My English Teacher Hates Bikes.

I'm in a bad mood, why? Because my English teacher hates me, and she hates bikes. I was asked by her to copy a Shakespearean poem in Iambic Pentameter and write it as a parody about whatever I liked. Along with that she also requested I write an original sonnet in the form of a monologue. Once again my topic was bikes. Now, I take pride in my school work; I make every little effort to make sure my work is to par. But these poems, I put true care and effort into these two pieces of literature. At the end i was utterly pleased with what I wrote and even happier to see I covered all of the criteria. But to my surprise I was given a B-. For no good reason either, her feedback was either non existent or irrelevant to the literature. This is not new for me, I have somewhat of a bad reputation and teachers often give me subjective marks. However, I was appalled at how she could give me a b- hardly over 70% in her books. So I ask of Pinkbike: Does my English teacher truly hate bikes?

'Tis the very foggy dawn of morning.
When bears yawn and local riders jump out
their log cabins. Now could I drink hot coffee
and fix the bitter business the bike shop
would quake to look on. Quick now to the lift.
O bike lose not thy chain, let not ever
the fresh whistler dirt enter through my wounds.
Let me be safe, not in the hospital.
I will speed like a cheetah, but see none.
My self and bike in this be hypocrites.
How in my crash my bike bent.
To give up my jump never, my mom consent!



A FINAL CHAIRLIFT
I sit on the chairlift, slowly ascending.
The vibrant orange sun settles into Whistlers
mountainous horizon. My bike gleams ahead.
Will this be my last time down the mountain?
'Tis a thought I dare not look to answer.
There is something surreal about floating to a
mountain top: Like an angel rising to the high
heavens. However my destination is not holy.
I look onward as the peak grows closer, and
closer. A fire burns within me, an urge

to go fast. A black bear scurries within the
quickly darkening forest. Distractions are
everywhere and I struggle to focus. Each
moment passes me by as I try to enjoy them.
Suddenly the peak seems dark and gloomy.
Tension builds within me as my brain scrambles; it
searches for logic in the sudden anxiety upon me.
Ahead a lifty shouts, "Nice bike!" but, i am silent. My
shoes touch the dirt as i reach the peak. I
jump on my bike which feels like a stranger.
I do not wish to leave this place,
but i feel unwelcome.


The photos are attached so you can see their original form plus attempt to read my teachers handwriting. i have nothing more to say as i figure the literature itself does itself justice, i simply want feedback from people with experienced opinions so i have nothing more to say than that.

-Brendan Merks (Jesse Merks is my brother)