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Death of The Dove

Discussion in 'Creative Writing & Arts' started by alias_fan47, Jun 9, 2003.

  1. alias_fan47

    alias_fan47 Captain

    Mar 22, 2003
    Title: Death of the Dove
    Copyright: Marvin circa Feb. 2003
    Rating: PG-13, a little gorey though, but not too much, I think you can handle it...!

    Looking out of the classroom window, Sam thought of his unfinished essay. Out there it was a different place, a different world. Birds flew across the sky with grace, and leaves dangled loosely from the tips of tree limbs. Out there, nature is ubiquitous and ambient, calm and soothing. He could sit here all throughout English, staring out the window, noticing all the little idiosyncrasies of nature. From the squirrels that race about in the trees, to the ants that wallow on and within the ground, it is all fascinating to him, all of God's creations. From the vast and immense outreach of the sky, where large, cotton pillow shaped clouds touch the tip of space, to the small clods of dirt that haplessly litter the ground and hold a tiny universe of their own. Mesmerized, he sits and stares, longing to leave his confines and enjoy the freeness of the outside world.
    He would have sat here all period, dreaming of such things, had not Mr. Clarkson interrupted his exquisite visit with nature:
    "Hand in your essay, Sam," the teacher said strictly, reaching out with his hand, ready to take the blank sheet of paper away from him.
    He stood, hovering over Sam's desk, with the class' essays clasped in his hand. Sam stared blankly at Mr. Clarkson and was at a loss for words. He hadn't even started the essay because he didn't have enough time. He went so far as to write an outline, but other than that, he had nothing. Was he expected to finish in three days? Mr. Clarkson had assigned the essay on Friday, and here he was on Monday, collecting his dues.
    "I'm not finished," Sam muttered benignly, waving absently towards the paper.
    Mr. Clarkson shuffled the papers from hand to hand impatiently, while he gathered his words:
    "You had ample time to complete it," he stated strictly. "How many times do we have to go through this Sam? You're given the exact amount of time as everyone else in class, why can't you finish an assignment on t"
    Sam sat at his desk, coupling his hands and twiddling his thumbs, paying no attention to Mr. Clarkson. His gaze moved to the scenery on the other side of the window, his remove. As he watched, a dove flew into a tree, located six feet from the window. Sam momentarily forgot about Mr. Clarkson, forgot about the essay, forgot about everything. This bird captivated him -- this one bird.
    It landed in a nest, where Sam first noticed three baby doves grouped together, huddled close. The mother dove hastily, surveyed the small fledglings, made sure they were all there and when she was satisfied, she promptly distributed a worm that was wedged in her beak, feeding each baby with care. How dependent these little doves were on their mother! How much time she was investing in their well-being!
    Immediately snapping him back into reality, Mr. Clarkson wrapped up his drawling lecture:
    "won't be able to accept it late. I'm sorry Sam, but you need to learn to prioritize. Hopefully, this will teach you a valuable lesson. I expect that next time you will be properly prepared, equipped with constant vigilance."
    Mr. Clarkson turned away and swiftly walked towards his desk, leaving Sam to contemplate his actions. Opening the top desk drawer, Mr. Clarkson calmly placed the essays into it and closed it with an air of finality.
    Sam didn't care about this. He was only interested in what was on the other side of the window, his remove.
    Mr. Clarkson proceeded to the chalkboard, where he began to teach the class about sentence structure and compound-complex sentences. Sam didn't care for this either. He just sat there, observing this class, observing them all, while they furiously took notes and scribbled insanely.
    Disinterested, he glanced out of the window, where his gaze once again returned to the nest. The mother dove was instructing her beloved children in the art of flying, and as he intently watched, everything was silent. He didn't hear Mr. Clarkson explaining sentence fragments and run-ons. Nor did he hear the sound of twenty-seven pens and pencils scratching twenty-seven sheets of paper. He did, however strangely enough, hear the fluttering of little dove wings.
    Two in fact. Two baby doves were zipping and zinging through the air reaching their zenith. They wove an intricate pattern, flying in and out of the treetops, past the curtains of leaves that hung from branches.
    But what of the other one? he thought to himself as he simultaneously looked back towards the nest. There was one baby left, and it too, like Sam, just sat there.
    Is it looking into this window? Is it anxiously staring at me, as I stare at him? Is it bored of its life and existence? Does it not care? Does it want to leave its confines, just to enter mine? These thoughts ran through his mind at a fast pace indeed, but they quickly fell from a shout to a whisper as he focused on the nest and the actions of the mother dove.
    She chirped at her young, as if telling it to go and explore -- to leave this bastion that she has created. On cue, it weakly stood, ready to take flight. Unsure about it's next step it wearily leapt out of the nest and awaited for the winds to catch it, but they never did. The dove fell, and it fell like a massive boulder. It landed with a sharp but sweet thud on the terra cotta flower pot that resided at the base of the tree, bouncing off like a ping pong ball, it landed in a soft patch of radiantly green grass.
    Sam could almost hear the crack of its skull at the moment of impact. Stunned, he watched as blood poured from the dove's head, and pooled in a small and inconspicuous puddle. The magnificence of its white feathers changed like the seasons, changed like the tides, changed to a deep, dark pink -- which was residue from the blood.
    He could see that the dove was dead and that it hadn't wanted to fly. For if it had, it would have done so and joined its siblings, but it didn't: it wasn't ready. Maybe it didn't have time: time to learn, time to finish. And for this bird, there is no next time -- no moment of redemption.

    Tell me what you think,

    -Marvin Sloane
  2. very nicely done. i just didnt' like how you wrote the teacher, but i guess we are suppose to feel that way. but very very nice :D
    --mandy :angelic:
  3. Betha Bristow

    Betha Bristow Rocket Ranger

    Mar 18, 2003
    United States
    I agree with what Mandy said, but it was a nice story
  4. twinzz2003

    twinzz2003 Rocket Ranger

    Dec 13, 2002
    I thought it was really good. Awesome Job!

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