short story 2016

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
short story written sometime near april 2016

Submitted: October 11, 2016

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Submitted: October 11, 2016

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Disposition.

The left ear was too big. He smudged it with his eraser and tried again, keeping an eye on the other ear for reference. Better. But there was still something lopsided about the head. Maybe if he -

“Oliver!” His name flew through his ears. He looked up from his doodles.

“Pay attention or I’ll be forced to call your parents again.” She gave him a withered look, then went back to the board. Hot blood rushed to his cheeks, and he leaned his head against his arm, looking back down at his drawing. He wished he could be on paper, too. At least on paper he wouldn’t have to do Trig.

  Dinner that night was dull. His parents spoke of work, of printer problems and paperwork and the pregnant woman in the office who was driving everyone crazy. He excused himself early and went straight to bed, without even taking off his socks. He stared out the window.

As he finally drifted off, Oliver dreamed he could shoot fire from his hands. It was white and blue and grew to 20 feet if he stood still. He used it to burn down his school, and all of his Trig homework. He slept well.

  The lake’s surface rippled as a fish swam a little too close to the air. Oliver wondered if the fish knew that just a little closer, and it would be surrounded by its own demise. It would be peeking into a world that only wanted to kill it. He watched the water move for a minute, then started tearing up pieces of the crust from his sandwich to throw.

He stared at his hand. Maybe this time, if he focused hard enough…

His eyes screwed shut, and he clenched his fist so hard that it shook. The lake seemed to wait expectantly for something to happen.

  Nothing. The bread did not float into the air by its own accord, it did not burst into flames, and it did not disappear. It was still just bread. Except now, it was smashed.

He tossed it into the water and packed up his lunch.

“Do you know why you’re here, Oliver?”

The principal's office was very dull for a person in charge of hundreds of children. No pictures decorated the walls, only a sign that said the words “Princi-PAL”, with -pal in all caps. Oliver looked at him. He was so bald it almost hurt your eyes to look at if the light landed on his head a certain way, and his ears were like Oliver’s drawings. One bigger than the other. The person who drew him must’ve had similar problems.

“Oliver?’
Oh, a question. That meant he was supposed to answer.

“Oh, uh, no, sir. I don’t know why I’m here.”

Principal Lopsided-Ears sighed, and began typing on his computer. He turned the screen for Oliver to see. 

“These,” he pointed towards the side of the screen with 3 green squares, “are the days you’ve been present and on time.”

Oliver nodded. “That’s good.”

“But these,” his plump finger changed sides on the screen, and he now embellished the much larger myriad of red squares, “are the days you’ve been absent.”

Oliver nodded. He wondered if he was supposed to say something now.

“That’s unacceptable, son. We’re gonna have to take some disciplinary measures, now.”

He pulled out a glaringly yellow paper. 

The cloudy feeling started in Oliver’s head.

“I’m giving you two days internal suspension.”

The cloudy feeling spread, and was pulled taut.

“What?” Oliver felt himself ask. “You’re punishing me for missing school by making me miss more school?”

“There are consequences to your actions, son.”

That very familiar whisper began to hiss in Oliver’s mind. It told him to do it. It told him now was the time.

“I’m sure there are,” Oliver murmured. He looked in the man’s eyes. They were blue and clear. Oliver didn’t hear himself say what he said, but he felt it. It was like a rubber band pulled tight and ready to snap.

“You are going to tear that paper up into pieces,” Oliver promised him. “You are going to destroy it and then I am going to leave your office and you’ll never call me to come back ever again. I like to be left alone very much.”

When he spoke, his voice was no longer one voice. It was twisted around another sound, another tone, that swore finality, and crept out of his mouth like smoke.

The clear and blue eyes of the principal were no longer clear. They were glazed over, and they didn’t seem to focus on anything. He began to hum a cheery tune, and ripped the paper into little pieces. Oliver smiled, and stood. 

And so it began.


© Copyright 2017 Alexandra Montesino. All rights reserved.

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