February’s schoolroom prompt gave us amazing stories about school days. March 2024‘s prompt takes us into the snowy bamboo woods.
Thanks to all who submitted stories in February and to all of you who took the time to read their work!
Now for March 2024!
Don’t Forget: The word limit is now 5000 words. Also, we will no longer do minor editing on these stories.
WU! created this project with two goals: providing a writing exercise and promoting our author sites to increase reader traffic. We ask that you please include a link to the Writers Unite! blog when you post your story elsewhere. By doing so, you are also helping promote your fellow members and Writers Unite! We encourage all of you to share each other’s stories to help all of us grow. Thanks!
The March2024Prompt!
Images are free use and require no attribution. Image by M – lisaleo Kanenori fromPixabay.
Here’s the plan:
You write a story of 5000 words or less (minimum 500 words) or a poem (Minimum 50 words) based on and referring to the image provided and post it on the author site you wish to promote. Don’t forget to give your story a title. (Note: You do not have to have a website/blog/FB author page to participate. Your FB profile or WordPress link is acceptable.)
Please edit these stories. WU! will no longer conduct minor editing on your story, so please send in edited work. WU! reserves the right to reject publishing the story if poorly written.
The story must have a title and author name and must include the link to the site you wish to promote.
Send the story and link to the site via Facebook Messenger to Deborah Ratliff or email to writersunite16@gmail.com. Put “Write the Story” in the first line of the message.
Please submit your story by the 25th day of the month.
WU! will post your story on our blog and share it across our platforms— FB, Twitter, Instagram, etc. The story will also be available in the archives on the WU! blog, along with the other WTS entries.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Message from a Student
Lynn Miclea
Maggie straightened up the papers on her desk and got ready to go. The end of another frustrating but rewarding day teaching her fourth-grade students. She glanced around the now empty classroom and stood up to leave.
A noise got her attention, and she quickly focused on the side of the room where it sounded like it came from. One chair on the side moved. What the—?
She stared at the chair. No movement and no noise. She must have imagined it. She shook her head and looked at the chair again. Nothing. Good — she was probably just fatigued. It had been a long day.
Grabbing her purse and walking across the room, she thought back over the lesson plan she had taught today and what she wanted to cover tomorrow. It would be—
Another noise. She stopped dead in her tracks. Goosebumps rose on her arms. She slowly turned and looked toward that one chair. It slid a couple of inches, scraping along the floor.
Maggie froze in place and stared at the chair. What the hell was going on? And why was that desk and chair familiar? Something about it pulled at the edges of her memory. Not from the current class, but something from the past. A few years ago. She couldn’t quite grasp it. Who had sat there?
A few moments later, memories came rushing back to her. That was where Dillon had sat. Dillon, the boy who had always given her a hard time. He was always disruptive, talking back. Interrupting her lessons. He was rude to her and to the other students. He threw things. He picked on the other kids. He called the other students nasty names. He was defiant and difficult to handle, no matter what she did.
The chair moved again, and an icy chill filled the room.
Maggie’s stomach knotted up, and she rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to get warm.
She thought back to Dillon, wondering what happened to him after he had left her class. Then she remembered. A few years after that class, he had gotten into drugs and joined a gang. And he never did learn when to keep his mouth shut. He had cursed at and insulted a rival gang member. Two days later, he was shot and died.
The chair bounced, and the thumping noise brought Maggie back to the present. Was Dillon now coming back to taunt her? To get even with her for sending him to the principal’s office so many times? To get back at her for sending him to detention? Was he here to continue his pattern of being defiant and provoking her?
Horrified, she took a step back and cleared her throat. “Dillon? Is that you?” Her voice was shaky.
The chair moved a couple more inches. Icy tentacles of fear crawled up her spine. What would he do next? What was he capable of? She needed to get out of there. She took another step toward the doorway.
Something pinged on the window. What was that? It sounded like a stone hit the window. Maggie hesitated, frozen in place, as she stared at the window. What was out there? She took a tentative step forward and then slowly inched her way over to the window and looked out. A young boy was walking by on the path, about twenty feet away. He wore a dark green sweatshirt — the same color Dillon used to wear. But it couldn’t be Dillon. Dillon was dead.
She looked closer. It was definitely someone else, but that was too bizarre of a coincidence. Was Dillon trying to send her a message? Was he letting her know this was him? The hairs on the back of her neck stood out. Terror flooded her mind and she could barely think.
“Dillon?” she called out again.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. Terrified, she ran out of the classroom and rushed into the break room. She leaned on the counter for a few minutes, trying to compose herself and catch her breath. Then she got a cup of water and took a few sips. She rubbed her temples and took a deep breath. She needed to calm down and think clearly. But what was going on in that room?
Maggie shuddered. She did not want to go back to that classroom. As she walked to the doorway of the break room, she paused. Then she heard a crash. Staring down the hallway, she knew it came from her classroom.
She had to know. She ran back to the classroom. The same chair was now lying on the floor. The desk jolted and thumped on the ground. Horror flooded her system and her hand rose to her chest.
A noise by the blackboard got her attention, and she stared in that direction. A piece of chalk was moving on the little ledge below the blackboard. The piece of chalk then rose in the air and hovered about two feet above the ledge. Then it moved to the board and streaked across it, making scraping noises as it went.
As Maggie stared, lines began appearing on the blackboard. One line streaked down. The chalk moved again. More lines. A curve. A few moments later, a large letter “D” appeared on the board.
Maggie’s eyes opened wide as she stared at it. “Dillon?” she whispered.
The door to the classroom slammed shut. Panic made it hard to breathe. Was she locked in? Her heart pounded in her chest.
“Dillon … please … I …” She could not find the words to continue. Was he here to hurt her? Terrified and desperate, she took a few steps toward the closed door.
The desk bounced and thumped on the floor. Maggie stopped and turned toward the desk. Feeling weak, her legs began to buckle. She leaned on a desk close to her, let her purse fall to the floor, and shut her eyes.
A scraping sound behind her made her jump. She opened her eyes and glanced behind her. The chalk streaked across the blackboard, and Maggie turned around and faced the board.
Lines appeared on the board. More lines. What was he trying to say? She could barely watch, but she was frozen in place and could not look away. More streaks, one line at a time.
Finally, two words became clear, written in a shaky handwriting: “I’m sorry.”
The chalk then fell back to the ledge, bounced, and fell to the floor.
Maggie stared at it. She did not move.
Feeling weak, she stood frozen in the middle of the classroom. Was that what he wanted to say? Did he mean that? Had he come back to apologize for the trouble he had caused back then?
She wasn’t sure. She felt terrorized now. But maybe this was his only way of communicating. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Thank you, Dillon. And it’s okay. I know it was really hard for you back then. You were dealing with a lot of family issues. I understand. And I’m sorry, too.”
The classroom door swung open and the room began to warm up.
Maggie glanced around the room. It was quiet. Nothing moved. Was it over? Was that it? Did he simply want to apologize and know his message was received?
She stood in place a few more minutes as the room continued to get warmer. Her body finally began to relax and warm up, and she knew it was over. She walked to the side wall and picked up the chair from the floor, moved the desk, and placed the chair back into position.
Then she walked back to the blackboard and picked up the chalk from the floor, and put it back on the ledge. As she peered at the writing on the blackboard, she saw the letters begin to get lighter, fading out and then disappearing, leaving the board clean as though nothing had been written there.
She picked up the piece of chalk and wrote on the board. Thank you.
Then Maggie picked up her purse from the floor. She looked around the room. Everything now seemed in place and normal, as though nothing had happened.
She always tried to teach her students the best way she could, even the difficult ones, and it was rewarding when she could help them. She didn’t always know how much she did help them or if they appreciated it, but it was nice to occasionally hear something back from them. But this message was something she would never forget.
A bit shaky, clutching her purse tightly to her body, she walked out of the classroom. She hurried down the hall and quickly left the school, breathing a big sigh of relief.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
The Empty School Classroom
Marian Wood
Empty school classrooms
School had ended suddenly. Now walking the corridors, I can hear the sounds and see the memories of the past. Posters on the environment created by year 7, and portraits drawn by year 10. The trophies abandoned in the display cabinet and the notice board with the club announcements. Things were never going to be the same, parents had been in uproar refusing to send their children to school. No one wanted to lose a child, so what had happened?
It was June 2023 when the children started to disappear. It was a cold wet Friday when Mrs Jones Maths class had vanished. There were no signs as to where they had gone. The classroom was empty. The police had investigated, and no one had been found. After Mr Fullers science class had vanished in July the school was closed. Poor attendance and fear meant that very few people dared to go to school.
The police had since passed the case to my team. I am a Paranormal investigator and sweeping the room with my life signs machine it was showing that the children and their teacher had not left the school. On searching all the classrooms, we found more life signs. There was life not just in places where the children disappeared.
Secrets
The school was hiding secrets, now being unearthed by the Paranormal detective agency. Researching the building and land before the building existed, we found a chilling story. The school should not have been built here. It had stood for fifteen years, and we found that twenty years ago a team of farm workers had vanished on this site. They were never found and five years later the council had constructed the school. Looking at the facts, it was 12th June and then 12th July 2023 that the classes had disappeared. The farm workers disappeared on the 12th November 2003, surely they were not still here and if they are, not alive.
The farm workers had left their machinery on the site and had never been found. A twenty year old cold case. Reading through older records on 12th December 1983 and then 12th February 1984 there were more disappearances. I felt sure that there was more that had never been recorded or just dismissed.
Turning up the life signs machine and scanning every classroom it appeared that there was life that we could not see everywhere. What had happened? It is now February 2024 and Im wondering if we are all about to vanish too. Im thinking that we should be filming this and either passing it to the BBC or putting it on You Tube. As it is we are sworn to secrecy as families right now do not need to know their children are still here. We would have parents descending and interfering in our rescue mission.
A rescue
So, how do you rescue people that you cant see? I wonder if food has been going missing from the school canteen or if local shops have had issues with stock going missing. Though how would you get something not invisible out of a shop without causing suspicion? How can these people be alive.
As I watch the large television screens being wheeled into the school. Now was the time to see what was here. Plugging in the life screen sensor and shutting out all daylight, I felt the familiar butterflies in my stomach. I should be used to this by now but every time there is a sense of overwhelming excitement, that is hard to control.
As the life sensor starts to whir and rotate, I can see purple people all around me. They are all standing or sitting watching us. Some with open mouths as if they are trying to talk to us. Stuck in a bubble that they are unable to get out of. I think about how I would feel if one day I was teaching a class and then I was stuck in the school and no one could see me. A terrifying experience that I wouldn’t want to live through.
The void
We were going to have to bring them back. Back from the void that they had been pulled through. I couldn’t see any dead, there must be some, but there were certainly what appeared to be hundreds alive. Sending my assistant for the time jump equipment this would be the first time that we had used it on this scale. We were only looking at one class room, there must be others throughout the school.
Using it is delicate and we didn’t want to make any mistakes. Using it wrong could pull us into the void as well. Turning it on while we were in the building could prove a fatal error. Picking up the remote I motioned for us to get out. Time to vacate and stand a short distance away outside. The remote works like a telephone and communicates with the life machine so we could actually be stood miles away.
As we gather at the bottom of the school field, I watch Harry as he dials into the school. Focusing my binoculars, I can see a cloud of blue smoke in the school windows. If it has worked we should soon see people.
Vanished now back
Hundred years ago, Fred Smith had been investigating the site on Hughes Green. Numerous disappearances that month had made him venture into the library archives, he wanted answers he had not bargained on this.
Living forever is impossible but in the school void it actually was possible. He was now one hundred and sixty three, if he had added the years correct. Looking around him he could see the shocked but happy faces all desperate to get out.
As Fred walked out into the chilly afternoon he realised that very few of them had homes to go to and some, like him, didn’t have relatives, or friends before he walked into the void, alive.
