The new teacher’s beady little eyes missed nothing, for they were the optical recorders of an alien creature who had come to earth to gather information.

The next morning, when Mr. Smith asked for a volunteer to read aloud, Gary was on his feet and moving toward the front of the classroom before Mike Chung got his hand out of his pocket.

The class loved Gary's composition. They laughed and stamped their feet. Chung shrugged, which meant he couldn't think of any criticism, and Dani flashed thumbs up. Best of all, Jim Baggs shouldered Gary against the blackboard after class and said, “Awesome tale, Dude.”

Gary felt good until he got the composition back. Along one margin, in a perfect script, Mr. Smith had written:

You can do better.

“How would he know?” Gary complained on the way home.

“You should be grateful,” said Dani. “He's pushing you to the farthest limits of your talent.”

“Which may be nearer than you think,” snickered Mike.

Gary rewrote his composition, expanded it, complicated it, thickened it. Not only was this new teacher an alien, he was part of an extraterrestrial conspiracy to take over Earth. Gary's final sentence was:

Every iota of information, fragment of fact, morsel of minutiae sucked up by those vacuuming eyes was beamed directly into a computer circling the planet. The data would eventually become a program that would control the mind of every school kid on earth.

Gary showed the new draft to Dani before class. He stood on tiptoes so he could read over her shoulder. Sometimes he wished she were shorter, but mostly he wished he were taller.

“What do you think?”

“The assignment was to describe a typical day,” said Dani. “This is off the wall.”

He snatched the papers back.

“Creative writing means creating.”

He walked away hurt and angry. He thought: If she doesn’t like my compositions, how can I ever get her to like me?

That morning, Mike Chung read his own composition aloud to the class. He described a typical day through the eyes of a student in a wheelchair. Everything most students take for granted was an obstacle: the bathroom door too heavy to open, the gym steps too steep to climb, the light switch too high on the wall. The class applauded and Mr. Smith nodded approvingly. Even Gary had to admit it was really good — if you considered plain-fact journalism as creative writing, that is.

Gary's rewrite came back the next day marked:

Improving. Try again.

Saturday he locked himself in his room after breakfast and rewrote the rewrite. He carefully selected his nouns and verbs and adjectives. He polished and arranged them in sentences like a jeweler strings pearls. He felt good as he wrote, as the electric typewriter hummed and buzzed and sometimes coughed. He thought: Every champion knows that as hard as it is to get to the top, it's even harder to stay up there.

His mother knocked on his door around noon. When he let her in, she said, “It's a beautiful day.”

“Big project,” he mumbled. He wanted to avoid a distracting conversation.

She smiled. “If you spend too much time in your room, you'll turn into a mushroom.”

He wasn't listening. “Thanks. Anything's okay. Don't forget the mayonnaise.”

Gary wrote:

The alien's probes trembled as he read the student's composition. Could that skinny bespectacled earthling really suspect its extraterrestrial identity? Or was his composition merely the result of a creative thunderstorm in a brilliant young mind?

Before Gary turned in his composition on Monday morning, he showed it to Mike Chung. He should have known better.

“You're trying too hard,” chortled Chung. “Truth is stronger than fiction.”

Gary flinched at that. It hurt. It might be true. But he couldn't let his competition know he had scored. “You journalists are stuck in the present and the past,” growled Gary. “Imagination prepares us for what's going to happen.”

Dani read her composition aloud to the class. It described a typical day from the perspective of a louse choosing a head of hair to nest in. The louse moved from the thicket of a varsity crew-cut to the matted jungle of a sagging perm to a straight, sleek blond cascade.

The class cheered and Mr. Smith smiled. Gary felt a twinge of jealousy. Dani and Mike were coming on. There wasn't room for more than one at the top.

In the hallway, he said to Dani, “And you called my composition off the wall?”

Mike jumped in. “There's a big difference between poetical metaphor and hack science fiction.”

Gary felt choked by a lump in his throat. He hurried away.

Mr. Smith handed back Gary's composition the next day marked:

See me after school.

6. Finish reading the story. Decide how you find the ending — unexpected or quite predictable.

Gary was nervous all day. What was there to talk about! Maybe Mr. Smith hated science fiction. One of those traditional English teachers. Didn't understand that science fiction could be literature. Maybe I can educate him, thought Gary.

When Gary arrived at the English office, Mr. Smith seemed nervous too. He kept folding and unfolding Gary's composition. “Where do you get such ideas?” he asked in his monotone voice.

Gary shrugged. “They just come to me.”

