My Last Morning With Me
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Crossing Stars: A Story From Puck's Wood free porn video
Crossing Stars
By Kahukura
Prologue:
How now, human? Wither wander you?
By some mistake thou hast found me, cloaked in dew.
Good morrow to thee; welcome to my wood.
I am Puck, a Fae, neither bad nor good;
Robin Goodfellow, Jest I to the King.
A sprite who bringeth tales of his wandering,
Allow me, for a brief passage of time
To delighteth thee with my wit and rhyme.
Ay, many a yarn canst I weave for thee.
Come. Gaze at my rug, and ye shall see.
What pleaseth thee, tales of infinite cheer?
Mayhaps, stories which doth inspire fear.
I have a tale which shall interest you.
Thou doubst me? Gain respite, listen for my cue.
Once was there a tutor, teaching of the Bard.
Whose pupils hated poetry, claimeth they, 'it's hard!'
Frustration grew like weeds, muddying his soul.
His teaching had, at last, taken a great toll.
Oneday, I didst take pity on this man.
In his mind, I did sow, the seed of a plan.
In his attic, far back in a wood box,
Did I plant a magic wig of golden locks.
Now, close your eyes, so thou canst truly see
The events which transpired, due in part, by me.
Chapter One
Stephen Ruebens dropped his empty beer bottle back to
the bar with a resounding crash. Several visitors in the
establishment jumped from the unexpected noise. However, most
were unsurprised. They were used to disturbances of all kinds
in bars like this one.
'Big Dog', the establishment's proprietor tapped his
new waitress on the shoulder. "I think the guy wants another
beer, Robin."
"I am on my break. I *do* have one coming, do I not?"
She retorted dryly. "I have been on my feet for over six
hours. I deserve a rest, do you not think so?"
"Damn, Brits. It's probably tea time in merry old
England." He muttered beneath his breath. "Sure, Lady. Just
make sure you take the break with that guy. The more he
drinks, the more money we rake in."
Robin sighed irritably, and started across the bar
room, speaking to herself in hushed tones. "Were I not in
such a crude incarnation I wouldst no doubt harm 'Big Dog'
beyond reason. To think, he hast been ordering me around as
if he were Oberon himself. Such a disgrace. If I but had the
opportunity to make him the ass he most certainly is! I will
no doubt remember to repay him for his generosity." Pushing
her anger back into the recesses of her mind, she turned
towards the man at the bar.
Robin could not really allow herself to become too
angry with Big Dog. After all, the man at the bar whom Big
Dog so wanted her to entertain was the very reason she'd
accepted her rather degrading occupation and gender. She'd
heard tale of him from a dear friend who'd visited 'the New
World' only a few months prior. Now, after a couple weeks of
observations, she was at last ready to make her move. "Good
morrow, may I sit here, Sir?" She asked politely, thickening
her English accent for effect.
Stephen looked up quite shocked by the question. What
he saw, was even more surprising. 'Robin' stood just above 5'
4". Her long hair was a shocking white, appearing almost
silver in the dingy lighting of the bar. It hung well below
her waist, resembling moonbeams. Her eyes were an equally
astounding ice blue. With curves in all the right places, she
could easily have bent any man to her whim. Immediately, he
realized she very nearly resembled the 'Titania' he imagined
when reading *A Midsummer Night's Dream.* She only lacked the
translucent wings. "Um... Well, Good morrow to you, too,
'Mam. Yes, you may certainly sit here if you'd like."
"I would very much like to, many thanks." Robin intoned
sweetly as she slipped onto the faux leather barstool. "If
you don't mind my saying so, you seem rather depressed." She
continued in a hesitant tone.
Stephen smiled slightly. "Are you a psychiatrist as
well as a waitress?" Robin did not look amused. "Sorry, I'm
only kidding. I just had another hard day at work. Nothing
too horrible, I assure you. I'm Stephen by the way." He
extended his right hand congenially.
Robin examined it for a moment before offering a firm,
but feminine handshake. "I am Robin Goodman."
Stephen hesitated. "I thought there for a second you
said Robin Goodfellow." He looked to be restraining laughter.
Robin giggled. "Not very many people catch on to that,
Mr. Ruebens, I really am impressed." For the slightest
moment, Robin contemplated revealing herself to this
obviously intelligent man. However, in the end, reason won
out. He wouldn't believe her anyway. "Although, I do not much
resemble Puck, now do I?"
