Preview of the short story

So, I kept talking about posting my short story on here. Well, truth is my addiction has gotten the better of me and I have yet to actually type the entirely handwritten story. Ideally, I wanted to type the entire story and proofread the piece when I was done. I may still but I wanted to keep the blog somewhat updated every now and again so I had to put something. So now, is the first part of my short story. This is the first two pages. It is a work in progress as anyone can tell because I haven't bestowed a title for this work. Please be sure to leave lots of comments and expect the next part in some time. Enjoy...

"Untitled Short Story”

By Chris Walker

Matt couldn’t carry a beat. Well, for the first two seconds the sound resonated mirroring a simple tune, but shortly thereafter the minute song would fall to shambles. This did not deter Matt from drumming aggressively on his steering wheel while awaiting his coffee and bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit in the drive-thru. Matt was always a late sleeper and never much of a morning person. He couldn’t even be described as remotely awake until the engine of his royal blue 2002 Subaru was on and his Radiohead CD streamed out of the speakers.

Matt dressed appropriately for his job, a long-sleeved button-up shirt with matching tie. Khakis adorned his legs covering dress socks inside of dress shoes. This was professional attire for a substitute teacher. He loved his job – well enjoyed would be more accurate. In fact, whenever someone asked Matt about his career-choice he replied every time by saying, “I can’t complain.” Matt thought he received more joy from his job than most, and he would be correct. However, the monotonous feeling of sitting at someone else’s desk seemed to increasingly make his time as a teacher feel hollow.

For now, the drive-thru didn’t stir much emotion until he realized his car had been idling through three songs on his CD, not moving a foot. Matt reclined. He tended to think more than he spoke. People have complimented him more than once on his ability to listen. Maybe teaching attracted him because a great teacher can both speak well and listen equally well.

While reclining Matt could observe the morning scene. The sun had yet to rise on this cold November day. No trees were around to share their different autumnal colors. All Matt could witness was his own face in the side-view mirror of his car. Matt could neither be described as ugly nor sexy; he’s somewhere in between. He has been clean-cut ever since his sophomore year in college. Since turning thirty years old though he could barely keep from having a five o’clock shadow. His thick eyebrows made him look menacing but his eyeglasses gave him an intellectual appeal. All-in-all, he was complacent with his look.

Students weren’t agreeing. Today was Matt’s third day teaching junior English at a privileged private academy on the east end of town. The tuition and standards of the institution were ludicrous. Matt could’ve cared less because his pay for this week was going to be more than he had ever received in the past, and the teacher he was covering for was expected to be out for next week as well. His real complaints came from the students’ inability to hide their snide remarks about his appearance.

Matt gave up on his hopes of getting his breakfast in order to make the trip to work on time. Teachers had to be in the classroom much earlier than students in order to prepare schedules, read mail (both print and electronic), and make handouts. Matt was excited because his classes were almost through with Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms. One of the more appealing aspects of his job was the opportunity to see a glimpse into the mind of tomorrow’s America by being in the front row of literary discussions in his class. Ernest Hemingway was Matt’s favorite writer, so he felt more than average excitement, but he also knew that he need to ask questions that Sparknotes couldn’t answer.

The first class of the day was nothing spectacular. Too many kids in high school stayed awake too late and, like him, seldom eat breakfast. This, of course, leaves the mind too weak to discuss Hemingway’s simplistic story-telling or how A Farewell to Arms is more autobiographical than the average reader may know, unless the student researched more than necessary on Sparknotes, or if the student is Abby Wooldridge.

Abby Wooldridge was Matt’s favorite student. She was the smartest, brightest student Matt had the pleasure of teaching. She was involved in Beta Club, National Honors Society, Spanish Club, Book Club, Quick Recall, and a few others. Through all of that, she could maintain a four point zero grade point average and walk into class with a great figure and smile. Matt had only wish he was in high school still so his boundaries were a little more open to her. She never made rude remarks about; Abby just greeted him with a warm smile and a pleasant, “Good afternoon, Mr. Whelchel.”

Matt appreciated Abby’s presence in class and recognized her for her delightful poise after class. “Hey Abby, I would just like to say thank you for keeping the class discussion on track today,” he said standing up from behind his desk. She turned around, her books in her arms. Matt immediately noticed her exquisite brunette bangs overlaying one eye, complementing her emerald irises. Matt felt a little uneasy, almost as if choking on air. Flashbacks beat his brain like a drumming recalling his less than gloried days in high school. Nervousness had never left him, but now was different because he was now cooler, older, and vaguely powerful – mysterious even. “Hey, that’s a nice sweater,” he expressed reclaiming his calm.

Abby beamed a bright smile. She gave a microscopic curtsy and replied, “Oh, thanks for noticing Mr. Whelchel, it’s an early birthday present from my friend Rose. She can’t make it to my party on Saturday because she’s going to be out of town all week starting today.”

“I see,” Matt said surprisingly. “Your birthday is coming up… seventeenth?”

“Yes sir,” she confirmed followed by a giggle. Suddenly her tone became much deeper with a hint enticement. “Ya know,” she began while swaying with girlish charm. “You can come to my party on Saturday.”

Being polite and maybe a little flattered mixed with just a touch of excitement Matt thoughtfully said, “I would be honored to attend the party of my favorite student.” Abby was overjoyed; to hear not only an acceptance but to be called Matt’s favorite student was worth more to her than any amount of money could be appraised. Nearly skipping out the door, Abby walked away with a piece of paper on which seven numbers were written – Matt’s cell number. Maybe Matt could’ve waited until their next class together to get the specifics of the party, but he may have wanted to know sooner or he may have thought of Abby as “special” enough to call his phone and the two of them could talk. Matt did know that if his reason was the latter, he should reevaluate his thoughts. The only problem was that each time he considered the situation his mind was trapped on Abby’s beauty. Her emerald green eyes, her brunette hair, her ruby red lips, her womanly figure were all seductive to his mind. Age or professional problems didn’t even cognate. Matt was left sitting behind his desk with his mind aflame. Obviously, he knew what he had just done and how his appreciation of a simple invitation was receiving too much recognition. Somehow the awkwardness of a high school boy flooded back in a rushed haze. He felt unbalanced, paranoid, and skittish. Everything was unfamiliar, so he focused his thoughts. His mind summoned up images of Abby. Quickly he found himself at ease knowing that someone wanted him. The awkwardness faded. Abby became a double-edged sword.