On Musings and Meeting (Mychal)

[Oliver Barnes]

Oliver sat outside, in his usual spot underneath a shady, sturdy tree in the courtyard. It was on the outskirts, a perfect observation point for when he wanted to draw some inspiration from his surroundings and write. It felt like it had been a while since he had sat down and written something that wasn't him journaling his thoughts and feelings, ever since beginning therapy with AJ. That was the main source of his internal troubles, and the introverted boy hoped it would all be worth it in the end.

Gripping the black pen in hand, he looked up, watching as his fellow peers continued on with their day without second thought. Oliver's eyes landed on the paper, and began neatly filling in the blank page.

There was a quiet boy who much preferred to observe than to interact. He had an eye for details, and blended in well to his surroundings. Nobody ever approached someone who was closed off with a notebook and determined expression on their face. Although it was a life he was use to living, it got tiring, and the boy wished that he could just talk....

He made lines through the sentences with a frustrated sigh. No, no writing about himself, even in third person P.O.V. 

A lone breeze rustled through the leaves, bringing the closing scents of summer, a transition to fall. Life, to death. The colors still scream vitality, bold greens and bright blue skies, paired with earthy browns. Students make their way through the campus, absorbed in their own lives and conversations with friends. Nobody takes the time to observe their surroundings, taking in the true beauty of the world. 

That was all Oliver had written down before the same wind he had been talking about grew stronger, causing the loose sheet of paper to blow away in the breeze. He frowned, watching the paper glide across the grass. "Really?" He grumbled to himself, before leaving the rest of his belongings under the tree and chasing after the lone piece of paper. Most people would've let it go, but since he hadn't finished writing the scene, Oliver wanted the chance to finish it.

[Mychal Doherty]

It was a nice summer day, a gentle breeze blowing around, carrying the scents of the trees and plants through the air. Birds singing in the background, and gliding over the tops of the trees. Leaves danced across the grass to the sway of the breeze, soft rustles from the branches moving with the wind.

Mychal was relaxing in the shade of one of the many trees in the courtyard of the school, watching and listening to the nature. This place was gorgeous. Out of all the states he'd lived in over the years, never had he been to Vermont before. He'd always wanted to, but never had the chance. He had heard from so many people,that it was gorgeous here, and they weren't lying. The lush green forests, the rolling hills covered in trees, the clouds drifting over the giant hills, the wildlife, it was all amazing, and beautiful.

He'd been inside most of the day, watching tv in the lounge, but decided to enjoy the good weather, with a good book. So he had went back to his dorm, grabbed the current book he was reading and headed for the courtyard. At the moment he was reading the second book in the Chronicles of Nick novels, Invincible. He had already read all of the books up to the current one, but loved re-reading good books. He was about halfway through the book when he decided to take a break. He had laid the book, pages down to keep his spot, on his thigh. He was leaning back against the tree, arms folded, and had just been enjoying the nature, and the slight breeze.

A moment later, that slight breeze had kicked up a few notches, a giant gust blowing through the courtyard. He was looking around when he noticed a boy across the courtyard, he seemed to be in pursuit of something, and upon closer inspection, noticed the boy was chasing a runaway piece of paper. The gust was blowing the paper a little in his direction, so he picked the book up, placed it on the ground next to him, stood up and jogged toward the floating paper. When he was within reach of it, he snatched it out of the air before another gust could take it away.

After he had hold of the paper, he noticed some handwriting on it. Now, he knew the guy probably wouldn't be too happy with a complete stranger reading what he had written, but Mychal loved reading. And he never could help himself, whenever an opportunity arised to read something that could be potentially interesting, it was like an irreversible instinct to read it. He held the paper steady to keep the wind from shifting it, and read what the boy had written.