A long day
Watching the people pouring out, plus animals, including dogs, cats and horses, I phoned the police. How had the school accommodated them all? We need village halls, blankets, clothes and the football stadium. There is various attire being worn indicating just how old some of these people are. As they keep coming, I realise that this needs some thought. Where are these people going to go? And how are they still alive? This could be produced as an unbelievable sci – fi film, but this is real. How old is the oldest here? And what about the number 12 was pulling people into a void every twenty years?
After today the void should be closed forever, but surely those who were stuck in the void can tell me why it happened. How are they alive? Did they not have to eat and drink? How did they survive?
Walking towards the happy crowds, I can see some dressed in what looks like bathrobes. What year are they from? This was like a history book but all the characters are here with us. We had a lot to learn and these people could teach us. As I watch news crews arrive, I can see that this is no longer contained. Time to round everyone together, and create an inventory of who is here. We have a long day ahead of us.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Settling In
Calliope Njo
They told me to go to the third floor and wait. It wasn’t until I opened the door from the stairwell that I knew I ended up on the A-level floor. At least that’s what the big sign said on the door. I had no idea what that meant.
We were supposed to wait in the hall area without going into the room. One pillar in the middle with a giant red button on it and one red button on each wall surrounding it. Did the old man who put them up forget to count?
Well, there’s the blonde brigade. I bet each of them has their assistant, car, and school administrator in their back pocket. Either real or imagined.
I laughed at their empty smile with fangs showing. Let’s see how long I can hold it together before that urge to hit’em got any stronger.
“Well. Lookee here,” one of them said. “We have a new recruit, and she didn’t even have to start from the bottom. Hmm. This should be fun. I’m Melissa, by the way. Melissa Mendelssohn, that’s Melissa Cotbe, and Melissa Osterhaus. Our parents probably make a lot more than yours. They may even give them a paycheck.” She walked away laughing.
The fact that I didn’t laugh during that speech was a miracle. I leaned against the column. The sign did say don’t block the emergency button so I opted for the other side. That was until one of them pushed me. Mom always told me to opt for the easy way out. That way, there may be less trouble and less risk of getting hurt.
The one who gave me that speech came at me with a pair of small scissors. I dropped and rolled out of the way. I wanted to laugh so hard in their faces when I jumped up off the floor. They didn’t think it would be that easy. Did they?
Then there she was. A very tall girl with black hair that shined like glass. Tall was a relative term when you’re only five foot but still. No smile on her face as she looked right at me. I had a bad feeling the moment she got closer to me.
There were twenty of us standing against the wall, including the Melissa committee. An older woman walked right behind them. She had to be somebody important when she carried a bag that big, full of what I hoped was related to survival.
When everybody got settled, she introduced herself and passed out a book. I looked at the picture on the cover. The old chair desks with the chalkboard on the front wall. It couldn’t have been too old because I had that kind of setting, along with the constant appearance of the chalk dust cloud.
She was Ms. Bethancourt the floor mother. She was in charge of us, which meant, she was the one who settled arguments, stopped fights, and administered first aid as the need arose. Other than that, the emergency buttons were operational and only to be used in an emergency. Running out of hair spray wasn’t considered an emergency. I had to look at the blondes when she said that.
When she finished, she went to what I assumed to be her room. I looked for the room they assigned me to unlock the door.
“A five-year-old could unlock the door faster than you could.”
Yup. So much for luck. “Go ahead and find one if you like. In the meanwhile, I’m going in.”
I went in. It didn’t look too bad. Two huge beds and two closets like the info brochure said there would be. One bed at the front and one on the opposite wall in the back. A big window took up most of the back wall space. I assumed we were on the west side seeing as how the afternoon sun shined right through.
I turned towards my new roommate. Well, here goes nothing. “Hi. I’m Tabitha. Tabitha Eschwood. I’ll guard the entrance while you watch our back.”
“I suppose. As long as the sun doesn’t shine in my eyes. If it does, then you would be sleeping on the floor.”
I laughed. “Well, seeing as how the sun is shining through the window right now, in the afternoon, I don’t think you have to worry about the morning sun. Besides, we should be out of the room by the time the sun rises.”
She looked at the window. “Sarina Bethancourt, and yes, she’s my mother.”
“Well, we have the rest of the day. I’m going to go to town and do some necessary shopping. Now, according to the rules, we don’t have to be present until six.” I remembered glancing at it before we were excused.
“Suit yourself. I can guarantee you, there’s nothing there.”
“I was thinking that, but there has to be something. If not, I’ll wait for the weekend and go shopping again.” I had three drawers underneath and to the left attached to the bed with a desk space underneath. Three shelves on the opposite side of the drawers. A closet on the other wall.
The uniforms could go in there to help prevent wrinkling. The other clothes could go in the lockable drawers. Three steps to get up to the bed that didn’t have any bedding on it.
JohnPaul forgot to give me that package. Thank God, Mother Nature hasn’t thrown me a surprise. Yet.
“Whatever you do, that’s up to you.” She put her finger under my chin. “Understand this, though. I am in charge of this floor. You will do what I say or pay the consequences for defiance. You have no friends. Remember that.”
I slapped her finger away. “So I’m supposed to kiss your ass if I want something or if I want to be left alone, ignoring the fact that your mother is the one in charge. Is that it? And the Melissa brigade? Are they your sidekicks?”
“Something like that. Nothing happens without me knowing about it. How you got up here so fast I will find out. I can guarantee you that. I’ll meet you for dinner.”
“Uh huh. I’m sure you will.” This will be an interesting time. I never had a roommate or anything related to a roommate. I guess I picked the lucky paper out of the hat.
I had some basics to get before I could get to the weekend. If anybody knew where I could find them, that would be the floor mother. I knocked.
She opened the door. “Well. Somebody actually knocked.” She laughed. “What can I getcha?”
“I was wondering if you had any daily necessities. Also, is there an ATM machine?”
She smiled. “You forgot to stick pocket money in your bag before you left.”
“Something like that. I guess.”
“I’ve got a toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, pads, and tampons. Which one do you need?”
“Toothbrush and paste, comb, and I’m OK on the pads. Well, could I get some? Aunt Flo hasn’t been predictable.”
“Sure. Wait there.”
That was easier than I thought. A town this small wouldn’t have ATM machines, so I might end up going over the weekend anyway.
She held out a paper bag. “Everything you asked for is in here. The machines take Google Pay and debit cards.” She held up the bag. “Anything else?”
“That would be it. Thanks.”
“Oh. I forgot to mention that the rest of the week is up to you. You could do everything in one day, or you could divide it up as long as everything gets done. Understand? Oh, and everybody gets a laptop. No emails may be able to be sent out of school grounds. We do keep track. All messages are monitored. Anything that does not relate to school will be questioned. All right?” She kept the door open while she went back into her room. When she returned, she held out a box. “This is for you. It was delivered earlier.”
I looked at the wooden box and wondered what it was. “Yeah. I got it. Thanks. See ya.” I went back to my room and put the items in the closet and locked it up. Nothing in there worth stealing, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be stolen. Mom always said as long as temptation exists, its existence will be short-lived.
I kept the box with me, wondering what it was. I inspected it, and it didn’t have a name on it. Maybe after dinner, I’ll open it.
I left the room and locked it behind me. One of the Melissas stood watch. With any luck, she would be too busy getting drunk before she had a chance to steal anything.
The main floor had restrooms, a vending machine room, a game room with a TV, and—
“Oh hi.” I looked behind me.
“Hi.” I didn’t think she was one of the blonde brigade, she had dark hair. “Tabitha.”
“TraciMae Bauer. I was named after my great-grandmother and my great-aunt. Mom sorta combined them together. Did you want something to drink? I’m kinda thirsty myself. I promise nothing will go in it unless you put something in it.”
I had to laugh at that one. “OK. How about a Coke?”
“That sounds good.” She used her card and got two Cokes. We both took a sip. “Did you attend this school before now?”
“No. This was a big surprise.”
“Oh. Well, I hope you like it here.” She left.
I had to remember to get her something when I had the chance. I turned on the TV and watched whatever came up which turned out to be an old western.
The one thing about old movies was that they tended to drag. It was all right about the first half hour, then it got boring. I turned that off and walked around campus.
A sort of skinny river divided the property. There was the business part of the school, right behind that was the girls’ dorm, and across the river was the boys’ side. I could’ve stood there and watched, but I decided to keep going.
It took a while for me to complete the tour. When I got tired I headed straight back to the room. I climbed up on the bed and sat down. I slid the top off the box and found a pocket watch. The lid had writing on it. “To my Tabi Tabi. Love Mom.”
I had no idea why the pocket watch. She used to call me Tabi Tabi when I was little. I put the watch up to my ear and it did tick. The problem was where to put it, and even then, there was no guarantee it would be kept safe.
“Hmm. Gold plated, a knock off of the original, and your parents bought it dirt cheap. We’re going to eat now.”
“I’ll eat by myself. Thanks”
“No. We will be going to eat now.”
“What’s the matter? A change of the guard. The blonde committee had to go somewhere, and they didn’t bring you along.”
“You will pay for that remark,” she said through clenched teeth.
“You must have some pretty tense jaw muscles,” I said as I put the watch in my pocket and the box under the mattress. There was nothing in it anymore and without a label. So if somebody wanted it that bad, they would get wood.
We went to the vending machine room. I read the how-to sign in the room, and the directions looked pretty basic. The machines and the microwaves corresponded with each other to help prevent any mix-up and for ease. So I guessed.
There was a meatloaf and gravy dish that sounded interesting. I put that in the microwave and pushed the corresponding number. While that was going, I bought some water. I went back to the microwave and got my food. I’ve had frozen food before, and while it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t great either. This food was one step above.
I sat down and ate my meal. The TV was boring, so I thought I would go back up and talk to Ms. Bethancourt about the sheets. I didn’t remember reading anything about bringing your own sheet set.
“Where are you going?” I turned around to see Sarina with her hands on her waist.
“Back up to the room.”
“No you’re not.”
I smiled, tired of this game already. “Yes, I am. I don’t need your permission.”
“Your life will be a lot easier if you follow my direction, but suit yourself. Don’t come crying to me when you get beat up.” She laughed.
I shrugged. What was she going to do? I made my way back up to the floor and poked my head into the room. The door was left open, and I didn’t see anyone. I tiptoed in, turned around, and turned the light on. My side of the room was a mess.
Somebody knocked on the door. “Yeah.”
“What hap—oh my.” Ms. Bethancourt turned around and looked at everything. “Did you see who did this?”
“No. I went downstairs to get something to eat.”
Sarina walked in. “Mother. Why is my room a mess?” She looked at me.
I got into her space and deadpanned her in the eyes. “I’m not your mother, and I have no idea.” I turned around to Ms. Bethancourt. “Off the subject question, does the school supply sheets, or do we get our own?”
Ms. Bethancourt smiled. “The school does supply them. It’s OK if you went down there yourself and get some. Anything dangerous has been secured. Excuse me while I talk to my daughter. Sarina.”
“Mother, I—”
“Now.”
They stepped outside, and I took a look at what ended up on the floor other than the mattress. The drawers attached to the bed were open and the key that was in the middle drawer was taken, but that was it. I wondered what they were looking for. A heave and a ho later, I got the mattress up where it was supposed to be. I noticed that Sarina’s end of the room was still neat. How surprising. Not.
They came back in, and Sarina clenched her jaw shut. She looked at me with slitted eyes before she returned her attention to Ms. Bethancourt.
Ms. Bethancourt stood against the door. “I came in to remind you that this week only, you don’t have to be back until nine o’clock. You will be marked down if you return late. The other side of that is you will be marked late, and points will be deducted as well if you start the day late.”
