For today's #fridayflash piece, I used a writing prompt generated from this website here. The writing prompt is in bold.
The
Substitute
It
was hard to command any sense of gravitas with gravy stains on your shirt.
Of course, it could’ve been worse. I could’ve had onion breath or collard
greens sticking between my teeth. My hand fluttered before my mouth for a quick
breath check. Nope, still minty fresh. I smoothed down my tie. Perhaps the
students wouldn’t notice the stains. Why had I left my coat in the car?
“My name is Charles Fisher, and I’m
substituting for Dr. Roberts today.” My gravelly voice barely made a dent in
their conversation. Thumbs flew over cell phones. A girl laughed, high-pitched
and flirty. Thirty years ago, such a giggle would’ve thrilled me. Now it made
me feel old, sad.
Sweat pooled in my armpits. I
loosened the tie, which felt more like a noose with each passing second. A
spitball splattered against the dry-erase board. My fingers fumbled through Dr.
Roberts’ notes. Their chatter increased as they ignored me. I didn’t blame
them. Who respected a fifty-seven year old grad student? My mouth dried out
before I could even mentally count the number of students. With a sigh, I
slammed the notebook shut and sank upon the stool. My loafer rested upon the
stool’s rung.
“She said you were studying
Descartes’ philosophy.” I stood from the stool and wrote “Cogito ergo sum” on
the board. I might exist, but these students didn’t think I did.
“Does anyone know what this means?”
I waited. “It’s Latin.”
Nothing.
Another spitball flew and dotted the
“I” in “cogito.” If I wasn’t supposed to be teaching them, then I would’ve been
impressed.
“So . . .”
The volume crescendoed, so I
strolled to the desk, grabbed the trash can, and flung it against the wall. It
boomed and rattled delightfully with a metallic clang. The room silenced as
mouths dropped open.
“Does that trash can exist?” I
perched on the desk. Not a single student looked away from me, but none
answered.
“Does it?” Instead of yelling the
words, I spoke softly.
“Y-yes,” a girl answered.
“Prove it.” I crossed my arms,
almost not caring I had gravy on my shirt. After minutes of disrespect, I had
their attention now.
If you like flash fiction and want to try your hand at writing some, don't forget my blogfest coming up on May 21-23. Click here for details and to sign up.
