Creative Writing
"Anyone have an idea for a story? Anyone? Come on, I know one of you little geniuses must have something they could contribute!"
The overexcited teacher looked over his dormant class, none contributing a word. It was the first day the substitute had taken over Dr. Royson's Creative Writing class, and he still believed he could pull off an amazing comeback if only
one student would stand out and help him. All were giving him blank stares, as if sleeping with their eyes open.
"Now, I read all of your homework that Dr. Royson left on his desk, and it was amazing the things you kids created; there were magnificent worlds, description beyond comprehension, playing with metaphors, similes, all forms of poetic devices, simply gorgeous writing! Now why won't anyone participate, when you have such talent at your disposal?!?" The skinny Mr. Garfunkle roved his crowd, breathing heavily, his thin mustache swiveling madly upon his thin lip.
Finally a child slowly got up from his chair, and Mr. Garfunkle locked his eyes on her trembling ones. However, instead of speaking, she shuffled past him and picked up the lavatory pass. Shaking slightly, she stumbled into the hallway and out of sight.
Well, then. That was odd. In all my years of teaching I've never met a more, for lack of a better word, pathetic class than this. Mr. Garfunkle was now pacing, muttering to himself, last night's homework stories in hand, wondering what he was to do.
These kids are smart, just eccentric. But how come they just won't talk? They must be shy....surely someone would thank me for such praise! It's been over fifteen minutes! What am I doing wrong? What a day, what a day. Red correction marks glared from the pages of the papers he had now clutched in his pale hand, veins clearly showing through the thin skin.
Suddenly, a brilliant idea surfaced in the substitute's mind. "All right, how about this? I'll read a story at random, and then afterward the class can say what they liked, what they didn't, what they would have changed, all that jazz! Great, this one's by Benny March, called 'Sunny Day in February.'"
Mr. Garfunkle, immediately dove into the story, eyes ablaze, trying to stir up emotion in his pupils, now with backs arched against their chairs, fear showing in some expressions. Forehead sweating, hands shaking, the teacher plowed on, despite the reactions, surely believing that the amazing twist at the end of the story would excite his audience.
With a sensational pound of his fist on his desk, emphasizing the grand climax of the story, the little girl who had left for the bathroom before had returned with a friend, hiding behind her legs when Mr. Garfunkle looked over.
I
'm sorry I'm so late children, but the traffic was very bad this morning- the lady started to sign with her hands as she walked through the door; with a jerk she stopped and looked at the gasping man before her.
"And who are you?!?" Mrs. Graham glanced repeatedly from Mr. Garfunkle, her class, and back, taking everything in.
"I...I'm the substitute teacher for this Creative Writing class for the gifted," he stuttered.
"You must be terribly mistaken! This is my class for the Deaf and Dumb!" The words slipped from her mouth as she looked with comforting eyes at the horrified children glued to their seats, now slowly gaining color at the sight of their savior. She had meant to say "class for those with 'special needs,'" but her astonishment had caused otherwise.
"I...I..." Mr. Garfunkle's mouth was suddenly dry, with a seemingly impossible lack of words. "I've got to go." He swept out of the room in pursuit of the principal's office to find the right classroom, swearing never again to trust his memory to once such a trivial thing as the classroom number. Two wrong rooms in one week were bad enough.