This is a sort of children's fairy tale that I wrote (tried to post it last night), so it doesn't have too much description. I originally made this as sort of a joke, but I might as well see what you people think about it.
“George! Are you paying attention, or just staring at your desk?” an old gruff voice suddenly snapped. It was Mr. Bat. George snapped his head up from a pillow of arms just to see a threatening ruler dangling in one of his hands, and the other being a fist that looked even more threatening than the ruler. For a proper old English man, he looked rather tough. Kids around him started giggling, stifling laughs, and pointing. Why? Kids always daydreamed in Bat’s class—some even snored!—But it was only the unlucky handful, like George, for example, that got caught.
A fancy leather shoe began drumming the ground impatiently for a response. There came none. The old teacher cleared his throat demandingly. There still came no response. “George, were you paying attention,” his voice wasn’t so loud, but it had the same snappiness and venom as before.
George paused nervously for a moment, and then shook his head with guilt that was only partly theatrical. His hair felt funny.
Mr. Bat credited the honesty, but still, he punished. “Out! Out of my classroom.” His ruler pointed to the door, as if the poor little boy did not already know where it was. There was much luck in the fact that he didn’t use the dunce hat.
George scampered to the door, but not before grabbing his history book and his chalkboard (for that is what the school used as an alternative to paper). He hesitated a moment before exiting the door. All the doors in his school were extremely polished, you see, so polished that one might see one’s vague reflection if one took a glance at it. George saw the reason why everyone was laughing at him: his hair was a rat’s nest. It must’ve gotten that way when he napped in his arms. Oh, what would his mother say if she saw her son’s angelic golden hair, of which she only combed this morning, all ruined like a bum’s?
George quietly closed the door behind him while trying to flatten his hair out. He was thinking about using spit on it, rejecting the idea at almost the same moment, when he heard a roaring steam engine echo through the halls, and a bright light appear suddenly at the very end of it.
An adult would have run the other direction in a panic if they ever saw a train coming towards them, especially if it was in a tight space (for a train, that is) like a hallway. George was not an adult. He shyly trudged towards the train, with it speeding at him faster. The question, what is a full-size train doing in a school hallway? or why isn’t anyone else coming out at the racket?, did not come into his young and curious mind. In fact, nothing did at that particular moment. His legs did all the thinking.
Within moments, the train was in front of him. George jumped out of the way just in time. The train stopped right beside him, with no apparent trouble at the sudden stop. If the little boy knew anything about locomotives, he would have thought this to be odd.
George turned around. He stood in awe, facing the middle section of the beast of steel. A door was open in front of him, and in it stood a chubby man with overalls and a train engineer’s hat on. In his mouth was a piece of long grass, like you might see an old farmer chewing. He held a demanding hand out at the boy.
“Ticket?” he said in a gruff voice.
George looked at his hands, half expecting to see a train ticket. All there was was a history book and a few papers. No ticket.
George looked back up at the expectant man. “Umm… I haven’t got one, sir.”
The train conductor’s beady eyes dropped down to George’s history book. “’At looks like a ticket.”
George shook his head shyly.
“’S paper, isn’t it.” The train conductor snapped his fingers demandingly, as the rest of his actions were.
Not knowing what to do (you wouldn’t if you were in that situation), George slowly handed the man the book. The big man snatched it greedily and began pulling on both ends. Ending up with a red face and rippling muscles, he ripped it apart (it was hardcover and had five-hundred pages!) and threw the two halves in a garbage bin, where another pile of ticket stubs were.
George made a small jump of shock at this. He always wanted to get his history book destroyed or lost, but never expected it to happen, and certainly not in this way.
The man tried to hide his heavy breathing. “Pretty thick ticket. You wanna get on, now?”
George thought about this for a moment. His mother had always told him not to go on rides with strangers, but he never imagined that this was what she meant. Oh well, he paid a perfectly good history book. He might as well board.
George took one wide step onto the train. The train took off again the instant after the door slammed behind him.
