PLOT

[Mitchell Case.]

Mitchell wasn't a recluse, that much was certain; due to his quiet nature, most people he encountered expected him to be, but the truth was, once you got him talking about something he found interesting... He was a bugger to shut up. So, in turn, the secluded areas of Milestone Academy's grounds held no interest to him at the present moment, despite the fact that he was carrying a fairly large sketchbook under his right arm, and had a mechanical pencil hanging lazily off of the hem of his shirt pocket; a black pinstripe dress shirt, to be exact.

There were many things about Milestone he liked, now that he was thinking about its grounds. The scenery was so unique when compared to other prestigious schools with such a stature, and its student body ranged through so many different types of people that it was a miracle most of them were as mature as they were, otherwise there would be more conflict and drama that necessary. Not that there wasn't enough as it was; he couldn't go through a single math class in silence, as a result of the chattering females behind him, gossiping about him and her, and how he cheated on her with her best friend.

That wasn't what he was concentrating on at the moment, though; for the last hour or so he had been scouring the grounds, searching for something that looked lonely and forgotten, something that was perfect in all of its previously mentioned loneliness. Something to sketch.

The one bad thing about Milestone, in his opinion, was just that - there was nothing lonely and forgotten.

[emeline shumenko]

the look

It took days for Emeline to get her things together. Days for her rooms, at either house, to be fit into a car and packed away for shipment. There were a few things she couldn't live without. Pillows, duvets, a tapestry her father had gotten her in Alfghanistan, the pictures her mother used to decorate her room with, her new laptop her parents had bought her (aren't they the sweetest?), three duvets to keep her warm, slippers and a housecoat, a bunch of clothes, all her makeup, her hair supplies, a few choice cds (mainly the one with fairy stories and those tapes of her grandmother's stories), her sketchbook obviously, every pair of shoe, a couple notebooks...

The one thing, however, that she just could not live without she had to leave behind. Her friends.

Emeline wandered aimlessly along the pathway of the grounds. She looked at her feet as she walked, music singing in her ears. The purse she carried had her sketcbhook in it, just in case she got inspired right then and there, but more than likely she would end up sitting on a bench and texting for a good long while. She couldn't stand the fact she had to leave them behind, couldn't stand the idea that her fellow fashion designer and best friend, Marisa, couldn't come along. She would have been able to, too, if it wasn't for the tuition costs her parents were just scraping by. It killed her that she was here now, and Marisa wasn't. Killed her further that Terri and Lois had to stay back there too, her other best friends. Killed her so much she maybe skipped lunch that morning, and ate a clementine and breakfast.

So, walking along the path, her eyes followed the grey heels as they avoided puddles and soft spots in the ground. Dark curls was left untouched, as it wasn't a terribley windy day. At the moment, thoughts of her art history class were running through her head. Okay, just think, Emeline. THINK. What was it that Plato said? She knew she disagreed with it... his view of art... Oh! Was it that art's value was universal? No, that was Hume.

Certainly her preoccupation would kill a pedestrian someday.

[Mitchell Case.]

Mitchell's luck was clearly run dry, so he was forced to settle for the one thing that never was - his imagination. A place where anything could be imagined, in any state, old and broken up, or new and moderately fresh looking. There were no limits, no boundaries, nothing to stop him from finding the perfect image. The only problem was keeping it the same and not allowing his mind to stray to something else more extravagant or underrated.

And that was just what Mitch liked.

Settling himself on a bench, he shivered slightly as the cold breeze brushed past him, pressing his shirt tight against his skin. He shivered a little, then picked up the hoodie he had been carrying with him and lazily slid his arms into the sleeved - he didn't normally fancy zippering his sweaters up for some reason. His gaze drifted aimlessly, maybe a person would do well to inspire him - you could gather a lot from a person, try to look a little into their past.

He spotted a rather delicate looking girl, her ivory skin and attire standing out against her average surroundings. She was studying art just as he was, if his memory served correct. With a slight nod, he would let his imagination take him from there - he had found a diamond in a rough patch, so to speak.

[emeline shumenko]

the look

It seemed the grounds were peacefully occupied. Most benches were hit by lovers and friends, a couple runners making their way along the paths. Emeline's eyes drifted across them, immediatly taken by the peace of the park. Of course, she missed her friends terribley, but did that mean she couldn't have fun here? Surely not. First she had to learn someone, though. Actually find a friend. That was the hard part.

All her life she'd been viewed as 'different'. If not by someone else, than at least by herself. It was hard not to. A girl taking Ukrainian dance, a protestant, now pursuing garment design-- costume design to boot, a singer who was quite often too shy to peep, and a girl so pale it sent the snow to shiver? Who would blame her for feeling out of place in a world of beautiful people and drunks. Certainly this innocent absintee couldn't find a friend in a place of such beauty, of such art.

Emiline wandered no further, a certain inspiration taking hold of her just then. She looked to a bench, only occupied by one boy, and practically skipped there. "Would you mind if I sat?" She added an apology to her delicate statement, no louder than a whisper. She gestured toward the bench momentarily, just as she pushed her lips together in a nervous attempt to calm herself.

[Mitchell Case.]

