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Noises. What if they were gone to him? (Written for a contest)

“Mr. Smith, do you even know how to teach?” The voice reverberated through the lonely office.

Sunlight squirmed through the half-closed blinds. Weak, dimming rays of dusk. In the tranquil air, Wilson Smith could barely make out the face in front of him. And he didn’t need to - want to. Too many faces he’d already forgotten. None had bothered to remember him either.

“You lots haven’t bothered me enough? Your teeny arses haven’t got nothing better to do?” Smith grunted, eyeing back at the paperwork. It didn’t take him long before giving out another F. His hand moved naturally as he signed.

The voice stood unshaken. “I’m being completely polite about this. Does it hurt to converse like a decent human being, Mr. Smith?”

“How about you shove your complaints up your arsehole and leave the dying old man alone?” Smith didn’t look up. “I’ve already stated in my class. Zero tolerance when it comes to grades. If you fail, you retake. Your success depends on you, not on me. Office hours are already over, you’re lucky I’m even here.”

“Well, that’s just prejudice of you, I’m not even here for academic help.” A pause. The deliberate kind. “What happened to never judge a book by its cover? All I wanted was a question, and you didn’t even reply. What’s worse, you kept on going about things that didn’t even relate, like you usually do in your class. All I wanted to do was just be respectful and hoped that you’d address the issues. Am I asking for too much here?”

Smith could hear it: A crack, a genuine fissure. Not like the average bunch of ragtags begging for grades, rehearsed grievances already memorized.

His pen stilled. Brief.

Then, in a softer tone, he gruffed.“Sunshine, frankly, I do not care. I already knew all the things they said about me based on Rate My Professor. Why do you assume I haven’t changed?”

“Well, probably because you’re a hard-headed asshole who could never take constructive criticism?”

The words struck. The same thing everyone had said about him since then. Nothing had changed. Good to know. He’d long grown cold with the labels they’ve put on his forehead.

“Get lost. Go do what the others are doing - smoking, cracking. I have to finish this lot by tonight. Don’t have time for your petty complaints.”

“Wow ok. Sure. Deflecting because I said something right?” The student said, a deflated monotony matching Smith’s voice.“You’re the worst teacher I ever met.”

The door slammed.

The quietude sank back in. Smith tapped his right index finger impatiently - seconds crawled by. Nothing happened. The room felt the same as it always did when everyone left. Empty.

The discomfort didn’t ease. But perhaps that was what he needed. He could only work without the noise, without the chitchat that made his mind go blank, pulling him to somewhere else entirely. Something he once knew. And he hated it. Had always hated it.

Hadn’t he?

An evening. A small desk lamp to light up the room. A worn pen to criticize the messes. A steel-willed mind to endure the solemnness.

---

“You could be a genius who knows everything, but without an attitude-”

“Did you know about Amanda?”

“Six or seven dollars to be honest.”

“Dude, wake up. The professor is staring at you.”

Crack. The chalk cluttered to pieces.

Thump. Smith punched the table. The sound commanded immediate silence. He looked around the classroom. Blank. Restless. Annoyed gazes staring back. Waiting.

God be damned, he had spaced out again. Noises, chatterings. Damning auditory. They couldn’t zip their lips for good.

He glanced at his watch. Thirty eight minutes remained. They’ve wasted two hours of life for nothing. God be damned… He could feel his chest welling up, hands nulling from the pain.

Wilson took a shaky breath and leaned against the podium, eyes scanning rows and rows of sheer indifferences. The silence had settled, but the pain in his head didn’t dissipate. He would have been teaching the ignoramuses how to obey his instruction - but Christ, he might have to end the class early. His mind wouldn’t click from the ache pressing against his temples.

Just a few bucks deducted from salary. Nothing he hadn’t done before.

“Class’ over. Screw off.”

Shouts erupted - laughter of relief, sighs of joy. Then they’d come dragging their arses back when he handed them their papers. Let failure define them. Smith exited into the hallway.

The corridor stilled with emptiness, nothing like the chaos unfolding in that room. Smith quickly moved through it the way he always did. Head down. Peripheral. He never understood why the school principal thought it was a good idea to make a long hallway. Too much money to burn, yet she couldn’t pay him a single ounce for his contribution. That old hag must have stolen some to spend on her several new houses.

---

The office was near - Smith could tell based on the steps he’d taken. He slowed down, taking his time approaching the office. He didn’t want to enter it just yet. All his life, he had glued himself to the desk and wither his life away for others. What started as a source of comfort was nothing but tedium now. Yet, it was still the only thing that had ever mattered to him.

