We waited until the twittering mums at the school gates dispersed before leaping the fence.
Instead of Geography, the Ferris wheel. Candyfloss for a packed lunch. Faces painted like tigers in place of double Art.
Home, hours late. Still gleeful, until I realised I’d forgotten to wash my whiskers off.
Rachael is a teacher from Scotland.
As a pack, my students hold the power. I walk a tightrope every second of every minute at school. One wrong move, one wrong word, and I lose it all. The balance between order and chaos is one child’s silent acquiescence.
They think they know it all…
Mercifully, they don’t.
Joan is an educator in Australia.
The smell of the chalk dust reminded him of some past dated food. He imagined thousands of others who would have breathed it in and eventually gone to their graves having never exhaled it entirely.
Ninety eight more lines to go.
He scrawled, “I promise not to daydream in class.”
Gordon Lysen resides in Manitoba, Canada, and spends his time between the city of Winnipeg and his true home at Sugar Point on Lake Manitoba. Retired from police work after some 27 years, Gordon co-authored the novel “A Deadly Blend of Souls” with his wife, Lisa. Writing and painting are Gordon’s relaxation methods when retirement becomes too stressful.
“Rats roam the library at night,” I told the Dean. “Students bring in food, don’t clean up after themselves. There’s roaches, too.”
She asked for a solution.
“Get rid of them,” I responded.
“Obviously,” she said, then asked, “Rodents or students?”
“They’d still find a way into the building.”
Matthew Gregory is a writer and filmmaker whose short films “Alamogordo, NM,” “guarda innanzi che tu salti,” and “Joseph Jefferson Solves the Hunger Problem” have been featured in the 1:1 Super 8 Cinema Soirée. He has also worked as a writer and camera operator for the forthcoming film Papa
. He lives in South Florida.
Lachlan was coolest.
He could throw a ball.
He could beat up anyone.
He got dates with the hotties.
And he always managed to outsource his homework.
He tried out for quarterback one day. Fortunately for everyone else, he didn’t see the safety blitz.
Lachlan wasn’t so cool after all.
Joey wasn’t interested in writing while at school but has been writing on his own in recent years. He doesn’t mind the concept of “schoolyard justice”.
Once it was the worst.
Now the teachers all get merit pay increases, the superintendent wins national awards, the average SAT is 2303, and all graduates go to Harvard.
Actually, the only graduate. They kicked the other students out in first grade. That’s how they keep the averages so high.
Harry Demarest has retired after careers encompassing scientific research, teaching at a university, software development, web application development, and voter database compilation and distribution. He is now spending his time with his grandchildren and writing memoirs and short stories.
It wasn’t Georges fault and, as usual, it was most unfair. He hadn’t been the only one smoking. The school had been really dry after the hot weather, and full of unnecessary paper.
And he had only struck one match and he hadn’t even flicked it.
Not very much, anyway.
Richard Wheal is a writer and trainee carpenter who live in a forest in Dorset and spends a great deal of time gathering winter fuel.
When I was three, I learned how to read.
Today, I learned that, even during something as joyous as a graduation, your mother will still cry.
I have never had a day in my 21 years when I didn’t feel compelled to learn something new. I hope that day never comes.
Brandon King is a volunteer for Leading Edge Magazine, an awesome sci-fi/fantasy publication that will publish and/or edit your short stories, poems, or artwork.
“Once AGAIN, I remind you that NO ANIMALS are allowed in the classroom during an examination.”
Jeremy patted the enormous grizzly bear’s head. “Why not?”
“He might, er, help you cheat.”
“Barry would NEVER do that,” said Jeremy, surreptitiously hiding his exam paper, on which he’d written “Grrr, grroowl, roooaarr.”
This story was based on the prompt “once again” at TypeTrigger.
Fifteen thousand and twelve things could happen between our car and his classroom.
I tell myself they won’t; I tell myself he’ll be fine. He doesn’t need me to walk him anymore. And I don’t.
But he’s my little boy, and it’s so very, very hard to let him go.
M. Elaine Moore is a North Carolina fiction writer and poet. Her work can be found in print in The Island Breeze, and Outer Banks publication, and online at Foliate Oak Literary Journal, Four and Twenty, The Camel Saloon, Apollo’s Lyre, Pond Ripples, Three Line Poetry, and the Journal of Microliterature.