This latest blog comes your way in the form of a short-story I wrote for fun. I had just finished (after seven revisions) a short-story for the CBC Short-Story competition here in Canada (I can't name it - competition rules I'm afraid) and then sat down and lo and behold this one came out. It maybe a bit controversial for some tastes, but let me know what you think. So, now I've written two short-stories, something I'd never done before and really enjoyed doing them and think I will do more. ANyway, here it is:
Sandy
There were twenty eight of us, little children of seven and eight years old, in our class. Being born in July, I was at the younger end of the spectrum and we sat concentrating, sucking at pencils at our twin desks side-by-side in our classroom, each of us trying our best with the simple arithmetic of adding and subtraction we had been given to try our hands at by our teacher, Miss Turnbell. I really liked Miss Turnbell; she wasn’t strict or shouty but was always there to help us if we got stuck. She was also very pretty and I wanted to marry her one day.
On my twinned desk I sat next to a girl, which was quite unusual as boys normally sat next to other boys and girls next to girls. I don’t remember how I had ended up next to a girl, but I didn’t mind because she was quite nice really, for a girl. Her name was Sandy and she let me copy when I was stuck sometimes. She was very clever. That’s why I liked her, that and when we had to file out of the classroom in pairs hand in hand for assembly she always took mine. We were, unusually, the best of friends.
As I concentrated hard on my sums I heard the first gun shots and my hard won concentration was shattered. I didn’t know what they were at first, maybe balloons bursting, but when I looked up at Miss Turnbell I kind of knew it wasn’t balloons. Her face seemed to immediately drain of colour and her eyes went to the classroom door before she jumped up and skipped across and gingerly cracked it open. She peered out down the corridor and there were more pops, louder now because the door was open a fraction. I heard her gasp, turn and slam the door shut crying out, “Oh my God!” She had seen another teacher Mr. Appleby and the school secretary, Mrs. Dawson, shot dead by someone striding purposefully down the corridor in our direction.
The mood in the classroom had suddenly plunged and I was getting scared now, though of what I wasn’t quite sure. Glancing around it was obvious from the look on other young faces that I wasn’t the only one. A few of the girls and a couple of the boys started to snivel. Miss Turnbell looked around frantically, as if searching for somewhere to hide or escape to, but we were on the second floor so the windows were useless and there weren’t any other doors. She told us to pack as tightly as we could, like tin soldiers, into the corner furthest from the door, which we did as best and quickly as we could. With us all crammed together she started to push the desks in front of us to form, in her mind, a sort of barricade, but despite her valiant efforts there were only so many desks she could move on her own, especially as she herself was now crying. Her tears caused more of the children to cry and shriek as well, which she tried, without much luck, to shush.
Before she could move even half of the desks the classroom door burst open and a man stood and looked around. He had what looked like a rifle in one hand and a pistol in the other. When I looked at him I didn’t see a man though, I saw a grown-up kid of maybe sixteen or seventeen who looked just as scared and deranged as most of us.
She told us to get down and lie on the floor and turned to him with defiant, hating eyes. As the only adult in the room at the still tender age of 24, Miss Turnbell stood immovably and protectively like a petrified rock in front of the shifted desks and her flock, as if to say he’d have to shoot her first. Facing the gunman with all her courage she started to speak, which he answered with a devil’s grin and a spray of bullets from the automatic rifle - rat-a-tat-tat - above our heads into the walls. Chunks of crumbled plaster rained down on our heads causing some of us to cough and retch from the dust. It was followed by an unnatural silence and Sandy, still next to me clasping my hand, squeezed tighter as we lay there thinking of the worst.
I was now convinced that this was the end and I began shaking uncontrollably in terror, while some of my friend’s bladders could not be contained and small, pungent puddles formed around us. Nobody complained.
I heard Miss Turnbell bravely try again. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but what you are doing is wrong, plain wrong. These are innocent little children who have done no harm to anyone. Why don’t you put the guns down and let me get somebody to help you. It would be for the best.”
He told her to shut-up and sit down on the floor. She had no choice but kept pleading, “Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t,” over and over again.
I saw him grab Miss Turnbell by the hair, hurl a chair from behind her desk and throw it in front of her. “Here, have your chair, you don’t look right on the floor. You can have a ringside seat.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I haven’t made my mind up yet.”
Outside I could hear people running. They were the steps of panicked grown-ups mixed with frightened, bemused children. Eerily, there were no voices.
After a few moments, which seemed like hours, the desperado sidled sideways towards the door keeping the pistol pointing in our direction. I saw him open the door and step outside unleashing a hail of bullets from the automatic down the corridor where I guessed people were running to escape. There was a cacophony of heartrending screams followed by silence and some moaning. He then stepped agitatedly back into our room slamming the door, not too politely, behind him and everybody jumped.
I don’t know what death smells like but I thought that I smelt it in the air all around.
The mad kid perched himself on the front of Miss Turnbell’s desk at the front of the room which actually really annoyed me. How dare he disrespect her desk? I thought he was going to get into real trouble now. This is what little kids think.
Through my squinting eyes I watched him as he wondered what he planned to do next. He sat quietly for a while, placed the automatic rifle on the desktop and juggled the pistol in his hand, gazing around at the paintings Miss Turnbell had stuck up on the walls. We had just done some for the current season of Fall. They were full of the yellows and browns of falling autumn leaves with bright blue skies and golden suns above. They were promises of heaven on earth.
