Whispers bounce carelessly around the room. Now Mr. Flannagan isn't here. Someone's throwing paper, please stop that. Mr. Flannagan walks in and the room grows calm. His 5'10" frame fits nicely through the pale, bleached yellow of the door frame. With his hazy blue eyes he absorbs the room. He's a stoner. I know, they know. Slowly, deliberately, he lumbers to his desk. The room turns with him. With a gliding sluggish movement, he sets his books down on the desk. Everythng seems so fuzzy. I'm in a dream, everyone is waving good-bye to me. I'm not leaving, please stop waving. I don't want to leave. The teacher's blond hair is dry and stringy. I'm on a hot desert road, waiting for a ride to somewhere that's green. Why won't it rain? His hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, just at the base of his neck. It's so thin, almost like the tangled strands of a broken, deserted spider web crushed by the hand of a child.

In his plaid flannel shirt and tie, he looks odd. He is a rebel. Stand on my desk and read me poetry. Paint moonbeams on a ray of light.

Are they laughing at me? The little man in the windowsill, he's laughing. Stop laughing! I'm not a freak. I'm normal, so normal that I waste away into a particle of dust and float into nothing.

The teacher takes his seat and reaches for the book he's brought in.

Pious. He's a monk, no he's a Buddha. Should I pray? Beg forgiveness for my sins? Are they sins if you don't believe in absolution? Is it Heaven if you like being bad? No more Bible, no more Baptists, no more...

Oh no, he's talking, I don't hear the words, just the slow monotone of his voice. Low, calming, oh don't let me fall asleep.

Where are my friends? I'm so alone. Am I the only one here?

I'm not in my desk. I'm looking down. Am I dead? A spirit haunting the void? No, a fly on the ceiling. Look at me. I'm on your hand. Do you know that I see your soul? It looks like a crying child. Don't be sad. It hurts to be sad.

Is that a phone? Oh, please stop the ringing in my ears. I just want to be loved. I just want to see the world through the lavender glasses. That's reality. Not this faded yellow dull draining of the imagination and the spirit of feeling. Where's Mr. Flannagan? Where am I? Stop the world from leaving me behind in my fuzzy cocoon. The world is my honeysuckle; I am a butterfly.

Everyone in the room is turning pages. Should I pay attention? Philosophy of tree bark and barking dogs. Am I in the right class?

Mr. Flannagan slowly etches deep white lines on the green plane of slate. I know they are words, yet I can't read them. His pudgy fingers hold the thin brittle chalk like a delicate flower.

I am a flower. Blooming so the rain will tickle my petals. Don't pick me! I want to live.

I hear a lone train whistle bellowing outside. I'm on the train watching buildings flash by. It's gone with a click of the mouse on her wrist that plays music.

It's an enigma. I just want to sleep.

My name is called. Yes, sir. I'm standing now, and my brown hair falls tangled over my shoulders. Do I look as sleepy as I feel?

Yes, I will read. "Blue skies and turtles playing operas in the box car." Is that right? Can I sit down? I can't feel my legs. NO! Where are my legs?

He's talking to me again. Thank you, okay. I'm sitting again. They're all staring. Go away. Leave me in peace. Can I have a cookie?

He makes me want to be good. His heart is full of compassion. He is a good teacher. He wants me to answer a question. Don't talk to me. I don't know. I don't know anything. The more I learn, the less I know.

I feel cotton balls inside my pockets. Whrere's the Easter Bunny? I want to look for my basket.

Mr. Flannagan grabs a stack of white paper from the corner of his great, grey, sterile desk. But all I see on it are lines and squares of black future. Is this a gift?

Mr. Flannagan's handing the papers out now. Here's mine. It feels like a lamb. Should I let it go? He backs to the front of the class. Is this our homework? The ink bleeds down the page. The lamb is dead.

I need sleep. I want sleep. No dreams, life is not a dream. Reality exists. Yet what you live is real, that is your reality.

Are the peple still starving in Africa?

I want a twinkie. A fluffy sponge of flour with thick white glue-like sugar in the center.

I want our teacher next to me, to feel the warmth of humanity beside my cold and frozen heart. I want to run my fingers through his silky, flaxen hair. The way the light dances the waltz with the gold leaves me breathless. Kiss me. For one brief instant. Don't leave me. I want to talk of hedgehog willow trees and upside down sidewalks. Hold me. Let me sleep. Oh, God, I'm drowning now. I want no part of your false reality.

Where have all the truths gone? Is class over? No, wait, there's Mr. Flannagan. I feel safe.

I move with quick, jerky gestures, picking up my pen from where it dropped two years ago.

I am in a gossamer of fog. The mist of discarded envelopes coats the classroom. No one notices. Oh, God, are they dead? They're not moving. Statues. I'm alone. Robots, all doing the same thing, running the same program. I'm alive! Do you hear me? I'M ALIVE!

A porcupine crawls in front of our teacher's desk. Is it show and tell? Where's my cat? I did bring something, didn't I? When will class end? I want to be outdoors.

I'm old. My hair is falling out. My skin is wrinkling before my failing eyes. I can see my bones. I'm melting to dust. What is that porcupine doing?

I'm at Grandma's house. There's bread and vegetable stew. She puts onions in it. No, don't make me eat. Leave me alone.

My classmates are putting up their books. Is class over? Our teacher slumps down in his metal chair and closes his blue eyes. Sleep, yes, sleep. God bless that porcupine. Good-bye, forlorn wallabies. Rest in fields of tall grass, my appleseed sisters. I'm alive.