Summertime Snow

On the second floor of the Imperial School of Dion, a class of young students was finishing up their work.

The sun beat down on the empty walkways and pavement that skirted around the school's edge, veiled in an amber glow. Sitting by the wide window frame's rusted orange patina, someone was watching the wind pull on the row of trees. It was a lone 10th grade student with light brown hair that hung down past his eyes. The purple edges of his uniform bled into the white and black speckled veneer of the school desk's reflective top.

Hazel flaked eyes peered through the dust-covered double glazing, entranced by the thin stems caught on the fringes of a light gale. Soft white petals left their branched homes and gravitated to the lonely sidewalk below; it almost looked like it was snowing, the pavement beckoning them down. Another gust moved them afield, neither melting away nor staying.

A softness danced around the enclosed room; it came from the front of the class. The melody of words pulled the young boy away from nature's beauty. No longer captivated by the scenery outside, the lone student sitting at the back of the class turned to the front.

It was a small classroom, yet the seating arrangements for the students were well thought out and efficient. In front of the lone student, there were four rows of six, each seating two students, reminiscent of tabled islands. They were all fixated on the young girl speaking in front of the class, her beautiful words masking the hum of the vent above her as she was nearing her end.

Louise: 'Mellow.' "Love is but the dancing of embers in the abyss of life. A yearning to ignite its desires refuses to vanish into the darkness or find solitude in the emptiness. It waits for someone to come along, to become its tree of life, its fuel, to burn just a little longer in the eternal damnation of love... In that love, happiness can be found." (Bowing.)

The classroom sat in silence as the red, flowing locks of hair fell down over the young girl's face, dangling towards the shimmering tiled floor. Soft, bright streaks of sunlight caught on her hair, making it look like it was ablaze—a waterfall of fire. Two stars were present: one outside and one inside.

Hands began to move in the front row, then the second and third, then finally the fourth, but not the fifth. On the fifth, the solitary person was enamoured not by the words but by the beauty he saw.

The teacher's soft, open palm halted the coming of claps that broke out along the rows of desks in the small classroom; one by one, they died out before coming to fruition in unison. The large black blazer and long skirt concealed the womanly curves of the tall lady; peeking out, the white button-up shirt clipped the sun, blooming in the light. The sun was partially illuminating the sea of silent students as gentle, crimson eyes looked out. She now controlled the room like a baton less maestro, which would soon change as she reached for a long object.

Lovell: (Lowering hand.) That was a fine rendition of Dommo's "Soul in the Night." (Picking something up.) Louise, it appears that you overlooked some important details again. 'Exhaling.'

A hand raised up and fell down onto something soft; it was a yellow metre long ruler lightly tapping the back of Louise's head in a childish manner, making the bowing red head spring up to attention. A pouting, freckled face gazed at Lovell in annoyance. Deep blue eyes peered into the teacher's soul.

Louise: Miss Lovell, not my hair! You are going to mess it up. 'Vexxed.'

Louise's small hand patted down the flicked-up strands of red hair from the ruler's uninvited contact.

Lovell: This is literature, not hair and beauty. (Tapping the ruler against her palm.) Think on your words than your looks.

Mild laughter caught Louise's attention, and the click of the black heels rung out as the teacher began to move, picking up where she left off.

Lovell: 'Sighing.' You missed the part where the tree of life burns away and turns to ash, and the lover finds no hope in the darkness. 'Groaning.' Don't change things to fit your narrative of wanting a happy ending, Louise. Someday, all things must come to an end, and all love must die. It's the acceptance of life that sometimes you never find the piece of the puzzle... (Placing the ruler on the desk.) However, it was heartfelt and beautifully delivered, in your own way, earning you eight points; it would have been a clean ten if you followed the lines. (Pointing at a desk.) Now, please sit.

A low, almost inaudible, reply came from Louise in a sheepish tone.

Louise: Dommo sounds like an idiot... 'Huffing.' Mine sounds much better.

The teacher glanced to the back of the class at the smiling boy.

The red-headed student squinted at Lovell and moved back to her desk in the front row. Folded arms signalled her annoyance with the outcome and the number of points. The students' murmurs of congratulations rose, and Louise's defiant face melted into a friendly demeanour at the praises of the small group around her. Lovell, not wanting to fall into an argument with Louise, bit her lip and pushed the words to the back of her mind.

Lovell: (Pointing to the board.) So, that puts Team C in the lead with twenty-four points. 'Confident.' Now it's still early days...

Disgruntled mutters came from across the classroom, some louder than others.

Student in the third row: Team C has already won; you might as well give them the prize. 'Defeated.' With Louise on their team, it's a sure win. 

A gentle pat came from a long heel, gradually forming into a louder rhythmic tone; it was coming from the teacher, not stopping until the students had all quietened down.

Lovell: (Open palm, demanding silence.) There is an "i" in Louise, but there is no "i" in team. 'Stern.' For the summer project... 

A wave of sighs washed over Louise, the moans and groans ebbing and flowing, then slowly dying to the stern look on Lovell's face.

Lovell: 'Louder.' As I was saying! For the summer project, you all must come up with your own story as a group. (Scribbling on the blackboard.) So, person one writes their story, and then person two continues it until they reach the final person. All the narratives should seamlessly integrate with each other. You can't do a fantasy novel that turns into space battles. It must be coherent; I will provide each of you with a detailed plan, complete with examples.

A hand shot up from the front, blurting out a question.

Random student: What about a knight that becomes an astronaut? 'Comical.'

A quick retort was thrown back.

Lovell: 'Annoyed.' Unless the knight is isekiad into our reality, there is a fat chance of him becoming a knightstronaut. Now... (Shifting from the blackboard.) I want grounded stories.

Lovell moved to her desk, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. A long, slender finger pressed down on the small mouse button next to the modern-looking computer. There was a low click, then a flurry of notifications from the students' phones pinging.