Personal Narrative-Mr. Stweed's Experience In The Woods

TI thought about the experience in the woods for the rest of the day. I couldn’t seem to shake it from my consciousness.

“Mr. Rider, are you paying attention?” said Mrs. Stweed in a saccharin voice, her eyes blinking.

“Yes,” I grunted.

“Good!” she chirped, flicking her head off to one side. “I’m glad you 're enjoying the class lecture today.”

“Yeah, me too,” I mumbled and heard the surfacing sounds of murmured laughter. Ms. Stweed had appeared a lot more friendly to me recently, smiling at me more, flourishing me with unnecessary positive praise, making frequent checks on me during class. I wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or bad thing, but for now, at least, I wasn’t receiving any detention threats.

“Goodbye, Mr. Rider,” she said when

I couldn’t help but feel a sneaky suspicion that Ms. Stweed was cooking up something up, brewing a nasty plan for me.

Instead of immediately going to my next class, I decided to go outside to capture a breath of late morning air. A cool autumn breeze ruffled my hair as I took two steps down the wide, concrete stairs. Instantaneously, I felt a tugging in my chest. I wanted to ditch school, my car was nearby. Just then, a rush of wet wind slashed across my face, sending with it a waft of cigarette smoke. I glanced down from the nearest railing to see an "emo" looking guy down below, slumped in posture, smoking a pipe.

“Why a pipe?” I found himself saying, leaning forward.

A pale face looked up at once, “Why not a pipe?” the stranger retorted. Upon registering my face, he instantly turned three-quarters away, bashfully throwing up his hood. I stood up straight. “I like the taste.”

“What?” I said, just as I was about to turn away.

“I like the taste,” the guy repeated, louder. “The pipe, it reminds me of my uncle, he’s dead now. My parents are divorced. I hate my stepmom, sick of school, so I smoke. You probably didn’t ask to hear my whole life story, but you know, you’re the first person to ask me a real question all