by D. L. Scott
It was the type of smile that you would assume she had been told to do to make students feel more comfortable, but of course that never actually worked on real human beings. She looked down and said “Why are you in here? You’ll never pass my class.” Why was I in there?
Well I had no choice for one. Believe me I thought my time would have been better spent in an additional chorus class, or studying lines for the school musical. She was right of course, I couldn’t pass her class. I didn’t even try. That was one long summer in summer school.
And forget about having an opinion in high school. I remember a new teacher we had my senior year, she couldn’t have been more than five years older than us, and never got the memo that flirting with senior boys was a bit creepy.
I mean I’m sure the boys didn’t mind so much, but it was just gross to watch! Spirited discussions are a great part of the classroom, unless apparently if you insult the top 1%. Then you’re the mean girl targeting the “poor underprivileged rich kids” and you get pulled out of a math class right before a test so you can be told how mean you are.
Or maybe math is the center of my problems.
But can math, high school math at that, really be the epicenter of my fear? No. I knew it was him. The way he would look at me when I entered the office. And the comments he would make. I thought that when it became evident that I was pregnant the comments would stop, but they didn’t.
He was careful of course, nothing overtly sexual so I could complain to Human Resources, just snippets. And the constant degradation! If I made one typo it was a blonde joke. If I didn’t understand something he would scoff and say that of course he didn’t expect me to understand.
He would send me out for personal errands that were clearly not in my job description, and complaining if I had to take time out for an OBGYN visit. The day the fat jokes started was the day I walked out. For some reason it hit me more than everything else. It felt as if he was picking on my child, and my child was off limits.
Quitting a job when you’re eight months pregnant is not the most financially sound decision a person can make, but sometimes enough is enough. I knew I could not go back to a job like that every day. To leave my child in the care of someone else while I was treated like crap for crap pay. Things had to change.
The building was getting closer with each slippery step I took. According to the mini clouds of breath I kept sending back into the atmosphere, it was cold out, but I hardly noticed.
The closer I came to that building the colder my insides grew.
I gazed up at the gothic spiral that cut the darkening evening sky like an ice pick jabbing its way through a block of ice. The sky behind the building was beginning to lapse into the still New England silence that skies adapt all winter.
It wasn’t dark yet, but the dark blue sky was threatening to allow stars to twinkle though any minute.
I tried to cautiously hustle out of the impending darkness and into the building. I made my way to the brick walkway, freshly peppered with hunks of rock salt to ensure a safe journey from the outside to the inside.
At the door a Brother met me and held the door open for me. An honest to goodness Brother of the Church. What do you say to that? God Bless you? Amen?
I hoped a nod and a thank you would suffice as I hurried inside. The foyer was enormous, as the outside suggested. It fit the description of an older religious building, with stone walls, a bust of the Pope of course, a stained glass dome overlooking everything that occurred below it.
The plastic sign broke the illusion and it listed a directory of the building. I rummaged through my bag once again and found the slip of paper I had held onto so closely that it had creases and was showing more wear that it should have. T209.
The sign pointed to the right, so I followed the sign down to the hallway on the right, which was lined with paintings of Saints. I am sure the paintings gave people a feeling of comfort, but they looked down upon me in judgment. Did I really belong here? Maybe there had been some sort of mistake. T201, T202.
My footsteps echoed through the hall as if they were whispering “turn back, turn back.” T203 was a Chapel. “Turn back. Turn back. Turn back.” T206, T207. T208 was a dark office. “Turn back.”
With the final clop of my heel I saw the sign. T209. The door was shut. Was I already late? I glanced at my cell for a lifeline; if I was too late I could turn around and go home. The door opened and a boy in a Giants cap walked out.
“Do you know where the snack machine is?” he asked. I shook my head as I miraculously found my voice.
“No, I’m sorry I don’t.”
“No worries! We still have ten minutes!” he said as he bounded down the hallway. I opened the door and took in the near empty and silent room.
The tables seemed to seat four people and I grabbed one in the middle of the room on the end for a quick getaway if needed. In order to look busy I took out my things and placed them on the table in front of me.
The door opened and a girl walked in, she couldn’t have been more than 25 and her eyes were identical to the ones that stared back at me in the rearview mirror. She took a seat next to me.
“Hi,” she whispered, although there was really no need to do so.
“Hi,” I whispered back.
“I’m so nervous!” She blurted out.
I smiled. “Me too.”
“This is my first time back in a classroom in like ten years,” she admitted.
“Same here!” I exclaimed, apparently forgetting our unspoken mutual decision to whisper.
“Good. I’m not alone,” she said.
“No you’re not,” I said as the fear of the unknown washed away. I looked around the room. There were people my age, people younger, even a couple who looked older. We were all doing virtually the same thing. Doodling, fiddling with our phones, making small talk, straightening our books. Anything at all to keep the monster of fear at bay, for we were all afraid young and old, male or female. But to truly do something worthwhile, to change your life, to take that plunge to go back to school and work on a career and not a job is a scary and wonderful thing.
