Grandfather and Susan (original ficlet, barely)
Notes: Here's the first English assignment of the semester, and the first in a regular class since a year ago. It's 2:14AM. And I barely, barely just fit this into the guidelines for this personal response, because I couldn't write anything but a story.
Thus, my first mildly lengthy original story in a long, long time.
Any Doctor Who fans that skim this fic: shush. I know. I couldn't resist. And the voices aren't quite right anyway: I shall remedy this. One day.
[inspiration, assignment]
Grandfather and Susan
by
northern_magic
They're all the same. So firmly emotional, these random ideas spill forth to mimic each other and meekly push forward an idea of their own. Everything pours out, rushing to the bottom of the page, tripping, over commas, to tumble over letters and slide to a halt. On again, all in haste and vain.
I lift my pencil, brush off eraser shavings and hand back the corrections with a wink.
It's not as though the teacher really cares, does he? He has his head down in the papers, pen poised (I hate red). And it's not really cheating if I pass over a few fragments, is it? I can't earn the grade for them, after all (it's all they care about).
Today is report card day. Tomorrow: on again, all in haste and vain.
I thought that already. It's getting to me.
It's not my fault I'm tired, and bored, and defensive, and want to be anywhere but here. I'm sure the teacher agrees; he's given up on us by now, I think. His ineffable wisdom and patience is wearing down until we are all just sixty-two human beasts in a tiny whitewashed cage, staring hungrily at the stack of reports on his desk. I look away.
Grandfather told Susan about Rousseau once. He said "the child was a special person who had to be carefully nurtured to develop naturally. Children were innocent; thus he advocated an education which was rustic and which would develop natural goodness."
I added in single quotation marks, wrote near the bottom "Haberman, A: The Making of the Modern Age pp26.". I pondered the length of the quote and wondered at the formatting. The teacher spoke briefly about something; I learned nothing new. I wrote on.
"Everyone's indifferent," Said susan. I cross it out. "So why can't you take me on a grand tour of Europe then, Grandfather?" said Susan.
"Oi!" Grandfather exclaimed. "I was talking about Rousseau's own theory, thank you. And implementing universal public education isn't as easy as you apes take it for. Not enough teachers, for one. Not enough motivated teachers, for another. The students want to take away only what they need- shame this only applies here. Be glad you have me, Susan."
Always, Grandfather, even if you never answer the important questions, thinks Susan. With only a trace of sarcasm. But at least you answer the unimportant ones without holding up the class- what class?
"Tell me, Susan. Tell me about your class."
She told Grandfather about her class, about the girl in the corner with the faintly loud music. About frustrations with the people that sat around her, who passed her their papers and expected to get a passing mark. About her teacher, who had tried to teach them self defense. Grandfather just smirked; his point was proven in his mind.
"So," he said, arms folded, leaning against an invisible wall, "why do you want to tour Europe? We can't spend all our time in the museums, you know. Not even the Louvre. Unless you're going to look for a nice bloke to settle down wi-"
"DON'T say that, Grandfather! It's bad enough that it's all anyone is thinking about, knowing just enough to...do what they're going to do, and settle down and-" Susan glared at the man with the leather jacket and the name Grandfather and no shadow to speak of, not a real one. "No, Grandfather," she finished, because he was still her mentor, albeit an unlikely one.
"How well you do on paper doesn't matter at the end, you know," mused Grandfather. "It's the understanding that counts. It's considering advice from people who already know what's ahead in your path." Susan rolled her eyes, prompting Grandfather to hastily add: "Yes, yes, and figure it out on your own as well. The mark matters, you know. Just not as much as you lot make it out to be, and not in the way you lot make it out to be. Might as well just pull grades out of a fish bowl for the parents, really. Can't see why it's not already done."
"But that's the thing, Grandfather! Everyone's just so...fixated on the mark. The whole school system revolves around my grade. As soon as I try to tell someone, they get distracted by their average. What about me, Grandfather? What if I just want to learn? You can't even teach me anything. You're just a figment of my mind!"
Grandfather just stared. His eyes were the only thing that belied the age his title implied: deep and ancient. No matter that she was just imagining him, her imaginary friend.
"You got your report card today, Susan." Yes, she did. It was wrinkled and torn and unreadable and had a graveyard of angry calculus problems on the back. She never asked for help.
Susan tossed the remains of the report to Grandfather. He stepped back, hands up as the paper drifted innocently through him. She scowled, deliberately stepping through his image to pick it up.
Grandfather watched Susan run inside for the marshmallows.
