I have a continuation to this story that I haven't typed yet, so leave a
review after you read it. I'd like to know what you think.
Roses
The clouds parted and just enough sunshine broke through to illuminate a small patch of grass. What was left of the morning dew reflected dim rainbows within their watery depths. The dark grass around looked like despair surrounding this small patch of hope.
This wasn't a real sight, but it was real to Gallant and in turn, real to Rowena. She had come to love the hour she spent in the second floor art room. It was not because of her own mediocre work, but rather Gallant's paintings. They were expertly crafted and full of symbolism she thought not capable of a high school student.
The sound of the bell ended not just the class, but also the interest Rowena had in Gallant. Now she was a different person, and so was she.
Rowena reluctantly gathered up her books and returned to the outside world of Meadowbrook High. The school resided in a small Pennsylvanian town, near Philadelphia. It was stationed in an odd place, right between the famous brook the town was named for, Hathaway Waters, and a massive open meadow. Gallant had once drawn a painting of what the scene used to look like with out the school. He even added a miniscule likeness of a woman with sleek raven hair, Rowena assumed this was Mary Hathaway, the doctor that the brook was named after. Even though Hathaway's black hair was supposed to be very short, the long hair blowing in the wind was a very nice effect. It was beautiful.
"Come on Ro, we'll be late for class," Rowena's best friend Isabel whined pulling at her sleeve. They left quickly without giving Rowena the chance to replace her unrequited feelings for the dark haired artist with the realization that her real significant other was in fact Drake Allan, a handsome hockey star in the year above her.
They made a difficult dash up a flight of stairs in skirts and flung themselves into the history room just in time. In the process, Rowena ran into some one in the door knocking him to the ground. It was Gallant.
"Sorry, I didn't see anyone coming," a soft and slightly winded voice said. "It fine, it wasn't your fault," Rowena started before being interrupted by a haughty Isabel:
"Well maybe you should pay more attention, come on Ro." Isabel wasn't about to forgive some one for being ran into. It didn't make sense, but Rowena didn't protest. Instead, she pushed her long black hair out of her eyes and got to her feet.
"Ro?" Gallant asked more as a question than a means of getting her attention. Rowena glanced over her shoulder, but he said nothing more.
History class was always monotonous. The students took notes like drones, and the one that weren't writing were staring blankly with a dazed look on their face. Rowena, usually a note taker, wasn't paying much attention that day. She noticed in her somewhat conscious slumber that although she had a short stature, her desk was definitely built for someone much taller than the other desks. She could comfortably swing her feet and let her heels graze the floor below her.
She noticed Gallant a few seats ahead of her doodling in his notebook. It was like art class all over again. After he finished with a cartoon interpretation of Mr. Borok, the history teacher, he began to draw roses of different shapes and size. Did he know she was watching? Then he began to write something in an elegant script: Ro? Such a lovely name does not need a simple one to call it by. Nor does a lovely persona. She flashed her eyes up quickly and felt her face turn red out of a mix of embarrassment and anger. "What does he mean 'nor does a lovely persona,'" she thought offended, "I don't have some sort of hidden person in me." His words, as rude as they were, she realized had a certain eloquence about them, and a certain truthfulness.
She turned her notebook to a blank page as the words began to form in her head: The real me Is afraid of the light and dwells in the dark where no one can see it lives in a place that no one can find and goes by a name that no one has heard : Rowena A thing no one knows, no one can find in the dark.
Thrown off by her brazen honesty, Rowena quickly crossed out her own name on the page, just incase, and detached it from her notebook. It had been an eventful dull-history-class, and Rowena wanted as little evidence as possible to prove its existence. She discarded the page on her way out the door. She never wanted it to happen again.
"I want to drop painting," Rowena told the guidance councilor firmly.
"But Miss Owen, you need to take an art class every year to graduate," the councilor replied perplexed.
"I know I'll take something else, anything else."
"Well let's see, metal craft is open," she said slowly while checking her computer.
"I'll take it!"
"Hold on, there's also basket weaving and advanced still art."
"Basket weaving," Rowena decided with a sigh of relief.
Basket weaving wasn't exactly Rowena's calling, but then again neither was painting. This class had two perks, it was much smaller, and it didn't contain Gallant.
Her grayish green eyes carefully watched her thin, pale hands weave the oak- tag practice material into a crude basket: in and out, over and under. It was almost relaxing. After what seemed like forever, she was done.
"Ah, Rowena, I see we are finished," the teacher said with an excitement that most people don't apply to oak-tag baskets, "Now for the test." She took a large baseball out of her desk and dropped it in the basket, thankfully it held.
