Short Story: This is How it Ends

"What's that you're working on? It looks like a test."

Sarah paused before responding. The whole point of having a pile of essays to mark was to avoid talking to anyone on the flight. And, to make things worse, the chatterbox was unperturbed by the aisle space between them.

Short short story: The Heat in the Kitchen

Monsieur Reynard surveyed his kitchen: rows of novices had paid twenty thousand Euros each to learn the art of French cooking from him. They eyed him, sweating in their whites, as he allowed the silence to swell like a soufflé. At his elbow, his assistant, Jacqueline, waited for his signal. Perhaps one of these scullery maids could come within striking distance of her talents – and even that was still far removed from his own brilliance, though he said so himself.

“You will find, on your benches...” He enjoyed the theatricality of pausing during instructions. “...the tools you need. You have three minutes to separate a dozen eggs.”

The novices sprang into action. He stalked between the benches. At least some of them had been practising. Except the runt at the end of the second row, who was flaking egg shell into the egg white.

“How difficult can it be to separate eggs?” The announcement brought the frenzy to a halt. The novice quivered.

“Have you not understood the basic techniques, boy?”

“Monsieur Reynard, perhaps if you would demonstrate to Pierre how he can improve?” He had almost forgotten about Jacqueline.

“I will not demonstrate! This is basic work. Any cook worth their salt can separate an egg.”

“Agreed, Monsieur, but since some are not used to separating with only their hands and the shell, perhaps you could give some pointers?”

“Jacqueline, they are separating eggs! Not deconstructing the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling!” There was a titter. Jacqueline took his arm and steered him towards the door.

“Monsieur, you must remember these are novices. They came to learn from you – the Master. Teach them.”

He balled his fists. With a sniff, he turned to the room. “Let’s begin again. Step by step this time.”

Short Story Sunday: Crossing Mrs Hardy

I dreaded speaking to Mrs Hardy. She never seemed to be able to look at any of my ideas without lacerating it with her red pen and telling me what she would have done or what she would have liked to see. There was so much riding on this writing project – my hopes for getting into Oxford depended on her approval. It was an open secret that because her son was the head of the faculty, he took all recommendations from her seriously. So far, I had failed to impress her. She didn’t like me. I had no idea why. I tried everything: handing in drafts for her to proof, asking for extra reading homework, volunteering as a peer tutor. Nothing seemed to change her opinion of me. She’d just look at me over the top of her spectacles with that smarmy expression at the corners of her mouth while she decimated yet another of my attempts.

“Ma’am? I have a question about our assignment.”

She was erasing poetry analysis from the whiteboard. “Speak.”

I looked at her back. “I have an idea I wanted to discuss with you. For question three? I’m thinking of submitting an essay on horses in World War I.”

Her erasing complete, she turned, her eyes on her desk. “Go on.” She began stacking papers and neatening the piles of books.

“I think I’d like to look at the equestrian side of war, ma’am. Ten million horses died and I wonder how the war would have been different without them.”

“What a pointless essay topic. If they didn’t use horses then it probably would’ve been oxen, mules or donkeys. Have you given this any thought at all, Eliza?”

She never looked at me. Not once. Bitch. “Ma’am, I think it would make for an interesting...”
“You keep saying ‘I think’, but there’s little evidence to support that. Honestly, you overestimate your chances of being a success in life unless you start.”

I began to shake and felt my nails piercing the leather of my binder. “With all due respect, I think you are wrong.”

That did it. She looked up, her stacked tyre neck tinged red.

“Might I remind you that my status in this school and in the intellectual community at large suggests otherwise?” Froth gathered on her lip.

“Yes, because you bully them.” The words were out before I could stop myself. “You’re not brilliant and people are too afraid to tell you so. You squash dreams and limit potential so that you can keep telling yourself that you’re the best.” Sweat gathered along my hairline and I was sure my binder looked as though it’d been scratched by a werewolf.

Two hard lines appeared in the tyre neck. “You insolent child. Who do you think you are to insult me? You’ve been alive for five minutes and suddenly you’re an expert on what makes good writing.” She shook her head at me. “You have no say here. Get out and come back with an apology and a better topic.”

“No. This topic is the one I want.”

She reached for a pile of papers on her desk and fanned through them before retrieving one. “‘Dear Mr Hardy’ – that’s the name of the faculty head at Oxford – ‘I should like to bring to your attention the application of Miss Eliza Frostrup. Miss Frostrup is, in my opinion, an excellent candidate for Oxford...’” She paused to see my reaction and then crumpled up the letter. The paper fell into her wastebasket along with my dreams.

“Come back with an apology and another topic.”