Huh. I guess that’s happened if they had to make a rule. “Ms. Bethancourt, does everybody know?”
“Yes. I’ve told everyone.”
I was afraid of that.
“Why do you ask?” Sarina asked. “You think whoever did this will come back again?”
“You tell me, oh floor master. Your hit squad couldn’t find anything?”
“All right, you two,” Ms. Bethancourt said. “Be careful.” She left.
“I hope your new recruits passed their little test.” I wanted to leave the room, but she grabbed my arm.
She got in my face. “You have no idea.”
I left the room and took a deep breath in and out, concentrating on what needed to be done. Ms. Bethancourt must’ve read my mind as she told me the laundry room was in the basement. That’s where I would find the sheets.
The stairs didn’t go down all the way, but the elevator did. The laundry room was the first door on the right. One packaged cream-colored jersey sheet set, a polyester fiber-fill pillow, and one yucky bright pink thermal blanket were gathered to take up to the room.
I returned to the room with those still piled up without dropping. I made the bed while thinking how good it felt to get rid of some of the tension. Of course, it wouldn’t last, but that wasn’t the point.
Sarina returned and slammed the door. She glanced at me before she went to her bed.
“You will learn what it means to live on this floor. If you have any problems, don’t come crying to me about your little woes.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t. You can tell your menage a trois they might be a little lonely tonight.”
“Keep in mind, your well-being is in your hands. You might want to look up that expression.”
“So noted.” Oops. It may not be the true definition, but there had to be something going on. Was there an expression for four people?
“I’m going to take a shower.” She left the room and slammed the door behind her. She returned, grabbed my cheeks, and kissed me hard. “I can be rough.” She left again.
I had to read the rule book to see if it was possible to switch roommates. I sat on the steps and on page five, it went into detail how that could be done. The final decision was up to the committee. However, if enough requests were filed, the situation would be investigated, and changes would be made. That made me feel better.
I started planning in my head what to do tomorrow and get as much done as I could so I had the rest of the week to do whatever else needed to be done. I couldn’t email anyone, but there had to be a public phone I could use or something.
I didn’t want to use my phone because that would be advertising. That and I haven’t seen any outlets yet.
Mom always said when all else fails, look for road signs. They’ll tell you where to go. I did that and found the public phone desk. I had twenty minutes. I only hoped Sergio was home.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Hi, Sergio. I got settled in, and things are all right so far.” Minus the roommate. “How are things with you?”
“OK, My Little Sun, what’s the matter, huh?”
I summarized what happened up to that point. I didn’t name anyone or mention it was my roommate. When I finished, he growled and grumbled a few words that I was sure JohnPaul would tell me you don’t want to know. I was fluent in Spanish thanks to both of them, but there were words that I was never taught. No lady should ever know them. I wasn’t a lady but I didn’t push either.
“I am sorry. This was supposed to be a special school. A place to learn and grow. Listen, if you can wait I will find another one next year. Huh?”
“No. That’s all right. I haven’t given up yet. I have to get going before they cut me off. See ya, and thanks.” I hung up.
“Oh lookee there. Calling Mommy and Daddy? Huh? Speaking Spanish no less. Did your parents get drunk one night and then… oopsie.” It was the trio again. One of them spoke, and I betted it was Mendelssohn. She seemed to be the spokesman of the group.
I left the phone to get back to my room and locked the door behind me. As soon as I did that somebody came in.
“At least one of us worries about hygiene. You better not contaminate anything.”
I grabbed my keys and left the room. One of us had to budge or neither of us were going to survive. I kept thinking about what the book said about changing roommates.
They were individual shower stalls with a shampoo, conditioner, and body soap dispenser with a shower curtain. That was when I realized I needed bath supplies.
The only clothes I had were what I had on. I couldn’t do what I did in the hotel room so I was stuck. They had to have some sort of school store or something.
I knocked on her door. I swore to God I would stop asking questions, but there I was again asking a question.
When she opened the door, “Hi. Uhm. Are there any extra t-shirts or something?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Well. When I left, I didn’t pack anything. I couldn’t go back home so what I have on is what I have.”
“All right. Well. Then I suggest you pick up your uniform first thing in the morning, which means, at eight o’clock. When they ask if you need anything else, you might ask if they have any t-shirts and pants to go with it. OK?”
“Thank you.”
“Uh huh.”
I’m sorry, but I couldn’t go in the house, to my room, and get some clothes. I couldn’t. I betted I squeaked when I walked and the smell of fruit seemed to the scent of the day.
When I returned, Sarina lay down in her bed. I closed and locked the door. I went into my itty bitty cubical to sort things out.
“Whatsa matter? Feeling homesick?”
Her sarcastic tone continued to irritate me. “No. I had to ask for something. I can pick it up in the morning.”
“If it’s a gun, that’s been tried already, and I’m still here.”
Oh, joy. Lucky for me. I checked my bed before I got in, and since nothing was there, I lay down with the intention of sleeping. That was when I realized I needed a clock.
The uniforms had to be the first thing. That way, I could get those sorted and get a few t-shirts as well. Then whatever followed which was the ID, picking up the books or laptop I had to check, meet the teachers while signing up for classes, and a double check of the list told me I got everything. That meant I had the rest of the week to myself.
I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and I saw Mom’s reflection in the mirror. “Take care of yourself. OK? Try to hang in there. We’ll talk later.”
I wasn’t the type to scream but I could’ve sworn I became one with the ceiling. When I came down I wondered if I saw what I thought I saw. I poked the mirror and it was solid. I looked up and wondered if one of them planted a camera for fear effect.
TraciMae came in. “Hi.”
“Nighty night.”
I went back to my room and locked the door. I put my toothbrush back in the bag and sat on the bed. I didn’t sleep well in a new bed, but circumstances as of late had to change that. Oh God, I wished Mom was still alive.
“Shh. It’s OK. Why don’t you get some rest?”
I looked straight ahead, and nobody was there. I looked for the next logical place and that was the closet. I checked both, and nothing there.
“Can I ask what you’re looking for?”
“I heard a voice. Before now.”
“Wonderful. They put a schizophrenic in my room.”
“I don’t have that.” At least that I knew of. “It’s probably my tired brain.”
“I’m going down to the first floor. Should you decide to steal anything or plant a bomb, I’ll know who to look for.” She slammed the door on her way out.
“Ha ha. Funny.” OK, after I finish with everything I would see about the paperwork for changing roommates. With my luck, they’ll give me a request denied. Since she left, I might as well try to sleep.
I tossed and turned all night. I heard when she came back but I didn’t acknowledge it. I tried to relax, think of something mundane, and even tell my brain it was time to shut down. I didn’t have any caffeine. Nothing worked.
Before the lights turned off, they announced they were testing a new system that should be operational by the first day. Please ignore until then. That would give me a good idea of what time it was, at least.
I napped here and there until the buzzer went off, followed by a good morning announcement. I grabbed the keys and bag and went downstairs to get something to eat. The room was empty, and at some point, somebody restocked the machines with breakfast food.
A mass moved down the hill, and I followed in the hopes we were headed in the same direction. Sure enough, a sign on the door read uniforms here. Please have your school ID at the ready. Open at eight.
I looked over at the boys. Some were tall. What was that expression that Mom used to use? Something about being as tall as a sycamore. Well, they fit that.
They broke out in song, and they sounded good. The bass came out with his line, and I about died. It was so good. I couldn’t think of a way to describe it other than it fit. When they changed the song, I recognized it. I sung it a few times with Mom in the past. I sung a little bit with them, then didn’t seem to mind, so I kept going.
When we finished, we high fived each other and went back to waiting. That was fun. I needed that, I think. When the door opened, I waited until it was my turn. I showed the man my ID, and he gave me my box. I was able to get the last two t-shirts and long pants before they had to open another box. I could’ve waited, but I got what I needed and was happy with that.
The morning started pretty good. A little bit of fun mixed with a little bit of business was always a good mix. The rest was more or less businessy. Between the greeting and finding out that the laptop was programmed with the reading material from each course, it wasn’t necessary to hand out textbooks.
The teachers were younger than I expected. I thought they would be grey and bald, but they had their hair still. A couple had reading glasses, but they seemed nice.
It was about noon when I finished and that was when I made a decision. I went to the office to pick up the paperwork. After twenty questions, I got them until I decided to fill them out. It wouldn’t take long before she would find out.
I went to the picture wall again, and found the picture that was on the cover of that rule book. A part of me wished I could go back there. On the other hand, Mom said when there’s an opportunity to experience something, take that opportunity. There would be no regrets.
Images are free-use—image by steve_a_johnson on Pixabay.
Author, Read Thyself
D. A. Ratliff
I grew up in the South, where “little white lies” were uttered daily. The “My, you look lovely today—love that color on you.” Or “I swear, that’s the best shrimp and grits I ever ate.” Or my favorite, “It’s so good to see you.”
Not malicious lies, but ones intended to be polite even though the person telling them didn’t mean them. While these folks intended these comments to be kind, there is an increasing use of the “little white lie” in society.
As a writer of many years and an admin for a large writing group for nine years, I have read a fair share of stories by novice to experienced writers. While many are excellent, many are not. Yet, in our quest to be kind and not be truthful, we tell these writers little white lies. Those lies do nothing to improve a person’s writing skills.
Recently, a writing group member posted a piece, lamenting that few had read it and asked for an honest critique. I read the piece and formed my opinion on why readers ignored it. To be blunt, it was poorly written. The author presented it as poetry but constructed it like prose. Yes, poetry comes in many forms and structures, some quite abstract. However, this was not one of those.
I chose my words carefully, not utilizing little white lies to temper my thoughts, but was honest in my evaluation. I need not tell you the writer’s reaction—angry and defensive.
I have had my share of ticked-off reactions to critiques of my work. One of my first critiques suggested I use an ‘and’ now and then. I was livid. Who was she to tell me to add an ‘and’ to my sentences? (She was a newspaper copy editor.) I didn’t need… oh wait, yes, I did. Calming down and researching, I realized my story was full of run-on sentences. At that moment, I considered the possibility that I might not know everything about writing. I decided to accept the critique without anger and consider the review valid. Have I been successful in not getting mad when I receive unkind comments? No, I have not, as I am human, but realizing I could be wrong caused me to delve into information that has made me a better writer. It has also made me aware that I have more to learn.
As we saw with Amazon, the advent of numerous platforms to share writing on, both fiction and non-fiction, has created a plethora of writers posting work. Don’t get me wrong, I am not suggesting anyone doesn’t have the right to post. They do. But much of this writing is, well… not good.
Yet, the “likes” given to a story can be numerous, but the comments are often not truthful to the level of quality. “Love this, it’s wonderful.” “You write so well.” “I can’t wait for more.” Do they sound like little white lies? In some instances, these are genuine comments, but for most, the reviewer thinks, “That was awful, but I am not going to tell the author. I’ll make them feel good and tell them it’s great.” Again, that does not help a writer become better skilled.
What is it that we, as writers, should do? A Biblical proverb, “Physician, heal thyself.” applies here. Dictionary.com defines this phrase as “A biblical proverb meaning that people should take care of their own defects and not just correct the faults of others.”
Take care of our own mistakes. As writers striving to become better skilled and to write words with more significant impact, we should constantly study our craft. How can I write a better opening? How can I bring depth to my character? How can I not sound like I have never written a word before?
It is easy to fall prey to compliments. We all love them. I recently posted a story with a continuing character that I felt was not one of the best in the series. I was satisfied with it but knew I had written better-crafted stories. I received a lot of compliments, and I appreciated them. However, I remarked to a writing friend that it was not the best story I had written about the character. That friend agreed. That agreement told me my friend was honest with me, and I could trust this person’s critiques.