There were two sections, and one had lines drawn through the words, but that still didn't detour him from deciphering them. The writing was very good in his opinion; eloquent, detailed, articulate, the guy had skill. The first section had a sense of being personal, while the second was abstract, paying more attention to the surroundings than self. The fact the first section was crossed out, then meant he either didn't like what he had written, or the fact that he had written it at all. Then again, he could have simply changed his mind about what he wanted to write.

Mychal had finished reading when the boy jogged up to him. Holding the paper out for him to take, he said with a friendly face, "Here. I take it this is yours?" Then closing his eyes for a moment and a wider smile spreading across his face he said, "Sorry for snooping. I can't help myself sometimes, it's a bad habit I've gained over the years." Then he added with an appraising look, "You're an excellent writer by the way."

[Oliver Barnes]

There were a handful of students outside, like Oliver, taking advantage of the nicer weather. Soon, it'd be winter, the season of death. Not really for him. Hailing from Minnesota, he was use to the harsh, cold winters, and Vermont's weren't much different to that of his home state. Even if summer was drawing to a close, autumn was around the corner and the weather and colours that came with it were still gorgeous. Cool winds, gorgeous shades of crimson and orange... Oliver just loved nature.

Since there were so few students in the courtyard, he decided that it was alright to look like a fool, chasing after the lone piece of paper. If anyone noticed, then Oliver didn't see. Which was probably a good since, since the introverted boy would've turned red and possibly run away from the embarrassing situation. He was so determined to catch up to the page that it wasn't until the other boy managed to take hold of the paper that Oliver noticed him. Slightly out of breath, (thank god basketball season would be starting shortly) Oliver stopped in his tracks, his eyes landing on the other dark haired boy.

His cheeks started to go pink, from him sprinting and from the fact that he could tell that the stranger was reading his work. Oliver wasn't mad; it was an emotion he rarely expressed. Plus, he couldn't get mad, because that was something he did too. He had been standing in the same spot, debating on how to approach the stranger.

Thankfully, Oliver didn't have to start the conversation as he neared the boy, cheeks still revealing his embarrassment. The face was open; friendly. He felt relieved, taking back the page with a subdued smile. "Yes, it is, thank you." Oliver said, graciously. He wondered if the stranger thought he was crazy or weird for chasing after a piece of paper, and before he could wonder, the boy continued talking, admitting that he had snooped. "Oh.. oh, don't apologize, it's okay. Had I been in your place I probably would've done the same thing." Oliver nervously let out a laugh. The blush deepened. "Oh, thank you." He said. Although he was passionate about writing, Oliver's modesty still didn't let him see his talent. "I don't think it's much but, thank you." Shrugging, Oliver smiled at the boy. "You... you write as well?"

[Mychal Doherty]

When Mychal had handed the paper back to the guy, he took it with thanks. When Mychal studied him closer he noticed that his cheeks looked a little flushed, making him think at first he was embarrassed about Mychal reading his writing. It made him feel bad at first for reading it, but then he said that it was alright, and that he honestly would have probably done the same had their roles been reversed, making Mychal laugh a little. When he gave the guy his compliment he seemed to become embarrassed again, saying thanks and downplaying his work. The guy was very modest and kind, which meant Mychal liked him instantly.

"Yeah, a little." He said with a warm smile when he asked him if he wrote as well. "I actually have something you could read if you'd like. I think it's only fair honestly, seeing as I read something of yours." He said with a grin. He reached into his left pocket and pulled out a folded up piece of paper. On it was a poem of sorts that he'd been working on for a while; adding little bits and pieces here and there and fixing it up for about three days. He handed the folded up paper to the guy, on it it would read:

Warmth, Kindness, and Peace.


In the darkness I shine,
In the light, I am.

In the hearts of the pure,
And the dreams of the weak.

Radiance shines through me,
Shadows cower before me.

Night becomes me,
And life is me.

Come to me broken,
Crawl to me weak.

In my presence, you know no sadness,
In my wake, you know no joy.

Before me you desire the world,
With me you desire only me.

Darkness and despair merely confirm me,
Destruction and death affirm me.

