So You're In the Middle of a War, Monday, Period 4

[cataclysmicluck.livejournal.com]

Today's class was out in the Preserve. Zayne had e-mailed the class and posted a sign outside the normal classroom to make sure people knew.

"Thanks for meeting me out here, everyone," Zayne said. "I know this has been kind of a heady class for the end of summer, and I've spent a lot of time on morality and whatever tragedy may be in your past. But this is the last week of class and I'm ready to make sure that at least part of this class is fun. And so? Paintball."

"There's no prize to the victor and this is only for our class," Zayne said as he unveiled the paintball equipment. "I don't want this getting out of hand. Just go out there and have some fun shooting paint at each other."

Library, Monday

[faithandscience.livejournal.com]

William wasn't quite sure why there were sections of the library coated in glitter today- just that they seemed to be mostly focused around certain portions of the fiction section.

Which is not to say the glitter did not escape and eventually get everywhere, because that was what glitter did.

The library was open. And sparkly.

Practical Philosophy, Monday, 8/13, Period 1

[life_inshadow]

Tara, back before Ben and Ender, had stopped at J,GoB for an array of cupcakes and pastries when she realized it was still a class day. Which was weird: Even taking time differences into account, she felt like she’d been gone much, much longer than a week. It felt like fall should have come and gone long since. It hadn’t -- was still summer, in fact.

At class time, she set up a picnic table buffet of the baked goods and took Ender’s usual spot under a tree.

“Hi,” she said, speaking slowly but without her stammer. “So … Ender isn’t here, as you guys can probably see. Which means you’re stuck with me for the last class. I don’t think he planned on any final, and there’s no way I’m putting one together. But I wanted to talk about … the philosophy of what we owe each other after we go.”

Being in Ben’s galaxy had put the topic into her mind. So had her conversation with Kennedy the week before.

“Basically, we’re almost all … kind of going to go different places after we graduate. Or, for some of us, after we don’t graduate. But if you make it through even a year here, probably somebody’s saved your life at least once. Do you … owe it to them to try to return the favor, if they need you? Or do you owe it to the people who will enroll in a year, or five years, or ten, to … come back and try to teach, and try and give back a little tiny piece of what this place gave you?

"You might say you do. Or you might say no, that's crazy, I just want to go home and take care of myself for once. That nothing you could do is worth more than your life.

“I don’t know the answer. I know I don’t want to teach after this, but helping my friends … I hope I’ll always want to do that. Even when this place starts to seem really far in the past.”

She gestured vaguely toward the group. “What do you think?”

Study Hall: Monday

[multi-madrox.livejournal.com]

Jamie was no longer a dog. He was very happy about that.

However Jamie was munching on dog biscuits. Because for some reason he still had a craving for them.

Let's not ask why.

[No OCD]

Poetry 101, Monday, 8/13

[withoutverona]

"Eight weeks," Romeo said once class was assembled, "is not enough time to teach you much at all about poetry. The most I can hope to have done is to give you some taste for it -- a morsel from a feast I hope will sustain you all your lives."

"My question this week is both very easy and very difficult. We've all read, I hope, a sufficiency of poems -- some in class, some outside class. What I hope we may have teased out is what makes a poem immortal. Is it the language? The imagery? The rhythm of the words? Is it style -- or is it substance? Do we like 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' because we think we are Prufrock, or because of the way his tale is told?"

He shrugged. "I've no idea. Both, I would imagine. But I want to hear what you think. Why is your favorite poem your favorite poem? And what is that favorite poem, to start with?"

Art Games, Monday, P2 [Week 8]

[flashesforinfo.livejournal.com]

When the students arrived today, they might be a little wary of how their two instructors looked. Those type of grins could only mean trouble. They were standing by two large barrels filled with what looked like balloons and both teachers had what appeared to be guns hanging across their bodies.

“We saved the best class for last,” Savannah said with a widening grin as the Danger Shop changed around them to resemble the preserve.

“Throughout the preserve are barrels,” Angela explained. “They are filled with balloons. Each balloon contains either paint or water.” A little like Russian Roulette, which she was going to hope no one here had ever actually played.

Or at least, if they had, only the chocolate kind.

“There are also flags out in the preserve near the barrels. They are Red and Purple. Team One is the Red Team and Team Two is the Purple Team. The team that collects the most of the other teams flags will be the winner. You’re going to count off by twos into teams.” Hopefully the kids would see where this was going by now. “Not only do you have to collect the flags, you will be doing so while trying to dodge the other players’ paint and water balloons.”

“The team with the most flags wins. This is as close as we get to a final. Maybe there’ll even be a prize for the winning team.” Like cookies, or pastries, or... something. They hadn’t though that far yet. Anyway. “Good luck!”

Notice that neither teacher mentioned why they had paint guns.