Regardless, the choice was inevitable. He was in front of the door before he knew it. Smith placed his hand on the handle.

A violent click. The door next to him swung open.

Cheers burst, shouts echoed. The sound ricocheted through the pain in his head.

The classroom right beside.

Smith turned to look. The door carelessly left ajar. The lights thoughtlessly rayed beyond the closed space. They were all without a single care in the world. Blissful be the laughter sounding from beyond.

Through the sun-stained carpet in front of the door, Wilson managed to catch a reflection of those hazy laughter vibrating the stilled atmosphere. His feet shook to the echoes, hand loosened on the grip.

Enthusiasm. He could vividly recall the big talks of a substitute the previous day. How she boasted with overconfidence that Smith dismissed almost instantly. Her face? Forgettable. But the sound of her laughter crisped. Flicking in his ears ever since yesterday, and right this instant.

His class hadn’t looked like that since… God knows. He had forgotten too many things, he couldn’t be bothered with it now.

Smith rigged the door open and sat down at his desk. Something pressed at the back of his skull - not the headache, something older, something that had been slumbering. A forgotten memory. Resurfacing. But Smith had already reckoned silence - he let that quietness settle back.

He sat down. The room uttered no poignant mockeries. Or so he thought - he opened the drawer of his desk. An envelope already sat there, waiting. On the top left carved a neatly-printed name he’d seen countless times before - Westerson.

Smith instantly hovered the letter over the paper shredder. The dull acknowledgement that it had finally arrived came with the dull awareness that nothing would change. He had already known what the Westersons would gape and whine upon.

The cog slowly turned its wheel to begin devouring the little treat. Nevertheless, it was a tedious commitment - Smith had left it rusting for too long. Midway through, the machine died down. It had halted to a permanent rest, Smith could say for certain - the kicks he’d usually do wouldn’t get its wheels turning.

He could only grump and focus back on his work, if it weren’t for the fact that the noises next door wouldn’t cease. Every now and then, those manic screams would penetrate his concentration. One. Two. Three. Too many to count.

Smith smashed the pen down and let the chair support his full weight.

God. Damn it all.

The itchy thought couldn’t stay bottled - he retrieved the half-devoured letter from the machine's teeth. Torn at the middle, the bottom half gone entirely. Luck had that what remained was somehow enough.

Dear Mr. Smith,

We are writing once again regarding our son's experience in your Literature class. During the last lesson, our son informed us that rather than covering the assigned material, you spent the majority of class discussing your personal grievances with the current state of education.
Smith pinched the bridge of his nose and put the letter down. He stared at the ceiling. Noises next door erupted into an ovation. God’s sake… He picked it back up.

Not only that, we are informed that you usually spend time reprimanding your class instead of teaching. Our son often came home discouraged. This is not the first such incident, nor, we suspect, the last. We have begun exploring independent arrangements for his continued education. Several other families have expressed similar intentions. If you have no intent on improving your class, we plan to offer our son our own support. A literature teacher shouldn’t be discouraging students - you said and we quote directly - "a generation too distracted to deserve good literature."

Smith stared at the letter. He couldn’t finish reading the rest.

A generation too distracted to deserve good literature.

He remembered saying it. Somewhere between the chalk snapping and the noise pressing against his temples, he had said it. He couldn't remember meaning it as cruelty. Couldn't quite remember what he had meant it as, either. Something true, once. Something that had curdled so slowly he hadn't noticed the smell.

He folded the torn letter back along its remaining crease. Ripped it in half completely. Then hid it at the bottom of the drawer.

Smith retrieved his worn pen from the floor.

The F's wouldn't grade themselves.

---

The papers hit the desk in a stack.

He stood at the front of the room, letting silence do its preliminary work like it always had. His eyes scanned the room quickly - few seats were missing. An act of rebellion, but they never lasted.

Then, Smith spoke: “I’m disappointed.”

The voice came out harsh, a verdict of absolute catastrophe. The class stayed hushed regardless, the admission was nothing short of unfamiliarity. Words may not have it, but actions did - A routine they’ve most likely grown numbed to, the same as Smith’s passion. Several were already fixated on their phones.

Smith let them be. His job was to teach - whether they study or not is their problem. He began moving through the rows, dropping papers face-down as he went. One after another. The particular weight of failure delivered without ceremony.

“Your end term tests are in two weeks, but I’m not surprised why many of you chose to not study.” Smith stood at the podium, putting away the remaining stack of absent students’ papers.

