Tag: teachers

All Stories, General Fiction

Nobody Ever Retires, Even After They’re Dead [1] by J Bradley Minnick

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Mr. Balding, our 5th grade Social Studies teacher, was so old that the Germans shot the hair from his head on two separate occasions and in two separate wars. Mr. Balding was so old that he hated and despised discussing his age. He was so old that the hairs in his ears had fossilized and had grown longer than the hair on his head. He was so old that his cataracts had cataracts. He was so old that he couldn’t remember being our age. And, yet, in a weak attempt to connect to what he imagined to be our violent sensibilities, once a month, or so, some military and patriotic force compelled him to tell gory and graphic war stories from behind the full view of the obit page of Peoples Gazette—our local and irregularly published bi-weekly.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Billy Best’s Mighty Metal by Sandra Arnold

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Billy Bootle had loved music for as long as he could remember. He loved to sing along with tunes on the radio. He loved to sing with Grandma Bootle while she was baking, and whistle with Grandpa Bootle while he chopped wood. At school, Billy was the only child in his class who loved recorder lessons. Because of this, the other boys hated him. They hated him because he loved singing. They hated him because he loved books. They hated him because of his name, which they changed to Bootiful Bootle and scrawled in chalk on the playground walls with a drawing of a cross-eyed, buck-toothed, knock-kneed boy. Their hatred increased after the teacher, Miss Snafferty, asked the class what they wanted to be when they grew up. Billy told her he was going to be a singer. He was going to be a Rock Star. He was going to be famous.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Parent Interview by Jill Malleck

literallystories2014

My last parent interview of the day was late, by a good twenty minutes, and the damn meeting was only booked for fifteen. Truth was, I didn’t care that Derek’s folks hadn’t shown. For two hours I’d spent fifteen-minute slots explaining to overly optimistic parents how they’d raised kids as dumb as doornails. Nothing I hated more than parent interviews, except teaching in the 8:30 am session. No science to it; try teaching teenage zombies.   

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All Stories, Fantasy

Relics by Michael Helvaty

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When I stirred from my slumber, one of my arms felt like it had been trapped beneath my body for several months, and I shook it back to usefulness as the door opened.  The last three heroes to visit had been males of their respective races, so a thrill ran through me as a young woman appeared on the threshold to my chamber.  Her need had summoned my room, connecting it to her world through an otherwise ordinary door and calling me to action as the angel of lost relics.

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