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Say Your Lesson by Max Dunbar

AFTER fifteen years the High Master’s door retained its power to unnerve. Generations of boys had waited outside that door, staring at the governors’ plaque and the cracks in the floor tiles with that miserable dread of which only boys are capable and whatever hilarious hoo-hah that had sent them here receding into a dim, sad mist.
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“The Puddle Shrine” by Cheryl Spinner

from Hitchcock, for Kelly
She’s Gracie, queen of ice,
With cold eyes that will cut right through you,
Turn you into stone, rob you of your confidence.
Making you self conscious of your pot belly, shiny head,
and funny looking suits.

The Professor by Kendall Defoe

Before I begin, I'd like to I thank you for taking a meeting with me during what must be a very busy time of the year. I know the pressures you're under, but I cannot hold back any longer. I have already waited long enough.

September Seventeenth by Cooper Nelson

The tranquil melody of hooves trotting down a cobblestone road eventually came to a standstill as the two white stallions leading the carriage let out soft whinnies and shook their manes in the calm, cool night air. The driver of the carriage placed the reigns gently in his lap and turned his head over his shoulder. “We have arrived, Mr. Rose,” he announced in a sophisticated tone; the back seat of the carriage covered in shadow, all that is visible of Mr. Rose, his chest and arms. He nodded his head in the darkness; the driver opened the door to the carriage and a soft, wintry breeze floated in, lifting the corner of Mr. Rose’s coattail. He placed a white gloved hand on the inside of the door, and stepped down onto the cobblestone street below. Mr. Rose smiled at the carriage driver, thanking him for the ride as he nervously made his way up the staircase, ascending to a stone castle extravagantly draped with banners and scarlet torches.