Scuffed Corners

Impatiently waiting for my friends to pick me up, I spot, across the room, my bulletin board. Leaning up against the wall, slips of paper, I thought were important enough to remember, are pinned up, overlapping each other. Ordinarily, I would walk right by, however, I stopped to take a glance.

Some rude persons actually put chewed gum under tables and desks. This is certainly inexcusable.

The air is tainted with the fumes of cherry blossom, hairspray and “Scarlet” red nail polish. Pink and white paint add texture to the walls. Week old clothes begin to hide underneath the solitary wooden mahogany chair as new, fresh clothes take their place as head of the drawer. Pieces of pencil shavings cover the once pastel pink carpet while the white fan creaks once it hits a 180-degree angle. A battle between bright yellow and soft white light occurs when someone decides to take settle on the full- size bed.

The first thing you notice in Spencer Pote’s office is the giant fluorescent-colored poster on his desk; it contrasts heavily with the dark brown of the wood and the grays of the carpet and cabinets.

seated at glass table hunched over a writing notebook, pen in hand, cigarette burning in ashtray, cup of coffee, typewriter on table, stacks of paper, candle burning on table.

The stone hollow echoed with dozens of small breaths and the clunky shuffling of chairs and tables. The lighting pulsated, from glowing orbs, the color of mandarins, positioned near walls throughout the room. Every child in the room was quiet in fear of disobeying and in pure content that today was another school day. Eilig sat in the back left of the room, at an ancient wooden desk with years worth of scratches and pen marks. Everyone else’s desks were identical: a scribbled-out heart an inch away from the corner, a deep, inch long scratch on the side. The silence was contagious until a woman entered the room, with hare-like features she clutched a clipboard, needle-like claws holding the soft wood in place.

Matthew Fraser, a secondary faculty pupil in Bethel, Washington, conveyed a discourse assigning a kindred understudy for an understudy optionally available office. The discourse was made amid faculty hours as a part of a school-supported instructive gadget in self-government. the intentional get collectively turned into long past to by means of round six hundred college students, a huge range of whom were 14-yr-olds. For the duration of the discourse, the pupil intentionally alluded to his competitor concerning a problematic and specific sexual similitude. The responses of the pupil differed from energetic hooting and hollering to humiliation and bewilderment by using other students within the auditorium.

As I write this, I’m in between apartments and living at home for the time being, so I’ve taken this moment of desperate, post-collegiate aimlessness solitude to clean out my childhood bedroom. The small pile of sweat-stained band t-shirts, folders of AP History notes my high school teachers insisted I’d need in college, and Mad Magazine issues are worth some nostalgic currency, but I had no idea I was stocked in pitiful high school mix CDs.

Big bookshelves on the walls were making seem the wooden desk a little piece of furnishing.

The audience can also see the scuff marks on the floor, this effectively demonstrates just how much time Nina dedicates to practicing at home. As an audience, we generally know from personal experience and exposure that this is what wood looks like after it has been scratched and used excessively. From this the audience is able to interpret the extent to which this area has been used. Nina’s extensive and obsessive practice schedule has placed so much pressure and friction on the wood that her petite body was successful in wearing away the surface of the wood.

The classroom was sparsely filled with a variety of people. The only sound filling the space was the droning of the teacher and one student’s enthusiastic pen scribbling down notes. That student was Darren Styman, and this class was Politics in South America. The notebook he wrote wasn’t out of the ordinary to the casual observer. But if someone were to take a closer look it was filled to brim with papers with tabs and sticky notes coming out of every direction. It held the scribbles of a man, this man. Darren let out an inappropriate cry of triumph before the lecture ended. He got out his seat with so much enthusiasm, the people who were watching were amazed he hadn’t tipped the desk over. Ignoring the wary gazes that were gliding over his

As I write this, I’m in between apartments and living at home for the time being, so I’ve taken this moment of desperate, post-collegiate aimlessness solitude to clean out my childhood bedroom. The small pile of sweat-stained band t-shirts, folders of AP History notes my high school teachers insisted I’d need in college, and Mad Magazine issues are worth some nostalgic currency, but I had no idea I was stocked in pitiful high school mix CDs.

It was a brisk summer day when the bugs got in my desk; their tinny green bodies squirmed through a hole near the bottom that presented its self like a portal. The three greasy beetles crawled under my papers and through the pages of my books. They left little trails of filth and gunk as they traveled with no sense of direction or intention. To them, my desk was an entirely new world unknown to bug kind; to me, it was a smaller version of my bedroom…messy. The bugs explored for hours on end, twelve to be exact, until I returned to my desk and discovered the little footprints that dotted my books and tests. My first thought was that a leprechaun must have searched through my desk the day I was gone, but soon I realized that the tinny foot prints

Next to the counter in the front half of the store was a long wooden table with several chairs. The wood of the table and chairs was dark. Between the table and the counter was a chalkboard. There were several pieces of paper and posters on the chalkboard held up with plain round black magnets. There were some drawings and write on the board, but there was no chalk or erasers around.

What a brave artist! In my fascination with the brilliant prose scribbled on my desk I completely forgot about commemorating my bed. My mattress no longer seemed worthy of my precious day dreaming time. Instead I must dedicate the rest of the class period to deciphering these brilliant etchings.