Pounce
by Jo Withers
The alarm sounds in third period because –
a) A man has jumped the school fence and is stalking towards the central building,
b) There is a fault on the line,
c) A lion has escaped from a travelling circus and is prowling nearby.
The children leap into the emergency procedure as if on autopilot. The teacher switches out the classroom lights and they scuttle into position beneath their desks, wait in the shadows like –
a) Sitting ducks,
b) Restless kittens,
c) Frightened mice.
The only thing visible in the dark room is –
a) The whites of the relief teacher’s eyes, terrified that this is the day he becomes a blurry front-page photograph,
b) The laptop on the teacher’s desk blinking low battery,
c) Rows of white socks against dark shoes, rows of trusting, uniformed children doing as they’re told.
They wait longer than before, much longer than they’ve ever practiced. The children worry that this may not be a practice at all. Some begin to wriggle, some cry quietly on their blazered forearms. The teacher urges them to remain quiet, but the panic in his voice makes them cry more. Then suddenly they hear –
a) Shouting. Distorted adult voices making sounds they’ve never heard, screaming, pleading. Then, a series of loud bangs,
b) A high-pitched wail from the direction of the alarm system,
c) Footsteps, not made by feet, rhythmic padding paws moving closer, a low groan like a growl.
Every one of them is quiet now, every one of them is still. And then –
a) He comes around the corner of the classroom, a giant with wild eyes. He has a gun, a big gun like a hunting rifle. They realise all at once that everything they are doing to protect themselves is senseless, they are clearly visible beneath their desks, they are trapped, there is nowhere to run, no one will come to save them, they are at his mercy,
b) He comes around the corner of the classroom, a maintenance man with a uniform of overalls and tools, familiar reassuring things. He tells them there is nothing to worry about, he tells them to put on the lights, return to their seats, one small adjustment and everything will be fine.
c) He comes around the corner of the classroom and every one of them catches their breath. The lion is almost as wide as the doorway. He is magnificent. His mane is mottled marmalade, his eyes biblical brown. They can feel his warm breath metres away, the pad of his paws soft on hard floor. He does not growl or grumble, he looks tired, he looks scared. A girl called Lottie coos at him as though calming a stray dog, a boy reaches out his arm and smooths his mane. The lion yawns. His front canines have been removed; his other teeth filed down. He has a circus tag pierced through his right ear. One by one, the children stand, they walk towards him slowly. He lies down weary at their feet. The relief teacher sobs beneath the desk.
Outside the parents –
a) Cling to each other, unspeakable thoughts in their heads, let it be the parents next to us, let our boy be hurt but not badly, let him survive, please let him survive. They remember that morning at breakfast, busy, barely noticing each other. Why didn’t they keep the children home, why didn’t they just hold them, just sit and breath them in, why had they ever let them out.
b) Complain to the school. Say hours of education have been wasted, their children were traumatised, their legs cramped up beneath desks for so long. They shake their fists, demand an explanation, an apology from the headteacher, a review of school policies.
c) Wait outside with the police and the media liked dazed sheep, unsure whether to worry or lap up the media glare, give an interview, grab it while they can.
Eventually the doors open, and the children begin to emerge into the sunlight —
a) They are not children anymore. They walk differently, they look decades older. Some have blood on their clothes, some hold each other, some hobble, some limp. But some are not there, they do not walk out. Some are not there, they will never be there again.
b) They climb into their parent’s cars, shrug, put headphones in their ears, play music loud, don’t answer questions, slam the door when they get out.
c) They wind their fingers through the lion’s fur, step out into brightness shielding the beast between them. The police and parents shout. They tell them to move aside, they try to exercise authority, to scare them, to tell them how badly these things end. But the children are young and brave. They will not let them hurt the lion. They still believe they can grow up and save the world.
Jo Withers writes short fiction from her home in South Australia. Recent work is featured or forthcoming in Molotov Cocktail, Milk Candy Review, XRAY, Versification and Fractured Lit.
