I took a writing prompt from my book Writing Magic and wrote a short story. The prompt was to write a short story by starting it with the sentence, "Ms. Fleming's wig had gone missing."
Ms. Fleming’s wig had gone missing. And whoever stole her wig was going to get an earful of her shouting and a noseful of her bad breath.
Ms. Fleming is an old pain in the neck. She has eyes like an eagle and a nose in the shape of a hawk’s beak. Her head looks too big for her body and her accessories look like costume jewelry. She’s too skinny and when she puts her high heels on, she’s almost painfully tall. Her makeup is cheap and she uses too much of it and when she’s not wearing a blindingly vibrant dress, she’s wearing a floral shirt and plaid pants or polka dots and stripes.
She’ll come into class each day with the day’s newspaper and a cup of coffee. She’ll sit down at her desk and tell us to read chapter five and complete the worksheet. Then she puts her high heeled feet up on the desk and open up the newspaper.
After recess, all the kids in my class went inside and waited for Ms. Fleming. She must’ve gone to the teachers’ lounge. I was the last kid inside and I immediately noticed that her prized, snow-white wig wasn’t sitting on her desk as it usually was after recess.
Ms. Fleming entered the room. Her hair was short and very gray; where as her wig was white and elegant. She gasped and pointed a stubby finger at the desk. Her huge, black eyes widened, making her look like one of those stuffed animals with eyes the size of ping-pong balls.
“Who-what-I!” she stuttered.
Her nostrils flared and she looked at each and every student, her eyes sweeping the room. I suddenly felt very hot and nervous.
“I demand to know who did this!” She screeched.
The class was silent. I sat very still and tried not to blink.
Her stomach rose and fell very fast.
She started to march back in forth in front of the class, as if doing this would make her look bigger, scarier.
It was so quiet, you would be able to hear a pin drop to the floor.
Ms. Fleming’s mouth curved slowly into a smile; no, a sneer.
“Well, then. Your parents won’t be very happy to hear that you’ve all earned detention!”
“What?” Alexis Sparks burst out from the front of the classroom.
“But that’s not fair!” Added Jordan Jones, who was busy loading a spitball into a straw.
“Oh, it’s fair!” Ms. Fleming’s eyes were widened in joy and her smile was evil. She looked like she had gone mad. “And from now on, for the rest of the month, you will have detention!”
“But-!” Samantha Smith started.
“Two months of detention!” Ms. Fleming raised a shaking finger. “Want to make it three?”
The entire class started yelling protests and Ms. Fleming started yelling back. I tried to block out the noise by humming to myself when I noticed something white on the ceiling. It was Ms. Fleming’s wig! Someone had glued it there. The wig fell onto Ms. Fleming’s head. But she was too busy yelling to notice. The class, though, stopped and stared at her head.
“Ms. Fleming,” I said cautiously, raising my hand. “Your wig is on your head.”
Ms. Fleming stopped and cocked her head slightly, causing the wig to look very lopsided.
“How’s that?” She looked confused.
“Your wig is on your head.”
She patted her head and the wig fell into place. She kept feeling the wig and a look of utter bewilderment fell upon her face.
“I must be going senile,” she muttered.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
I am an 18-year-old homeschooler, author, daydreamer, voracious reader, introvert, feminist, klutz, fangirl, and overuser of tape. I love the impossible (which might explain my obsessions with fantasy novels and Harry Potter) but I dip into the real world . . . occasionally. I tend to get overly emotional over my OTPs and eat sushi or listen to Taylor Swift to soothe the pain. If all else fails, reruns of “Doctor Who” or “Supernatural” is sure to help. I’m a big fan of mismatched socks, Cheez-Its, and bittersweet endings. I believe anything Rainbow Rowell, Felicia Day, or Lin-Manuel Miranda touches turns to gold. If you want to win the way to my heart, help me adopt a baby elephant. Or a llama. Or both. I write to survive and will often yell at my characters if they aren’t behaving, which is always. It doesn’t usually help. I am a contributor to the "Fauxpocalypse" anthology. You can follow me on Twitter at @Magic_Violinist.