I said goodnight to the last teacher.  It was raining outside.  One of those gentle fall showers, not the world is going to end pelting type, but a slow steady drizzle.  It had been like that all day come to think of it because I tried to avoid going over to the main building.  Every time I was about to head over, I made it to the door, looked out, and turned around stacking what needed to be taken over on the counter next to the door.  By the end of the day there was a pretty large stack waiting to be taken over.  When I finally packed my bags to head over, I threw my bag over my shoulder, grabbed the stack, ducked my head, and headed out.
I turned back toward the stairs to the basement, flipped the switch, and headed downstairs.  When I reached the bottom I placed the materials back on the shelf where I took them off earlier that morning and turned to go back upstairs.  Before I took a step toward the stairs, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a flash of light coming from the small basement bathroom.  I thought it strange because there were no windows so it couldn't be lightning coming from outside.  I turned and headed over to the bathroom.  The door was cracked open just enough to let a bit of light escape. I opened the small door and the flashing stopped.  It was difficult to see what was inside with only the small glow of the other room's light-bulb.  What little light there was spilled past my shoulders and into the room.  I could only see the front of the room, unable to see the far wall.  I reached for the light switch and gave it a flick.  It was one of those old ones that protruded from the wall and with age stuck so that it took a bit of effort in the flicking of the finger.  Nothing happened.  I turned it down and then back up again.  Nothing.  Great, did the bulb burn out?  I decided to leave it alone since I really didn't need to use the room.  I turned back around to head upstairs and it flicked on and off again.  I spun around on my heels.  What? I thought to myself catching the tail end of the flash.  I headed into the room and tried the switch again.  Nothing.  "This is simply impossible," I said out loud.  It was so quiet that the sound of my voice startled the room.  "This can't be happening!  What's going on here?"
Suddenly I felt a cold rush of breeze pass me, like the air had just kicked on in the bathroom and headed out the door.  But it was different.  It wasn't refreshing, quite the opposite actually.  It was troubled and heavy.  A chill ran up my spine and I trembled.  
Crash! I turned and a pile of pencil boxes had fallen to the floor.  My blood turned to ice and I couldn't move.

Another blurp:

I'm still trying to get used to the 'workroom'.  Calling it by that name implies there is room to work.  Not the case.  There is a good sized table set against the wall opposite the stairs.  The problem is the table is full of office supplies.  On the right hand side of the table is our lamanator, which takes up almost a third of the table.  Next to that in the middle of the table toward the back are small wooden storage bins containing paperclips, rubber bands, pens, markers, and an assortment of other office products.  In front of that is a small space to work.  On the left hand side of the table is the paper cutter and the binding machine.  Using these two takes an act of juggling because there is no space between then, the binding machine needs to be moved to cut paper.  The paper cutter scares me.  The guard on the blade has long since disappeared so I always try to avoid having to move it or even lift the blade very high.  I am afraid it will come thundering down on my fingers.  The space is tight but manageable.  What makes if impossible to work on is all of the stuff that gets piled on the table.  In a rush to get back to class, other staff sacks piles of papers, magazines, and other materials on the table with an optimistic hope of returning and putting the piles away.  Once again, not the case.
Tonight I am down here binding stories that some of my students put together this afternoon.  They were excited to finish their stories that were going to be shared with family members in a few weeks at an open house, and begged me to finish them before the next day.  So here I am, once again accompanied only by materials and the creatures of the basement.  The other teachers have a habit of flying through their after school duties and heading out.  I don't mind some much though.  I like the quietness and the fact that I am alone.  Often at my old school I would be alone.  The difference is about a  few thousand square feet.  The buildings I am working in would fit in one pod of my old building.  I was never afraid though.  Many times I found myself there in the middle of the night.  I found comfort in the silent, vast emptiness of the hallways lit only by emergency lighting, and the blackness that met the windows and doors.  I never liked a lot of light.  I would sit in my room with only a small lamp casting but a glow on my table- just enough light is what I like best.  The only time I can remember ever being frightened was walking into the back door early one morning, there were no other cars in the parking lot which was usually the case, and the elevator opened.  I stood frozen, my stomach was about to jump out of my chest as I waited for the doors to fully open.  Finding nothing, my nerves settled down.  Weird I thought.  Later that day I found out from another teacher who was in the habit of showing up early that it happens all the time.  Once or twice I actually said goodnight to the night cleaning crew as they left for the evening.  This only happened during report card time- I concentrate best when alone.

