I wrote this story awhile ago and then just forgot about it. It’s about a cultish school where violence and bizarre behavioral therapy are the standard of care.
There is another, much lighter short story I’ll be posting later this month, so if this is not to your taste, just mosey along.
Also, Save Desdemona is free with the coupon SS100 through the end of July. If you like survival games, wacky adventures, and magic spells; scoop it up while the scooping’s free. (Link at bottom of page)
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Shannon cringed. She wished he would stop talking. He’d been blabbing since three in the morning, when he woke her in her bedroom and gave her the news. Her parents had huddled in the corner looking equal parts guilty and happy. “You ever . . . run out of things to say?” she muttered.
“Ninety percent of conflict resolution is talk. Keep someone talking and you start to build a relationship. When’s the last time you talked to your parents, I mean really sat down and told them what’s going on?”
“The last time you had a date,” her eyes traveled over the man’s belly bulging over the truck’s lap belt.
He laughed a raspy, gurgling laugh that trailed off into a coughing fit. In spite of herself, Shannon smiled. Maybe this school wouldn’t be so bad.
The truck passed through an arch with the words “Walden Weald.” Someone had spray painted a curve and a line onto the second l, transforming it into an r. Shannon sounded it out silently, “Walden Weard . . . Walden Weird.” The drive terminated in front of the giant’s door, a smaller set of doors cut into its planking.
The bodyguard tapped his horn. “This is a fresh chance for you. Here you have no reputation. You can become whoever you want,” he reached in the door pocket, pulling out a business envelope, “This is a letter from your parents.”
Shannon took the envelope, feeling the weight of the bond. It couldn’t be more than a sheet of binder paper. “Thanks,” she tore it in half, “but no thanks.”
Outside of the truck, the door in the door opened. Two girls around Shannon’s age approached the vehicle. They were wearing blazers and slacks, the school’s logo embroidered on their breast pocket. “Let me guess,” Shannon sneered, “I have to dress like -“
That’s when she noticed their eyes, their vacant, unfocused stares. Something was wrong here, something was very, very wrong.
“Well kid, this is where you get out,” the bodyguard clicked open the doors, “Do you know what ‘don’t let them see you sweat’ means?”
Shannon didn’t wait for him to continue his spiel. She hit the door handle hard, bursting out of the truck like a spring. Hitting the ground, she scrambled to get her feet back underneath her. The two girls were on her before she could even try to run, pinning her face down on the pavement, yelling something that sounded like, “Sconder.”
Two other girls joined them, adding their weight to Shannon’s legs. They sat on her while the truck drove away, their conversation nearly unintelligible.
“One-days that turn sconder ought to have a negative right away. That would fix them.”
“No,” said another voice, “that’s not the way it’s done. They have to be processed. They have to become their potential.”
“Sconders refuse to be potential. Sconders want quiet desperation,” argued the first.
“Please let me up,” Shannon begged, “My face hurts.”
“Sconder wants up, I say we leave her down,” yet another voice contributed.
Heels clicked across the cement, becoming louder until a shadow overlapped the pile-up. ”Apexes, bring the One-day into the san room,” the woman’s voice was brittle, “Wren is on body search. Adora, bag. Lorna, uniform.”
Shannon was yanked off the ground, the girls surrounding her in a tight knot. They held on to whatever they could reach that would give them control of her; her hair, the back of her pants, her arm. The girls pushed Shannon to the door, their bodies tense. They shuffled through a great room with a huge stone fireplace and stacks of chairs. A taxidermy deer head stared down at them, its expression caught between shock and sorrow. From the great room they entered a small gym complete with a waxed floor and basketball hoop.
“San room,” thought Shannon, “Sanitation room? Shower?” Sure enough, the next room was a yellow-tiled communal shower.
Wren turned out to be the girl with curly dark hair, her pink lips chapped, dark circles under her eyes. It different circumstances, Shannon could picture her milking cows. ”Take off your clothes,” Wren commanded, “Face the wall and squat.”
“What kind of dairymaid are you?” Shannon mumbled under her breath.
“What did you say, Sconder?” Wren’s face tightened into a ball, “Don’t make me call the other Apexes.”
“Nothing,” Shannon kicked off her panties and squatted.
“Cough,” ordered Wren.
Shannon coughed.
“Put this on,” Wren shoved a folded uniform at her.
The shirt was a stiff cotton that could have doubled as cardboard, the slacks scratchy and too large. Instead of a blazer, Shannon was given a stained navy tie, the school’s logo embroidered in the center. Shannon eyed the door. There was no sign of the other girls.
Before she could make a break for it, Wren grabbed her by the tie, “Let’s go, Sconder.”
“I have a name,” Shannon gasped as Wren yanked on the tie.
“Yeah, it’s Sconder,” Wren led Shannon through the gymnasium as if she were a dog on a leash.
“W-wait,” Shannon could hear voices in the great room. A cluster of girls headed up a staircase Shannon had overlooked. It sulked behind the stone fireplace, its rubberized treads marked with black scuffs. The wall shifted, closing behind the girls. Shannon blinked her eyes, “Is that a hidden stairway?”
“Wow, they really picked a smart one this time,” Wren pushed a button on the wall, “Let me guess, your IQ has never been tested, but your parents think you are a genius.”
Shannon watched the wall slide open before she replied, “My parents think I’m using drugs. I'm not though.”
“Great, a druggie,” Wren pulled Shannon up the stairs.
“I’m not - “ The room on the second floor was crammed with study carrels. Each carrel had a hard-backed chair, and on each chair sat a girl, wires running from a computer to her left arm. One of the girls twitched and slumped forward. “What’s wrong with her?” Shannon whispered.
“She just got a positive,” Wren led Shannon over to a man in a white coat, “This is the one-day. She tried to turn sconder, but we got her leashed.”
The man had smile lines and twinkling eyes. He reminded Shannon of a skinny Santa Claus. “Good, good,” Santa nodded, “Can you please take her to her seat, Wren?”
Wren towed Shannon to an empty carrel, pushing her into the seat, “Ought to tie you up.”
“I won’t run,” Shannon loosened the tie, rubbing the sore skin on her neck.
“No, she won’t run,” Santa leaned over her, taping the wires to her wrist, “Not once she experiences a positive.”