Hope, and I am there,
Weap, and I am there.

The weary, the tired, the meek and the mild,
The strong, the sure, the blessed and thankful.

My presence knows no boundaries,
My existence has no boundaries.

In the dark I shine brightest,
Lean on me, and you shall see,

That warmth, kindness, and peace are me,
For I am Light. I am Life. I am Love.


His mother had often said that he needed to try and write more positive stuff. Usually he wrote things that could only be described as dark. He didn't know why, that type of writing just often came easiest to him. But finally he gave it a try. He personally didn't really know what to think of it. It didn't really follow any type of rhythm or pattern, it just...was. This was why he so easily gave this guy the paper to read, he often liked letting people read what he wrote, not out of a sense of gloating or anything, he just liked to get people's feedback on his writing. He liked to use their advice, and work on his problems.

He stood there letting the guy read his writing, internally quoting the memorized words to himself; he already came up with a couple spots that he'd want to fix later on when he had the time. When the guy was done he said with a little smile, "So what do you think? This was my first shot at writing something like that, normally what I write is a bit different than that, so it's definitely not my best work." He said and placed his hands in his back pockets.

[Oliver Barnes]

The way Oliver reacted to Mychal's compliment was his typical demeanour. He was incredibly shy and modest, especially when it came to meeting people for the first time. Thankfully, from the brief time the two had spent together, he could tell that the other boy was similar to him in that aspect. Quiet and most likely an introvert. The icing on the cake was when Mychal too confirmed that he was also a writer and enjoyed doing it. Instantly, Oliver perked up, a softer smile on his face. He always bonded well with other students who enjoyed English, whether it be reading or writing. It's how he got along with AJ so well.

The thought of his old friend brought up painful memories and he quickly brushed the thought aside. No matter what he did, there always seemed to be lingering thoughts of her. He let out a small, almost inaudible sigh before refocusing on Mychal. Chuckling, Oliver nodded. "Only if you don't mind sharing it as well, I don't want you to feel obliged or anything." He said, running a hand through his hair.

With his reassurance that it was alright, the quiet boy took the folded up paper in his hand, his eyes scanning the words on the page. Mychal too seemed interested in poetry; it was easier than writing say, a novel, which required a lot of commitment and work. Focusing on poetry was nice and gave Oliver the chance to express himself without the fear of long time work. He read the poem a few times, the corner of his lip tugging up into a smile. "Wow." With that, he offered the piece of paper back to the owner. "You're really talented. You always been into writing?"

"And on the contrary, I think this is really good; 100% honest." Oliver said, genuinely. He had a knack for the language and if something needed fixed, he would've pointed it out. Nicely, of course. Plus, Oliver didn't like correcting other people's creative work since he wasn't the author and always thought it was best that only they edit the work. "What do you usually write?" He bit down on his lip, since he realized he was asking a lot of questions. Hopefully Mychal didn't feel uncomfortable or anything.

[Mychal Doherty]

"Thanks." Mychal said to the boy's compliment with a little smile. When he asked Mychal what he usually wrote, he laughed a little at his reaction to his own question, as if he was afraid maybe he'd been a little to personal with the question or something. "It's okay, ask me anything you want. Very rarely will I not answer a question you ask me, or be angry. In response to your question..." He said with a lingering glance to the side, and a thoughtful look on his face. A second later he looked back at him and said, "Well, my mother would often call it 'Dark'." He shrugged his shoulders then and said, "And she'd probably be right. There's usually a great deal of death, destruction, and pain in my writings. However my stories are almost always about struggle and ultimately the underdog overcoming."

"At the moment I'm actually writing a book. It's coming along, but nowhere near finished. And it has a great deal of the stuff my mother is always complaining about. There's torture, sadness, grief, longing. But there are also things like, love, joy, and justice. I always make the good guys suffer in my stories, but I make the bad guys suffer even worse." He grinned when he finished, thinking about one of the sections he'd finished recently. "I will never have tragic endings in my stories though. I find that there's plenty of that in the real world, we don't need to have it in our fictional one's as well."