From the new inspiration:

I stood downstairs in the basement with only school materials for company.  All the other teachers had gone home and I stayed to finish up work I needed for the next day.  The basement was small and made me feel claustrophobic.  It was a typical basement that I remember from my childhood.  I grew up living in older houses where the basement smelled musty and old.  I felt the dampness on my skin.  Spiders had made their webs in the exposed floor joists above.  A light bulb dimly lit the room, it looked as though the old black soft material wire was dripping a dying star; turning so that I could catch the small glow.  I wondered how there weren't more electrical fires in old houses caused by the careless wiring.  This was the work room.  It wasn't anything like the place I was used to working.  I came from a school that provided a large open room that looked like a office supply store.  It was well stocked and we were never in need.  I was getting use to the change, even though it was costing me to buy what I needed.

I have been inspired!  Finally after many years of self-doubt and driving myself crazy, I have an idea.  I am sticking to my favorite style to write, personal narrative, but it's going to be fiction.  I figure that I will offend people but hay, that is for you to figure out if I am truly attempting to offend you or simply pointing out the truth as it appears.  I will continue to post my progress and maybe add some snippets.  So far tonight I have updated my blog from the University of New England's old email address to a current email address that I am going to use for my writing.  Here it goes, feel free to contact me:  inmatthewswords@gmail.com.

Writing

I was once told in a workshop that in order to be a great writer I must write everyday.  I agree, but have failed in such endeavors.  I need to carve time out of my day (or night) to begin building my book that I need to finish.  Why, because many years ago I said I was going to write a book.  My soul cannot rest until this is finally finished and I can move on with life, satisfying that once spoken claim.  So, this winter I will will create a manuscript for my book.  What happens to it, it doesn't matter.  I simply need to get it out of my soul.

Death's Cold Hand

Peace, Peace, longing for death's cold hand,
Come, come, take me where I stand.
An old widow languidly dies,
No one there, no one who cries.

Stranded, forlorn, tired and ready,
Her wrinkled hand no longer steady.
Quiet was the evening she made her flight,
Gone away, out of mortal sight.

The clock continued to tick,
She lied there steady as a stick.
People outside around conversed,
Death proceeded as if rehearsed.

All through life lived with pride,
Now empty at her side.
Like a quick little wink,
Life eludes her, a broken link.

Slowly, slowly, welcome it with ease,
Come, come, take me please.
Futile and vain to make a stand,
There is no elating death's cold hand.

Time

Sitting with my gaze upon the candle,
A sentry of dripping time.
The new falling over the old; replaced.
A towering flow of time and patience.
Each drop plotting its own course,
Never repeating simply crossing.
The colors blend like an old painters palette,
Stained from his sundry works.
Touched and it burns fleetly,
Unevenly, creating anomalous flow,
Leaving scars and pieces to never burn.
Wax pooling at the peak, waiting for its time,
To make its journey down across the past,
To make its own mark upon time.
Coming to an end, knowing it may have but
A short time to illuminate its glory before fading away
By the next, but knowing it has a task,
As another cascades over the edge.
Time passes at the burning of a candle.

FINISHED!

My last post was about the research part of my masters. Well, it is finished! I have completed my research and I am finished with my masters. May 22nd is graduation and unfortunately I will not be able to attend because it is in Maine. Oh well! What am I going to do now...well I want to continue posting to this blog and read. I am in the middle of the Uglies series by Scott Westerfeld. I am currently reading Pretties. Great series. Just enough science fiction to make it interesting but not enough to get me going to conventions. I will post a review as soon as I am finished with it. As of now, I am just enjoying my free time that I have found once again. It is great to be able to read what ever I want, when ever I want.

What's going on now

I have just begun the final installment of my masters degree. For the next 15 weeks I will be focusing on action research. My topic...writing of course. Since I have a passion for it, I would like my class to have a better appreciation for it. Writing is an area that most people struggle with. Since there is a need for better writing, I am going to do all I can to help each of my students become a better writer.

An Ode to H1N1

Everyday fearless teachers,
Walk into their classrooms,
Knowing that it lurks about.
But no matter, teachers
Breaks not a sweat,
For teachers know
What needs to be done.

Door knobs, drinking fountains
Desks, sinks, balls, computers,
Markers, pencils crayons,
Chairs and children
Are where it is found.
But it won’t stop teachers
From coming around.