"Mr. Matthews?"
"Yes Kayla?" He continued to shuffle through a pile of papers stacked on his desk, staring at her over the top of his glasses.
"You wanted to speak to me?"
"Yes, yes, it's about your latest assignments--or lack thereof."
She brushed her blonde bangs to the side of her face. "I thought that this class was completely voluntary."
"It is. However, I do expect my students to turn in something."
"Well, I'm sorry," her usual clear hazel eyes clouded over, "maybe I don't always write the way they do."
He sighed and pulled up a thin stack of loose-leaf papers, papercliped together. All were filled with her distinctive scrawl. "What happened Kayla? You used to be one of my best students. Your poetry was heart wrenching. What happened?"
She nervously snapped her barrette. "Nothing happened, I just don't have anything to say anymore."
"Have you ever considered digging into your past a bit? Typically, poets can find great stories from their elders, which can later be taken into your own voice." He returned to grading. "Just think about it, okay?"
"Yeah . . . I guess."
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Kayla Williams-Patrick trudged through the slush carpeting the ground. Mid-winter in Manhattan was never something she particularly enjoyed, although there was always at least one great party going on somewhere. Only two more blocks to her apartment.
She lived with her mother, who was divorced on not-so-friendly terms. As far as she was concerned, they didn't exist. Letting herself in she noticed that her mother had left nurmorous appliances on. She quietly went about turning everything off, revealing in the peace and quiet.
At seventeen she was simply biding her time until college. School game naturally to her so she'd decided to take a voluntary poetry class after school to fill up time. Although she'd never admit it, she hated Mr. Matthews. He was everything a stuffy, stereotyped teacher was--right down to the name. She threw off her coat and stared at the daunting pile of books on her dresser. Ignoring them she selected a thin volume from underneath her mattress--her journal.
God, class is such a bore. Just one more year. Mr. M. is so 'prissy.' Told me to find stories in my past and then 'take them into my own voice' or something like that. Yeah, sure. Funny though, mom's never said much about me being a little kid. Maybe I was kidnapped like Jamie in "The Face On The Milk Carton. Laughing in spite of herself, she continued.
With that, she shoved a tiny knife inside her pocket--'just in case'--and ran out the door, not even stopping to leave a note.