Moving his hands to his back pockets, he shifted to one leg and said, "So, did that answer your question?" And he gave a warm smile.

[Oliver Barnes]

Oliver's shoulders relaxed, not realizing that he had tensed up after asking Mychal all of the questions. He reciprocated the smile, noticing that the other boy had looked away for a brief moment. He described it as 'dark,' which was something Oliver himself was all too familiar with. Especially the Fall Formal. Oliver remembered the darkness known as depression and the overwhelming feeling of numbness that spilled out into his work. This made him sad for a moment, since one's writings tended to reflect the current state of mind. Of course, he wouldn't feel right asking considering they just met and that wasn't the typical way to open a conversation.

He nodded. The piece that Mychal chose to share with him also reflected that theme well. At the mention of him writing a book, Oliver's expression lit up for a second. "How long you been working on the book for? I always find it hard because I tend to give up after a few chapters." Oliver admitted, always one to be critical of his work. It sounded interesting, like one of the books he would read. Then again, the introverted boy never turned down a novel.

"That's a good outlook to have." He agreed, nodding again. "Yes, that did. It's nice to meet someone else here who enjoys writing." Oliver said, softly smiling back at the boy. "I find way too many people don't enjoy literature or writing anymore."

[Mychal Doherty]

"I've been working on it for about six months now." He said in answer to Oliver's question, "I've completed about twelve chapters so far, but haven't been able to continue because I've hit somewhat of a mental block. I know how I want the next part to be, but I just can't seem to figure out how to get to that point." He hated it when that happened, that was how most of his books that he'd started went unfinished. He had all of the endings figured out long before he got to them, but he could never figure out how to get to them without the story feeling rushed or anything. "I'd be more than happy to tell you a little about the book if you would like. But unfortunately I can't let you read any of it until it's at least halfway completed." He said with a grin. He loved seeing people's reactions to hearing about the book, it gave him a sort of joy to see the excitement on their faces when they would hear about it.

"I know exactly what you mean." He said to his comment about people not really appreciating literature anymore, "It's sad to see how far people have fallen nowadays. Like they don't even care anymore if they are viewed as mentally handicapped." As he spoke his gaze drifted off. If you were to watch closely you would see his eyes become slightly darker as he continued to speak, "It actually pisses me off a little. I remember a year ago, when I was at school, I came across this poster that a freshman was supposed to have written. When I first read it, I actually laughed, thinking that it was supposed to be a joke or something. But then the teacher told me that, no, the kid was actually being completely serious when he wrote it. It was so chocked full of grammatical and punctual errors, that when I discovered the kid had been serious I actually became angry." His eyes narrowed slightly as he stared off at the ground, not really looking at anything in particular, but clearly seeing in his mind the memory, "I was so angry, but I still couldn't really understand why. All I knew at the time was that I wanted to take the poster, find the kid, punch him in the face, and then superglue the thing to his face." He looked back at the boy blinking a couple times, his expression softening to how it was before.

"After a while, when I calmed back down, I realized that it wasn't the kid in particular that I was angry at. But more, it was the whole thing in general that I was, and still am, mad at. That fact that it's just become acceptable for people to think and write like that. More than acceptable actually; in reality, it's the normal thing. You are actually viewed as strange or weird if you can spell correctly or write out a proper sentence." He took a deep breath, sighed, and then continued, "That is what I was so angry at."


He looked around him, and brought his hand up to shield his eyes as he looked toward the sky. A couple seconds later he brought his face back level with Oliver's, letting his hand drop back to his side. He asked, "So, do you mind if we sit or something?" Motioning over towards the shade tree he'd been relaxing under. It was a nice day out, but there weren't too many clouds out to protect them from the heat of the sun. Also, he was a little tired of squinting while talking.