Stephen now let loose his restrained guffaws. "No, Miss
Goodman, you don't. Shakespeare made Puck appear to be a
young, knavish lad. I always envisioned him more as an older,
less attractive figure."
Robin's eyes flashed for a moment. "Yes, well, perhaps
the great Bard of Avon was not the most efficient at
providing historically accurate descriptions of his
characters. I am quite sure that Richard III was not a
hunchbacked ogre. However, I am inclined to accept his
descriptions of that specific Hobgoblin for nothing less than
the truth."
Stephen shrugged. "We're all entitled to our own
opinions. And, Puck could shift his shape, so there's no
limitation to what he might look like at any given time.
"I really do have to admit something to you, Miss. I
don't usually frequent bars. I'm not a heavy drinker, but I'm
*almost* happy I'm here. I never thought I'd meet another
human being who did not seem bored by the works of
Shakespeare."
Robin looked down at the countertop for a moment. "I
fear, dear friend, that you have not yet ended that quest."
She whispered softly, before raising her eyes to him again.
"Normally, I would take that last comment as a pick-up line,
Sir. However, I am quite aware of your unfamiliarity with the
drink. Those," she pointed at three empty beer bottles, "are
not really alcoholic. I thought you looked like a man of
great wisdom. Perhaps it was folly on my part, but I hated to
ruin such intellect with the dulling powers of ale."
Blushing furiously, Stephen examined his beer bottle.
"Near beer, huh?" He chuckled softly. "'Either I mistake your
shape and making quite, or else you are that shrewd and
knavish sprite call'd Robin Goodfellow... who... sometimes
make the drink to bear no harm.' "
"'Thou speakest aright, I am that merry wanderer of the
night.'" Robin answered coyly, running one elegant finger
along the lip of an empty bottle suggestively.
"You bear your namesake well, Miss Goodman."
"Please, call me Robin." She whispered, touching his
hand softly with her own. "And, tell me, Stephen, what
bothers you so? How could a day be so horrible that you must
come here to gain respite from your troubles?"
Stephen shook his head in wonderment. His dream woman
actually existed. "I'm a teacher at the Brookridge Academy.
It's a year-round school for boys. I wanted a professorship
at a University, but none seem too fond of my resume.
"I teach English, but center mostly upon Shakespeare. I
spend one full year teaching the Bard to a bunch of hormone
driven teenage boys... Six years, for six years none of this
has bothered me... But lately, I just can't seem to take it.
This year's students are worse than most. One class in
particular. It's full of the students we teachers have termed
the 'Bad Asses'. They don't listen, do homework, study, or
pay attention. I know they're merely trying to rile me, and
for a while, it didn't have any effect. Now... now, I'm just
losing the battle I suppose." His somewhat handsome face had
fallen considerably with his testimonial. Blushing yet again,
he looked up at Robin. "I'm sure you don't want to hear all
about my troubles."
Robin listened sympathetically, although she already
knew the story. "No, Stephen, I really did want to hear your
problems. If I did not, I would not have inquired about them.
Besides, you should be pleased that I did. I may just have a
solution. It appears to me that you have lost your edge. The
students do not obey you because they do not believe they
must. You are the teacher, the master. They must essentially
do as you say until you free them from your service. I think,
perhaps, you need only show them that you are the Prospero to
their Ariel."
Stephen cocked his head thoughtfully. "I wouldn't even
know where to begin looking for something to prove my
authority. Besides, the year's very close to over."
"Ah, but Stephen, if you gain authority over this
class, you will have no trouble teaching in years to come.
Such tales of teachers often trail on through the
instructor's career."
"But, how do I do that?" He asked in a frustrated tone.
Robin gently brushed his eyelids with her fingertips.
"Perhaps you should sleep on it, Stephen. Dreams often hold
the answers to the problems in our wakefulness."
Quite suddenly, a wave of drowsiness swept down upon
Stephen. He yawned largely. "I didn't even realize I was
tired. Maybe you're right." Glancing at his watch, Stephen
yawned again. "Gee, I really am tired. I should probably be
going. It is a school night after all."
"Well, by all means, go to bed!" Robin chided, pulling
him from his stool.
