PrinceKenzie Presents: The Voice of Lark

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Hey everyone, it's PrinceKenzie or just Kenz, whichever you prefer! I'm so excited to be sharing this short story with you all. I wrote this as a college assignment for my Fiction Writing class and everyone loved it so I'm turning it into a novel that will be posted on my profile in the future. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

The old record player is on in the corner of the living room by the bay windows where Lark usually sits to gaze out at the rain

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The old record player is on in the corner of the living room by the bay windows where Lark usually sits to gaze out at the rain. A familiar song opening cascades over the small room. It is a twelve-string acoustic guitar with a second twelve-string acoustic playing a different line while the bass plays whole notes. Lark knows the song seconds into the intro. Hotel California by The Eagles is one of his all-time favorites and his foot starts to tap to the beat. His head bobs and his lanky body carries him through the living room and into the open kitchen where his parents are.

"Good morning, sweetheart." His mother presses a kiss to his cheek, only to immediately start rubbing at it as her scarlet red lipstick stains his pale skin. "Breakfast is almost ready so sit down."

From the breakfast bar, Lark watches as she sways her way to the fridge. His mother has the grace of a ballerina but the edge of a punk rocker. His father on the other hand cannot dance, not even if you put markers on the ground and Lark gets that from him. But he can sing. Lark hates him for that, for the way words explode with passion from his chest. His hand beats time against his thigh, counting the numbers in his head as he watches his mother sway around. Then she starts to sing along and her husband joins in. A glare forms on his brows as they sing together, upsetting his stomach to the point where Lark loses his appetite.

They don't notice him silently slip out of the room.

With his hood covering his head and his bag slung over his shoulder, he quietly leaves the house. The rain has died out over the course of the past hour, leaving little rivers through the mud and pools on the sidewalks. A blanket of gray covers the sky, promising more rain throughout the day. Lark grabs his bike from the side of the house and does his best to dry the wet seat before he takes off down the road.

He doesn't plan on missing his first two classes, but the tardy bell for third block is ringing just as he closes his locker. The hallways are deserted and as the tardy bell's echo fades, only the sound of closing doors can be heard. His dress shoes are soaked and the bottom of his slacks are damp from the puddles he trekked through at the park where he spent the first two school blocks. Now his shoes noisily squeak against the laminate flooring of the hall that is lined with blue lockers as he finally makes his way towards the classroom.

"How nice of you to join us, Skylark," the teacher drags out his name. She isn't his number one fan, nor is she his favorite.

Lark lowers his head and makes his way across the room to his seat by the window. He will not be able to remember what the teacher says throughout the lecture or count up how many paper balls fly in his direction from his classmates. His mind is elsewhere, outside of the classroom. It is outside of the school, on the porch swing gazing out at the trees, where he longs to be. A bird flies past the dirty window and lands on a thin, moving branch with no fear. Lark can tell by the movement of the bird's chest that it is singing, but he cannot hear the sound.

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