Keep a Hand on Your Dream

Story inspired by X.J. Kennedy poem:

Keep a hand on your dream – let it go too soon… it will dart around, taking crazy trips - blowing spittle and sound from insulting lips.

I was all too aware of it – every second the ticking sound of my counselor's prideful bird clock struck. The hand hit eight and a blue jay sung, making me wince at its strangled cry. I wondered when my counselor would finally realize the thing was broken. Of course, he'd never throw it out if he even discovered so. Apparently his 'Little Jenny' gave it to him for his birthday. He told me that every time I came into his office and the bloody thing chirped. It was always, "Did you hear that? That isn't a real bird, you know. My little Jenny gave me that clock and bought it with her own money too."

Frowning suddenly, I realizing that he had not yet informed me of his precious clock. I glanced in his direction, where he sat in his big office chair, his beady brown eyes glaring down at my schedule sheet. I nervously fiddled with my hands and waited until he concluded his ruminating.

The beady brown eyes rose from my pale green sheet and regarded me seriously. "Do you realize exactly what you're requesting, Miss. Webber?"

I nodded my head and firmly replied, "Yes, Mr. Pachisy, I know exactly what I'm requesting."

Leaning back in his chair, he put my schedule sheet down and cleared his throat, speaking in an informative manner. "The art classes are full enough as it is, without having more students joining."

"I know." I murmured.

"They're challenging courses. There are a lot of exhalent students and entering an advanced art course without any previous art background could prose as a problem."

"I realize that."

"Your grade average might drop."

"Then let it drop."

Mr. Pachisy spluttered for a moment, his mouth moving mutely in surprise. I only expected that much, though. It was well known that I always received a 4.0 grade point average every term. To every one, I seemed obsessed to have that mark, but I honestly wasn't. It was important to me, yes, but I wouldn't have a mental break down if I got a little lower. At least I don't believe I would. This art course would be a new challenge, though. The school I attended was legendary for its art department. Every year our school had the highest number students accepted into the prestigious art university Emily Carr, one of the best and most famous art schools in Canada. Evidently, students from all over the Vancouver area attended our school just for art, so we always possessed the best of the best.

Mr. Pachisy cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, unable to look at me. "I'm still unsure if I should let you in the course. The class did start over two weeks ago, and you have no previous experience. It worries me what this class could do to your average. You're such a good student, Miss. Webber. You try so hard."

"Which is exactly why you should give me a chance." I persisted, my inexorable nature shining through determined emerald eyes. "I try hard, Mr. Pachisy and I don't give up on things. You know that. It's a big challenge, yes, but I'm sure if I put my mind to it, I can get a decent grade."

"Decent?" He snapped incredulously. "You don't do decent, Miss. Webber. You do exhalent – extraordinary! Honestly, what has gotten into you?"

Sighing relentlessly I forced myself to face him head on and present my argument in a professional manner. "Look, I just want to try something new and challenging, okay?" Oh crap. I quickly clamped my mouth shut and glared at my navy blue running shoes. That wasn't too professional, was it? Yeah, defiantly not. Nice going, Maven.

"Miss. Webber." He scolded, voice astounded. "Watch your attitude."

"Right." I muttered, lifting my gaze back up. "Sorry about that. The fact still remains, though. This is my decision, and I want to try it."

Letting out a tired breath Mr. Pachisy rubbed his eyes. "Very well. I suppose it is your decision, and you're responsible enough to handle the consequences."

I held my own breath and cautiously asked, "Does that mean I can take it?"

"Yes." He confirmed slowly, with a slight bob of his head. "Yes, it does. I will inform the teacher of your entrance today and you may start the course tomorrow."

I restrained myself from squealing in delight and let out that deep breath, grabbing my slip from his desk. "Thank you, Mr. Pachisy. You wont regret this. I promise."

My counselor shot me a small, forced smile and quietly said, "I'm not the one who you should be assuring, Miss. Webber."

I raised an eyebrow in question, but didn't dwell on the odd comment. It didn't scare me; this course couldn't get to me, not if I tried. So, in bouncing steps I left the counseling office, ready for my new challenge.

Author's Note, please read:

Look, it's a new story! This originally started out as a creative writing assignment for my class. We were to find a poem in a certain section of our poetry book and write a short story about it. I wrote the really short version, but I just felt compelled to write a longer one. This story has so much potential to me. It's more interpretive, rather than my usual escape fiction. It will be several chapters, but they're short chapters. So don't worry, Seeing Trough Tears is still number one to me.

This story relates to me in a way with my writing. In grade ten, my counselor wanted me to switch from normal English to communications for the future year because of my spelling disability. Luckily, My grade ten teacher had faith in me and convinced him to give me a second chance. In grade eleven I received a B for the first term in English and an A for the second. And now, in grade twelve, for my first semester I took Journalism and received 92 for both terms, and was also one of the three selected for the editorial board. Although I'm not taking the course again this semester I am a "consultant" and edit other journalists articles, as well as help with lay out and am ready to write a column or article if needed at the last minute.

But really, why am I telling you this? I'm simply showing you that this is a story that everyone can relate too. Don't get me wrong now; my story is quite different from Miss. Webbers'. I know I usually have stories based on romance and although there is a tiny bit in this story (not till chapter three, though, and it's not just thrown in. it's required for the story line), that is not essentially what the story is about.

I must remind you that this is an interpretive story, so if you're wondering why she hasn't told you a lot yet that's because interpretive literature depends on strictly showing, and barely any telling. It also goes much slower because plot isn't as suspenseful, or important.

To Seeing Though Tears readers: Really sorry that the next chapter isn't up today, but I've been busy yet again. It's getting there though, trust me. It will be up within a week. (Hides behind corner) I really, really am sorry! But I'm having a bit of trouble with the scene I'm writing right now and I also refuse to put another chapter up until the whole story is completely edited… so give me another week, please. I love you guys!

Please review and let me know what you think!