It goes on again, afterwards. Often in haste. But Grandfather told me, warned me to be sure it's not in vain.
Thus, my first mildly lengthy original story in a long, long time.
Any Doctor Who fans that skim this fic: shush. I know. I couldn't resist. And the voices aren't quite right anyway: I shall remedy this. One day.
[inspiration, assignment]
Grandfather and Susan
by
northern_magic
They're all the same. So firmly emotional, these random ideas spill forth to mimic each other and meekly push forward an idea of their own. Everything pours out, rushing to the bottom of the page, tripping, over commas, to tumble over letters and slide to a halt. On again, all in haste and vain.
I lift my pencil, brush off eraser shavings and hand back the corrections with a wink.
It's not as though the teacher really cares, does he? He has his head down in the papers, pen poised (I hate red). And it's not really cheating if I pass over a few fragments, is it? I can't earn the grade for them, after all (it's all they care about).
Today is report card day. Tomorrow: on again, all in haste and vain.
I thought that already. It's getting to me.
It's not my fault I'm tired, and bored, and defensive, and want to be anywhere but here. I'm sure the teacher agrees; he's given up on us by now, I think. His ineffable wisdom and patience is wearing down until we are all just sixty-two human beasts in a tiny whitewashed cage, staring hungrily at the stack of reports on his desk. I look away.
Grandfather told Susan about Rousseau once. He said "the child was a special person who had to be carefully nurtured to develop naturally. Children were innocent; thus he advocated an education which was rustic and which would develop natural goodness."
I added in single quotation marks, wrote near the bottom "Haberman, A: The Making of the Modern Age pp26.". I pondered the length of the quote and wondered at the formatting. The teacher spoke briefly about something; I learned nothing new. I wrote on.
"Everyone's indifferent," Said susan. I cross it out. "So why can't you take me on a grand tour of Europe then, Grandfather?" said Susan.
"Oi!" Grandfather exclaimed. "I was talking about Rousseau's own theory, thank you. And implementing universal public education isn't as easy as you apes take it for. Not enough teachers, for one. Not enough motivated teachers, for another. The students want to take away only what they need- shame this only applies here. Be glad you have me, Susan."
Always, Grandfather, even if you never answer the important questions, thinks Susan. With only a trace of sarcasm. But at least you answer the unimportant ones without holding up the class- what class?
"Tell me, Susan. Tell me about your class."
She told Grandfather about her class, about the girl in the corner with the faintly loud music. About frustrations with the people that sat around her, who passed her their papers and expected to get a passing mark. About her teacher, who had tried to teach them self defense. Grandfather just smirked; his point was proven in his mind.
"So," he said, arms folded, leaning against an invisible wall, "why do you want to tour Europe? We can't spend all our time in the museums, you know. Not even the Louvre. Unless you're going to look for a nice bloke to settle down wi-"
"DON'T say that, Grandfather! It's bad enough that it's all anyone is thinking about, knowing just enough to...do what they're going to do, and settle down and-" Susan glared at the man with the leather jacket and the name Grandfather and no shadow to speak of, not a real one. "No, Grandfather," she finished, because he was still her mentor, albeit an unlikely one.
"How well you do on paper doesn't matter at the end, you know," mused Grandfather. "It's the understanding that counts. It's considering advice from people who already know what's ahead in your path." Susan rolled her eyes, prompting Grandfather to hastily add: "Yes, yes, and figure it out on your own as well. The mark matters, you know. Just not as much as you lot make it out to be, and not in the way you lot make it out to be. Might as well just pull grades out of a fish bowl for the parents, really. Can't see why it's not already done."
"But that's the thing, Grandfather! Everyone's just so...fixated on the mark. The whole school system revolves around my grade. As soon as I try to tell someone, they get distracted by their average. What about me, Grandfather? What if I just want to learn? You can't even teach me anything. You're just a figment of my mind!"
Grandfather just stared. His eyes were the only thing that belied the age his title implied: deep and ancient. No matter that she was just imagining him, her imaginary friend.
"You got your report card today, Susan." Yes, she did. It was wrinkled and torn and unreadable and had a graveyard of angry calculus problems on the back. She never asked for help.
Susan tossed the remains of the report to Grandfather. He stepped back, hands up as the paper drifted innocently through him. She scowled, deliberately stepping through his image to pick it up.
Grandfather watched Susan run inside for the marshmallows.
It goes on again, afterwards. Often in haste. But Grandfather told me, warned me to be sure it's not in vain.