Week Fifteen (Feb.2 - Feb 8) - Topic: Intelligence
Winners (tied): Paul and Fiona
(no name)
by Fiona
“So there’s the definition for ‘grotesque’ on the board…next word on our list is ‘intellegence’!” Mr. Burke chirped. “Any volunteer definitions?”
“Having smarts!” one careless boy called from the back of the room.
“Nerd!” cried another.
The class laughed hysterically, though it really wasn’t that funny. Rebecca didn’t laugh, though. She knew that “intellegence” was no joke. She cleared her throat and rose her hand carefully.
Mr. Burke smiled. “Yes, Rebecca.”
“I think that ‘intellegence’ means making good decisions,” she said softly, almost at a whisper.
“Now we’re getting somewhere! You see class, ‘intellegence’ isn’t just about good grades…” Rebecca let her English teacher’s voice fade out bit by bit.
She looked around her. Kids look at her and rolled their eyes. What a nerd, they must have been thinking. From the look in their eyes they might have well have said it out loud. Rebecca knew very well that they all probably thought she was nothing but a lame teacher’s pet. But what they didn’t get was that her definition really meant something to her.
Mr. Burke was absolutley right. Grades weren’t everything. Not anymore, anyways. All the As to the Fs(though Rebecca herself had never received lower than a B- on anything). From Kindergarden all the way up to where she was now, eighth grade. All those grades, too many for even her to guess. But though they ranged in level and importance, they all had one thing in common. If they once had, they all meant nothing to her now.
Rebecca had always been Miss Perfect. A straight A student. Never failed one quiz, even the pop quizzes her crazy math teacher threw out at her students randomly, sometimes even two days in a row. Rebecca aced them all. She was, as the idiots in the back of the room would call, a major nerd. And she was just fine with that.
It was not only her grades that were perfect, though. Her clothes, her hair, her shoes and all the way to her shiny lip gloss and modest golden eye shadow. However, Rebecca was not perfect.
It was just that one thing that ruined it all. She had started last year, and now she couldn’t stop. You got yourself into this, Rebecca would tell herself. And now you can’t get out.
When Rebecca’s parent found out, they were devestated. She didn’t even have to confess. They knew just from looking at her. It was obvious. Rebecca was positive the whole school must know by now. She didn’t see how they possibly could not know. Her parents didn’t know what to do with her. She had gone against what they had told her, even as a little kid.
Now, Rebecca stared down at her hands in shame. What have I done? Rebecca wondered. She couldn’t bare to keep doing this to herself. Rebecca knew she had to stop. And she knew that she could. Yes, Rebecca knew in her heart, that she could break that nasty habit of biting
Fiona's other writing: http://www.goodreads.com/story/list/1478...
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A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE CAN BE DANGEROUS
By Paul
There was something strange about the new library receptionist. There was something eerie, not quite right. Nothing you could put your finger on but there all the same. Her nametag, shiny gold with blue little stars branded her a Trixibell. Who is lumbered with such a ludicrous name these days? Unless you’re a wannabe pop star or total idiot. Running through the sliding glass doors our eyes briefly met. She seemed to be assessing me as I passed by the mural on the wall; the town debilitated so colourfully by the local primary school.
The woman wore her hair up in what appeared to be a bun, dark grey and tightly scrunched up atop her tiny head. She stood five feet tall in her heels with minutiae granny glasses swinging from a chain from her scrawny neck. I watched as she feed paper into the large photocopier like a zombie, mechanically without emotion or feeling. Finished she moved to the computer, the screen flickering across her prune like face like strobe lighting.
Where was Miss Dawson, the smiling happy young woman who always smelled of Channel and wore wonderful pencil skirts with interesting slits. No, this woman was all wrong. She even smelled wrong; like a cute poodle wearing a wolf's jacket. She was just staring at the computer screen as if trying to absorb the information literally by the force of will alone.
A cool breeze swept through the brightly lit walkways; its hush absolute in the silence of the library. As she turned to look at me I quickly disappeared down the History section of the library. Everything from Ancient Egypt, the Jurassic era, up to the flower power sixties and beyond fought for my undivided attention in the neatly labelled racks of coloured books. Glancing through a gap between 'What the Victorian's did for us' and a book about the 'Industrial revolution' I could see her standing there motionless, with eyes like molten iron as they gazed after me.
That’s when I saw the bag lady. She was sitting in the corner, beside a huge towering heap of books. I could even see the little spots of rain still falling from her scruffy purple mack onto the dirty plastic bags at her feet. She had that feral look about her, wild unruly hair twisting in every direction. She looked up and smiled at me; a crazy grin full of malice and broken teeth. That’s when I knew she was related to Trixibell.
Moving quickly I floated through the biography section, my heart hammering as I came to rest looking into the mad eyes of Stalin. I cursed myself as I glanced at my watch; the library was going to shut in a little over five minutes. No wonder it was so quiet. Apart from the two women there was no one in the building to my knowledge. Great, I was stuck with two right oddballs. I had to get out and escape right now.
Then I felt a hand on my shoulder, talons digging into my skin with real intent.
'We need your intelligence boy,' the bag lady said, before letting out a cackle of laughter.
'I'm not intelligent. I'm stupid, flunked all my exams and everything,' I said, trying hard to sound like an idiot. 'I don't even know the capital of France.'
'France? What is that?'
'A place far from here. You wouldn't like it, full of smelly onions and annoying Frenchmen.'
'We need to know everything about this puny planet,' Trixibell said.
'Well take a pew and read about our wonderful home. There's plenty of books about it,' I said, gesturing around the room.
'It takes to long, and its boring. We need to know more.'
'More than this whole library. Whatever for? What's going on?'
'We need to know information and the intelligence of this planet for the coming invasion.'
'Well, why didn't you say so before. You don't need me; you need the military section of the library. It's that way,' I said, pointing in one direction, before running in the other.
Pounding downward toward the ultra-quiet section of the study area I could hear the distinctive beat of their feet as they padded after me along the plush carpeted stairwell.
'You cannot escape us. We need your intelligence,' Trixibell shouted.
Being chased through my town library by two old women posing as an Intelligence gathering invasion fleet was not my way of having fun. It was obvious to me that when they caught me they would suck my brain dry to it resembled a dry and lifeless fruit. What I needed was some of plan, something that I could trade them with.
Then it hit me. I needed the Internet, the infinity source of information and intelligence. It was designed like one huge expanding database. It was the ultimate library. While they were absorbed surfing I could nip out behind them and leg it away.
'Oh right, I give up.' I said coming to rest beside the archive of the county. Catching my breath I waited as they caught up with me, pushing me roughly across a study table scattering papers in the process. 'Wait, I can show you everything you need to know and more.'
'We need to know everything.' Trixibell said grapping my arm in a vice like grip.
'Yes, I know. With the Internet you can and will. Its not called the superhighway of knowledge for nothing you know,' I said. Swinging the yellow Ethernet cable I asked the question,’ Who wants to go on line first?'
'We both have the facility to except such primitive devices,' the bag lady said.
'Oh good, I rather hoped you would.'
Plugging them in I quickly signed in and watched their faces as they travelled the superhighway. It was almost comical to watch. Their faces contorted with agony as their minds struggled to keep up with the stream of knowledge. Slowly, the two women disappeared to be replaced by a boring hunk of silver metal with no personality, but still they fought the influx of intelligence being transmitted into their hard drive. Eventually their computer brains started to shutdown as they literally begun to absorb too much information to handle.
They a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Too much can kill you. Especially when in the wrong hands.
Paul's other writing: http://www.goodreads.com/story/list/1157...
Other stories from this contest: http://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/1019...
