Presidential Bombshell [FICTION]

Sweaty palms grip the my podium as my opponent steps to the podium to my left. The guidance counselor assured me that serving as the president of my class would give my transcripts that extra nudge to catch the eye of college recruiters, so here I sit waiting for my chance to convince the sophomore class that I should represent them in our junior year. I really don’t want the gig. My nervousness stems from the antics of my opponent. Inspired by one too many political campaigns, he announced to the whole school that he will be dropping a bombshell during the first debate—a bombshell about me. I have no idea what it could be, so I have a feeling he has made up something truly unthinkable, but will it be believable?

The principal opens the debate with brief introductions of the candidates. She reads the bios we submitted when we chose to run for office and adds our GPAs for extra measure. I have a feeling that information would only matter if the teachers were voting. But even the teachers don’t look interested. They continue to look blankly into space, wishing for this to be over. Or waiting for the promised bit of gossip?

Even I am beginning to lose interest in the answers and banter that my opponent and I exchange as we try to convince anyone who is still listening that one of us is more worthy to be president than the other. Then it happens. My opponent’s nose wrinkles as he offers me a half smile. He clears his throat and leans into the podium so his lips hover inches from the microphone.

“I know you all just want us to finish up, so you can be anywhere but here.” He pauses to watch every head in the room nod in agreement. “I also know that making the decision on who will be the class president seems like one that means nothing, but it does mean something. And that is why I have to tell you the truth about my opponent. She doesn’t even want to be your president. She roots for the Indians.”

The room erupts in howls of disapproval. The Indians have been our school’s rival since time immemorial. Even though I know his statement to be false, I dislike myself quite a bit at this moment, too. I clear my throat and tap the microphone. No one can hear my assertions of innocent and school spirit over the vitriol spewed forth so freely. 

Guess who reported for duty as the president of the junior class the next year?

~~Lies hurt, friends. Lies hurt.~~

Lazt Day

‘Last day. Last day.’

I sing this happy song deep down in my heart. The whole summer unfolds in my imagination. Days of sun and surf and late nights filled with bonfires and s’mores. I spin the dial on my locker one last time and stuff loose papers and thin notebooks into my backpack. As I pull the zipper over the memories, I notice hurried footsteps clicking toward me.

“Come with me. Now!” My best friend grabs my hand and pulls me toward the cafeteria. “If you don’t come now, people will die.”

I grunt in response, following in her wake as my bag bangs against my back. She doesn’t stop running until we reach the cafeteria’s double doors. I give her a questioning look as I realize the doors are closed. I have only seen them closed once—during a tornado drill.

“What’s going on?” I gasp for air.

“Just look.” She hisses and tilts her head toward the skinny window in the heavy wooden door.

I take a step forward and peer through the smudged glass. I gasp again. On the other side of the glass, two of my classmates lurch between long rows of tables, tripping over chairs. Through the large glass windows on the opposite side of the cafeteria, the remainder of the school watches anxiously.

“Really?” I mutter.

“They must not have known you were here.” My best friend pats me on the back.

“I don’t think zombies know much of anything.” I glance down the hall before pulling off my jeans and t-shirt to reveal a spandex outfit featuring a large Z in a circle bisected by lightning. 

As I slip a mask out of my bag and over my face, my friend grins. “Zombinator to the rescue.”

“I never agreed to that name.” I mutter as I reach into my bag, producing two stakes.

“But I did.” She winks and opens one of the doors for me.

The zombies turn toward the squeal of poorly tended hinges. One tilts its head to the left and surveys me with milky eyes. The other lurches toward me, opening its mouth to release undefinable gibberish. 

Someone in the crowd of onlookers whispers, “Zombinator.”

I clench my jaw and step forward, trying to ignore the awed echo of the ridiculous moniker as the zombies hungrily shuffle toward me, slowing raising their arms. “Arrghhh.”

“Sorry, guys,” I mutter, raising my stakes and darting forward. “No meals for you.”

I drive one stake home in the eye of the zombie to my left. The second slips lower and I shudder as it slams into an open mouth, pouring gore onto my hand. As I try to hold down my lunch, a roar of approval erupts from the other side of the glass. A door opens and the bravest of the curious step forward for a closer look at the now inert zombies at my feet. I turn and disappear through the double doors, where my best friend greets me.

“You did it again.”

“And I need to wash my hands.” I hold them up. “Again.”

We race toward the bathroom. Halfway there, I note with relief that my backpack rests on her shoulder.

“And it is time to go back to being a normal, dull girl.” She notices me eying my backpack. “Don’t worry. I know you need your change of clothes.”

“Indeed. Being a super zombie killer would be even harder if people knew who I am.”

She nods agreement as we slip into the bathroom for a quick change before joining the rest of our classmates to gape at the vanquished zombies.

“Did you see that?” One of many voices breaks through the chaos to reach my ears.

“Wow. The Zombinator took out both of them in one smooth move.”

“She is so cool. That’s how we know she doesn’t go to this school.”

I throw out a few comments of my own, but they get lost in the general chatter as I mentally prepare myself for a busy summer with more zombies than sunshine. I find myself scanning the throng around me, fighting back a chill as I wonder how many of them I will meet under unpleasant circumstances before fall arrives.

~~~

When I was a kid, the last day of school was usually at the beginning of June, so I thought this an appropriate choice to enliven the first Friday of June. Hope you are all staying well and taking care of yourselves. Feel free to leave some love...

Write in a Forward Direction

A new year brings new goals, or, for most of us, a renewal of old goals and rebirth of old dreams. My writing has continued to suffer serious neglect over the past year, despite intentions to bring it back to the top of the list. I signed up for Camp National Novel Writing Month in July and wrote a four word title to my piece. Then life happened and the idea behind it has long since melted back into the folds of my brain. In November, I signed up for National Novel Writing Month with only a little more success. I eked out 10,000 words between morning sickness, caring for a sick toddler, Thanksgiving festivities, and the other excitement life threw at me. 

So with so many obstacles, why do I still pursue the allure of words strung together? One of my earliest memories is following my brother around, asking him to help me spell out words. I was about three and I wanted to communicate with those around me through the written word already. As I grew older, I learned to read. I loved making new friends inside the pages of books. I explored the pages of every tome that fell into my hands. I even borrowed reading textbooks from my older brothers. Then I discovered that I could write my own stories. I could send my toys to far off lands with my words. I could explore unknown kingdoms and make even more friends, as unique and interesting as I needed them to be. My early attempts amuse me when I unearth yellowed pages with my youthful scrawl, but some of my later efforts have brought smiles and laughs, so I shouldn’t give up. Should I? 

What lies ahead for my writing? I’ve resolved to make a real effort to balance my time better in the upcoming year. I want to spend time with my family and fulfill my callings at church, but I don’t want to lose the inherent abilities that I have, especially the writer inside who sometimes begs me to jot down lines of poetry or breathe life into a character who dances through my mind. So the upcoming year should see more posts for your reading pleasure and hopefully the completion of at least one of my half-started tales. Feel free to offer moral support, particularly if a piece touches your heart, makes you laugh, or stirs your imagination.