Find someone who will tell you the truth. Someone you trust who offers their opinions in your best interest. Most of all, be honest with yourself. You read the writings of others. Only the person who has a false sense of their ability will not recognize when someone is more accomplished than they are.
Authors, read your writing. Critique it. Recognize when your work is not good and rewrite it. Don’t just toss out words to be cute or funny or make someone cry. Learn the skills to impact the lives of your readers. We can be our own worst critics. Sometimes, we don’t accept that our writing is good and beat ourselves up. Don’t do that. Turn that frustration into learning how to improve. Don’t tell yourself a little white lie.
About the Author: A Southerner with saltwater in her veins, Deborah lives in the Florida sun and writes murder mysteries. She is published in several anthologies, and her first novel, Crescent City Lies, is scheduled for release in 2024.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Special Education
Laura Brady DePace
I took a deep breath as I surveyed the empty classroom. In a few seconds, this room would fill with twenty-five hyperactive, hormone-driven teenagers who had no interest in anything I might try to teach them. Bad enough to be a “regular” Middle School science teacher, but as a substitute teacher, I felt like I walked in the door with a target on my back. Why would anyone want to be a substitute teacher? I wondered. For me, at least it wasn’t a life sentence. I was here for one reason, and hopefully for only one day.
For my “real job,” I was a teacher at a very special school for very special students. Our students – and our teachers, myself included – had special powers, special abilities, special “gifts.” Some of us could fly. Some of us could transform into animals. Some of us could affect objects around us, moving things, creating things, destroying things. While these abilities were “gifts,” they could also be burdens, and the children blessed – or cursed – with them needed the strong guidance and support that my school could offer.
My gift was that I could read and control the minds of others. My ability was strong, even when I was a child, and I had spent many years training myself to build and control my power. I was able to sense power in those around me, to send and receive messages that helped me to seek out and identify others like me, like us. That sense had brought me here, where I felt a great power and a great need. My task here was to find the source of that power, and to offer them the sanctuary of my school, New Day. I was here seeking one child. One special child. The trick was to recognize who that one child might be.
The first class came clattering into the room. Their faces lit up as they noticed me. They nudged each other, snickering, smiling cunning smiles.
“A sub! Excellent!”
They settled into their seats, ignoring the seating chart that the absent teacher had left. I gave them a few seconds, then decided I wasn’t in the mood for playing games.
“Ahem,” I said softly. Naturally, they all ignored me. God, how do teachers do this every day? I thought impatiently.
“You will sit in your assigned seats,” I stated, a little less softly. I added a mental order, from my mind straight to theirs: And you will NOT give me a hard time, or you will be sorry! A few looked up, startled, and moved immediately to their assigned seats. I sent a mental reinforcement. Now. Silence fell, and they settled down.
I called attendance. A few smart alecks responded with wisecracks, but a quick disciplinary thought sent their way silenced them.
Class began. I followed the lesson plan the absent teacher – a Miss Evans – had left for me. It was a rather dry chemistry lesson, but I jazzed it up subtly, using my mind control ability to create an illusion or two.
“Jeez, it looks like it’s moving!” one student muttered.
I turned and smiled at the mutterer. “Did you have something to share, Julian?” I asked cheerfully.
“No, Ma’am,” he replied hastily.
“Where did she get the colored chalk?” one of the girls whispered admiringly. “It’s so pretty!”
“I’m glad you approve, Chenille,” I commented, hiding my smile, my back still to the room.
“It’s like she’s got eyes in the back of her head!” another voice growled.
“Perhaps I do, Sharonna.” I turned to lock eyes with her. “Sorry, you prefer Roni, don’t you?” The scrappy, tough-looking girl in the back row slouched farther down in her seat. I smiled at her, which seemed to make her even more edgy.
It was so much fun messing with them! It occurred to me that my mind-reading, mind-controlling ability was particularly useful for a teacher. Though a full-time teacher with my abilities would undoubtedly be too much of a good thing in a “regular” school setting. That was the sort of thing that touched off witch-hunts.
The first class ended, and the students began filing out. They were unusually quiet. Some looked back over their shoulders, glancing at me out of the corners of their eyes, peeking at the blackboard, where the chalk had returned to the boring white it had been from the start.
Chenille, a pretty, dark-haired girl with extraordinary sapphire-blue eyes, stopped at the door, then turned back to approach me shyly. “Thank you for the pretty colors,” she whispered in my ear.
“You’re welcome,” I whispered back. “I’m glad you enjoyed them.” I put my finger to my lips and winked. “It can be our little secret.”
She nodded soberly, slipping a folded piece of paper into my hand, and walked out the door. Returning to the desk, I opened the paper. She had drawn a picture for me: me, at the blackboard, with colorful words and diagrams originating from a white piece of chalk in my hand. There seemed to be a golden glow pulsing out from me. As I looked, the image appeared to move …. Hmm, I thought. Maybe…not overwhelming, but still, unusual…. Perhaps I was here for her? There was definitely something there, but it didn’t seem strong enough to have pulled me here. Still, I would keep her in mind. I refolded the paper and tucked it into my pocket.
The day dragged by. Ensuing classes were better-behaved than the first, as word spread about me. I sensed no unusual interest from the other teachers, though, so it seemed that the kids were keeping their thoughts about me to themselves.
I was beginning to feel disheartened, as the day passed uneventfully. None of the kids stood out to me as having potential. Surely there was one! Something – or someone – had drawn me here.
The day neared its close. Nothing. Could I have been wrong?
I closed the classroom door and turned off the lights. I had a “free” period before my final class, and I needed time to think. Well, time to seek, to try to identify what had brought me here. I sat in the desk chair and closed my eyes, folding my hands in my lap. Without forcing it or trying to focus, I relaxed and opened my mind, sending my mental waves out, letting the swirl of thoughts and feelings that filled the school wash over me.
Of course, in a Middle School, the emotions I received were particularly strong and chaotic. With all of these hopes and fears and insecurities buffeting them, it was a wonder these poor kids could get themselves from one class to another, never mind focusing on learning chemistry! Gathering my energy, I sent out a wave of love, support, and calm from my psychic center, allowing it to lap over them, giving what comfort I could. The massive effort only did a tiny bit of good, but at least it was something.
Then I began to focus my seeking, reaching out to identify points of strength, points of power. A small pinprick of light here – perhaps it was Chenille? A brighter point there, but only for a second, before it was snuffed out. Deliberately? I reached farther.
Suddenly, a wave of power hit me like a thunderclap, rocking me as I mentally staggered under the weight of it.
What the hell? Shaken, I opened my eyes, looking wildly around me. So strong! So close! A movement at the door caught my eye. A man stood just outside the door, eyes locked intently on me. It took a concentrated effort to shake off the mental shock and raise one hand to beckon him to enter.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. We stared at each other wordlessly for a moment, eyes wide. His eyes were an intense, deep brown, almost black. His dark hair, well styled, curled just above his collar. He was probably about 5’8,” but he had a – a presence about him that made him seem larger than life. He was a very good-looking man, but he exuded a “keep-your-distance” aura that felt ominous and almost threatening.
I sent out a mental greeting – Hello. How are you? WHO are you? – but my attempt hit a brick wall of resistance, a protective shield. I stood – slowly, warily, as if I was approaching a dangerous and unpredictable wild animal. He gathered himself, tension rolling off of him to push me away. I stopped and raised both hands placatingly.
“Let’s just take a breath,” I suggested gently. “No one’s going to hurt anyone.”
His tension eased infinitesimally.
“I’ve a feeling we have a lot in common,” I continued. “I am Aubrey Swift.”
I waited for his response. He took a breath and unclenched his fists. “Keenan Edgers,” he introduced himself, without offering a handshake.
“Please, have a seat,” I said, gesturing to the other “teacher chair” by the desk.
“I’ll stand, thanks,” he said flatly. “I’ve never seen you here before,” he continued. “Where’s Lacey? What did you do to her?” He took a threatening step toward me.
I raised my hands again. “Now, now, calm down,” I pleaded. It was really hard to talk to someone when I couldn’t read their mind! How frustrating! Not a situation I ran into often.
“Miss Evans simply called in sick. Headache, I believe. I’m sure she’ll be fine in a day or two.” This information did not put him at ease as I had hoped.
“Look, Keenan – can I call you Keenan?” He glared at me wordlessly.
I sighed and perched on the edge of the desk. So much for small talk. Might as well just dive in and tell him the truth.
“I’ll be honest with you. But please hear me out.” He waited, leaning back on a student desk-top. I took a deep breath. “Miss Evans called in sick because I convinced her, with a mental message, that she had a headache. She’s fine. I needed her to be absent so I could step in as her sub. As soon as I’ve accomplished what I need to do, she’ll be back, right as rain.”
“Accomplished what you need to do? What exactly are you planning to accomplish?” he demanded.
“I work at a special school. I’m looking for candidates for our program.”
He surged to his feet, instantly angry. “Gadston Hall?! No way am I letting any of these kids go to that hellhole!”
“No! No!” I protested, jumping to my feet and putting the teacher desk between us. “Not there! God, no!” I shuddered at the thought, which seemed to mollify him.
“You know Gadston,” he said thoughtfully.
“I’m an escapee from Gadston,” I replied flatly.
He stared at me intently. Then, reaching some conclusion, he nodded and sat back down on the desk. “Me, too,” he said. “I’m listening. Explain yourself.”
I sank back into my chair, considering how to proceed. Best to begin at the beginning, I decided.
“I was ten years old when I was sent to Gadston Hall. As you know, they sell themselves as an elite school for children with special abilities. My special ability is mental, being able to hear other people’s minds, and to control their thoughts and actions to some degree. Since you’re familiar with the place, I’ll skip over the years that I spent there, while the so-called “masters” did their damnedest to bend my ability to their uses.” I swallowed back the anger that still burned in me, even after all these years.
“Six long years later, I escaped. When I ran away from Gadston Hall, I was lucky. I “heard” a powerful mind calling to me. I followed that voice, and it led me to New Day Academy, a very special place where people like you and I can live, learn, grow, and prosper. New Day is the real deal; it’s everything Gadston Hall should be, but isn’t. I finished my education there, learning how to use and control my power. When I graduated, I stayed on as staff. Now I use my gift to seek out children with special abilities and offer them sanctuary and training within the safety of New Day.
“The school is, as you would expect, very secret. Only those who belong there, those who are invited there, can find it. Those like you and me. Everyone else gets lost in the mist, or wanders away, forgetting why they were there.
“But you have never been there. Yet you, like me, escaped from Gadston. How? When? And why did you not come to us?”
He ran his fingers through his hair, looking away for a moment. Then he turned back to me. Something indefinable had changed, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I tentatively reached out with my mind to him; the shield was gone. I retreated, not wanting to pry.
“I was always a loner,” he began. I nodded understandingly; most of us were. “I had a few very good friends. We were the kids who got picked on, and that drew us together. As I got older, I found that I had an … ability, I guess you would call it … to sort of protect myself and my friends.” He glanced up at me to see if I believed him. I nodded encouragingly.
He smiled, a soft, nostalgic smile. “I called it my forcefield. I could sort of wrap it around myself and people who were close to me. It wasn’t a physical thing – not something you could touch, or even see. But it – I guess you could say it redirected any kind of attack. Some bully would take a swing at me, and I’d duck and he’d hit his buddy. Or someone would come charging at a friend to knock them down, and he’d trip and fall on his face. It was subtle, but word spread, and eventually the bullies left me and my friends alone. Picking on us made them look bad.
“But, of course, I got cocky. I started baiting them, counting on the idea that they would walk away. And one day, this – monster – went after a girl I liked. I shielded her as best I could, but the bully – well, he quickly got frustrated when he couldn’t get at her, and that just made him angrier. Mad swings that spun him around, making him look ridiculous. Lunges that always just missed.” He glanced up at me, judging my reaction. “Finally, after a particularly wild attack, he fell and hit his head, hard enough to knock himself out. I didn’t touch him! But, of course, no one believed me.” He took a breath and shifted uncomfortably. “Turned out, the bastard’s daddy was an important guy on the School Board. He got me expelled.” He rose, pacing across the floor.
