Short Stories

English Assessments

Prompt: Construct a piece of writing in a form of your choice that evokes a response of empathy in the reader.

The cloudy, sky-grey door stood ominously, daring anyone to enter. The students were herded into the classroom by the piercing bell and the fear of being late. The teacher stood in front of the glaring white-board. His pants were stiff black cardboard, not a crinkle in sight. His blazer, like armour, was hard, wrinkleless and intimidating. The desks were in rows, four rows with six desks in each. I sat in the back-left corner, an easy run around from the door, and far enough that I could get a good look out the windows.

Once all the students were seated, he turned. His dark blue marker making a stark comparison on the white board. He started writing, the squeak of the marker was the only noise heard.

"You will be writing your short creative piece today." His hissy, authoritative voice commanded the room's attention.

"I hope you have all finished your planning. You may type only, as most of your handwriting is barely legible. You have half an hour then you must hand in what you have completed." He strode towards his desk.

"Begin."

There was a flurry around the classroom. Hands reaching for computers, pens scribbling notes on scrap bits of paper. I pulled my sleek silver device from its coloured casing, opened the lid and turned it on. The twittering sound of fingers hurriedly pressing keys exploded from all directions. I prepared the white Word document, my hands poised, ready to transform this page into a masterpiece of creative literature and patterned stories. Ready for the onslaught of literary devices. Similes as endless as the ocean, and the metaphors to be an incoming of vicious bulls, ready to stampede.

Blank. My mind was blank. How in the world was I meant to do this? The constant twittering of laptop keys continued, all but mine. My head lifts from the blank white screen. The teacher sat at his desk, looking out at his kingdom. Searching for fault, hunting for failure. The rest of the class sat, their heads were turned down, the black squiggles on their screes demonstrating their advanced ability to think of stories on the spot. Except for one other.

The girl on the second row, third in from the door. Her cheeks were red, sniffles sounding from her nose. The teacher's head snapped to her direction, his chair scraped back. The twittering paused for a moment, as if they were little birds spooked by an oncoming predator, then became even more flurried and flustered. His back was straight, his head up and shoulders back. His nose was slightly crinkled, as if smelling her failure. Her shoulders shook slightly. I flinched back when he reached her, even though I was two rows back from them.

"It's not that I-I-I. I just..." Her stammers filled the room.

"I honestly don't care." His stern voice was like a punch in her gut.

"Let's talk outside."

They left silently. His head snapped towards the class as they exited the door.

"Continue."

I looked back to the blank white screen. It was teasing me, displaying my inability to even think. Why couldn't I do this? Why am I so bad at this? I started thinking over the books I read; Jasper Jones, the hungry caterpillar, my math text book. Can you read a math text book? I mean it was all numbers, and I still couldn't understand any of it. Jasper Jones doesn't count, I had to read that for school, and I still didn't read the entire thing.

Oh god, I'm going to fail this. I'm going to fail English. The clock's tick echoed through my head, blood rushed to my ears, my heart sped. How am I meant to do this? Its due at the end of the lesson. Fifteen minutes, I can wright a story in fifteen minutes, right? An idea danced around in my head; my fingers started flying across the key board. I have to do this. I can't fail another test.

The race was on.

Words started flying out of me. Lines roped together into paragraphs. Letters smashed into words with incomprehensible meanings, but strung the right way, they slowly formed the picture. My rushed breath and flying fingers were the only thing I could focus on. I am desperate, I need to finish. I have no idea how I'm going to reach the word limit. Why did I leave this till the last minute? Why am I so stupid?

My fingers ceased. I had done it, finally. The little black words were each lined up together in rows, separated into paragraphs, then crammed onto pages. A story, a start, a middle and an end.

The bell rings, time is up. I walk to the front of the class. Managing to get as far back as seventh in line. The number slowly dwindles, seven turning into six. Then it happened.

He was sitting there, his nose turned up, marking key in front of him. His skeletal hand was curled around a horrifying red marker. I slowly and shakily lowered the laptop onto his desk. His eyes flickered from right to left, judging my every word, my every line, my every attempt. I hate it when people judge me. His claw-like finger tips danced upon the trackpad, slowly baring more of my failure for his judgement.

I turned my head down, attempting to hide behind the curtain of hair flowing from my scalp. My fingers where twisted into intricate knots, untangling then clenching together again. My shoulders were slightly hunched, ready to take the slap of his words.

Then it happened, he pushed the device away slightly dismissing it and showing its lack of importance to him.

His head tilted, beady eyes stabbing me, his lips parted, his sharp pointed nose twitched. The red pen bled onto the grading sheet next to him.

"Adequate."