Tag Archives: fictional

Friday Fiction: Or Fact?

Fiction and fact go hand-in-hand. It’s a paradox, but they feed each other. Here’s a little story that may be a little personal, but it’s all in the perspective. Read on:

 

Mrs Bovran loved the first day of school. It was particularly enriching because she taught Year 1—the first ‘first’ day. She moved around the classroom, flitting from parent to parent, introducing herself, her smile constant, her eye contact strong, a bee with an over-abundance of flowers. She was in her element.

A few of the youngsters were bawling, wails and tears drowning the whole room in noise. It was always tough, the first day. Her first day had been a nightmare—not the kids, the teachers. It had been hard back then, but she had made it work. For her love of the children.

One little boy seemed quite stalwart when faced with retreating parents. They departed quietly, not a murmur or whimper to be heard from the child. Mrs Bovran marvelled, quite fascinated; had she had been blessed with a strong student?

Time moved on, and eventually all the adults left. It was just her and the kids. The tears had stopped (though there were still a few wet cheeks) and Mrs Bovran proceeded to give the students their first task. She always started with a colouring exercise, as this seemed to be the most comforting activity.

Taking her place at the Desk, she waited for the kids to finish and come to show her their work. One by one they came to have their efforts approved, followed by a new mission.

All except the boy who hadn’t cried.

Mrs Bovran noticed that he wasn’t doing his work, just looking around with a worried look on his face. Perhaps this was his nervousness finally coming out, Mrs Bovran thought. Maybe he wasn’t as strong as she had presumed. Fear had different ways of presenting itself, but Mrs Bovran was happy to help the children overcome it.

She invited the boy up to her desk.

“What’s wrong, Wally?” she asked.

No response. The child shifted nervously, meeting her eyes briefly, but not offering an answer. After a few more attempts she let Wally stand at her desk, in the hopes it would make him feel better.

Poor boy.

Minutes passed, the students lined up past Wally waiting for Mrs Bovran to approve their work.

And then, a noise.

A very loud noise. Mrs Bovran looked up. It sounded like a burst pipe. But then, screams.

The girls in line were screaming; the boys were laughing.

Little Wally had urinated. In his pants. Right there next to Mrs Bovran’s desk.

The teacher sighed, and went to call the cleaners.

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Friday Fiction: Final Freedom

I have to stop with the alliteration. It might start coming across as forced. I do find it to be the most beautiful form of rhyme.

Here’s my bit of fiction for the week, based on a writing prompt about, you guessed it, freedom. It’s a little dark, but that happens from time to time.

The land of the free. What a load of hogwash that is. Free to do as business and government and censorship let us. Free to walk the streets at night; free to be mugged and beat.

Nothin’s free these days.

The word sucks us in. Companies use it to lure the hungry into shopping malls, watching on cameras, rolling their finger tips together with greed, the trap sprung before the poor sucker is aware. Hell, you see those “Free 2 Play” videogames the media is bangin’ on about? What a joke. Games are about winning, and you can’t win nothin’ unless you pay. Your time or your money, it amounts to the same thing.

Governments the world over are striving for democracy. We’re free to vote—or not—and that’s real freedom!

Nah, sorry.

You see, we’re played with, strung along. What greater purchase is there than having your favourite brand leading the way? Christ, I mean campaigns are worse than Christmas, with the flashy lights, endless slogans, the piles and piles of money that go on behind the scenes.

And what about the mother of all freedom: Speech, our words, and thoughts, and ideas, and philosophies? That’s the last damn freedom you want because somebody, anybody, will come along as soon as you’ve expressed it and grind it into the dirt.

And of course, they’re free to do that.

It’s like a game of Snap—cards on top of each other until someone gets their grubby palm and smacks it down on top. It’s mine, all mine!

There’s one freedom I truly appreciate, but even it’s tainted. The freedom to bear arms. Bastards still make us get a licence. I have the freedom to defend myself, the freedom to carry a weapon at all times. But I don’t cherish it enough.

I don’t cherish the false freedoms afforded to me.

There’s only one freedom left.

And no one can take it away from me.

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Friday Fiction: Over Already?

I couldn’t do it. Only the second week and I have no writing to show. There was a bunch I could have written here, but it’s been a busy week. After work today…well, I feel like a zombie.

So instead, here’s an awesome Tumblr I found concerning creative writing.

http://writingprompts.tumblr.com/

I’ll probably use it in the future. There are a number of good scenarios to choose from.

If you come up with your own story post it in the comments. Doesn’t matter how long!

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