“The next day, someone turned up from Gadston Hall.” He gave me a dark look. “He made it sound like Gadston was the best school in the world, the only place for ‘special’ students like me. Told my mom how much I’d learn, how I had an ability that, with the right training, could make the world a better place. Told her -”
“That you would be a hero,” I interrupted softly, nodding sadly. “They told us all that. That we would be heroes.”
He nodded, anger flaring in his eyes at the lies we had been told.
“Anyway. I was older than a lot of the kids, already 15. Old enough to be able to see when someone was trying to manipulate me. I wasn’t there long, but I did make a few friends. One kid in particular, Freddy Carolina. He was a sensitive kid, a couple years younger than me. His “power” was a … gentle one. Nothing scary. He could turn rocks and sticks and things into living creatures. Birds, lizards, butterflies.
“But the so-called “masters” thought that he could do more. That he wasn’t trying hard enough. They wanted him to create creatures that could be weaponized: hawks, tigers, that sort of thing. They pressured him constantly. I tried to protect him. My shield worked on him, as long as I was close to him, but I couldn’t protect the creatures he created. And the “masters” used that. Every creature he created, they destroyed. Stepped on the ladybugs, swatted the butterflies. Finally, Freddy couldn’t take it any more.”
He looked at me bleakly. “He killed himself. And I ran away.”
A tidal wave of sorrow and regret swept from his mind to mine, swamping me in his pain. I rocked under the weight of it, then pulled myself together. I sent a wave of love, support, and understanding back to him. Surprise – and relief – touched his face as my mind touched his. We blinked back tears together, fought back the sorrow.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “So sorry I wasn’t there for you. So sorry I couldn’t help. I must have already been gone by the time you arrived.”
“Well. Bygones and all that,” he said. He gave himself a little shake. “I never knew about your school; maybe it would have made a difference if I had. I drifted for a while, undecided about what to do with myself. Went to school to become a teacher, thinking I might be able to help kids like me, kids who might be bullied. Thinking maybe I could use my “forcefield” for the greater good. Wound up here.” He glanced around the room, then returned his gaze to me. “So what brings you here now?”
“Recently, I’ve been receiving a strong mental voice from this school. Somewhere in this building, there is a child – or, perhaps, children – with special abilities, someone who belongs at New Day. The power is very strong in them; it’s what has brought me here. I arranged to come here as a sub, with hopes of identifying that child, and offering him or her sanctuary at New Day.”
“What about their family?” Keenan asked. “You can’t just kidnap them.”
“Oh, no, of course not!” I reassured him. “In many cases, children with special abilities are living in foster care. It’s hard to live with that kind of “differentness” so kids often act out, and Social Services removes them from their families. Sometimes, of course, they do have supportive families; in that case, we approach their caregivers and present the option of coming to New Day. Sometimes they agree to send their child to us as a boarder; sometimes the whole family moves to our complex. Sometimes, they aren’t ready, and we simply leave contact information in case they change their minds. We make our decisions on a case-by-case basis.”
Keenan sat quietly for a moment, staring out the window. I gently pushed my mind towards his. The barrier was back, though not quite as solid.
“You know someone, don’t you?” I asked. He turned to meet my gaze.
“Maybe.”
“You’re protecting him or her. You’re blocking me.”
“Maybe.”
“But – “
Just then the bell rang, signaling the end of the period. The sound of thundering feet and deafening chatter filled the halls. Keenan and I both rose. My mind questioned his. His mind pushed me back. Finally his gaze dropped, and he stepped away from me. As he reached the door, he looked back.
“See what you can see in this next class,” he said tersely. “Then we’ll talk.”
My last class for the day entered. Clearly, the word had reached them about me. They silently took their assigned seats. I called attendance, trying to keep my mind open and receptive. I felt no special power from this class. Perhaps a touch of dead air in the back corner?
I reached into my pocket, fingering the picture that Chenille had given me. I unfolded it, smiling as I glanced at it again. Such vivid colors. I laid it on the desk, where I could admire it.
And felt a strong stab within my mind.
Startled, I looked up, trying to identify the source.
There. In the back corner of the room, nearest the door, sat a dark-haired boy. Startling sapphire-blue eyes glared forcefully in my direction. What the – ?
Tentatively, I reached out with my mind. I hit a wall. The boy twitched in his seat.
A sudden movement on my desk diverted my attention, though I didn’t catch its source. When I looked back at the boy, he was looking down at something on his desk. The wall was still there, blocking me. A tiny smile touched one corner of his mouth.
Giving myself a little shake, I proceeded with the lesson. Again, I jazzed up the boring material by adding a touch of color and movement. Again, my teaching generated a tiny buzz of interest and curiosity. For a change, not one of them offered a smart-alecky comment.
I gave them their seat-work and began to walk around the room, monitoring their progress with the lesson. Eventually, oh-so-subtly, my wanderings took me by the desk of the dark-haired boy who had so unsettled me.
I looked over his shoulder… and stifled a startled gasp. There, on his desk, was the picture that Chenille had given me. The picture that I had just smoothed out and placed on my desk where I could admire it. The bright colors glowed. The same, yet slightly different. As I watched, the words and lines moved. The picture seemed to come to life.
I reached over the boy’s shoulder to take it. Fast as lightning, he slammed his hand down on the page, pinning it down. He looked up at me, anger and challenge simmering in his eyes.
“No,” he said. Said? No. Thought. His mind briefly touched mine, then pushed it away. No.
“That’s my sister’s,” he said, quietly, menacingly. “Not yours.”
“Chenille’s your sister?” I asked. “And you’re…Aiden?” He studiously ignored me, jaw tight, fists clenched. I squatted down next to him. He leaned away from me. “Chenille gave that picture to me,” I said gently.
“She shouldn’t have,” he growled. “She should be more careful.”
Eyes locked on mine, he snapped his fingers. The picture disappeared into his pocket. His gaze challenged me.
This was why I was here. This boy. And his sister. But I must proceed carefully. Aiden had power, barely leashed, together with a strong drive to protect his sister. If I handled him wrong, the result could be disastrous.
I walked away, thinking. Though he pretended to focus on his work, Aiden’s eyes followed me. Not twins, but in the same grade…he must be at least a year older, I thought. My eyes returned to him. He must have stayed back to watch over his sister.
I returned to my desk. Well, I had found my source, but what now? The boy radiated a brooding anger that I could feel from here. Power rolled off of him in waves.
Having fun yet? The amused question touched my mind, a voice I hadn’t heard before. The boy? Not likely. Then who?
Keenan? Is that you? Who else was it likely to be? I waited. So did he.
Aiden, huh? I questioned. Silence that felt like an affirmation. Chenille, too? I added.
Keenan’s voice again, with a hint of a chuckle. Well, well, you are a fast worker, aren’t you? There was a moment of silence. Interesting method of communication, he commented. Handy, this!
I glanced across the room at Aiden. His eyes were locked on me, all pretense of working on the lesson gone. I nodded to him. He dropped his eyes with a tense jerk.
Can Aiden hear us? I questioned Keenan, continuing our mental conversation.
Nah. There was a pause. Um. Maybe? Hard to tell. It’s not like I can ask him… I felt a mental shrug.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the class. I had still not figured out how to approach this hostile boy.
Then, to my surprise, Chenille came bursting through the door. “Hey, Aiden!” she cheerfully greeted her sibling. The surly young man melted into an adoring big brother, as he gave his sister a big hug.
“Hey, Midget!” he greeted her with a smile.
Chenille turned to me. “Oh, Miss Swift, I made you another picture!” She held out a new drawing, this one a jungle scene. An amazing jungle scene, in which all of the plants were waving in an unseen breeze, and animals cavorted in the trees: monkeys, sloths, red-eyed tree frogs, emerald-green boas, colorful birds. The drawing was a wonderful riot of color and movement. It took my breath away.
“Do you like it?” Chenille asked with a bright smile.
“Like it? I love it!” I gasped. “It’s the most wonderful picture I’ve ever seen!” Holding the precious picture high, out of Aiden’s reach lest he snatch it away from me, I gave Chenille a one-armed hug. “What an incredible gift you have!” I added.
She gazed at me very seriously. “Can it be our little secret?” she asked softly. “Like the way you did on the blackboard?”
“Why do you want it to be a secret?” I asked her gently. “It’s so amazing! Don’t you want the world to know?”
“No, she doesn’t!” Aiden growled. “And don’t you tell anyone! They won’t believe you, anyway, they’ll just think you’re crazy!” He loomed over us, barely maintaining control. On the other side of the room, I could hear all of the papers on my desk being violently dumped to the floor, as if by an invisible hand.
Chenille’s smile faded from her face, leaving her sapphire eyes brimming with tears. “It has to be a secret!” she murmured. “Or I’ll get in trouble. And Aiden’ll get in trouble. And maybe you’ll get in trouble!” The downcast face of the child broke my heart.
“No,” I said softly. “It doesn’t have to be a secret.” I sat on her brother’s desk and pulled Chenille close, ignoring Aiden’s glowering glare. “I can take you to a special place, a special school, where you won’t have to keep your gift a secret. It’s a school where lots of kids with special gifts live and learn, all together. My school has teachers who can help you to develop your gift, to see how far you can grow with it. It’s a wonderful, safe place.”
The children stared at me, a mixture of doubt and hope in their eyes.
“What kind of school is that?” Chenille asked wonderingly.
“A very special school. It’s called New Day. Let me show you.”
I concentrated on creating an image in my mind of the school: the cheerful classrooms, the welcoming teachers and staff, the myriad students, all polishing their abilities: children flying, children creating sandcastles and clay figures with just their minds, children winking in and out of invisibility, children shape-shifting into dogs and cats and eagles and caterpillars. Looking deep into Chenille’s eyes, I gave her the images from my mind.
She stood, transfixed. Then she reached for her brother’s hand. “Aiden, look!” she urged him, sharing the images with him. “Isn’t it wonderful? A whole school full of kids like us!” She turned to face him, catching both his hands in hers, looking up at him with her face alight with hope and excitement. “Can we go? Please?” she pleaded.
Aiden looked from his sister to me. When he met my eyes, his face darkened. Chenille’s face fell in disappointment, sensing his unspoken No. He looked back at his sister and ruffled her hair gently.
“How can we trust her?” he asked Chenille. “How do we know that this – this so-called school – isn’t a trap? Some kind of hush-hush government experiment? Can we afford to take that chance?”
Just then, the door opened, making us all jump. Keenan stepped into the room.
“Mr. Edgers!” Aiden straightened, pulling Chenille behind him protectively. “We were just – “
“Listening to a wonderful, too-good-to-be-true proposal?” Keenan asked, with a gentle smile.
Aiden and Chenille exchanged guilty looks. “No, we – uh -”
“It’s OK,” Keenan reassured them. “Miss Swift and I had a talk earlier today. So I know what she just offered.” He paused, nodding respectfully to me, then turned back to the children. “I get it. It’s scary. And you don’t know who to believe in. I don’t blame you. Trust is hard. Especially for people like … us.”
“People like us?” Chenille asked. “What do you mean?”
“People like us,” he repeated. “People who are … different, somehow. People who can … do things that we can’t always explain. People who have to keep secrets, to keep safe.” He nodded at the children, then at me. “People like you two … and me … and Miss Swift here.”
He looked at me again, and a gentle smile transformed his face. “I trust her. I think you can, too.”
The children exchanged a look: Chenille hopeful and trusting, Aiden still wary and suspicious.
“I don’t know…” Aiden muttered doubtfully, glancing from Chenille to Keenan to me, then back to Chenille.
