Never Fly Too Close To The Sun

Why Are Clouds Grey On A Dull Day?

"Welcome everyone, new and old. I am Mr Edwardson, head of 6th form here at Barden Secondary School - if you didn't already know - and I would like to take the time to wish you all the best in achieving what is necessary to set you on a journey of happiness and ambition in the future. This is the start of you becoming adults," the sweaty and pale man stood on the stage at the front of the hall paused to take a breath and wipe his brow with a silk handkerchief before continuing, "Barden School is dedicated to squeezing the best out of every single one of you," he says with the emphasis of squeezing his plump fingers together into a fist. Facing the short man in his charcoal suit sat row upon row of gormless faces dressed in an array of bright and dark shades, inspecting either him or the drizzle falling on the windows at the sides of the hall. He sighed slightly, thinking about how students nowadays are so set on impressing one another, and never goal-orientated, before continuing his speech of desperation which lacked originality.

Three rows from the back, on one of the stiff plastic chairs sat a brunette. Her hair fell is natural dark brown waves to just below her shoulders, creating coverage over the smokey grey polo with a black front pocket which clung loosely to her torso. To match the 'alternative' look, her lower half was covered by ripped black skinny jeans and bulky black matt Doc Martin boots. Her wrists held several thick fabric bracelets in place, and her eyes were both heavily pierced with ear spikes & studs. On her face, a smirk tugged at the edges of her ruby red lips as she noted the blushing man stuttering on his words nervously before turning her attention to the thoughts within her head. One section of her mind was solely based upon 24/7 remixes of songs electronically - this was a combination of mixes she took pride in having created, and also the works of artists she admired most. However, this portion of her buzzing mind was not what she decided to focus on. Instead, she thought it more appropriate to head to her train-of-thought, the things she would say if she had people to say them to, but didn't.

These thoughts went from her perception on how crap the school year was going to be, to her then followed fears and distaste on who her form tutor (Ms. Radcliffe, a highly biased teacher whom had been punishing her victims since their first day 5 years previous) for the whole of year 12, and 13 is, and finally to her annoyance at her dad and the step-monster he married for forcing her to go to 6th form rather than follow her dreams in the world of practicality and experience. Why couldn't she just get out there and make her difference in the world? Why did she have to spend even more time in stuffy classrooms learning absolute nonsense that wouldn't be necessary in her future?

The side-tracked 16 year-old snapped back to reality suddenly when an eruption of loud clapping started. She joined in reluctantly as the man now dripping with sweat and bright red waddled off the stage. A line of 6 teachers filed on past him, all beaming with sickly sweet smiles and dressed in their best attire. The grungy girl raised an eyebrow and smirked at the teachers as they took turns to step forward and introduce themselves before giving directions for how the students could reach their particular form room after the assembly. Finally it came to a short and thin lady dressed in a pencil skirt and tan blouse to step forward. She cleared her throat quickly before saying sharply, "For form 12e, walk along the corridor straight ahead until the end. Enter the area by the pond and turn right, followed by another right. Go past the next pond and then turn right again. You will reach the French Department, this is where you shall wait for me to take you to our assigned tutor room." She nods briefly, as if pleased with herself, and remembers to plaster on a toothy smile before stepping back to let the last teacher address the year group.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ms. Radcliffe marched to the crowd of about 20 gangly teenagers stood around the building labelled 'French Department'. She took out her register from under her arm, "Right, listen up please," the class obeyed and turned towards her patiently, "as I said in assembly I'm Ms. Radcliffe, and I will be your tutor for the remaining two years. Some of you this is too late to say to, but to those of you who are new at Barden, make sure you're organised and achieve your targets and we'll get on fine. Now, I'm going to register you now so that I know you're all here before taking you to our form room. This classroom will be the ours for every morning registration and afternoon tutor time for the rest of these two years, too. Like with me, if you treat it well, all shall be fine," she smiles slightly in an attempt to show her humour only to receive a lack of laughter from the blank faces.