The Burning Question

The teacher placed the stack of papers on the table and addressed the class. 
“Thank you for your essays. Are there any final burning questions?”

Most deliberately avoided her gaze, but one girl raised her hand, initiating a chorus of groans.

“Yes?

“Why do you always wear black?”

Insolent laughter erupted around the classroom.

The teacher nodded. “Fair question. It’s camouflage for my sense of humour— or my soul. You choose.”

She shrugged, and the collected papers behind her burst into flames then powdered into ashes.

She smiled at their silence. “Perhaps you’ll all be more respectful from now on!”

The Final Blow

Image by Geanette Saad 2019. Used with permission.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to pick your nose?”

Sam sighed. All he wanted to do was dislodge those crusty bits that stabbed the inside of his nostrils every time she made him blow into a tissue, and remained there stubbornly regardless of his efforts with the tissue. Those things hurt, and they didn’t let go on their own.The best way to remove them was gently, with his favourite finger, and then flick them into the bin.

She should just be thankful he never wanted to eat it. He didn’t understand how other kids could. Just the other day when they had gone out for lunch he had watched another boy in the restaurant eating his booger off his finger before picking up a chicken nugget and eating that. He shuddered at the thought.

“You don’t know what damage you might do in there, Sam. Please, just use a tissue and blow your nose, and let me get this last jack o’ lantern done for tonight.”

As his mother turned away to finish carving the pumpkin, Sam defiantly slid his finger back up his right nostril, where he found a great big pointy one, shaped just like the witch’s hat that already sat on a carved pumpkin on the porch by the front door. This was possibly the biggest and pointiest one yet, like a miniature mountain that had grown to dominate the inner landscape of his nose. Just as his fingertip reached for its peak, his mother looked over at him. 

“Sam! Get your finger out of your nose! Now!”

She ripped a couple of tissues from the box on the sideboard on her way past and almost slapped them over the lower half of his face. 

“Blow!” she demanded. 

As he exhaled, she pinched the tissue around his nostrils. Sam began to protest as he felt a sharp stab deep inside his nose and the powerful jolt of a momentary headache, followed by a strange sensation of being lighter and freer than he had been only a moment before. Sam fell silent and limp  as his head imploded, collapsing in on itself like a punctured ballon, leaving his mother with an unsoiled tissue in her hand and a grimace of shocked surprise on her face.

His sweet face lay shrivelled and flattened on his shoulder on a bed of dark brown hair, eyes still clenched shut as they had been when he felt the pain in his head.

She gathered Sam into her arms and cradled him there, his face flat against her skin and a thin trail of bone dust and ash falling from his left ear. She rocked him, keening and weeping as dusk began to fall outside and late into the night that followed. 

When the moon rose high in the sky, a small, ghostly hand touched her shoulder, then took her hand and led her outside into the silvery light. She watched as the small boyish figure walked up a bright moonbeam, then turned to wave goodbye. 

She waved languidly with one hand, the other still clutching his lifeless body to her chest. 

When he was so far up the moonbeam that she could no longer see him, she laid his body on the ground and fetched a shovel. The shovel crunched into the ground beneath the willow tree time after time, until she had dug a small trench in the earth.

She leaned the shovel against the trunk of the tree, and then gently gathered Sam’s body into her arms. Silent and sombre, she carried him across the yard, whispered a few words, and lay down in the grave with him in the waning moonlight to await her fate. 

©2019 Joanne Van Leerdam

Mind Blown

“I still don’t know what to do.” Greg’s words hung in the air, the atmosphere pregnant with frustration as his classmates’ faces mirrored the teacher’s umbrage.

The teacher glared, deliberately silent as heat flushed, dark red, up his neck and across his face. His mouth opened, but no words came. The sound of his pulse reverberated around the room, growing louder and faster as he fought for control.

The explosion, accompanied only by a vague squelch, spewed bloodied flesh and grey matter across the room. A disembodied eyeball on the floor continued to glare at Greg.

“Whoa!” he gasped. “Mind blown!”

©2018 Joanne Van Leerdam

Belly Ache.

Belly Ache

“Ohhh, it hurts.” He squirmed on his bed, gently rubbing his belly with his hands.

“Does it?” She sat on the edge of the bed and patted his arm.

“Yeah. Here… and here.”

“That’s no good.” She laid her hand on his slightly distended abdomen, finding it firm and warm to the touch. She could feel his muscles contracting as his intestines roiled and gurgled underneath her palm.

“And I’m hot.”

“Yes, I can feel that.”

“I want it to stop hurting.”

“I know. It will, soon,” she said, suppressing a wry, satisfied smile as she looked at her watch.

 

 

©2018 Joanne Van Leerdam

The Shadow.

ShadowThe child skipped down the sidewalk, laughing as she landed on her shadow. She began to stomp, landing her feet harder with each step.
Then, without warning, long shadowy fingers wrapped around her right foot while another dark, translucent hand reached through the pavement for her left. She tried to keep it in the air for as long as possible until, overbalancing, she fell to her hands and knees. As spindly, shady fingers swiftly grabbed each limb and pulled her down into the ground, her shadow leapt up, stomped hard with both feet until she disappeared, and laughed as it skipped away.

©2018 Joanne Van Leerdam

Flash Friday: Not Safe.

Not Safejpg

 

At 2.39pm, Caroline finally found an opportunity to escape from her desk as nature had been urging her to do for the past hour.

The only cubicle free was the last in the row, where a sign on the door read, “Not safe for use.”

“Don’t care!” she muttered.

She sat, then recoiled, certain something had touched her buttock. Before she could stand, cold fingers took firm hold of her like a bowling ball and pulled her into the bowl.

And the sensor on the auto-flush winked with satisfaction as it surveyed the empty stall with a locked door. Again.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