Magical Realism Again

Oh my God, I actually have comments!  Thank you!  They buoyed my spirits so much I found another piece to post.  It's from that same magical realism assignment that inspired Dinner Special.  You see, when the class brought in their assignments, apparently a lot of them didn't quite grasp what "magical realism" was because half of them brought in short stories about witches and ogres and stuff.  I guess a lot of them thought they were just supposed to write fantasy.
So anyway, our teacher made us redo the assignment.  She said we could either write a completely new piece or fix up our other piece.  I didn't particularly feel like fixing up Dinner Special (after all, it was already magical realism).  So instead I wrote a new piece.  This is it.

 

A Day in and above Mrs. Gleisner’s Classroom

            Timmy was not happy when Mrs. Gleisner, his third grade teacher so old she coughed up dust, told them to write a short story.

            “About anything you want,” she said when Priscilla Martin primly raised her hand and asked what the topic should be.  “Let inspiration come to you.”

            The class knew what this meant: Mrs. Gleisner had lost the day’s lesson plan again.  That was the sixth day that month.

            It’s not that Timmy didn’t like to write, but there were only so many times for inspiration to hit a third grader, and Timmy was afraid he had already used his up.  He’d written about tribal civilizations living in the hair of Jordan Wakowski, who sat in front of him.  He’d written about the adventures of Patty the goldfish, who occupied the aquarium at the back of the room under the model of the planets.  He’d written about globes, digestive systems, the Pledge of Allegiance, the state capitals, and just about everything else of which the room reminded him.  Timmy was out of ideas and the room was no longer giving him any.

            There was only one thing left to do.

            Timmy, observing that Mrs. Gleisner was deeply submerged in the latest issue of Astrology Tomorrow and thus unlikely to resurface any time soon, cautiously retrieved a crowbar from under his desk.

            No one had noticed him.  So far so good.

            He faintly tapped the bar on the linoleum floor and inserted it in the seam.  After surveying the room once more, Timmy popped the tile up to reveal packed dirt.

            By now Timmy had attracted the attention of Matthew Bailey, who silently mouthed, “Don’t do it.”  But Timmy was determined to have his inspiration.

            He reached inside his jacket for a single seed and planted it in the earth.  A plant needed water, so he swiped Catherine Bryant’s water bottle and poured it on the dirt.  Now the entire class was watching his every move in shades of amusement and disapproval.  Priscilla, her delicate blue eyes looking wholeheartedly scandalized, waved her hand frantically to get Mrs. Gleisner’s attention, but Mrs. Gleisner, probably looking up her lucky numbers for the day, was the only one not watching the in-class gardening, and Priscilla—ever so proper—would never thinking of speaking out of turn.

            Now all Timmy had to do was wait.

            At first it was just a little green “pop.”  Then it grew to the size of a popsicle stick.  Next a single leaf sprouted and the entire plant drooped under this unexpected weight.

            Then it burst up.  Higher and higher.  There was a “wrrch” as the plant fought against the linoleum tiles before finally sending them to all corners of the room.  Leaves shot out.  An offshoot entwined itself with Billy Gordon’s desk, causing Billy to crash into a hyperventilating Cindy Wagner.  The students screamed, the teacher looked up from her horoscope, and Timmy jumped onto the plant.

            They erupted through the upstairs 5^th grade classroom, scattering science projects in their wake and on they went, higher and higher.  Another crash of plaster and there they were, Timmy and his plant, in the beautiful blue sky.  He could see the 2^nd graders playing foursquare down on the blacktop and—no, not any more.  They were too small.

            Timmy stroked his plant firmly and it stopped growing.  From this vantage point he could make out all of Milford, from the post office to the train station.  He could see everything.  Everything, that is, except the people.  That wouldn’t do.

            He slid a little bit down the trunk, the leaves instinctively pressing against him to ensure he didn’t fall.  That was better.  Now he could make out people.

            Mrs. Greene was sunning herself in her backyard.  Timmy didn’t think that would be appropriate to write about.  The mailman was talking to Ms. Schmidt.  That wasn’t very interesting.  All the two of them ever talked about were their hip problems.

            That was better!  Mr. Wilkinson was fishing in the Milford pond.  That was something Timmy could write about!

            Timmy slid down the remainder of the plant, past baking soda volcanoes, electric potatoes, and cheering 5^th graders, who were evidently happy that their science presentations had been interrupted, and back into Mrs. Gleisner’s classroom.  Mrs. Gleisner had settled back into her astrology magazine so Timmy was free to return to his writing assignment.  Pretty soon, at least according to Timmy, Mr. Wilkinson had snagged a lost narwhale, which reacted to hook with such frenzy that it pulled poor Mr. Wilkinson straight to Barbados, wherever that was.

            The next day Timmy received an A for the assignment and a bill for the damage he’d caused.