Oceanside    2005-09-08 16:56:14 ET
You enter the hallways of a dormant highschool; they barely buzz with the sound of life. Little by little, the walls come alive with the stories of last year's anticipation and summer drama. Lifeless drones fall into line and march up the stairs, but at the same time, friendly rendevous unite in the mature hallways. Slowly, more and more bodies fill the gaps left by summers presence. Groups assemble in corners, and pairs roam the building. As more come, a strict, stern voice booms, "On to first period! You can't be here!" A tall man wearning a neatly tucked powder blue oxford shirt, kakhis with a perfectally placed pleat, golden hair slicked back just so with hints of honey poking out, and shoes still reigning glory on a department store shelf, reagins order over so many minds. Scattering, they squeeze through the doorways and into a classroom.

She stands at the head of the room with a contemplative glare scanning the now occupied desks. She looks up, then down as if analyzing the pubescent; hormone driven; germy population that now occupies the once abandoned portals. She backs away ever so slightly and reaches her dusty; aged hands into an open desk draw and pulls out a piece of white powder chalk. "Mrs. E-I-S-E-N-B-E-R-G" the blackboard lurking above our heads reads. With a slap, the middle aged and worn woman retrives equally worn textbooks, and with a sinister glow, presents them to her students. Each body sits as still as a trained robot listening to it's master's orders. Without as much as a fidget, the sleepy minds stare ahead intent on making it through the day.

As quickly as they retreated from the grasps of the ironed genious, thousands of students empty into the shallow crossroads and into another single boddied pods...


 The Janitor    2005-09-08 10:34:31 ET
They gathered in a small, demented pack of three. One hunched over as if the weight of his years stooped over in disgust had permantly caused him to lean. Another wore navy blue pants now cut unevenly at the knees to create shorts. There was a younger boy as well. He had fashioned an elastic waisted pair of jean shorts off of which dangled an orange carabeaner. The eldest man, with the hunch on his back, wore a pair of glasses hooked by one end to the collare of his grey "Oceanside School District" t-shirt. The man slowly survayed the raw tile floor. Back and forth; one direction, then the other. At the third consecutive pass over one spot, he knelt down upon a crippled knee, key ring clanking at his side . At the floor, he reached for a small round disk, and subtly sturggled to pick it up. His wrinkled fingers pushed the coin back and forth until his angst caused him to retreat in disapointment. The young boy walked in a slight wobble. His head sung toward the ground as he held the wooden brookstick in his chubby hands. Every so descretely, the boy would pass by neighboring tables of pubescent teenagers and look up, but sunnenly look down again. The other man casually gathered the numerous garbage cans from the room and brought them to the front. He pulled the black bags bulging with left over chicken nuggets and empty Snapple cans. As each former occupier of these giant grey barrels were removed, new flimsy ones were replaced inside soon to be sufficated with plates. As the clock danced away its prescious minutes, the three men scurried around the room like mice - making sure every inner working was as it should.

Throughout their escapades, the many hormonal girls and boys in the room barely noticed their simple presence. And the bell rang, the kids ran and the three men continued on their unspoken journeys.


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