"Very good, dear," she beamed.
After an uneventful history class, Rowena met Drake in the parking lot for her daily ride home.
"Nice basket," he observed, "Is that from Isabel?"
"No, I made it."
"I meant the note inside. Since when does she call you 'Rowena Owen." Rowena looked down and sure enough there was a folded piece of paper that bore her full name in Gallant's handwriting.
"Yeah she was feeling formal," she lied. Rowena waited until she was safely in her room to read it:
Dear Rowena, I did not wish to scare you off yesterday. I only meant that you seem discontent, I can tell that you are fighting something when you are thinking of an idea during painting class or after that incident yesterday .You should follow your heart, then you won't need too worry if painting on your feeling will make you look too venerable, it will just come naturally. I think you'll find it a rewarding experience. Love Always,
P.S. I left a gift to make it up to you on your doorstep
Rowena ran out of her room, shocked, and made her way to the doorstep. Her older brother was standing in the door way with a red rose is his hands.
"I never pinned Drake as the romantic type, ' My apologies, for you a real one,'" he read off the card in a dramatic voice. "You really out did yourself Drake. This isn't from him, is it?"
"Of course it is," I said annoyed. He didn't buy it. He and Drake played hockey together and they were good friends. He knew that leaving flowers anonymously wasn't Drake's style, even if he would think to do that, he'd want the whole world to know it was from him.
"So, this is from him too then," he said holding up an envelope closed with an old fashion wax seal. Rowena's stomach dropped as he opened the envelope and began reading.
"Your eyes are like a fire Erupting in my very soul. To see those eyes in person, Is the fuel for my fire, My heart, my mind, my soul. From my hands, flow our essences Intertwined in all its beauty. My soul is empty in you're absence.
Wow, and to think he just left two minutes ago. It's a beautiful thing, I must let Drakey know."
"No!" she yelled, "You can't! You know it's not from him! Its just this nutcase in my class, okay."
"Alright sorry," he said taken aback, "You okay? Do you want me to set this kid strait?"
"No, I'm okay," she said calming down. He handed Rowena the flower and poem. When she returned to her room, she didn't feel quite as embarrassed as she expected. All of those beautiful paintings came from her after all. She was that small woman with raven hair. Rowena felt the sensation of words flying about her head. The truth was, he inspired her too.
Roses
The clouds parted and just enough sunshine broke through to illuminate a small patch of grass. What was left of the morning dew reflected dim rainbows within their watery depths. The dark grass around looked like despair surrounding this small patch of hope.
This wasn't a real sight, but it was real to Gallant and in turn, real to Rowena. She had come to love the hour she spent in the second floor art room. It was not because of her own mediocre work, but rather Gallant's paintings. They were expertly crafted and full of symbolism she thought not capable of a high school student.
The sound of the bell ended not just the class, but also the interest Rowena had in Gallant. Now she was a different person, and so was she.
Rowena reluctantly gathered up her books and returned to the outside world of Meadowbrook High. The school resided in a small Pennsylvanian town, near Philadelphia. It was stationed in an odd place, right between the famous brook the town was named for, Hathaway Waters, and a massive open meadow. Gallant had once drawn a painting of what the scene used to look like with out the school. He even added a miniscule likeness of a woman with sleek raven hair, Rowena assumed this was Mary Hathaway, the doctor that the brook was named after. Even though Hathaway's black hair was supposed to be very short, the long hair blowing in the wind was a very nice effect. It was beautiful.
"Come on Ro, we'll be late for class," Rowena's best friend Isabel whined pulling at her sleeve. They left quickly without giving Rowena the chance to replace her unrequited feelings for the dark haired artist with the realization that her real significant other was in fact Drake Allan, a handsome hockey star in the year above her.
They made a difficult dash up a flight of stairs in skirts and flung themselves into the history room just in time. In the process, Rowena ran into some one in the door knocking him to the ground. It was Gallant.
"Sorry, I didn't see anyone coming," a soft and slightly winded voice said. "It fine, it wasn't your fault," Rowena started before being interrupted by a haughty Isabel:
"Well maybe you should pay more attention, come on Ro." Isabel wasn't about to forgive some one for being ran into. It didn't make sense, but Rowena didn't protest. Instead, she pushed her long black hair out of her eyes and got to her feet.
"Ro?" Gallant asked more as a question than a means of getting her attention. Rowena glanced over her shoulder, but he said nothing more.