“Alien teachers. Taking over the minds of schoolchildren.” Mr. Smith's empty eyes were blinking. “What made you think of that?”

“I've always had this vivid imagination.”

“If you're sure it's just your imagination.” Mr. Smith looked relieved. “I guess everything will work out.” He handed back Gary's composition. “No more fantasy, Gary. Reality. That's your assignment. Write only about what you know.”

Outside school, Gary ran into Jim Baggs, who looked surprised to see him. “Don't tell me you had to stay after, Dude.”

“I had to see Mr. Smith about my composition. He didn't like it. Told me to stick to reality.”

“Don't listen.” Jim Baggs body checked Gary into the schoolyard fence. “Dude, you got to be yourself.”

Gary ran all the way home and locked himself into his room. He felt feverish with creativity. Dude, you got to be yourself, Dude. It doesn't matter what your so-called friends say, or your English teacher. You've got to play your own kind of game, write your own kind of stories.

The words flowed out of Gary's mind and through his fingers and out of the machine and onto sheets of paper. He wrote and rewrote until he felt the words were exactly right:

With great effort, the alien shut down the electrical panic impulses coursing through its system and turned on Logical Overdrive. There were two possibilities: this high school boy was exactly what he seemed to be, a brilliant, imaginative, apprentice best-selling author and screenwriter, or, he had somehow stumbled onto the secret plan and he would have to be either enlisted into the conspiracy or erased off the face of the planet.

First thing in the morning, Gary turned in his new rewrite to Mr. Smith. A half hour later, Mr. Smith call Gary out of Spanish. There was no expression on his regular features. He said, “I'm going to need some help with you.”

Cold sweat covered Gary's body as Mr. Smith grab his arm and led him to the new vice-principal. She read the composition while they waited. Gary got a good IOM at her for the first time. Ms. Jones was . . . just there. She looked as though she'd been manufactured to fit her name. Average. Standard. Typical. The cold sweat turned into goose pimples.

How could he have missed the clues? Smith and Jones were aliens! He had stumbled on their secret and now they'd have to deal with him.

He blurted, “Are you going to enlist me or erase me?”

Ms. Jones ignored him. “In my opinion, Mr. Smith, you are overreacting. This sort of nonsense” — she waved Gary's composition — “is the typical response of an overstimulated adolescent to the mixture of reality and fantasy in an environment dominated by manipulative music, television, and films. Nothing for us to worry about.”

“If you're sure, Ms. Jones,” said Mr. Smith. He didn’t sound sure.

The vice-principal looked at Gary for the first time. There was no expression in her eyes. Her voice was flat “You'd better get off this science fiction kick,” she said. “If you know what's good for you.”

“I’ll never tell another human being, I swear,” he babbled.

“What are you talking about?” asked Ms. Jones.

“Your secret is safe with me,” he lied. He thought, If I can just get away from them. Alert the authorities. Save the planet.

“You see,” said Ms. Jones, “you're writing yourself into a crazed state.”

“You're beginning to believe your own fantasies,” said Mr. Smith.

“I'm not going to do anything this time,” said Ms. Jones, “but you must promise to write only about what you know.”

“Or I'll have to fail you,” said Mr. Smith.

“For your own good,” said Ms. Jones. “Writing can be very dangerous.”

“Especially for writers,” said Mr. Smith, “who write about things they shouldn't.”

“Absolutely,” said Gary, “positively, no question about it. Only what I know.” He backed out the door, nodding his head, thinking, Just a few more steps and I'm okay. I hope these aliens can't read minds.

Jim Baggs was practicing head fakes in the hallway. He slammed Gary into the wall with a hip block. “How's it going, Dude?” he asked, helping Gary up.

“Aliens,” gasped Gary. “Told me no more, science fiction.”

“They can't treat a star writer like that,” said Jim. “See what the head honcho's got to say.” He grabbed Gary's wrist and dragged him to the principal's office.

“What can I do for you, boys?” boomed Dr. Proctor.

“They're messing with his moves, Doc,” said Jim Baggs. “You got to let the aces run their races.”

“Thank you, James.” Dr. Proctor popped his forefinger at the door. “I'll handle this.”

“You're home free, Dude,” said Jim, whacking Gary across the shoulder blades as he left.

“From the beginning,” ordered Dr. Proctor. He nodded sympathetically as Gary told the entire story, from the opening assembly to the meeting with Mr. Smith and Ms. Jones. When Gary was finished, Dr. Proctor took the papers from Gary's hand. He shook his head as he real Gary's latest rewrite.

“You really have a way with words, Gary. I should have sensed you were on to something.”