He pointed at one that had caught his eye, “Which of you did that one?”
As we were all lying on the floor we couldn’t see which one he meant so nobody said a word. Not understanding our incapacity he asked again. “Come on speak up, which one of you did it? The one with the tweety birds on it.”
Not getting any response again, he turned on Miss Turnbell, hissing menacingly, “Maybe you can tell me pretty miss teacher.”
“I…I…I can’t remember. Look you’re terrifying the children. It’s time to stop your silly games. It’s not fair.”
“Not fair? I’ll say what is and isn’t fair, pretty miss teacher. I’ll tell you when it’s your turn. If you don’t tell me who painted the picture I’ll…”
Miss Turnbell’s voice quavered, “You’ll what?”
At this he stood up and looked at us, eyes flitting. “Let me see…you…the little girl in the red dress.”
There were about five girls with red dresses in my class so I didn’t know who he meant.
“You at the front, with the blond hair.”
I heard Jenny’s voice pipe up. “M…m…me?”
“Yes you. Stand up.”
Jenny stood up, wiping away her tears with a sleeve.
“Can you come out from behind the desks please? That’s right. Come over here.”
I couldn’t see very much from where I was lying but I saw her brown shoes and white socks shuffle towards him.
“Good girl. What’s your name?”
“Jenny.”
“Ah, Jenny. Did you paint that picture?”
“No. That was…erm…I can’t remember.”
I heard him say, “That’s a pity,” followed by a bang and the soft thud of Jenny’s slight body hitting the floor. Everybody gasped.
Miss Turnbell screamed, “STOP IT! STOP IT! YOU’RE MAD!” His response was to pistol whip her across the face breaking her nose and she yelped.
Next to me Sally squealed, Jenny was her friend, and I was going to marry Miss Turnbell. I was getting cross.
“I’m going ask again. Which of you painted the picture with the tweety birds on it?”
After what had just happened to Jenny we were all watching him beyond belief, but once again everybody was too terrified to answer. Those who hadn’t wet their pants, did now.
He sighed a deep sigh, indicating his impatience.
“Alright, if you’re all such scaredy cats let’s speed this thing up.” He stood before us again. “You, you, you and you.”
Slowly, four girls stood up and were commanded to walk out of our huddled collection. Little kids are used to doing what they are told, so they did. When they were out he got them to stand by the wall asking each of them in turn whether the painting was theirs. They all answered no, calling for Mummy and Daddy, followed immediately by a bang and a thud except the last voice, which I recognized as Kellyanne’s that said yes. She was lying, but what else was she going to say? She hoped it was the right answer.
It was a lie to no avail. “I don’t believe you.” Bang, thud.
This ritual continued in groups of four and I realized that he was only killing the girls. It didn’t give me any comfort though. After each round of killing Miss Turnbell screamed and was now, not surprisingly, crying hysterically. “My babies…my babies…” and “you monster…you monster.”
He just grinned.
The next batch was now being selected, the first of which was Sandy who screamed so loud in my ear my head rung. I didn’t hesitate. Not knowing what I was doing I told her to stay down and leapt to my feet, not caring what might happen I scrambled across the desk tops until I was stood in front of him and looked up, daring him to shoot me. I didn’t care.
“What do you think you’re…”
Miss Turnbell seeing he was at last distracted launched herself head first, like a human torpedo, from her chair knocking him backwards as I grabbed the arm with the execution pistol and bit the hand as hard as a Rottweiler until he dropped it. Filled with strength and rage Miss Turnbell was too much for the scrawny teenager and soon had him pinned to the floor. She was quickly joined by the surviving fifteen kids. He wasn’t going anywhere fast.
Miss Turnbell swiveled her bloody, damaged face to me and screamed, “Go and get help Billy. Run, run as fast as the wind!”
I did and found the school swarming with cops. I splurted out what had happened and they followed me back to the classroom in double quick time where three of them relieved the lightweight champion of the world, Miss Turnbell, and her helpers of their captive.
The classroom was soon flooded with horrified policemen and paramedics hoping to find anybody still living amongst the bloody little girl bodies scattered in a heap on the floor by the wall splattered with blood and juvenile brains. For some of even the most hardened policemen the sight was too much and they were physically ill on the spot. I refused to look.
Of the twenty-nine, including Miss Turnbell, of us who began the day in that classroom there were sixteen of us alive at its end. Luckily for me and Sandy that included us.
We survivors were escorted out of the school by another corridor and exit from the one where he’d shot and killed earlier which our ears had heard. It was still littered with bodies and was a disaster area. The kind people led us into the arms of distraught parents who on hearing the news had scrambled to the scene fearing the worst. For some the worst was fact and mother’s wailed uncontrollably. Father’s weren’t sure what noises to make. Understandably, those parents with better news, including mine, the relief were tinged with a hard to fathom guilt and a question they could never answer. Why?
But I was still a kid and after having the life hugged out of me I spotted Sandy being similarly loved by her mother and father and took mine over to them, Mr. and Mrs. Huck. They all hugged each other, there was going to be a lot of hugging going on for quite a while I thought, and while I pondered this Sandy said thank you, pulling me into an unexpected hug of our own before giving me the first girl kiss of my life. I’m sure I went the colour of beetroot and decided I was not going to marry Miss Turnbell, though I loved her more than ever, despite her damaged nose, but I was going to marry Sandy Huck and nobody, including a mad kid, was ever going to stop me. She would always be the one for me.