History class was always monotonous. The students took notes like drones, and the one that weren't writing were staring blankly with a dazed look on their face. Rowena, usually a note taker, wasn't paying much attention that day. She noticed in her somewhat conscious slumber that although she had a short stature, her desk was definitely built for someone much taller than the other desks. She could comfortably swing her feet and let her heels graze the floor below her.
She noticed Gallant a few seats ahead of her doodling in his notebook. It was like art class all over again. After he finished with a cartoon interpretation of Mr. Borok, the history teacher, he began to draw roses of different shapes and size. Did he know she was watching? Then he began to write something in an elegant script: Ro? Such a lovely name does not need a simple one to call it by. Nor does a lovely persona. She flashed her eyes up quickly and felt her face turn red out of a mix of embarrassment and anger. "What does he mean 'nor does a lovely persona,'" she thought offended, "I don't have some sort of hidden person in me." His words, as rude as they were, she realized had a certain eloquence about them, and a certain truthfulness.
She turned her notebook to a blank page as the words began to form in her head: The real me Is afraid of the light and dwells in the dark where no one can see it lives in a place that no one can find and goes by a name that no one has heard : Rowena A thing no one knows, no one can find in the dark.
Thrown off by her brazen honesty, Rowena quickly crossed out her own name on the page, just incase, and detached it from her notebook. It had been an eventful dull-history-class, and Rowena wanted as little evidence as possible to prove its existence. She discarded the page on her way out the door. She never wanted it to happen again.
"I want to drop painting," Rowena told the guidance councilor firmly.
"But Miss Owen, you need to take an art class every year to graduate," the councilor replied perplexed.
"I know I'll take something else, anything else."
"Well let's see, metal craft is open," she said slowly while checking her computer.
"I'll take it!"
"Hold on, there's also basket weaving and advanced still art."
"Basket weaving," Rowena decided with a sigh of relief.
Basket weaving wasn't exactly Rowena's calling, but then again neither was painting. This class had two perks, it was much smaller, and it didn't contain Gallant.
Her grayish green eyes carefully watched her thin, pale hands weave the oak- tag practice material into a crude basket: in and out, over and under. It was almost relaxing. After what seemed like forever, she was done.
"Ah, Rowena, I see we are finished," the teacher said with an excitement that most people don't apply to oak-tag baskets, "Now for the test." She took a large baseball out of her desk and dropped it in the basket, thankfully it held.
"Very good, dear," she beamed.
After an uneventful history class, Rowena met Drake in the parking lot for her daily ride home.
"Nice basket," he observed, "Is that from Isabel?"
"No, I made it."
"I meant the note inside. Since when does she call you 'Rowena Owen." Rowena looked down and sure enough there was a folded piece of paper that bore her full name in Gallant's handwriting.
"Yeah she was feeling formal," she lied. Rowena waited until she was safely in her room to read it:
Dear Rowena, I did not wish to scare you off yesterday. I only meant that you seem discontent, I can tell that you are fighting something when you are thinking of an idea during painting class or after that incident yesterday .You should follow your heart, then you won't need too worry if painting on your feeling will make you look too venerable, it will just come naturally. I think you'll find it a rewarding experience. Love Always,
P.S. I left a gift to make it up to you on your doorstep
Rowena ran out of her room, shocked, and made her way to the doorstep. Her older brother was standing in the door way with a red rose is his hands.
"I never pinned Drake as the romantic type, ' My apologies, for you a real one,'" he read off the card in a dramatic voice. "You really out did yourself Drake. This isn't from him, is it?"
"Of course it is," I said annoyed. He didn't buy it. He and Drake played hockey together and they were good friends. He knew that leaving flowers anonymously wasn't Drake's style, even if he would think to do that, he'd want the whole world to know it was from him.
"So, this is from him too then," he said holding up an envelope closed with an old fashion wax seal. Rowena's stomach dropped as he opened the envelope and began reading.
"Your eyes are like a fire Erupting in my very soul. To see those eyes in person, Is the fuel for my fire, My heart, my mind, my soul. From my hands, flow our essences Intertwined in all its beauty. My soul is empty in you're absence.
Wow, and to think he just left two minutes ago. It's a beautiful thing, I must let Drakey know."
"No!" she yelled, "You can't! You know it's not from him! Its just this nutcase in my class, okay."
"Alright sorry," he said taken aback, "You okay? Do you want me to set this kid strait?"
"No, I'm okay," she said calming down. He handed Rowena the flower and poem. When she returned to her room, she didn't feel quite as embarrassed as she expected. All of those beautiful paintings came from her after all. She was that small woman with raven hair. Rowena felt the sensation of words flying about her head. The truth was, he inspired her too.