First off, Mitchell was unaware that one of the voices he heard around him was being directed at him. That was, until, he spotted a pair of feet out of his peripheral vision, both of which belonged to the girl he had just spotted, Emeline, he tried to remember. He was clearly unsure about if he got it right, but that was an inward dilemma and had nothing to do with the girl's request.

He looked up, his eyes scanning over her fact for a moment before nodding easily, a slight smile tugging at the left corner of his mouth, "Sure. It's no problem, really." scooting over a little to make more room, Mitchell set his pencil down on the nearly blank page of his cream colored sketchbook only to lean back and stretch a little. Even only sitting for a little while, these benches made the back rather stiff, quite quickly. The pleasantry was oh-so noticeable.

It was then that he thought introducing himself to the specimin he was sharing a bench with could very well be a good idea. Where on earth were his manners? He himself wasn't quite sure where he had placed them, he hadn't exactly been in need of them lately. "... I'm Mitchell Case, by the way. We're in art together..."

[emeline shumenko]

the look

Emeline's gray shoes were a favourite. She just loved the bow, and seriusly treasured them. Not to mention the top looked good on her. It helped that she was here studying fashion design and costume history. Perhaps her fashionista's eye and tiny wallet made her acceptably dressed for this school's standards. The whole well-put-together yet starving-artist thing worked well with her. The starving part especially.

Now, where was she? Oh yes, Plato...

"Thank you." She answered, and carefully seated herself near him. With only the intention of drawing and then hiding away again, she opened her sketchbook to a blank, stiff white page and clicked a couple times on her thin-leaded pencil. The regular pencils drew Emeline crazy. Dating the piece already, and signing the edge of the paper, she wrote a title, Butterfly, in artistic cursive at the top of the page. She then underlined the word with a curvy line, setting it apart from any other notes she would take.

She turned her head to the boy, smiling shyly. "Oh yes. Art history. My name's Emeline Shumenko, nice to meet you." Her voice was fairly bright, almost starry in it's unrealistically feminine colours. Offering a slender-fingered hand to the boy, inquisitive eyes leapt to his face.

[Mitchell Case.]

Mitchell didn't understand how any male in his right mind could wear girl jeans. There were many decent-looking fitting forms of regular male jeans he had laid eyes on that appeared to look just fine on the gender in question, yet right now he was studying some rather peculiar-looking men wearing rather colorful pants that he had seen on far more girls in Milestone than the boys themselves. He sighed, shook his head, and returned to his sketching; so far, he had merely set down a rather crooked cobblestone walkway. He had a strange love for abstract art, and right now, he was feeling the vibe of a town of many colors, where nothing and everything were both perfect at the same time.

As a matter of fact, he had vowed to himself that once he sketched this town to its utmost perfection, he was going to paint it on a broad, spacious wall of some kind, maybe when he graduated. He knew for a fact that requesting the privilege to paint it upon the wall of his dorm room was a stupid and far off one; it would certainly be an instant declination.

His gaze stayed directed fully on his paper as he spoke. "I'm not good with names, but I remembered your face. Art history it was."

[emeline shumenko]

the look

Emeline took the earpieces from her ears, and began rolling the white headphones up. She placed them inside her purse and crossed her legs. She drew a line down her page, slightly curved, and began drawing a ribcage and thin frame around it, using the slightly curved line as a spine-base. For now, she looked like a naked model.

Looking back up at him, a smile hit her blue eyes. "Yeah, it's okay. Totally huge class anyway." Shy smile, and she flicked her eyes back at her sketchbook, erasing something and redrawing the chets, something she always had trouble with. Art history was manditory, or so she thought, for first years. Therefor, even though she was in fashion design in the art program, she was forced to take certain classes with all the other artists of the school. That included art history.

Who could it have been. "Can I ask you a question about art history? I mean, it's just been bugging me." If he gave any slight indication of an affirmative answer, she would excitedly smile and issue her embarassing question, rushing her words. "Do you remember who it was that said art's value was universal? I mean, like, it was universal and those who didn't see it weren't equipped to judge any art..." her voice trailed, as she contemplated her own question. Definitely not Nietzsche, he was the one who thought art was a representation of the truth of reality.

[Mitchell Case.]

Mitchell pondered Emeline's question for a moment, more than simply one answer running through his mind. "It sounds like it could have been Thomas Berger, he said something along the lines of that. 'What is art but a way of seeing?' I think it was. But Ralph Waldo Emerson talked about art in it's own being an art of necessity..." Mitchell thought some more, the proceeded to sigh and shake his head; "Can't say I remember Prof mentioning that. Or maybe I was just zoned out during that."

He had said all of that without looking up from his page - his hands had seemed to take on a mind of their own, drawing precise yet jagged lines all down the page, connecting and standing side-by-side to create buildings, houses or people. A slight smile tugged at the left corner of his mouth as he continued. "Do you have any idea of who it was?"

When it came to brilliancy, Ralph Waldo Emerson was Mitchell's favorite artist. He spoke of freedom, chance and made a point of saying that modern romantic art bears the stamp of caprice and chance, something that Mitch himself thought to be quite true. He rather fancied when he could hear a quote or speech from the past and still find it to be true no matter how much time had passed.