Death Of A Student

The email arrives just after 7:30 am, and its subject line is blunt: “death of a student”

You read this slowly. Twice. Open the message. In two sentences, the Dean of Students tells you everything: She was killed in a car accident. They’re working to remove her from your roster.

You delete the message, drag it back out of the Deleted Items folder, read it again.

The news isn’t public yet. You can’t say anything in class.

Her seat is empty. You pass out the day’s reading assignment and have an extra copy, which you quietly drop in the trash.

From Guest Contributor Shane Borrowman

Turnaround Day

Midway through the exam my lead broke. What to do?

The boy across the aisle noticed.

“I brought extras. Take one,” he coaxed, extending an arm towards me.

Why would he offer to help me? I, the lowest achiever of the class; the one all classmates avoided.

Reluctantly I accepted his pencil, resuming my guesses to multiple choice questions.

“Good luck,” the same boy whispered, bending towards me.

I watched him rush to the front of the room to be the first to hand in his exam. He, the smartest student of the class.

The one who gave me hope.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season or location she finds herself in.

Demonstration

I’m going to eliminate demonstration presentations from my Speech course. I was erasing the board after class tonight when a student approached me, asked if I’d approve a ritual for the assignment. “I’ll need to make an altar, bring a knife.”

I turned to face her, “Sorry… no, Moira, that’s not okay.”

She narrowed her eyes, whispered words I barely caught, “within wood…split a stone…find me there.”

I smiled weakly, “Was that a spell?”

She stormed out. I gathered my books and bag and walked quickly to the car. Under my blouse, my jasper cross tingled warm against my skin.

From Guest Contributor Yvonne Morris

Yvonne is the author of Mother was a Sweater Girl (The Heartland Review Press). Her most recent work has appeared in the Santa Clara Review, The Write Launch, and Friday Flash Fiction.

Splinter

I clutched her glittery pink butterfly pencil in my left pocket. She wrote with it every day; it’s her favorite. When she dropped it at recess, I knew it was finally my chance to talk to her; to be noble, and return it. I watched her turn the corner towards her 4th-period class. Now’s my chance! Rounding the corner, I bumped into the captain of the football team. Startled, he turned towards me mid-kiss. On the other side of his lips stood Macy, with a brand new butterfly pencil in hand. Engraved were the words, Will You Be My Girlfriend?From Guest Contributor Molly Fay

Molly lives in Buffalo, NY. Currently, she is studying Psychology at SUNY Brockport. In her free time, she enjoys baking, taking long walks by the water, and listening to music.

Relic

They found the capsule buried in the desert. Its outer shell consisted of some unknown material, a shiny metal that was alien in origin. Opening it with their bare hands proved impossible and smashing it against the rocks barely left a scratch.

Many theories arose as to where the container came from. Perhaps it was a message from the stars. One wiseman hypothesized it was a relic from the distant past. The future seemed more likely.

When they finally pried the lid off, the language seemed familiar but the words were largely unintelligible:

Crispus Attucks Elementary School Class of ‘25.

Welcome Back, Class Of '96

“Do you want me to hold the...?”

The song is about to start, something by Vanessa Williams. His one good hand is pressing on her waist. She does not know what to call the other one, the absence.

He shakes. “I can just put my arm here.” He rests his folded sleeve on her pink shoulder strap. They have been given a wide berth by the other couples on the gym floor.

They shuffle together in silence. Finally, she asks. “How did—?”

He shrugs. “Cleaning the picker.” Somebody had turned it on by mistake.

“Does it hurt?”

Sometimes. It tickles.

From Guest Contributor Brennan Thomas

Metamorphosis

Kids are dumb. Especially when they're fourteen.

Vivian was this really fat girl in my Algebra class. Her friend passed me a note via my friend: Vivian likes you.

She waited for me in the cafeteria.

Her face was cute, but I didn't want to be seen with her.

"I don't like that fat girl," I shouted so all would hear.

Since then I can't bear to see her cry.

Yesterday, over breakfast, I asked my son to pass a birthday card to her.

She cried.

"You know, Dad, sometimes you're a real dumb guy."

I smiled. "I know, Son."

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E. has works published at Entropy, Spillwords, The Purple Pen, The Haven, and several works are in the anthology, "NanoNightmares."

The Book

I’m already sitting in the grass, cross-legged, when you meet me after class. “I’m sorry,” I say as you sit. “I forgot your book.”

“Bring it Thursday.” You smile. “We’re almost done. I can’t wait.”

The rest of campus trudges past. I’ve had your favorite book for months—and I’m not forgetting it so much as I’m scared to give up this piece of you, the only one I have. “Won’t you miss this, once we’re done?” I ask. “It’s our last finals week.”

“Maybe someday,” you say, and look away.

In the evening sun your white t-shirt turns golden.

From Guest Contributor Natalie Schriefer

Natalie received her MFA from Southern Connecticut State University. She works as a freelance writer and editor. Home base: www.natalieschriefer.com

Freedom Of Expression

Their art combined gibberish with colour. Exterior walls and street recycling receptacles became graphic spectacles.

“Let’s see you join us,” they demanded.

“It’s wrong to deface public property,” I replied.

When a recycling truck rolled in, frustration of the driver as to not being able to do his pickup job landed them at the school office. The self-appointed artists got suspended from class and were ordered to remove their creations.

“Did you take part in that graffiti?” Dad asked.

“No, I only watched,” I answered, careful to not disclose that they asked me for my artistic advice and I obliged.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Sheresides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband and stuffed animals andmany friends.

One Hundred

We have class together ninety-nine times. Four times a week she sits at the front, eyes bright, hand shooting heavenward. She is always in a group, no space beside her. She never sees me.

Ninety-nine times I try to catch her. Once I run so fast down the stairs I trip, scattering books and pride. She has already gone. She does not see me fall.

Class one hundred. She is late. The front is full. Flustered, she moves to the back, beside me. Seizing chance, I smile, and choke out a word I can’t remember. She smiles. She sees me.

From Guest Contributor Bronwen O'Donnell