Gary's stomach flipped. “You really think there could be aliens trying to take over Earth?”

“Certainly,” said Dr. Proctor, matter-of-factly. “Earth is the ripest plum in the universe.”

Gary wasn't sure if he should feel relieved that he wasn't crazy or be scared out of his mind. He took a deep breath to control the quaver in his voice, and said:

“I spotted Smith and Jones right away. They look like they were manufactured to fit their names. Obviously humanoids. Panicked as soon as they knew I was on to them”.

Dr. Proctor chuckledand shook his head. “No self-respecting civilization would send those two stiffs to Earth.”

“They're not aliens?” He felt relieved and disappointed at the same time.

“I checked them out myself,” said Dr. Proctor. “Just two average, standard, typical human beings, with no imagination, no creativity.”

“So why'd you hire them?”

Dr. Proctor laughed. “Because they'd never spot an alien. No creative imagination. That's why I got rid ofthe last vice-principal and the last Honors English teacher. They were giving me odd little glances when they thought I wasn't looking. After ten years on your plane! I've learned to smell trouble.”

Gary's spine turned to ice and dripped down the backs of his legs. “You're an alien!”

“Great composition,” said Dr. Proctor, waving Gary’s papers. “Grammatical, vividly written, and totally accurate.”

“It's just a composition,” babbled Gary, “made whole thing up, imagination, you know.”

Dr. Proctor removed the face of his wristwatch and began tapping tiny buttons. “Always liked writers. I majored in your planet's literature. Writers are the keepers of the past and the hope of the future. Too bad they cause so much trouble in the present.”

“I won't tell anyone,” cried Gary. “Your secret's safe with me.” He began to back slowly toward the door.

Dr. Proctor shook his head. “How can writers keep secrets, Gary? It's their natures to share their creations with the world.” He tapped three times and froze Gary in place, one foot raised to step out the door.

“But it was only a composition,” screamed Gary as his body disappeared before his eyes.

“And I can't wait to hear what the folks back home say when you read it to them,” said Dr. Proctor.

“I made it all up.” Gary had the sensation of rocketing upward. “I made up the whole . . .”

AFTER-READING ACTIVITIES

7. Answer the following questions.

· Why is Gary so excited to start tenth grade?

· What does Gary think of their new Honors English Teacher, Mr. Smith?

· What is the reason of the rivalry between Gary and someone else?

· Which approach does Gary choose to accomplish his first assignment?

· Is Gary’s composition liked by the students and/or Mr. Smith?

· Do you think Mr. Smith is a competent teacher?

· How does the teacher try to influence the boy?

· What happens at the principal’s office?

· Did you expect such an ending of the story?

8.Find all the words with the help of which the author describes the teachers — Mr. Smith and Ms. Jones. What kind of portrait does one get as a result of this?

9.Let us describe the characters of the story with the help of their remarks. Finв out who says these words and give their character profiles to the best of your ability.

· “That’s about as exciting as tofu.”

· “A real artist accepts the commonplace as a challenge.”

· “Awesome tale, Dude.”

· “I think everything will work out.”

· “You’d better get off this science fiction kick.”

· “I've learned to smell trouble.”

· “You really have a way with words.”

10.Study Gary’s composition. Say what you think about the quality of the young author’s writing.

11.Let us focus on style. Read the definition of a stylistic device and find its examples in the story (you may well take the first paragraph or Gary’s story).

Metaphor is the application of a word or phrase to an object or concept it doesn’t really denote, in order to suggest comparison with another object or concept.

12.Describe your typical day at university using Gary’s approach to fulfill this task. Be prepared to write down your composition.

WRITING METAPHORICALLY

13.Metaphor is a means of communicating the author’s message through striking comparisons. There are plenty of ways to create a memorable metaphor. Iа it is good, the metaphor will linger in the reader’s mind and provide for reflective thinking which, actually, is the aim of any serious writing. Yet literature is a serious business, isn’t it? Study the example below.

E.g. A clever book = a treasure island on the high seas of life (Wow!)

Now, try creating some metaphors to graphically describe various aspects of teaching and learning. Give metaphorical definitions to the following.

· A dedicated teacher

· A devoted pupil

· A fascinating class

· A communicative activity

· A challenging home assignment

· A class reunion twenty years later

· (your own) _________________

14.Prewriting. Compare your definitions. In small groups, discuss them and make the necessary improvements. Share the final products with all the other members of the group.

15.Write a brief inspirational speech addressed to young teachers beginning to work at school. Make your little speech both metaphorically memorable and memorably metaphorical.

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