“Tell you what,” Keenan offered. “I’ll go. I’ll go with Miss Swift to her school, check it out. Not everyone can do that, I know, but I – well, I’m the kind of person who belongs in a place like that. I’ll check it out tomorrow, and report back to you. If it’s as good as I think it is, we’ll go and talk to your parents together. Deal?” He held his hand out to Aiden; after a moment’s consideration, they shook on it.
The dismissal bell rang. Chenille hugged me, then grabbed her brother’s hand, pulling him out into the river of departing students.
Keenan and I faced each other in the empty classroom, measuring, judging.
“Thank you for your help,” I said. “New Day is the right place for them.” I smiled at him. “And, maybe, for you. We can always use another special teacher.”
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
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Unfinished Business
Kenneth Lawson
My footsteps echoed in the empty hall as I walked through the school. If I listened closely, I could hear the sounds of students and teachers rushing through the corridors. The bang of a locker door would punctuate the roar of talking and the yelling of the students as they tried to navigate the halls and learn about life. It had been decades since I’d been here—four to be exact.
Leaning against the door frame of one of the classrooms, I looked at the wall covered with blackboards and scribbles from the last class, never erased. The enormous world map hanging from the many pull-down rolls that lined the ceiling along the far wall caught my attention.
I wandered through the maze of desk chairs to face the map. Decades ago, the world was my oyster. I could do anything and go anywhere when I was seventeen—but the intervening years had shown me the harsh truth.
Sighing heavily, I turned and headed back to the hall and down the corridor to the large gym on the opposite side of the school. The news of the fortieth reunion had reached me several months ago. At first, I refused even to entertain the idea of going. They would all be strangers to me, and I doubt any of them remember Robert Pike—my name or face. At this point in my life, I had the time and money to go but not the desire. That is until I saw the RSVP list online.
She was going to be there, Tammy Porter. She was the one girl I remembered from those days. We had been close during the last couple of years of school. There had been talk of us getting married. However, she decided to become a teacher, taking her to college in another state. After graduating, we kept in touch for a while, but our lives eventually drifted apart.
After graduating from the local junior college, I joined the police force. A close friend died from a gunshot, and rumor had it that members of the Strong family, who held a monopoly on business in town, both legal and illegal, were responsible. I decided to be the hero to take them down, but I quickly learned what the police chief already knew. It was impossible to break the Strong family’s control over the community. Witness imitation, lack of evidence in some cases, and the fact that they weren’t afraid to attack law enforcement or even kill them was insurmountable. Several officers died, and no one could prove they died at the order of the Strongs.
Eventually, I moved on to the State Police. Over the years, I kept tabs on the goings on in my hometown. I knew Casey ran the Stone family business now, and things were just as bad as when his old man ran things. I’d heard he married a local gal sometime after I left, but I never knew who she was.
I took my time reaching the gym as memories surfaced as I walked along the corridor. It seemed there was always some senior who did something stupid and got himself killed or hurt every year. The year I graduated, the death had not been a student but the murder and rape of a teacher. The teacher, Mrs. Jean Haily, a distant cousin, had been well-liked by all the kids. At least half the guys in her classes had crushes on her. When she turned up dead and raped in the women’s restroom at the local park, the crime shocked the town.
Suspicion had naturally fallen on the students in her class. The police questioned them extensively, and their alibies were checked and double-checked. No one seemed to have a gaping hole in their whereabouts the night of the attack.
I had been in the park with Tammy that evening. We had a picnic and discussed her attending college and what she wanted to do. We stayed way later than either of us had planned. It was almost dark when we finally packed up and left.
Summer flew by. Tammy went off to college, and I attended junior college and then on to law enforcement training. The police never discovered Mrs. Haily’s murderer and marked her case, with few leads and little physical evidence, closed/unsolved and forgotten. I never forgot it because Mrs. Haily was a relative. Granted, she was a distant cousin, and very few people knew she was related to me, but she was family, and she was dead. I carried that in the back of my mind all those years.
As I neared the gym, I remembered how happy I’d been with Tammy before we went our separate ways. That was motivation enough to come, but seeing Casey Strong’s name on the list reminded me of something I’d forgotten. That’s when I decided to go to the reunion.
The committee had converted the gym into a dance hall of sorts. Banners proclaiming the class of 1984 and various other images of our school years hung on the walls. Dressed in one of my best suits, I looked out of place among the other casually dressed people. But then, I had always been out of place, even in the right place.
A mix of music genres from the time blared from the PA system, and I could barely hear anyone talking. Along one wall were some tables with stacks of yearbooks and pictures donated to the cause. I sorted through the photos without recognizing any of them.
With a plastic cup filled with punch in one hand and a name tag hanging from my jacket pocket, I stood next to the table and tried to scan the room, looking for anyone I even thought I knew.
I took a swallow of the punch and shuddered. There was more than juice in the bowl. The echoing of too loud music against the wood panel walls and stacked bleachers combined with strobe lights hanging in the middle of the gym were disorienting and only compounded the feeling of not fitting in and my desire to go running from the school and hide in the car.
Then, I spotted Tammy standing on the other side of the room. At this distance, her name tag was only a tiny square on her ample chest. I decided to stay. Tossing what was left of the cup in the nearest trash bin, I worked my way over to her side of the room.
She was talking to a woman, and they appeared to be having a deep conversation, so I kept my distance and watched them. Tammy was tall and generously proportioned in all directions. I remembered her as being on the large side even back then, but I never thought about it much. Even today, a person’s size doesn’t matter much to me if I like them.
The woman she was talking with was a direct contrast to Tammy. She was short and thin with bobbed hair and a tight-fitting dress that hugged her curves. Of the two, I preferred Tammy’s proportions to Skinny Lady. I couldn’t see her nametag, so I didn’t know if she was a classmate or the spouse of a classmate.
I played with the old textbooks on the table where I stood, pretending to read the pages I could barely see in the haphazard light. Eventually, Skinny Lady kissed her on the cheek and hurried off to meet someone she saw across the room. That told me they knew each other and had a history. Then Tammy turned toward me.
Her face lit up with recognition. “Robbie!?” She shouted over the music, and I nodded yes. She pulled me into a giant hug that almost buried my face into her shoulder, and my back squeezed tight as she welcomed me back into her life. Eventually, she let me go, and I could breathe again.
We talked briefly about the weather, how we got here, and whether we were married. Did we have kids, all the usual questions? Yes, she was married, and he was around here somewhere, but she hadn’t seen him in a while. That didn’t surprise me. It was impossible to tell who you were talking to until you were on top of them. I told her I had never married. My job took up my life, but I was retiring soon and considering returning home.
As will happen, we quickly ran out of things to talk about and stood silently for a couple of minutes. I almost wished I still had that horrible drink in my hand. At least I’d have something to do while we each tried not to say something either would regret.
“So, Tammy, how long have you been married?” I knew she’d told me a few minutes ago, but I’d already forgotten and couldn’t think of anything else.
“Thirty-one years. It’s been good, but….” She hesitated ever so slightly, and I almost asked what the problem was when it presented itself in the form of her husband, Casey Stone. He came up behind her wrapping his arms around her waist and practically squeezing her boobs in front of me.
“So, last I heard of you, Robbie boy, you left the local police and disappeared. We placed a few bets on whether our class cop would show.” I could smell the alcohol from where I stood. He’d already had too much to drink.
“Yeah, I decided I needed to settle an old score.” What motivated me to come more than seeing Tammy was what I remembered.
“Forty years later?” He breathed over her shoulder and showed no signs of letting go of Tammy.
“Yeah, forty years later, some things still need settling.” I looked him straight in the eye and didn’t blink. He knew what I was talking about. He coughed, sending a spray of phlegm over her shoulder directly at me. Fortunately, I was too far away for it to hit me, but I caught the odor of his booze breath. He was as drunk as I’d ever seen him.
I knew he always liked the bottle, even back in high school. He’d been arrested and ticketed for drunk driving often but always managed to get by with a fine or a suspended license for a while. It helped that the Stones were one of the more influential families in the county. They owned most of the major businesses and employed half of the county. No one, even the police, was in a hurry to do what they should have done all those years ago.
Now, forty years later, it was time to face his reckoning. If what I remembered was right, I would see that he did, and if I could help Tammy in the process, all the better.
“Okay, Casey, let’s get this done.” I motioned for the doors behind us.
He let go of Tammy and glared at me. She looked at me, and I knew she realized what I was about to do. That was her chance to stop me, and she didn’t. She gave me a slight nod and walked away. I pointed to the doors, and Casey, drunk and not thinking straight, headed for the set of double doors. I was pretty sure he thought he could take me. I followed him into the hallway, reached into my pocket, and hit the voice recorder button on my phone.
I directed him to an empty classroom near the gym and leaned against the teacher’s desk, facing him.
“Mrs. Haily, Jean Haily. You remember her?”
He looked at me blankly for a second. “No.” He paused. “Oh yeah, she was the teacher that was killed the year we graduated.”
I nodded yes. “Do you remember where she was found and what had been done to her?”
“No. What’s this got to do with me?” He fidgeted with a pencil some kid had left on a desk near him.
“What was that car your old man got you that year?” I changed tactics midstream.
He thought for a minute. “Oh yeah, the red Corvette?”
I nodded yes. “You were the only kid in school with a new car, much less a car like that. Everyone in town knew that car.” I let it sink in for a second.
“So what? I had a fancy car. My old man could afford it.”
“The only new Corvette in the county. Your dad drove an older model.” I stood up. “Mrs. Haily was found in the park—raped and murdered. Everyone in town knew you had a thing for her. What happened? Did you try to pick her up, and when she wouldn’t put out, you took her anyway and killed her? “
“No, that never happened. Yeah, I had the hots for her. So did most of the guys in the school at the time. That don’t mean anything.”
“You remember where you were?”
“Come on, that was forty years ago! How am I supposed to remember what I was doing back then?”
“Let me refresh your memory. According to the statement you gave the police, you were at a party over at Lonnie’s Burke’s place.”
“Yeah, so? If I said I was there, I was there. He always had good booze.”
“The police checked your alibi, and you were there alright, but no one could remember seeing you there all night.”
“Yeah, so? So what? I got bored or had my fill of his hooch and left to sleep it off somewhere. I drank a lot back then.”
I scoffed. “You still drink a lot. I can smell you from here. See, the thing is, there were people in the park that night who saw a car leaving the area where a park worker found her body the next morning. They didn’t say anything because their folks worked for one of your old man’s businesses, and they were scared of what could happen if they did. So, they kept quiet.”
“This matters now because?” I saw the panic in his eyes as he realized where I was going with it.
“Because they recognized the car. It was the only new foreign car in town. And the only new foreign car in town then was your red 1984 Corvette Ragtop. Your car was seen there.”
“I wasn’t there.” He backed up, trying to put distance between us.
“Casey Stone, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the rape and murder of Jean Haily in nineteen eighty-four.”
Suddenly, he was sober. “What do you mean? You can’t arrest me. You don’t have any authority here.”
I showed him my badge. “State Police Detective Captain and I got Haily’s case reopened based on new eyewitness testimony.”
Casey turned white as I pulled him around, put the cuffs on him, and read him his rights.
~~~
I sat in the integration room across from Casey Strong and his lawyer an hour later. He’d been processed, photographed, and fingerprinted, and his Corvette, which he kept, had been impounded.
“You see, Casey, I wasn’t the only one in the park that night. In addition to three guys who had seen the car but refused to tell out of fear, I was there, and Tammy was there—with me.”
He had sobered up. At least enough, he started to understand where he was and why. “Tammy was there? With You?” I nodded yes.