~1-Boarding!~
Boredom was the worst torture for George. It was what he was in the middle of right now, unfortunately. Of course, it could have been the middle, or it could have been the end, or even the very beginning. Who knew how long a teacher’s lecture could last? Certainly, an eight-year-old with no sense of time wouldn’t.“George! Are you paying attention, or just staring at your desk?” an old gruff voice suddenly snapped. It was Mr. Bat. George snapped his head up from a pillow of arms just to see a threatening ruler dangling in one of his hands, and the other being a fist that looked even more threatening than the ruler. For a proper old English man, he looked rather tough. Kids around him started giggling, stifling laughs, and pointing. Why? Kids always daydreamed in Bat’s class—some even snored!—But it was only the unlucky handful, like George, for example, that got caught.
A fancy leather shoe began drumming the ground impatiently for a response. There came none. The old teacher cleared his throat demandingly. There still came no response. “George, were you paying attention,” his voice wasn’t so loud, but it had the same snappiness and venom as before.
George paused nervously for a moment, and then shook his head with guilt that was only partly theatrical. His hair felt funny.
Mr. Bat credited the honesty, but still, he punished. “Out! Out of my classroom.” His ruler pointed to the door, as if the poor little boy did not already know where it was. There was much luck in the fact that he didn’t use the dunce hat.
George scampered to the door, but not before grabbing his history book and his chalkboard (for that is what the school used as an alternative to paper). He hesitated a moment before exiting the door. All the doors in his school were extremely polished, you see, so polished that one might see one’s vague reflection if one took a glance at it. George saw the reason why everyone was laughing at him: his hair was a rat’s nest. It must’ve gotten that way when he napped in his arms. Oh, what would his mother say if she saw her son’s angelic golden hair, of which she only combed this morning, all ruined like a bum’s?
George quietly closed the door behind him while trying to flatten his hair out. He was thinking about using spit on it, rejecting the idea at almost the same moment, when he heard a roaring steam engine echo through the halls, and a bright light appear suddenly at the very end of it.
An adult would have run the other direction in a panic if they ever saw a train coming towards them, especially if it was in a tight space (for a train, that is) like a hallway. George was not an adult. He shyly trudged towards the train, with it speeding at him faster. The question, what is a full-size train doing in a school hallway? or why isn’t anyone else coming out at the racket?, did not come into his young and curious mind. In fact, nothing did at that particular moment. His legs did all the thinking.
Within moments, the train was in front of him. George jumped out of the way just in time. The train stopped right beside him, with no apparent trouble at the sudden stop. If the little boy knew anything about locomotives, he would have thought this to be odd.
George turned around. He stood in awe, facing the middle section of the beast of steel. A door was open in front of him, and in it stood a chubby man with overalls and a train engineer’s hat on. In his mouth was a piece of long grass, like you might see an old farmer chewing. He held a demanding hand out at the boy.
“Ticket?” he said in a gruff voice.
George looked at his hands, half expecting to see a train ticket. All there was was a history book and a few papers. No ticket.
George looked back up at the expectant man. “Umm… I haven’t got one, sir.”
The train conductor’s beady eyes dropped down to George’s history book. “’At looks like a ticket.”
George shook his head shyly.
“’S paper, isn’t it.” The train conductor snapped his fingers demandingly, as the rest of his actions were.
Not knowing what to do (you wouldn’t if you were in that situation), George slowly handed the man the book. The big man snatched it greedily and began pulling on both ends. Ending up with a red face and rippling muscles, he ripped it apart (it was hardcover and had five-hundred pages!) and threw the two halves in a garbage bin, where another pile of ticket stubs were.
George made a small jump of shock at this. He always wanted to get his history book destroyed or lost, but never expected it to happen, and certainly not in this way.
The man tried to hide his heavy breathing. “Pretty thick ticket. You wanna get on, now?”
George thought about this for a moment. His mother had always told him not to go on rides with strangers, but he never imagined that this was what she meant. Oh well, he paid a perfectly good history book. He might as well board.
George took one wide step onto the train. The train took off again the instant after the door slammed behind him.