About the Author
Shannon McLoud has written many plays that have been produced throughout Rhode Island and Texas. A certified Secondary English teacher, Shannon also runs a theatre program for students in preschool through fifth grade where she exercises her love of writing by writing plays for her young divas!
Shannon is also the Creative Director for 3heARTSProductions, a theatre troupe that donates their proceeds to charity. She is immensely proud of the fact that her plays have done their part to make this world a better place. Shannon resides in Rhode Island with her husband, amazing five-year-old son, and their dog and two cats. If you want to hear more about her crazy life, check out her blog at www.shannonmcloud.blogspot.com
The Gift
By C. Lloyd Brill
Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.”
– Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1854-1900)
Sean walked out of his former boss' office and tried to maintain his composure. He wanted to yell and scream and make a scene but he refused. He'd just lost his job but he wouldn't let them take his dignity.
He ran through the afternoon in his mind as he walked to the elevator. Seven million dollars had mysteriously vanished from the accounts of Wizardly Imports, Inc. As one of their biggest clients, managing their money was the fast track to a promotion.
He had no idea how the money had disappeared. He hadn't taken it but he was the only one besides the upper management who had access. As he stepped into the elevator, he saw his former co-workers glancing in his direction while pretending to be reading files or talking on the phone. He hated them all at the moment.
The doors closed and he leaned against the wall as the elevator took him to the parking garage. The only reason he wasn't on his way to jail was because Roger, his rival for promotion, had steppe
d in and explained he'd found the computer glitch and saved the money. Sean knew it was bullshit. He suspected Roger of setting up the entire thing though he had no proof.
He sighed as he stepped out of the elevator and walked to his car. There was nothing he could do about it now; Roger had won. Game over. He cursed and hit the top of his car, unable to control his rage any longer. He wanted to cry. He'd just lost his job over something he should have seen coming. He glanced at the elevator as he considered going back up to the offices to punch Roger.
He sighed and turned away, unlocking the car door. Hitting Roger would accomplish nothing more than getting to spend some time in jail. He had enough problems without adding to them.
He punched a button to bring up the navigation panel. He activated the spell that would take the car home then leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes as he took several deep breaths. He'd have to find another job soon. That wouldn't be easy. He'd be labeled as the man that had almost lost seven million dollars.
With that reputation, no one would hire him. Maybe it was time to get out of the accounting field. He didn't know what else to do though. He'd been an accountant for fifteen years. It was all he knew how to do. He was essentially an accounting wonk.
Twenty minutes later, the car stopped in front of the house. He sat with his eyes closed for a few minutes then threw open the door. The ride home had done little to ease his mood. He surveyed the quiet neighborhood for a moment, unsure what to do with himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been home this early on a week day.
He walked to the mailbox and grabbed the mail, scanning through it as he walked to the house. Bills, bills, and more bills. Perfect. He glanced up as he nearly tripped over a large package near the front door. He stared at it then looked around at the quiet neighborhood. It didn't have postage on it so it couldn't have been delivered with the mail.
He knelt in front of the package, slowly running his hand over it, his curiosity getting the better of him. It was roughly two feet wide and three feet high. It felt heavy as he lifted it. He started to rip open the brown paper wrapping then paused when he saw a small card attached to it. He grabbed the card and read it.
Sean,
Here's a gift to show you there's no hard feelings.
Roger.
Sean scanned the area again then grabbed the package, carrying it inside. He set it by the door then tossed the mail and the card on the small table by the door before walking to the bar in the living room.
He poured a double Scotch and drained it quickly. He refilled the glass and walked back to the front door. He lifted the package and carried it to the dining room table. He set the glass down then ripped the paper from the package, taking a step back as he saw the painting for the first time.
It showed a creature that appeared to be an imp or small demon standing over a sleeping man. The creature had a bloody knife in its hand and the man's throat appeared to be sliced open. Sean stumbled back, his eyes wide with terror.
He bumped the glass of Scotch and watched as it tumbled to the floor, shattering into razor sharp shards of glass. The pooling liquid reflected the painting, the imp’s sharp toothed grin distorting into a grotesque parody of the way it appeared in the painting.
He quickly covered the painting with the torn remnants of the brown wrapping paper before hurrying through the room to grab a broom and dustpan.
He glanced at the painting, and shuddered involuntarily as he knelt and started to pick up the glass shards. He cursed and brought his hand to his lips as one of the shards cut into his finger. He shuddered again as he watched his blood mix with the pooled Scotch.
He quickly finished cleaning up the mess, making an effort to avoid looking at the painting as he carried the dustpan to the trashcan. The painting had unnerved him. Why would Roger give it to him as a gift? He glanced in that direction and shuddered. He vowed to get rid of it in the morning.
