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((I didn't write this.))

It was an ordinary day, in an ordinary school, right before an ordinarily boring English class. I looked up towards the clock, willing it to change, willing the time to pass by and end this day of school. I payed no heed toward the seat right beside me, literally the back corner of the class. For why should I? All that ever resided there was a simple girl, a simple girl almost as tall as me (and that is quite tall), deep black hair, emerald eyes, ones with a simplistic joy, and different view on life residing in them. Why should I care? It is not like I actually knew her, not like we ever spoke.

Then the door opened up, I saw her walk in, clutching her small black art book to her chest, looking down toward her small black shoes, what kind I do not know, but they were nice looking. Her pleaded skirt flying up a tiny bit with each of her shy steps, her simple black shirt tightly adhering to her young body, just as tight as she is holding the book to her chest.

She walks past many, the jocks, the preps, the gossipers, the asses, the nerds, the geeks, All the “cliques” you would hear about if you ask “everyone”, she walks past all of the simple vague words; until she arrives by me and sits down beside me, but I pay her no heed, I read my book. I just read, trying to let myself become enthralled into it, trying to ignore the sweet smell of her perfume.

Then right on time, following her predictable acts, she pulls out her small black art book, and opens it; then she opens her art bag, pulling out her many pens and pencils and begins to sketch. I am not sure where the ides are coming from. Nor can I say that I know what they are as of yet, but in those sketches, I can hear more from her than ever I have heard, a sweet melodic voice ushering through the dull lifeless ones that have conformed to this meeting place of clones called “school”, it speaking words few would dare speak, speaking words one would never be able to think she could say. Telling the truths about society, telling of our arrogance, our cowardice, all our faults, and through it, showing all that is good in man.

I smile to myself; I pull out my own keepsake, my small red writing journal. For it is in my nature to write, that is my artistic medium. I write the shape I see forming on her paper, the story illustrating itself in a new way, showing all that one cannot easily see, revealing the hidden parts, while obscuring some of those that have been revealed. I advocate all that I can tell is being advocated within the picture. No. That is being advocated within the person. For I can easily see that the picture is more than just lines, colors, and all else, it is she. It is the girl within, the hidden one wishing to break out, to tell all that she can, to spread the truth and help us all. To save us from our own arrogance and destruction, to try and fix the err naturally caused by human.

We all hear “to err is human.” Yet few will dare to wonder why it truly is, only those like her. She will dare to question the bible, if it not make sense. She would ask why those of “her” (I say her for it is forced upon by her elders) “faith” will say that those of other “faiths” are wrong, when if most all are asked, could tell us nothing about the faith, and realize that what that is is not faith, but hypocrisy. She will dare to ask what is good and evil truly when it is something we all view differently. She will ask if a person of crime will suffer when they die for doing something most deem “evil” even if they believe it good. She will dare to defend Hitler for doing something he believed “good” even if she detests the act herself.

She may never be able to speak this out loud, but I can see every word she says, as she quietly and solemnly draws her simple pictures. Although none of it is simple, the ideas and thoughts in them are so complex, I can never be sure if anything I have told is right. For they are ideas –thoughts- that I believe could change our world, if only they would be heard. But in our society that would be near impossible, for we have all conformed to fear the different. Our parents do, we are subtly taught to fear it, not that we can see it. After all it would not work as well if we could, and after all were do we learn more than from those the preceded us. And from those who preceded us, we learn from without ever knowing, though they do.

Many would deny this; say that we urge originality in our world. I wholly believe this to be true. I mean that is what our teacher says most every day “be original.” If told everyday it must be true. Right? Wrong!

Originality is only encouraged in fiction, in our fantasies we all try to escape to so not to realize the faults of the world. The fantasies wonderfully crafted by the writers, the artists, the producers, the game makers. The ones created by those who have been conformed by society into “acceptable parameters.” the robots of the world.

Then there are the storycrafters. Those whose ideas tell the truth within the words, the pictures, the games, the ones that refuse to be conformed by society, or at least those that will show it. All of us have a part of us that never fully conform, it is trapped usually, but it can grow, it can start to look rather than just see, listen rather than hear, it can happen, like it did to me. All it needs is the help of someone like her, an Alien.

Then we finish, both within moments of each other. Our eyes glance towards the other, small smiles at our lips, and then we silently look at each other’s work. Me staring at the beautiful picture that I feel my words could never do justice to. Her towards the slightly bad handwriting that has been put onto the paper, she then looks at her work, and me towards mine, both us know what the other is going to do.

I slowly pull my work out of my journal, careful to not ruin any of it, as she does the same. We then look at each other. I hand her mine with my right hand, and she receives it with her own right, and she gives me hers with her left, as I receive it with my own left. And as we pull away our hands slightly brush. earning small blushes from us both.

You know, i don't think we need to talk.

More is said in silence.