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Short story: <i>Last Day Of School</i>

She walked towards the table in the middle of the classroom where the plastic time capsule lay open, like a treasure trove of memorabilia for the kids to open at their tenth reunion.

They’d all been asked to choose something that represented them, their presence in the school, a part of their sixteen year old soul to be captured and sealed in the flush of their youth and excitement and remain that way, forever, while the rest of their bodies and souls aged and sank and everybody in the class, bar her, had obliged.

She walked slowly, and as she moved awkwardly between the desks they all stopped, those flushed sixteen year old beauties and cocky eyed boys, and watched her.

They wondered. It was too late for recourse, for apologies, for recriminations. They wondered what she would put in the capsule, what would represent the piece of her soul for all time.

She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out something small. She dropped it in the box, casually, and wiped her hands on the front of her skirt. Then she turned and ambled out of the room, not looking at anyone.

On top of the love notes and silk scarves and lipstick kissed postcards and dolls and figurines was a dead bird, a robin, with stiff feet and a broken neck.

This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were: oblige, robin, recourse, capsule, and table.

Image courtesy of Ben Werdmuller.

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