Class Dismissed

“Anyone can learn to string sentences together and form a cohesive narrative,” the professor projects into the full classroom as he strolls from one side of the room to the other. “What makes a storyteller is pouring your soul onto the page.” He pauses for effect. “Emotions. Experiences. Truth.” His voice booms. 

“What about fiction?” a student asks.

The professor smirks. “Who says fiction isn’t truth?”

A murmur from the class.

The professor waves his hand. “I know, by definition, fiction has some element of falsehood. But underneath, propping up the monsters and magic and fantastical worlds, is a foundation of some universal truth. The feelings must be real. The characters relatable. The themes must resonate here.” He taps his heart.

“But today is not about fiction. We will start with an easier task for our first lesson.” He walks to the whiteboard and begins writing out each word as he says it. “A true experience.” He underlines the next word. “Emotion.” He turns back to face the class and puts a finger to his chin. “For today it will be…anger.” A mischievous grin. 

The class chuckles. 

He turns to write the word in all caps. He seals the marker and places his hands behind his back. “Think back to a time you were angry. Tell us that story. And remember, pour your soul into it.” 

…

I notice a glint in the professor’s eyes before I bow my head over the blank pages on the desk in front of me. A time when I was angry. My mind sifts through my memories. There were plenty of times I was angry, certainly, but none seemed to hold the emotion I needed. Not anymore. 

I huff out a laugh. I guess therapy has been working. I’ve made peace with my past and forgiven those who have wronged me. Now, my life is good. I’m happy. I’m pursuing my dream of writing right here in this class. Possibilities open before me, beckoning me forward, away from the hurts of the past. 

For a moment, I listen to the scratching pens all around me. There seems to be plenty of anger around me. I peek at the students near me. One is clenching his hand so hard his pen looks ready to break. Another’s face is scrunched into a nasty scowl. 

I look at the professor. He appears positively gleeful. Hungry almost. 

I am momentarily filled with disgust. I simply cannot summon the bitterness and anger I used to feel. And I can’t be upset by that. I’ll have to figure out another way to complete the assignment. 

…

Humans certainly loved to hate. The professor drank up their anger like wine as the students read their stories aloud. He knew many demons who had found other, more typical, ways to sate their thirst for negative emotions, but this role had become his favorite. 

Artists had no hesitation in pouring out their emotions, their very souls; it was quite easy, actually. He only had to give them a prompt.

As one student finished their rage-filled narrative, the professor felt his power grow. This one assignment was enough to fuel him for nearly the whole semester. Then, he could allow the students to write about hope and joy, ick. But he had to bear it; he didn’t want to get a bad reputation and have no one attend his classes. 

So this starting assignment was crucial. It was what kept him alive through the rest.

A young woman stood up and began her tale. The professor didn’t pay attention to her words. He didn’t care about what she had to say, only how it made her feel. So it wasn’t until a few minutes into her reading that he noticed it.

No rage was coming off of her. In fact, the whole room was drained of anger.

He tilted his head and let her continue a moment longer. She was telling a tale of forgiveness and healing. And it was changing the hearts of those in the class. That was when the panic set in. 

He stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Lovely story, Miss. But that’s not the assignment.”

The girl shrugged. “I didn’t like the assignment.” She held his gaze, and for a moment, he almost feared she knew.

“Sit. Down.” He infused his voice with compulsion, and the girl was forced to obey. “You have failed the assignment.”

A murmur of voices through the room. 

Good, let them get angry again. Let them fear failure.

“Next, please,” the professor said through clenched teeth. 

As the next student began their story, he nearly sighed with relief—another hurtful story. Only…something wasn’t right. The narrative itself was about the cruelty of some bullies, but the student reading it wasn’t angry. Their soul wasn’t in it. They simply repeated the words aloud and took their seat. The trend continued. Every story failed to pull the negative emotions forth from these students.

Damn that girl. 

And then something even worse happened. Another student stood, looked at his paper, and turned to smile at that girl. 

“I don’t like the assignment either.” He crumpled up his paper and began another tale. With a happy ending.

Throughout the story the boy watched that damned girl’s reaction. They exchanged smiles and knowing glances. The girl began to blush. The boy’s grin widened. 

Love blooming, the Professor thought he was going to be sick. Love was the one thing that could destroy him.

By the time the boy sat down next to the girl, he felt drained. He barely managed to grind out the words, “Class dismissed.”

…

What did you think of the story? Do you think words have the power to change hearts? Let us know in the comments!

Thanks so much for reading!

-Cleveer & WTF