Would staff be aware that an unanticipated systems shut down due to overheating may have resulted in the loss of any work not saved before 4pm yesterday afternoon. Please check any work saved after this time.
The email addresses were right there on the internet, it was no problem at all. Next, Dill slapped a sign on the office window. “DO NOT CLOSE: temporary ventilation!” Someone had opened the window within the hour, probably didn’t even notice the sign was on the outside, and it stayed open until we needed it that night. Probably thought no one could slip through, but I reckon Will stopped growing before his voice broke, and the three of us just kind of posted him through. Then all he had to do was open the fire door and we carried forty crated hens and a goat into the school hall and set them free. The hardest part had been stealing the hens. Sometimes it’s not what you know but who you know. And we knew Jeremy Dobson liked to get stoned, weeknight or not. Poultry farming can be stressful, what with avian flu.
Final assembly was chaos. This school won’t be the same without us.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Hannah Moore and writers in Fiction and other communities.
There's nothing to it
The thing that screwed us over, was Madonna. We was keeping a look out on the bench, Bill and Ben, the Flower Pot men, were doing their whole dodgy shoplifter routine, our job was to let Weed know when security were on their way so she could meet them. No one searches a posh looking white woman when two black men are behaving suspicious in the shop. Weed really is posh, but she got kicked out of boarding school for selling weed to the headmaster’s son and things went downhill from there. But she’s still got that authority, you know? Comes marching out the shop looking like she owns the place, “happens” to bump into security two doors down and reports the dicey looking “coloured chaps” in the shop. Throws in a little racism, somehow seems to convince them she’s not the sort to take what’s not hers. Bill and Ben, of course, got nothing on them. No previous either. Totally clean, lucky bastards. Anyway. Madonna came on the playlist, and me and Cal was voguing and so we forgot to give the signal. I mean, if you want to use kids to carry your shit, what do you expect?
By Hannah Mooreabout a year ago in Fiction
I Am a Prisoner who Dreams of Prisons
The dream always starts the same: I feel the cold bite of wind gnawing through clothes entirely inadequate to protect from the weather and I realize I am standing in line. Ahead of me and behind me are other inmates, identified by the burgundy scrubs we were issued upon arrival. I don't know where we're going.
By Kyle Cejkaa day ago in Fiction
The Bakery on Willow Street
In the middle of the city, between office towers and designer boutiques, sat a tiny bakery on Willow Street. The bakery was called “Sweet Serendipity” and was renowned for its treats and warmth. Sophie, a young woman with a passion for baking and a dream to make people feel comfort and happiness in every bite, owned the bakery. She had inherited it from her grandmother, who taught her everything she knew about baking. Every morning, Sophie would wake up before dawn to make fresh pastries, cakes, and bread, filling the air with the scent of her creations. She loved every minute of it, especially the smiles on her customers’ faces.
By Parmeshwarabout 20 hours ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.