Stephen nodded absently. "I think I will. You're right.
Absolutely right." He began walking rather unsteadily to the
door. Almost as an afterthought, he turned back towards the
stunning woman still seated on her barstool. "Can I see you
again?"
"Most certainly, Stephen Ruebens. This I can guarantee,
you have not seen the last of me." She offered with a smile,
shooing him away with her hands.
It was only when Stephen had flagged down a taxi that
he realized something. "I never told that young woman my last
name!"
***
Stephen dropped into his bed, still fully clothed. He
could not account for his weariness, but he was too tired to
wonder about its origins. Within moments of resting his head
upon a down pillow, he was asleep.
The slumbering teacher did not notice the small ball of
white light enter through the keyhole of his front door. He
did not witness its ascension up the stairs and into his
bedroom. It hovered for a moment beside his bed. Then,
without warning, the orb of brilliance expanded. It grew in
size and radiance until it was well over five feet high.
Slowly, the light faded, being absorbed into the being's
skin. The luminescence now appeared to radiate from its every
pore.
It was nearly 5' 7" in height, with long wispy limbs
and a magical aura. Its hair was shoulder length, colored to
match the silver moonbeams playing upon the windowsill. Its
eyes a brilliant ice blue, which seemed to peer into the very
depths of the human soul. At first glance, it was difficult
to discern its gender. The body shape was indeterminate,
rather like a teenage boy who had not yet finished puberty.
Its face was also framed by a perpetual youthfulness, which
was never marred by the years. It smiled for a moment, taking
in the image of Mr. Stephen Ruebens, asleep in bed.
"Mr. Ruebens, allow me to introduce myself properly. I
am Robin Goodfellow. *You* may call me Puck." It announced in
a voice sounding very much like silver bells and sparrows'
songs.
Stephen shifted slightly. "Puck." He muttered sleepily.
The sprite nodded his approval. "Yes, Sir. That I most
certainly am. Thou art a lucky man, Stephen Ruebens. I am
here to help thee. It is thy great affection for the works of
the Bard, which hast endeared thee to me. He was the only
writer to ever describe me in a truthful manner. The others
were so vulgar as to depict me as a doddering old fool. I
will admit that my hair is lacking in the pigment most
'humans' have when young, but that is simply no reason to
believe me to be some ugly, elderly goblin."
The Fae took a few deep breaths to calm himself. "But,
dear friend, I digress. I have conceived of a plan, which
will no doubt put thy name in the annals of teaching history.
None will cross thee; no one will dare miss thy class. This
is my gift to you. Listen closely and I shall describe this
ingenious plan of mine."
Puck took a seat, hovering in the air by Stephen's
head. In great detail, he began to explain each and every
facet of the stratagem he himself had devised only a few days
ago. If any other Fae had been nearby to hear the dialogue,
they would have no doubt warned poor Stephen Ruebens. Puck
was indeed trying to help him, but the knavish sprite was
known for his trickery. How could he possibly avoid such a
wonderful joke as would manifest itself in the situation he
was describing?
***
Stephen awoke the next morning feeling refreshed and
excited. He couldn't *wait* to get to school. Never in his
six years of teaching had he ever *wanted* to be at the
Brookridge Academy. Now, he could hardly anticipate the day
he would have.
Of course, his dream still nagged at him. It was odd,
really, to dream of a character from one of Shakespeare's
plays. Although, if one considered that that very night he'd
met a beautiful woman name 'Robin Goodman', perhaps Puck was
a reasonable dream figure. The reasons did not matter.
Stephen had risen from his bed with a plan of action that
would not, could not, fail. He need only get to school early
and get the plan confirmed by Headmaster Whidder. Only one
obstacle and all would be well.
After preparing for school, Stephen could no longer
contain his excitement. He wandered upstairs to the dirty,
dusty attic to retrieve an old chest filled with something he
would need to orchestrate his daring plan. With a few grunts,
groans, and sprains, he managed to lug the heavy artifact out
to his waiting Dodge Intrepid. Now, at last, he was off to
school.
Stephen rushed straight to the Headmaster's office, his
palms clammy with tension. He put his name in with the
secretary and waited patiently until he was shown into the
man's spacious rooms.
