, but I force myself to stay put.

“Uh, sure,” I say, trying to sound friendly even as my heart races. “I’m just writing.”

“Writing, huh? Must be some deep stuff.” He leans against the tree, crossing his arms. “What’s so important that you’re out here all alone?”

“Just some poetry and thoughts about class,” I reply, keeping my voice steady, but there’s a hint of defensiveness in it. I don’t want to share my writing with him, not when he seems so intent on prying.

“Poetry? That’s cute. I didn’t know you were one of those types,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Do you think that makes you special?”

I frown, feeling my cheeks heat up. “I think poetry is important,” I respond firmly. “It’s about expressing feelings and connecting with others.”

Richard chuckles, shaking his head. “Right. But in this place? It’s about who gets ahead. You think Mr. Keating’s gonna help you climb the social ladder with your little poems? You’re just the new girl.”

I can feel the tension in my shoulders tightening. “I’m not trying to climb any ladder. I’m just trying to find my way.”

“Good luck with that.” His tone drips with sarcasm, and I can feel the irritation rising within me. “You’ll find that being a girl here doesn’t give you many advantages. Better learn that fast.”

I stare at him, incredulous. “Is that really how you see things? Just because I’m a girl?”

“Oh, come on,” he says, his smirk widening. “It’s not just me. You know that. The boys around here—everyone’s got their eyes on you, but not for the reasons you think. You’re a novelty, and novelties wear off.”

I shake my head, feeling a mix of anger and disappointment. “You don’t know anything about me. I’m here to learn and grow, not to be someone’s ‘novelty.’”

Richard steps closer, his tone shifting to something more serious. “You think you’re different because you got in through some connection with Nolan? You’re in over your head, Murphy. This place has a way of chewing people up and spitting them out.”