Disclaimer: I do not own any Dead Poets Society characters or any of the plot. They are all the wonderful work of Tom Schulman.

Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction, please review! And sorry this part is so short.

Chapter Three: Triumph of the Imagination

On Monday afternoon I walked in to a quiet classroom of well-behaved boys who looked a little green. This must be what every other teacher faces every day, I thought. I commenced the class right by collecting their essays. I then asked the question all my students were dreading, "who would like to go first?" Students looked everywhere but me.

Suddenly the door banged open and Charlie Dalton entered, breathing hard. He glanced up. "Sorry, Captain."

"That's all right, Mr. Dalton. I'm sure all of your classmates will thank you for this later. You're up first for poetry." He put his books down on his desk and walked up to the platform with an instrument case. He opened it and pulled out a gleaming metal saxophone. Without hesitating, Charlie put it to his lips.

A beautiful, melodious sound sprang from the saxophone. Charlie played with confidence, picking out a subtle, chaotic melody. I leaned against the window ledge and thought, I should have known. He ended the sonata to cheers from his classmates and looked back at me. "You didn't say it had to be written."

I chuckled. "You're right, I didn't. What inspired you to compose this piece?"

"Freedom," he answered seriously, but with a toss of the head.

I could guess all too well what he meant and didn't want to get into philosophical discussions about caves or poetry when Dr. Nolan could enter at any moment. "I thought I heard a longing note in there somewhere." I faced the class once more. "Mr. Dalton's work, though not written, clearly had feeling. And that, boys, is the essence of poetry. Not that it's beautiful or perfect but that one feels changed or moved after reading it. Convey how you feel.

"Now, who feels courageous enough to follow?" I looked around the room once more, finding all still as stone but one. "Mr. Overstreet?" Knox stood up shakily and walked to the front. He took a breath and began reading, words pouring out like he couldn't wait to get rid of them.

"I see a sweetness in her smile.

Bright light shines from her eyes.

But life is complete; contentment is mine,

Just knowing that...

Just knowing that she's alive" Knox looked up dejectedly. "I'm sorry, Captain, it's stupid." A few students were laughing. Knox's attempt was fair, and I felt sorry for him.

"No! No. It was a good effort. You touched on one of the major themes: love. A major theme not only in poetry, but in life. Mr. Hopkins, you were laughing. You're up."

Hopkins pulled a rumpled piece of paper from his pocket.

"The cat sat on the mat." He smirked as his classmates giggled. That was Will would have done when I was at school, and he would have paid dearly for it, too. I let this one pass lightly, knowing how hard it was to be sixteen and to present your own poetry.

"Congratulations, Mr. Hopkins. You have the first poem to ever have a negative score on the Pritchard scale. I don't mind that your poem had a simple theme, sometimes the most beautiful poetry can be about simple things, like a cat, or a flower, or rain. You see poetry can come from anything with the stuff of revelation in it. Just don't let your poems be ordinary." Hopkins looked a little remorseful so I moved on. "Now, who's next? Mr. Anderson. I see you sitting there in agony. Come on, Todd, step up. Let's put you out of your misery."

After a moment's hesitation he uttered quietly, "I-I didn't do it. I didn't write a poem." He looked scared, ready to be punished. I raised my eyebrows.

"Mr. Anderson thinks that everything inside of him is worthless and embarrassing. Isn't that right, Todd?" He rolled his eyes as if to say I'm sure embarrassed now! "And that's your worst fear. Well, I think you're wrong. I think you have something inside of you that is worth a great deal."

I went to the chalkboard and began to write one of my favourite quotations. "I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world. Uncle Walt again. Now, for those of you who don't know, a yawp is a loud cry or yell. Now, Todd. I would like you to give us a demonstration of a barbaric yawp." He rolled his eyes again, shy and uncomfortable. "C'mon, you can't yawp sitting down! Let's go. C'mon. Up. Got to get in yawping stance."

"A yawp?" He asked, incredulous, as the class around him sniggered.

"No, not just 'a yawp.' A barbaric yawp."

"Yawp," he said, noncommittally. The class continued laughing.

"C'mon, louder." Let go of your control, Todd! I prayed.

"Yawp," he said a bit louder, still mortified.

"Oh, that's a mouse! C'mon, louder!" I could see what I was putting him through, but could also see that it might lead to great things.

"Yawp!" he said again, a little annoyed now.

"Oh, good God, boy, yell like you mean it!" Lose it, Todd! Get angry! He needed this.

"YAWP!"

"There it is." There was something to be said about Todd Anderson. "You see, you have a barbarian in you after all." He started to walk back to his seat. "Now, you don't get away that easy. There's a picture of Uncle Walt up there. What does he remind you of? Don't think, answer!"

Looking slightly more comfortable now that he didn't have to say the word 'yawp,' Todd answered, "a m-madman."

"What kind of madman? Don't think about it, just answer again."

"A crazy madman."

"Oh, you can do better than that. Free up your mind, use your imagination. Say the first thing that pops into your head even if it's total gibberish. C'mon." Give your imagination another try , Todd. You can do it!

"A-a sweaty-toothed madman."

"Good God, boy, there's a poet in you after all!" I knew it! "There. Close your eyes…clooose them. Now, describe what you see."

"I-I close my eyes…" I put my hands over his eyes to let him forget everything else. For the moment it was just him, Todd Anderson, breaking free.

"Yes?"

"Uh, and this image floats beside me."

"A sweaty-toothed madman!" You have the spirit Todd, show it to me once more.

"A sweaty-toothed madman, with a stare that pounds my brain."

"Ah, that's excellent! Now, give him action, make him do something."

"His hands reach out and choke me…"

"That's it, wonderful…" I let go of him and watched Todd find himself.

"And all the time he's mumbling…"

"What's he mumbling?"

"Mumbling truth…truth…like a blanket that always leaves you feet cold!" The others started laughing. No! Be quiet! C'mon, Todd, continue!

"Forget them, forget them! Stay with the blanket, tell me about that blanket!"

"You-you push it, stretch it, it'll never be enough…you kick at it, beat it, it'll never cover any of us…" He was completely in his own world now. I stepped back to watch the miracle before me. "From the moment we enter crying to-to the moment we leave dying, it'll j-just cover your face as you wail, and cry, and scream." Todd opened his eyes. I looked intently at him, amazed. He wore the same expression.

After a few seconds of silence, I heard clapping and cheering. Todd started to smile awkwardly. I walked up to him. He still looked in a state of shock. "Don't you forget this." Ever.

The bell rang before any more poems could be read. "Dismissed." I watched the students exit the classroom, many patting Todd on the back. I whispered at his retreating form the lines of a favourite John Keats' quote, "Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on." Something was changing in Todd Anderson.