“I already taught you everything I could, but it seems like I forgot about the most important one - gratitude. Do you understand what ingratitude looks like from where I'm standing? Thirty years. Thirty years of bringing something worth knowing into rooms full of people who couldn't wait to leave.”

The room was overwhelmed with nothingness.

“With no gratitude, you’ll never learn to succeed in life, let alone my class. You lots keep saying that this old annoying arsehole never stops bitching - but look at yourself. Lazy. Never willing to learn. What is there to teach then? I can only-”

Screech. The chair from the back column.

The student stood up. Packed her bag. Walked to the door. Opened it. No expression worth naming.

Smith watched the door creaked as the figure disappeared behind the metal frame.

"That's fine. That's precisely fine. If you'd rather fail on your own terms than learn on mine, the door is right there. I've never forced you to stay." He stood still. “As I was saying, gratitude is-”

Another chair screeched.

Then another.

Smith forced himself to stop focusing on the noises altogether. He tried to let those sounds blur together with the people leaving in the background. His mouth kept on going about how gratitude could shape one’s future. Words spilled out. Careless. Ajar. They were all without a single care in the world. Kept going. Kept going.

Silence. His mind finally registered back. No more chatter. No more distraction. The room was devoid of any presence. Smith stood at the podium all to himself. It should have felt like something he wanted, but he couldn’t pinpoint what was missing. Those noises he hated so much - when they were gone, everything felt… louder. He could feel his head weaving.

Everyone had left the way he wanted them to leave, so just what was missing… Just what…

Screech.

His face instantly snapped up.

The last row. Someone sat with hands folded, watching him. Their expression matched the kind which needed the confirmation of what it’d already known - and had now received it.

For the first time in longer than he could ever account for, he looked directly at a face.. The face looked back.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came.

Not the headache this time. Not the noise. Just the absence of anything left to say that hadn't already been said to emptier rooms than this one.

The student held his gaze one moment longer.

Then they stood. Gathered their things with the same unhurried certainty as the first. Walked to the door.

Smith didn't call out.

The door closed softly.

Wilson Smith stood at the front of his classroom.

Empty. A room once filled with chatter he had spent thirty years trying to silence. Now, finally, mercifully, exactly as he'd always wanted it.

He couldn't remember what he'd been saying.

He couldn't remember the last face he'd seen clearly before this one.

He didn't know their name.

All that was left was the silence.

---

yapping time below! thanks for reading mah story -w-. i hope that the story was enjoyable for you. this short piece right here is honestly not my proudest work, since i honestly struggled a lot during the writing process. nevertheless, i still tried my best and did what i could! i could only hope that it turned out okay for others. as for the reason why i struggled, you should read the prompt below!

A teacher disrespects students and wastes their time with off-topic rants. One student talks to his parents, and they agree the teacher's behavior is too disruptive to the learning environment. They help their son set up an independent study plan for the topic. Their son forms a study group with some classmates who also want to drop the course. Word quietly spreads, and more students form their own study groups. The next time the teacher gives an annoying off-topic lecture, the entire class walks out.

yep, as you can see, i went completely off the rail with this one. im aware that it may not have me qualified, but honestly, im still proud of what i did. the reason why i chose to convey the message like this was because honestly, i used to be a private tutor for some kids, and boy oh boy, they sure had some legacy to tell. ahem, and, another thing was, when i read the contest's introduction, the author said: "I've heard educators from countless schools complain that parents are not teaching their children to respect authority anymore. Here's my take on that: respect has to go both ways."

i was absolutely in agreement with that statement, respect goes both ways, but i feel like the original prompt didnt quite have that element, so instead, i went for a story like this! i feel like it should highlight the cause a lil. choosing to write from the teacher's pov wasnt easy for me either, i really didnt know how i could put myself in smith's shoes, like, what would he do?? but i felt like the story would have more authenticity that way. we already know what the students will do, what about the feelings of the teachers who'd be receiving it? of course, that's not meant to pity smith, that guy was unlikable and taken from a real teacher that i met, but, i think it goes to show that - have you ever wondered why they became teachers in the first place if they hated that job so much? i used to hate that 'smith' guy so much, and when i asked a favourite teacher of mine, she answered me with that question. it sat with me for quite some time, and now, i truly still ponder about the answer. teaching is meant to be a job of guiding and compassion, so what happened to their passion? i honestly will never know..

okok, long yap already! thanks again for reading all of these, and peace out! see ya on another sunny day or moony night?