“We were having a picnic and got to talking. It was late when we finally left, and we saw your car leave the park that evening. We were talking about her going to college. She didn’t want to stay around. I was trying to help her think through what she wanted to do. To be honest, I was trying to get her to stay. We were sitting at one of the picnic tables talking when we saw a red sports car leave the restroom building and pass right by us. She said she thought it looked like your car. The next day, Jean Haily’s body was found in the women’s restroom. Someone raped and murdered her.”
He squirmed in his seat.
“We didn’t put it together until later when we heard the time it was supposed to have happened. Tammy and I talked about saying something, but she knew what would happen if we did. Your old man would make it impossible for her family to run their lumber business. She said she wouldn’t back me up if I told the police. So, we kept quiet. She went to college, as you know, and came back, met you again, and by then, she’d buried the incident in her mind, forgetting about it. As did the rest of the county eventually.”
I picked up the file, opening it to a photo of my cousin. “I never forgot it. I became a cop, and when I started working for the county, I investigated your family. When the reunion triggered my memory of seeing your car at the murder scene, I went to my superiors and the local police. I discovered they were already putting a case together to arrest you and your family. Detectives are right now serving warrants on your businesses. Charges are pending for your brothers, which concern your racketeering and other enterprises. You, however, are being charged with the rape and murder of Jean Haily.
~~~
This was my last big case. Six months later, I retired from the force and returned home. Tamny divorced Casey soon after he’d been convicted, and we picked up where we left our relationship in high school. She admitted she married Casey only to protect her father’s business and that she had never stopped loving me. A year later, we married.
I found peace. After having a long and fulfilling career as a detective and retiring, I was now married to my high school sweetheart, and more importantly, my cousin had the justice she deserved. She could rest in peace as well.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Parent-Teacher Conference
Lynn Miclea
After parking the car, Amanda got out, stood in the school’s parking lot, and looked around. She loved the fresh, crisp coolness in the air after the recent rain. After taking a deep breath of the fresh, clean air, she turned to enter the school.
She looked forward to meeting with her daughter’s teacher, Jeff Baker, for a parent-teacher conference. Her daughter, Marissa, loved this teacher, and Amanda hoped to hear very good things.
She had known someone named Jeff Baker back in high school. They had dated a few times, and she liked him a lot. Then their lives went in different directions. They went to colleges in different states and lost touch. But the name brought back wonderful, warm feelings of nostalgia and longing for what might have been. She didn’t know if this was the same Jeff Baker or not. Probably not, but the memories made her smile.
As she took a few steps toward the school entrance, a commotion got her attention, and she turned toward the noise.
A disheveled man in a gray sweatshirt was across the street, chasing a young girl about eight years old. The girl’s face showed terror and desperation.
Amanda immediately took a few steps toward them. “Hey,” she called out.
The girl immediately turned to Amanda and raced across the street toward her. “Come back here!” the man shouted. Then he stopped chasing and stood there, his hands on his hips, staring at them.
The girl reached Amanda, and Amanda saw tears streaking down the girl’s face.
“Are you okay?” Amanda asked her.
The girl nodded.
“Do you know that man?”
The girl shook her head and mumbled, “No.”
“Come with me. I’m going into the school, and we can call your parents.”
The girl’s voice caught in her throat. “They’re not home now. I was just walking to my friend’s house, and this car pulled up and stopped, and this guy got out and started chasing me.”
“Okay, I will call the police. What is your name?”
“Lucy.”
“Okay, Lucy. Stay with me, you’ll be safe.”
Amanda and Lucy walked into the school, and Amanda quickly called 911 and explained what happened and where they were.
Then, per the dispatcher’s instructions, she held the phone without hanging up, and she took Lucy’s hand in hers. “Come, let’s find a place to hide.” She looked for classroom 124 where she would meet with Jeff Baker.
Pounding footsteps entered the school, echoing off the walls. “Where are you?” the man’s voice thundered in the hallway.
Amanda recognized the man’s voice from the street. She quickly ushered Lucy down the hallway and then turned left down another hallway, out of sight, and to where she thought the classroom was. Footsteps pounded down the hallway after them.
Where could she go? Seeing the classroom numbers, she quickly saw room 124 a few doors down and headed for it.
Entering the classroom, she still felt vulnerable. Desperate and terrified, she scanned the room. Nothing but empty student desks and chairs. Where could they hide?
A squeak made her jump, and her focus zoomed in on the sound.
The door to a utility closet on the back wall squeaked open, and a familiar man from the past came out, a few notebooks in his hand. The same Jeff Baker she remembered. “Hey,” he said, his voice warm and friendly. Jeff suddenly stopped and his face became serious as he took in Amanda and Lucy’s demeanor. “Is something wrong?”
Amanda’s eyes swung to the open classroom door and then back to Jeff. “There is a man chasing Lucy, and he’s headed this way.”
“Do you know who—”
“Where are you?” a male voice boomed from the hallway. A few seconds later, he stepped into the room. “There you are.” He glanced at Amanda and Jeff, and then he pointed at Lucy. “She’s with me.”
Lucy pressed herself against Amanda, and Amanda could feel the girl’s body shaking.
Jeff stepped forward. “Hey, who are you? You can’t come in here.”
“Sure I can, and I’m taking the girl with me.” He took a menacing step toward Amanda. “Hand her over.”
“No,” Amanda said, her chest tight with anguish, hoping the 911 operator was hearing it all on the phone. “Room 124,” she added, hoping to get the information to the cops so they’d know where to find them. “You can’t touch her.”
“Oh yeah?” the man sneered. “Watch me.” He lunged forward, his arms stretched out in front of him.
Amanda’s heart pounded in her chest as she held Lucy tightly against her and stepped back.
Jeff rushed forward, his arm outstretched, spraying something at the man’s face.
The man screeched, his hands flew to his face, and he stumbled backward.
Filled with terror, Amanda held Lucy and they moved to the back wall as Jeff ran into the utility closet. He came out a few moments later holding twine. While the man moaned with his eyes tightly shut, Jeff went behind him and kicked the back of the man’s knees. The man flailed and fell to the ground, still groaning. Jeff grabbed the man’s arms, but the man quickly fought back, swinging wildly and yelling.
Amanda ran over and slammed one of the chairs onto the man’s head, which seemed to daze him for a few moments. Jeff quickly grabbed the man’s arms and wrapped the twine around his wrists. He pulled it tight and then wrapped the twine around the man’s ankles.
He stood back and looked at the man moaning on the ground. He then turned to Amanda. “Sorry about the spray,” he said to her. “But it worked and I’m glad I had it.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure how effective it would be.”
Jeff grabbed a pack of decontamination wipes, opened one up, and wiped down his arms, hands, and face. He turned to Amanda. “Are you guys okay? Did you get any spray on you?”
“My eyes burn a little, but nothing hit us directly. We’re okay.” She looked at the girl. “Are you okay, Lucy?” The girl nodded.
The man on the ground pounded his feet on the floor. “Hey, untie me and let me up! I didn’t do anything! You can’t do this to me!”
Sirens sounded in the distance, and they grew louder.
Jeff looked at the man for a few moments before responding. “I think we’ll let the police decide that.”
Within minutes, the sirens abruptly stopped, car doors slammed shut, and heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Amanda went to the classroom doorway and peeked out. As soon as she saw a police officer rounding the corner, his weapon held out in front of him, she waved her hand. “We’re in here, Officer. Thank you for coming. The guy is tied up. We’re okay.”
The officer relaxed his arm for a few moments, and then brought his weapon back up as he approached the doorway. Once he looked in and ascertained the situation, he put his weapon away and signaled to his fellow officers.
Realizing she was still holding the phone, Amanda put the phone to her ear. “Hello?” she said. When she heard a response, she added, “The cops are here. Thank you.” Then she turned off the phone.
After the officers handcuffed the man and stood him up, they interviewed everyone. One officer then untied the twine around the man’s ankles, read the man his rights, and led him out of the classroom and down the hallway. Another officer took Lucy and said he would contact her parents and bring her back home.
One of the cops faced them. “I’m Officer Lopez. Here’s my card.” He gave them his card, wrote down their contact information on a pad of paper, and then he tucked the pad in his pocket. “Thank you both for all the information and for your help with this. You both did good. Please call us if you think of anything else we should know or if there’s any more trouble.” Amanda assured him they would, and Officer Lopez turned and walked out.
Amanda looked at Jeff and smiled. “Well, that was sure an interesting start to our meeting.”
Jeff laughed. “You can say that again. And I’m really glad you helped Lucy and kept her safe.”
“Thank you for taking down the man and tying him up. Who knows what he would have done otherwise.”
“It would not have been good if he were free to attack us. I’m glad I had the pepper spray.” He chuckled. “That was the first time I actually used it. I’m really glad it worked. And thank you for helping. That was really good.”
Amanda looked at Jeff and suddenly felt awkward. He had matured into a handsome man, better looking than she remembered. Old feelings of warmth and longing came rushing back. She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, I’m sure this was not what you were expecting here.”
Jeff’s lips turned up in a smile, and it lit up his face. “It sure wasn’t. But we should really get started. We still need to do the parent-teacher conference.” He motioned to two of the student desks and chairs. “Let’s sit here.” They sat down facing each other. He smiled warmly and waited a few moments before speaking. “Before we start, I have to say, it’s good to see you. It’s been a long time. And you look great. But first, where is your husband? Is he coming?”
Amanda shook her head. “No, we’re divorced, and he won’t be here. Actually, he is out of the picture completely.”
Jeff nodded. “I’m sorry. Well, okay, let’s discuss your daughter, Marissa.”
He opened a folder and began the session. An hour later, after discussing Marissa’s progress and Jeff sharing reassuring news about Marissa’s abilities and performance, he closed the folder and looked at Amanda. “Overall, I’m very happy with her progress,” Jeff said, summing up. “She’s smart, she’s quick, and she has a great sense of humor. She actually reminds me a lot of you.” He smiled. “She’s one of the best students I have.”
Amanda felt a rush of pride and a touch of embarrassment. “Thank you, that’s really nice of you to say.”
A mix of emotions showed on Jeff’s face. “I hope this is okay and won’t make you uncomfortable. But, um, I just want to say you look amazing, and it’s really good to see you.”
Amanda played with her fingers. “Thank you, but I’m a frazzled mess right now after what happened.”
“No, you look beautiful.” Jeff smiled and tilted his head slightly, a gesture she remembered. “You know, I’ve thought about you over the past few years and wondered how you were. I hope you are doing well.”
Amanda bit her lower lip. “I’m fine. I have a rewarding job, and my hands are full taking care of Marissa.” She gazed into Jeff’s deep blue eyes and her body grew hot as feelings of longing flowed through her. “I’ve thought about you too. You look even more handsome than I remember.” She had one more question she had to ask. She was afraid of the answer, but she needed to know. “Are you married?”
He gave an awkward laugh and then sighed and shook his head. “Thank you. And no, I’m not. I came close, though. But it just never felt right. My heart wasn’t in it the way it should be, and, well … something was missing.” He looked at the floor and then glanced up. “I hope this is not inappropriate, and if it is, I apologize in advance. But … um … I’d really like to see you again.”
Amanda felt heat rising in her face. “I’d like that too,” she said softly. “A lot.”
A pink tinge colored Jeff’s cheeks. He reached forward and gently rubbed the top of Amanda’s hand and then slowly grasped it, his warm hand squeezing hers. “Good. It will be great to connect with you more.” Then he pulled his hand back and stood up. “Well, I hate to end this, but I do need to get going. Thank you for coming, Amanda. I will call you in a couple days, and I look forward to seeing you. You still like Italian food?”
Amanda laughed. “You remember that? Yes, I love Italian food.”
“Good. I know a place I think you’d love.” He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, I’ll walk you out to your car.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“It’s okay. I want to make sure you’re safe.”
A warm smile broke out on her face. “Do you do that with all the students’ parents?”