"Well, good morning, Mr. Reubens. What can I do for you
today? No more trouble with students I hope." The man stated
as he rose to accept his visitor. There was a bite to his
final statement that almost made the young English teacher
cringe.
"Actually, Sir, that's precisely why I'm here. I *have*
been having trouble with one class of students in particular.
However, I know I have discovered a way to deal with them. It
is because of the nature of this plan that I've come to see
you this morning. I feel that it would be best if you
approved it in advance."
Mr. Whidder raised an eyebrow questioningly. Yet again,
no one noticed the small ball of light, which drifted in
through the open window and landed on the older man's
shoulder. It perched there as Stephen outlined his plan.
Every time a 'questionable' aspect was mentioned, Puck would
lean into the man's ear and whisper thoughts of approval,
admiration, and even humor. By the time Stephen's pitch was
over, Mr. Whidder was anxiously awaiting the outcome and
remarking about the teacher's 'future in education.'
Mr. Reubens was fired up and eagerly waiting for the
start of his third period English class, the Bad Asses. He
did not have long to wait. Slowly, the line of ill groomed,
ill-mannered students funneled into his classroom. There were
a few 'Yo teach' and curses thrown his way in obvious
anticipation of the day's assignments. All were seated as the
bell signaled the beginning of class, all save one. Vic
Delgado was nowhere to be found. His seat was empty, and his
friends were not about to 'squeal'.
Mr. Reubens rolled his eyes, remembering why he'd
thought of this revenge in the first place. He opened his
mouth to sentence the student's present to a fate worse than
death when the familiar sound of chains rattling met his
ears. He eyed the door angrily as Vic Delgado entered the
room.
Vic was around six feet in height. What he lacked in
brains, he made up for in muscle and bulk. The boy was well
over eighteen, almost twenty if the rumors were true. He
ruled the school with an iron fist and had only been accepted
to the Brookridge Academy because of his father's political
clout. His hair was dyed crimson and stuck up like a
porcupine's quills. His face was the breeding ground for
metal piercings. He looked almost as bad as he behaved.
"Yo, Steve, sorry I'm late. I had a chick I had to
attend to. You know, one from Green Valley. She was a nice
piece of tail..." There was a chorus of cheers from the
neighboring B.A.'s.
Stephen rolled his eyes and pointed to chair in the
front row. "Please, sit down, Mr. Delgado. You're holding the
class up."
Vic looked around, holding his hand out with index and
forefinger resembling a pistol. "Give me all your homework,
or the teacher gets it." More cheers.
Stephen tried to retain control over his anger. He
closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm sure no one has any
homework to give you, Mr. Delgado. None of you ever bother
with that sort of triviality."
Vic slouched down into his chair, pulling a cigarette
from his pocket and planting it between his metal studded
lips.
"You aren't allowed to smoke in the school, Mr.
Delgado." Stephen informed in a strained tone.
"Oh, but teach, see I ain't smokin' it. I'm just
holdin' it here in my lips. Ain't no rules against just
holdin' it."
Stephen was about to hand the boy another detention
when a very tentative knock on the door drew his attention
away. "Yes, come in."
The door swung open to reveal an unfamiliar teenager.
The boy was fairly tall, but wiry. His strawberry blonde hair
was cut back in a 'preppy' style; his eyes were an
unsettlingly deep aqua-green; his skin was just slightly
bronzed from a tanning bed. He looked like your typical prep
school student. This alone was enough to make him unwelcome
in the class.
"Hello. What can I do for you today?" Stephen asked,
thankful for the interruption.
"Mr. Ruebens? I'm Caleb Jessman." He held out his hand.
"I just transferred here from New York. I think this is my
third period class."
Stephen raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? You don't
look like...."
Caleb did his best to smile. "Well, Sir, to be honest,
I've always loved Shakespeare. The only other English classes
available were Composition and American Literature. I feel
I'm brave enough to handle this class, Mr. Reubens. They're
Californians, they just don't compare to New Yorkers."
Stephen chuckled. "I have a feeling you and I are going
to get along, Mr. Jessman. Please take the empty seat beside
Mr. Delgado." With his new student comfortably ensconced in
his seat, Mr. Reubens finally went back to the task at hand.