Sean poured another Scotch before walking to his study. He sipped the drink as he sat at his desk then set it aside as he turned to his computer to start searching for a new job. He wasn't going to be one of those people who sat around for days or weeks feeling sorry for themselves. He was a good worker and a valuable employee. Someone out there would hire him. He just needed to find that person.
Several hours later, he stretched and glanced at the clock, surprised by how much time had passed. He stretched again then stood up, shutting down the computer before walking to his bedroom. He quickly went through his nightly routine and climbed into bed, ready for the day to be over. He stared at the ceiling as his mind ran through the day’s events. He still couldn’t believe he’d lost his job.
He pushed the thoughts out of his mind then groaned as his mind went back to the painting. He wanted the thing out of his house but he was too drained, both emotionally and physically, to do anything about it at the moment. He closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths as he forced himself to relax.
Sean opened his eyes and looked around the darkened room. Had he heard a noise? He laid quietly in the dark, straining to listen for the noise again. He was about to fall asleep when he heard it again. It sounded like a small ticking sound. It reminded him of a dog’s nails walking across a wood floor. That didn't make sense, though. He didn't have a dog.
He shrugged and closed his eyes again; convinced it had to be a mouse or something. That meant he'd have to get some traps. He added it to his mental list as he tried to get back to sleep.
Sean caught his breath as his eyes flew open yet again. He felt something crawl on him. He raised himself up on his elbows, gasping as he blinked and tried to understand what he saw. It looked like the imp from the painting was crawling across the bed toward him. That was impossible!
He called for the lights and they flared to life. He winced at the sudden brightness throwing his arm up to shield his eyes. A moment later he cried out as a sharp pain lanced through his arm. He blinked his eyes open and gasped. The imp had cut him!
He pushed the creature away and jumped off the bed. There were spells available that would banish the creature but he didn't have one. You could buy them at every corner store in the city but he'd never needed one.
Until now.
He turned slowly and scanned the room, looking for the monster as he tried to remember what else would get rid of such a creature. He heard a high pitched laugh and turned to face the door. The creature stood there, blocking the door, approaching slowly. How the hell had it gotten behind him?
Sean ran to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He hurried across the room to the adjoining bedroom and shut that door as well. He had to get to his study. Maybe he could find something there to handle the imp.
He walked to the hall door and looked around. He didn't see the creature. He took a deep breath then dashed out of the room and down the hall. He turned the corner to get to his study putting his hands up as he crashed to the floor.
He turned his head to see the imp standing beside him. He didn't have time to wonder how the thing kept getting in his way because it was swinging the knife at him again. He rolled to the side and winced at the sting as the blade grazed his skin. It was a small knife but it still hurt like hell.
He looked around and rolled again, trying to get to the fireplace. Sean saw the imp running at him so he lunged for the poker. His hand closed over it as he cried out again, the blade digging into his leg.
He turned and swung the poker, cursing as he saw the imp jump back out of range. He sat up, holding the poker in front of him as he looked around the room. He kept the creature in sight and swung the poker when it got close. There had to be a way out of this. Sitting there with the poker was no solution. He'd eventually get tired and the imp would keep coming. He closed his eyes for a moment as he tried to think.
What had they taught in school about imps? He cried out and opened his eyes. The imp had stabbed him again. If he didn't end this soon he'd lose too much blood to keep fighting.
He continued scanning the room. His gaze fell on the painting. It was a blank canvas. It was true. The imp had come from the painting. Sean turned to look at the creature again, his eyes widening as the thing came flying through the air.
He ducked and swung the poker again as he rolled, wincing at the pain in his leg. He crawled away, doing his best to stay focused as the blood loss started to take a toll on his body. Maybe he could destroy the painting. He didn't know if it would work but he had to try. He looked behind him and weakly kicked out at the imp, trying to keep it away from him.
He was exhausted and in pain. He wasn't going to make it. His breathing became labored, his vision blurred. He dropped the poker and reached for the painting, straining to get his tired muscles to cooperate. He pulled it to the floor and held it up. He needed to find a way to destroy it.
He glanced at the creature again and knew it was now or never. He scooted backward, trying to get to the kitchen, hoping he could get there in time to get one of the knives.
He saw the creature jump and fly through the air toward him. He was too late. The thing had him. Out of desperation, he closed his eyes and held the painting in front of him, knowing it was worthless as a shield.
He saw a bright flash of light through his eyelids and felt the painting get hot in his hands. He tossed it aside, crawling backward as he opened his eyes and looked around. He didn't see the imp. He put his back to the wall and tried to see where the creature had gone but the darkness held too many hiding places for the imp. He called for the lights, waiting for his eyes to adjust before scanning the room. He felt his breath catch in his throat. The painting was restored. The imp was inside it again, as it had been when he'd first seen it.
Sean pushed himself to his feet, fighting through a wave of dizziness. He stumbled forward and grabbed the painting, carrying it into the living room. He called for a fire and the spell immediately activated in the fireplace. He looked at the painting again then tossed it into the flames. He watched it burn then sank to his knees. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was over.