He chuckled. “Only the really special ones.”
She laughed and felt his warm hand on her back as he walked her out of the school. When they exited the building, a police vehicle pulled up and stopped at the curb.
Officer Lopez got out and approached them. “Good, I’m glad you’re still here,” the officer said. “I just wanted to let you know that Lucy is home, her mom is now with her, and Lucy gave me something she wants you to have.”
“What? She did not have to do that,” Amanda replied.
“Here.” The officer held out a small envelope.
Amanda took it, opened it, and pulled out a sweet card with a cute kitten on the cover. She opened the card and read the note, scrawled in a child’s handwriting.
Thank you for helping me. You are the best. I will never forget you. Love, Lucy
Amanda felt tears sting her eyes as she showed the card to Jeff. She watched him read it and saw that he was also moved.
“Thank you, Officer,” Amanda said, her voice choked with emotion.
“My pleasure, ma’am. Have a nice day.” He got back in his car, waved at them, and took off.
Amanda turned to Jeff. “That was …” she trailed off, unable to find the words.
“I know,” Jeff murmured, taking Amanda into his arms and holding her. After a few moments, he pulled back and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. “That was very touching.”
Amanda nodded and looked into Jeff’s eyes, holding his gaze. “Thank you. I’m so glad we connected again.”
“Me too.” His face showed warmth and caring, and he brushed his fingers along her cheek. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
Amanda nodded and walked to her car. She felt renewed hope and the resurgence of something she had not felt in a long time. The possibility of love.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Why the Empty Classroom?
Laura Brady DePace
The classroom sits empty.
Silent.
It used to be full of children:
Moving,
Laughing,
Shrieking,
Talk, talk, talking.
Why the empty classroom?
Where have all the children gone?
Home.
Shut away
From the school
From the gym
From the ball fields;
From their teachers
From their friends
From their families.
“Out of an abundance of
Caution.”
Isolated
Imprisoned
By something they don’t understand.
COVID.
Pandemic.
An invisible monster
That threatens their lives
And the lives of their
Loved ones.
Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
Several Writers Unite! members and guests post their writing on Vocal Media. Please visit Vocal Media for more of this author’s work. Check below for links.
Content Warning: Contains references to mass shootings, gun violence, and student death.
One Moment in Time
D. A. Ratliff
The glass double doors creaked as I pushed them open and stepped into the lobby. It was eerily quiet, and early morning sunlight glinted off the large clock hanging on the wall above the entrance to the auditorium. I glanced at the administrative office door on my left, glad to see the door shut and the lights off. The counselor and nurse’s office doors on the other side were the same.
A wide corridor ran horizontally across the back of the lobby, leading to double doors marking the entrances to the classroom wings. My destination lay in the west wing, and I turned into the hallway toward the interior wood and glass doors.
Robert Jefferson High School had seen better days. My parents, sister, and I graduated from this school, and now my nephew attended. There were signs of wear and tear, but nothing a fresh coat of paint couldn’t fix. Memories flooded back to me as I pushed open the swinging doors to the west wing. Laughter and conversation filled these halls, teachers yelling at us to stop running, teenage girls trying out their newfound power to take a guy down with a surprise hit where it hurt. Not that it happened to me, but my best bud Will couldn’t walk for a week after a gal popped him.
It’s funny what goes through your mind when your adrenaline is pumping and your heart is beating so fast that your thoughts sound muffled. I noticed how shiny the floors were. Mr. Berger, the custodian when I was a student here, was so proud of how shiny he kept the tile floors. He buffered until a mirror-like sheen glistened on the plain white floor.
I passed the bulletin board, where I met my wife as we checked out room assignments for our free-hour study hall. We had the same classroom, sat together, and never parted. Not even the military for me or college for Sarah kept us apart. When discharged, I returned here, attended college, and married her. There was nowhere on Earth I would rather be than in my hometown. At least, not until today.
The chatter in my head faded as I reached the hallway intersection where the English classes and computer labs were located. When I first entered the building, the smell of disinfectant, old gym shoes, and that unique aroma from the mix of perfumes and colognes worn by students and staff wafted through the air. Now, a different smell reached me, an acrid metallic smell. One I associated with my job—a scent I loathed, the smell of blood.
As I turned the corner, the first thing I saw was a blue backpack on the floor. Chills raced through me when I realized how much blood covered it. As I focused on the entire hall, my training kicked in. I felt a calmness descend over me as I took inventory of the bodies. There were eight in the short corridor—six students and two adults. From the severe wounds and amount of blood, I knew the perp had a high-powered automatic rifle. A moan and a weak voice called out to me. It was Mr. O’Malley, the principal. He was leaning against the wall, bleeding from a wound in his side, but he had both hands occupied pressing his suit coat over a chest wound of a young female student and not his own. I looked for something to press against his wound, spotting a discarded sweater. I grabbed it.
I placed the sweater against his side and grabbed his hand. “Keep pressure on this. You can’t help if you bleed out.” I checked the student’s pulse. “She’s alive. Do you know where the shooter is? Is he alone?”
He nodded and eked out, “109. He’s alone.”
“Okay, help is right behind me. They’ll get you both out.”
The chatter in my earbuds told me that other officers had arrived and were in the building, beginning the evacuation of students and staff. I turned toward the room when another gunshot rang out. I keyed my radio.
“Officer Reynolds. Shots fired inside Room 109. Eight down in the corridor. At least two breathing.”
The dispatcher’s calm voice notified the arriving units. “All Units, 10-32 and Code 222, person with a gun, active shooter inside Room 109. Proceed with caution. Wounded in hallway. Emergency services standby.”
Captain Hawkin’s voice came through my earbuds. “Reynolds, hold for backup. Officers heading your way.”
Room 109 was two doors down from where I stood. I knew my fellow officers were seconds away and that I should wait, but then another muffled scream, followed by the crack of a gunshot. I wasn’t going to wait and let another child die.
I squawked my radio. “He’s shooting. Gotta go in.”
Two bodies blocked my way, but I stepped over them, slipping in the blood and catching myself on the wall to keep from falling. Pressing my body against the wall, I tried the doorknob—unlocked. At that moment, I felt as if I had left my body, and all that remained was the former military policeman and the city police officer I had trained to become.
Another gunshot and I pushed open the door, staying clear. A volley of bullets rushed through the opening and shattered the cement block wall across the hall. I peeked into the room and saw a man in his forties near the front. He was holding a girl hostage, his arm around her neck, rifle pressed against her throat.
“You come in here, and I‘ll kill her. I’ll kill them all.”
Footsteps echoed down the hallway as officers turned the corner, rushing toward us. If I could hear them, so could he. I had one chance to save that girl because he would start shooting as soon as he realized he was outnumbered. I had to act. I hooked my rifle onto my vest, pulled out my pistol, and stepped into the doorway.
Everything around me faded from my vision, leaving only the two of us in the room. I aimed the pistol at his head. With the girl held in front of him, my only target. Thank goodness the department purchased laser sights for our guns. As the red dot appeared on his forehead, I squeezed the trigger.
At that moment in time, everything slowed. In my mind’s eye, I saw the brass bullet crawling through the air, closer and closer to his forehead until the moment of contact. His eyes widened as the bullet struck, and his head flung back, blood and brain matter exploding over the whiteboard.
A male student grabbed the female he had been holding, pulling her out of the way as I rushed to the front to secure the weapon. I went to pick the gun up, but an arriving officer stopped me.
“We got this, Brian.” He motioned to one of the others. “Get him to the command post so he can go through weapons-fired protocol.”
The officer took me to a classroom, which was being set up as a command post, where I surrendered my pistol and rifle. I had to go to the hospital for toxicology tests but refused to leave until all the wounded were dealt with. My supervisor conducted a field sobriety test so that I could wait.
I felt a vibration in my pocket and realized it was my phone and my wife, Sarah, calling. “Hey, honey.”
Her voice quivered with emotion. “Brian, thank God, are you okay? I saw Doug, and he said you were the first officer in. It’s really bad, isn’t it?”
“I’m fine, honey. I can’t talk about it, but…” The horror of what I witnessed overwhelmed me.
Sarah understood. “It’s okay, baby. Listen, Meg’s with me. Have you seen Colin?”
Oh man, Colin, my nephew. “No, I haven’t. They’re searching the school room by room and evacuating the kids from each classroom as they clear it. Where was he first period?” I heard her ask my sister.
“East wing, Brian, she just looked at his schedule. East wing, Room 116.”
“I’ll find him.” I cleared it with the captain and took off for the east wing. His room was next to be cleared, so I waited for the officers to go in and explain what was happening and instruct them on how to exit the building. As the kids filed out, I spotted my nephew and called out to him. He ran to me, his fear evident but a smile of relief as he saw me. I gave the officers his and his parents’ names and took him with me.
The school grounds were in chaos. Police cars, ambulances, press trucks, and frightened parents seem to take up every inch of grass and asphalt. I had to call Sarah to figure out where they were waiting. My sister’s joyous face as she hugged Colin and Sarah’s embrace allowed me to breathe again, but there was an ache in my heart for families who could never hug their loved ones again.
I returned to the command center and waited until an EMT escorted me to an empty ambulance. It wasn’t until the ambulance pulled away that I crashed from the adrenaline high I had been running on, and the enormity of what I had experienced hit me. I wept.
~~~
James Marcum, the man responsible for this tragic act, had a mental illness, was in the midst of a divorce, and had stopped taking his medication. He murdered his wife before coming to school on the pretense of delivering a guitar to his daughter. The admin assistant looked up her name and what room she was in. He fled the office as soon as he knew the room number. The admin notified the principal of his actions, and Mr. O’Malley rushed toward the classroom, confronting Marcum as he pulled an automatic rifle from the guitar case. He shot the principal, a teacher, and students returning to English class from the library in the hall. He then entered the classroom, where he shot the teacher and his daughter immediately.
Mr. O’Malley had been able to notify the office on the walkie-talkie he carried, and the announcement ‘Active Alert’ sent the teachers into protection mode, immediately locking their doors. Panicked, Marcum told a male student to close and lock the door. The young man closed it but wisely left the door unlocked, which allowed me to end the incident quickly.
I arrived at the school two minutes after the 9-1-1 call and through the door in three. Marcum was psychotic. I don’t know if he realized he might not leave the school alive or hoped he wouldn’t. He toyed with the students, taunting and threatening them and randomly shooting one while the others, terrified, watched. I may have ended the killing, but the trauma for the students and the community continues. And for me.
My patrol area is in the district where the high school is located. I stop in a lot to check on them, and they seem happy to see me. I think the uniform and badge remind them more of the support they have rather than that day’s horror.
Over the summer, the community joined together and repainted the school’s interior. Mr. O’Malley locked the door to Classroom 109 after forensics, and a cleanup team finished with it. It will not be used again.
We may be able to wash the blood away and talk to counselors for help, but we can’t wash away the loss of two teachers dedicated to educating our youth and twelve innocent teenagers at the brink of promise for the adults they could have been.
Meanwhile, my fellow officers and I will stand watch every moment in time.
~~~
From the Author
There is an image from the horrible day at Sandy Hook Elementary that is etched in my memory. Before confirmation of what had tragically transpired came, a group of police officers stood together on the sidewalk outside the school. Chills ran through me as I looked at the anguish on their faces. There was no doubt that a horrific tragedy had taken place.
When this image was chosen for a monthly writing prompt, my first thought was a funny story, but as I looked longer at the image, the faces of those officers rushed back, and I felt compelled to write this story.
I wish to honor the police, the fire and rescue personnel, the counselors, and all who stepped up to care for the survivors and the grieving families. This is not a perfect world, and mistakes have been made, but the biggest mistake is that our children remain at risk.
Please take a moment to remember the victims, their families, and all who came together one moment in time.
Writers Unite! 