The Dead Poets Society meeting continued on. A horror story practically flew off the page and into everyone's imaginations as Neil read, his voice containing so much emotion they were pretty much watching the story unfold in their minds.
"It was a dark and rainy night, and this old lady, who had a passion for jigsaw puzzles, sat by herself in her house at her table to complete a new jigsaw puzzle. But as she pieced the puzzle together, she realized, to her astonishment, that the image that was formed was her very own room. And the figure in the center of the puzzle, as she completed it, was herself. And with trembling hands, she placed the last four pieces and stared in horror at the face of a demented madman at the window. The last thing that this old lady ever heard was the sound of breaking glass."
His voice trailed off hauntingly.
"You should be an actor, Neil."
Lilith broke the silence, looking impressed.
"My parenst wouldn't like that," He muttered, scoffing.
Lilith nodded and dropped the subject.
"I've got an even better story than that," Cameron piped up, garnering nearly identical eye-rolls from Charlie and Scarlett.
"Yeah, sure," The feisty blonde girl muttered skeptically.
"I do," He insisted. "There's a young, married couple, and they're driving through the forest at night on a long trip. And they run out of gas, and there's a madman on the-"
"The thing with the hand-" Azalea cut in, miming the scraping on a car roof. Meeks chimed in, agreeing. Cameron was indignant.
"I love that story!"
"I told you that one," Charlie said in a patronizing tone.
"Did not. I got that one in camp in sixth grade."
"When were you in six, last year?" Charlie retorted.
Azalea and Lilith chuckled. Having petty arguments seemed to be something the roommates did quite frequently.
It was Pitts' turn to read. He flipped dramatically through the pages of the book, finally selecting yet another scary story.
"In a mean abode in the shanking road, lived a man named William Bloat. Now, he had a wife, the plague of his life, who continually got his goat. And one day at dawn, with her nightshift on, he slit her bloody throat."
"That's pleasant," Lilith remarked, sarcasm oozing from her voice
"You wanna hear a real poem?" Charlie asked, confidence radiating off him in waves. He stood up and, ignoring the book Pitts was holding out to him, dramatically pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket.
"If that's what I think it is, Camille come here. Your eyes are too innocent," Scarlett commanded. Camille huffed and left Neil's side. Her friend delicately placed a hand over her large green eyes.
"How do you- you know what, never mind," Charlie chuckled. He already had guessed Scarlett liked girls, it shouldn't be such a shock to him that she could recognize a Playboy centerfold when she saw one. Slipping back into his coquettish manner, Charlie winked at Lilith.
"An original piece by Charles Dalton," Meeks grinned, knowing the smirk on the girls' and Charlie's faces meant something good was about to happen.
"This is history," Neil agreed.
Slowly, Charlie unfolded the paper, revealing the very thing Scarlett had guessed. Miss October, 1959 was on full display. Azalea blushed slightly, however, Lilith and Scarlett seemed quite unperturbed.
"Where did you get that?" Cameron asked, half in shock and half in awe.
"Never mind the details, enjoy it while you can," Scarlett whispered, elbowing him.
Charlie began to read off the back of the paper, staring directly at Lilith.
"Teach me to love?
Go teach thyself more wit.
I, chief professor, am of it.
The god of love, if such a thing there be, may learn to love from me."
His audience clapped enthusiastically, but Charlie had eyes only for the alluring girl in the corner. She smiled at him, not caring in the slightest that Charlie had just read her a poem off the back of a Playboy. Really, it was one of the sweetest things anyone had done for her.
"Did you write that?" Neil asked, prepped to be impressed. Across from him, Scarlett removed her hand from Camille's eyes.
"Abraham Cowley," Charlie smirked, taking his seat next to Lilith. "Alright, who's next."
"I'll go."
Azalea stood up, accepting the book from Pitts with a grateful smile. Flipping to the back, she found what she was looking for.
"An excerpt of The Cry of the Children, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years ?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers
— And that cannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows ;
The young birds are chirping in the nest ;
The young fawns are playing with the shadows ;
The young flowers are blowing toward the west—
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly !
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free."
Meeks watched her as she read, noticing the way her dark eyes skimmed the words. Her voice seemed to float around the cave, filling everyone with unknown sorrow.
Azalea finished and bowed pretentiously. Neil read Tennyson, Lilith read Dickinson, and Camille read Whitman. Finally, Meeks finished the meeting with Vachel Lindsay's 'The Congo'.
They made their way out of the cave, still chanting. Meeks' arm was slung around Azalea's shoulders as they lead the group back to the school. All in all, Meeks thought, not a bad evening. Not a bad evening at all.
A/N the shipsssssssss
my babies are falling
in lurveeeee
i feel like a proud mom
A/N i took out the congo poem cuz its racist and im sorry for not realizing sooner it shouldn't be in here
YOU ARE READING
WE ARE GOLDEN--DEAD POETS SOCIETY
Fanfictionit's everything the welton boys had prayed for. girls were attending welton. henley hall's finest students were attending as a result of their excellent grades and slight flair for rebellion (edited and changed 12/31/21-1/1/22, so some comments ma...
