Tragedy at Santa Ana Central - fragment

This is an incomplete short story written by a Shortfolio reader. It's under 500 words and they would really like feedback and suggestions of where to take it next:

It's a somber Monday. It is not the same "I don’t want to be here" Monday; a different Monday; one Monday that no student in any level ever wants to endure. Even as I pull into the school's entrance, it’s different. Sure, I'm going to school. Sure, I'm driving the same old crappy hand-me-down jalopy to school. I’m going to sit down at the breakfast table with my friends before the first bell rings. I'm even going to the same classes.

No..

Not the same classes. The classes would never be the same from now on.

I try not to think about it. The images. The sounds. The memories.

Sitting down at the breakfast table, my friends' faces mirror mine. None of us said anything. Silence covers the cafeteria, although two-hundred or more students occupy it. It is filled with silence, but I could tell; there was pain. People urge to yell with pain.

I know I do.

My friends and I sit there at our table, some of us with our heads down, others looking at each other, comforting each other, only using our eyes. Each of us keep saying to the other, "It’s going to be okay."


The bell rings. Class is about to start.


My first period English teacher tries to read us Mark Twain, but breaks down in the middle of A Dog's Tale. No one says anything, we all feel the same way. I look around the room and a pain hits me as my eyes reach Dave‘s desk

What used to be Dave's desk.

The girl behind me, Alyssa, touches my shoulder, trying to comfort me. Reaching back, her hand is wet. She'd been crying. She knows how close Dave and I were. She was close to him as well. We were all close. We were the Terrible Trio. We hold hands for the rest of the class, speechless, looking at the desk, silently comforting each other. He died doing what he did best. He died being a friend.

As the day goes on, the silence dims more and more. In between each class, the atmosphere became less dark and morbid, and turned more into a peaceful memorial. Less sniffing and crying, to more hugging and laughing, thinking of good memories of those lost.

None of us, however, could hide the fact that twelve of us would never be returning.

...

By Chase Mooneyham

Submissions request for more 500 word stories

If you would like to submit your short story to Shortfolio, we'd love to hear from you. The stories we've had so far have been of an impressive standard. Just a reminder that stories have to be around 500 words long or less to qualify. Thanks to people who have submitted longer stories. Sorry, they don't qualify for this site. Another site that accepts longer short stories is 3am Magazine, but check their submission guidelines before sending.

Other interesting short story links, picked at random:

http://www.theshortstory.org.uk/

http://jerz.setonhill.edu/writing/creative/shortstory/index.html

http://books.guardian.co.uk/originalfiction/0,,1007506,00.html

Friendly Drinks

Ten minutes late as I step off the bus. Right. That probably means I’ll only be waiting about fifteen minutes. Could be worse. Might as well enjoy a cigarette now before I get to the pub. Or should I check in there first? Probably best to check first. Could head off unnecessary problems if the unthinkable has happened and she’s here on time.

Screech of brakes. Jesus, where did that car come from? Apologetic wave, consolatory jog out of the way. Let’s see what we can do about not getting killed today shall we? I’ve got to wake up. Snap out of this. Focus. Right, there’s the pub. Pat the pockets. All present and accounted for. Let’s have a look-see at the money situation. Excellent, a couple of crisp Darwins and change, so no hunting for the elusive non-rip-off cash machine and no card at the bar. Everyone’s happy.

Entering a pub just hasn’t been the same since the ban. All so sterile and stark. Time was when all these fugly-ass people would be shrouded in acrid mystery. Still, no use crying over spilt milk. Focus on the recon. No hidden corners to check so we can just let loose Meerkat-style, crane neck, slight tip-toes, don’t go nuts. Don’t make eye contact randomers, nothing to see here, I’m searching for a specific person. Ok, she’s not here yet. To the bar.

Let’s check the taps. Ah, that’s the one. Friendly tone. Don’t strike up any small talk, you’re too distracted not to end up seeming rude. Cheers, pay, cheers for the change, take your seat. Maybe I should have sat at the one with the paper on it so I could pretend to read and not look like such a loser. Too late now. You’re sitting; it’d just look plain weird to change from one empty table to another. Just do what you always do, take out your phone and delete old text messages.

Ok, that’s that done. Where is she? Stop drinking so fast. What am I doing here anyway? What’s the best that can come of this? ‘I’ve made a mistake’ she’ll say, ‘I want something more.’ And then what? You cave like the dick that you are and experience two more weeks of emotional yoyo hell. Fantastic. Or you could grow a pair and say all the things you wanted to say to her when the dreaded ‘Let’s just be friends’ ball-shriveller was wheeled out last time. Or, more accurately, the things you wanted to say twenty minutes after that happened, as you muttered and fumed your way home.

Crap, there she is. God, she looks good. Stop that. Ok, rise to greet her. What’s going to happen here? Kiss? Hug? Go for the hug. There it is, there’s hugging but she kissed you on the cheek on entry. No matter, you walk away looking daddy-cool. Great. Score one for the hero. So here it is, game face, friend smile, let’s go.

‘Hi...’

By Mark Clarke 2008