Another First Day of School
Feel-good flash fiction
Samuel Goleridge—no, his mother swore she never read poetry—sat alone in the cafeteria on the first day of school. As first days went, it wasn’t the worst; it wasn’t the best. He’d been the proverbial “new kid” before, and after a while, you develop a tough shell. Four different districts in three years will do that to just about anyone.
Everything changed when Mr. Morrisey—the geeky math teacher with the pi tie—dropped into the cafeteria, brown paper bag in hand. He scanned the area, large loner indicator glasses pinging off the charts when he spotted the boy from second period.
Mr. Morrisey walked over toward Samuel with confident strides, getting side-eyed by most of the kids who spotted him, while the others sat perplexed, brows furrowed, mouths the shapes of perfect circles, no doubt collectively wondering what the hell he was doing here on this hallowed ground.
“Hey, Sam. Mind if I join you?” Mr. Morrisey asked.
Sam felt his face heat up, his ears turn red. Yet, he replied, “Not at all.”
“Awesome, thanks.” He slid into the seat beside him and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in foil.
All these years later, Sam never forgot that simple act.
He strides toward the cafeteria, adjusts his glasses, and peers in.
The students all look at him like he’s out of his mind. In fairness, he’s wearing his lab coat, and he probably should have shaved his unruly beard down a bit more for the first day of school—but, hell, it’s all good.
He’s here for the kid.
After a torturous twenty seconds, he spots him. Walks toward him, bagged lunch in hand.
“Hey, Marquise…mind if I join you?”
The boy offers a sliver of a smile.
Thank you for reading “Another First Day of School” today. I appreciate it more than you know. If you enjoyed my story, please click the heart icon or consider sharing it with a fellow fiction reader.
Here in New York, we go back to school after Labor Day. Though it always feels late to me, I cherish these final dregs of summer before returning to the routines of the school year. I’m excited, nervous, and everything in between.
There are a few new names and faces on my rosters—kids who had recently moved from out of state or out of district. I’m not as brave as Mr. Morrisey—or Mr. Goleridge himself, for that matter—but I’ll do my part to keep an eye on the Sams and Marquises of the world.
Thank you again for subscribing to Along the Hudson. Your support and encouragement keep my creative tank filled.
Have a wonderful week!
Let’s meet up this Friday, September 6th for some Fifties by the Fire. As always, the thread will go live at 3:00 PM EST. In teacherly fashion, this week we’ll have two options.
Prompt: write a fifty-word story (fiction, CNF, or poetry) about an event at the boathouse OR any summer experience.
Special thanks as always to
for sparking our imaginations.Also, if you’re ever in need of more fiction prompts, check out what
has going on over at , or see what has to offer over at . Two wonderful people with high-quality prompts!Take care.
Sweet story, Justin. It’s funny how life sometimes circles around. I also start back teaching tomorrow (guitar and bass) after taking the summer off. My last year before retirement. 🤓
You did it again, Justin. You made me cry. I am either getting old and over-sentimental OR you managed to find the exact center of my teacher-heart and tweak it. We have three teachers in our family ( now retired) and all of us were dedicated teachers, like the two in your story. We were very aware how a teacher's word or action can encourage and lift a student and change his or her self perception forever. We also understood how one thoughtless or sarcastic word or action could crush their spirit in a lasting way. I miss teaching.