"Now, I want to start this class by explaining a change in
the curriculum. I know most classes will be giving you final
exams in the next month, directly after spring break I
imagine. I am not going to give you a final exam..." He was
interrupted by cheers. "Instead, I'm going to give you a more
creative assignment." Groans. "Shakespeare's plays are full
of colorful, multi-dimensional characters, and the best way
to understand his plays is to understand his characters. So,
each of you will be assigned a character from one of
Shakespeare's play. It *will* be one of the key roles. I will
give you each a packet of assignments. These assignments will
help you to better understand the character you are assigned.
"Your assignment is quite simple. The first day after
Spring Break, you will be responsible for telling the class
about your character... and if you think an oral report is
going to cut it, your wrong. You will come in costume, in
character, and remain that way for the duration of class or
accept a failing grade. Don't worry about the costumes, the
drama club has already offered us the use of their costume
closet, and I have a few things at home from my stint as a
civic theater director in college.
"Some of you may find it easier to work in pairs.
That's fine with me. Just remember that you must BOTH
complete the assignment on YOUR character.
"Now, if you think you can get out of this... you're
wrong. This is your final exam, and the final exam is worth
1/5 of your semester grade. *None* of you are getting a high
enough grade in this class to pass with anything below a C on
your exam. You get anything less, you flunk out. And, I'll be
seeing you again next year. I'm not going to fall victim to
parental clout and neither is Mr. Whidder. We stand firm
behind this. You *will* complete this assignment. You *will*
do it on your own time. If you don't, I *will* see you in
summer school, and I *will* make your life a living Hell."
Stephen walked over to the wooden chest beside his
desk. "I've got some costumes already prepared for you. If
for some reason they don't fit, let me know by the end of the
day today, and I'll help you find a replacement in the
costume closet in the theater. If you don't get back to me by
4:00 this afternoon, you're responsible for finding another
costume. Now... let's assign the characters shall we?" He
picked up a metal can from his desk. "Please pick a piece of
paper from the can."
As Mr. Reubens made the circuit around the room, a
small orb of silver light drifted in through the air
conditioning vent. It alighted on Vic Delgado's shoulder and
waited patiently. As Mr. Reubens held out the can, Puck
whispered words of submission to the teen. In a moment, Vic
forgot the angry refusal he'd been waiting to throw at his
teacher. For some strange reason, the boy drew out a paper
without a fuss. This surprised Stephen beyond words. Perhaps
he was already winning.
"Now, please bring your paper to my desk, and I'll give
you your packet."
Vic handed his paper over to the teacher, fury burning
in his brown eyes. "Just give me the packet." He ordered. He
looked as if he wanted to say something else but couldn't.
Puck was literally holding his mouth closed.
Stephen looked at the number with amusement and handed
Vic a folder marked "Juliet." Vic stared at it. He was about
to protest, to demand another role, but he couldn't.
Something wouldn't let him. "This is the role I was meant to
play. I *will* play it. I'll get an 'A'." Puck whispered
musically in the boy's ears. The thoughts were not his own,
but they consumed every cell of his being. He couldn't fight
it. Grudgingly, he walked back to his desk.
Caleb glanced at Vic's red folder. "You're Juliet, huh?
Looks like I'm your Romeo." He observed in a humorous tone.
"Feel like working together on this, or do you want to go it
alone?"
Vic glared over at the preppy, but once again his
furious rebuttal was cut short and replaced by a flat. "Sure,
whatever."
"You have a month off for Spring Break. Use it wisely.
You should know your character backwards and forwards by the
return of class." With that, Mr. Reubens turned back to the
chest and began to dispense costumes to the appropriate
students. Stephen laid a large paper bag down in front of
Vic, unable to hide his smile. "Wearing the costume is part
of the assignment, Vic. I don't want to hear any complaints."
Vic didn't even look in the bag, he was too afraid of
what he might find. Instead, he turned back to Caleb. "So,
when we gettin' together, douche bag?"
Caleb didn't even blink. "Whenever you want, Vic."
"I don't give a damn."
"Well," Caleb paused. "We could get together tonight at
six and just go over the play, sort of a read through. Then
decide on another time to work on characterizations when
we're done."
"Fine, whatever." Vic answered noncommittally. "I just
wanna git this over with." The silver light blinked for a
moment, finally going out as the Fae disappeared. Puck's work
here was done.
Alma
- 03.08.2021
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