inspiration + perspiration = invention :: T. Edison ::
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It was a rare event when the stars could be seen by the naked eye. On such nights, Julie always sat outside her door on the terrace, looking up into the usually inky dark sky in wonder.
"They're really suns," her father liked to explain. "Large burning explosions that heat their own worlds." Then he'd probably launch into a long, drawn-out lecture about the beauty of subatomic engineering or the marvel of modern solar mathematics. She had grown used to it: what else could be expected from the chair of Blav Intersciences?
She just liked to look at them, so shiny and bright. She found a book of patterns the ancients had written, but none seemed to fit. When she asked her teacher about it, the woman clucked in gentle reproof.
"We don't live in that quadrant, Julie. Surely you can read the expiration date on these findings."
Julie hated reading expiration dates. Unfortunately, that was the main subject of her schoolwork. "Read this passage and date its usefulness," would be the assignment, after which they were supposed to discuss how Dirdact's Rule complemented historical accuracy or the Pythagorean theorem translated into literary achievement.
Then came the day she read the poem by Emily Dickinson. No one liked it; her teacher even made her go through an hour's mediation with the school's psychologist, who attempted to convict her conscience with much delving into the implications of allowing emotions to rule over reason.
"I should expect Dr. de Foné's daughter to understand how unnecessary and truly childish non-instructional writing is."
But Julie liked it. Nevermind that her father was regarded as the foremost leader of the New Rules of Order. Nevermind that she was expected to study calculus and chemistry, trig and telescience. She liked words for their sounds, their meanings, their merry romps along a page.
She could only imagine the row it would cause if anyone ever found her poems.