Last Friday, Mr. Hartono, your school principal, called you to his office. You’d skipped school three days in a row.
Mr. Hartono never seemed tired of seeing you. You, on the other hand, were fed up with being in that room. It was your second time in a month being summoned to the principal’s office.
Mr. Hartono was wearing his favorite black cap and a short-sleeved green batik shirt. His mustache twitched up and down, and bits of spit flew as he rambled about how he never missed a day of school, even when he had to walk 10 kilometers to get there.
Instead of listening to his lecture, your eyes were glued to a fly perched on his cap.
What a creepy creature! you thought, fixating on its red eyes.
Your wild imagination pictured the tiny monster buzzing into Mr. Hartono’s ear, spreading a virus in his brain. In seconds, he’d freeze like a statue, his eyes rolling back, and before long, your principal would be a full-blown zombie.
I’ve got to stop it!
You grabbed a thick dictionary from the desk and swung it at Mr. Hartono’s head.
WHACK!
Mr. Hartono staggered, his cap tilting to the left. His ears rang, and his vision blurred.
You hit him hard—really hard—for just a fly. Unfortunately, you weren’t fast enough. The fly escaped.
At that moment, Mr. Ujang, the school janitor, had just opened the door to place a glass of sweet tea on the principal’s desk. He froze when he saw you smack the principal, then quietly closed the door and waited for you to leave.
A minute later, Mr. Hartono was back to normal, though a faint ringing lingered in his ears. He smiled, cleared his throat twice, and adjusted his cap. This kid must be going through a rough patch, he thought. Everyone knew Mr. Hartono was a patient man.
“I’m not blaming you, kid,” he said in a fatherly tone. “You’re a good kid at heart. You just need a little attention.”
Where’d that fly go?
Your eyes darted around, searching for the creature.
“When I was your age, I got into trouble too,” Mr. Hartono began, launching into a story about his childhood. “It was during Ramadan, and I deliberately hit the drum half an hour early…” His voice faded into a distant hum.
You had your own theories about that fly. One: it was a robot with electric legs that could make humans obey its controller’s commands. Two: it was the result of a failed experiment, carrying a new virus that could spark a zombiloma outbreak.
“…and that’s what I was like as a kid,” Mr. Hartono said, wrapping up his story. “I hope you can learn from it. Now, you can head back to class.”
But his voice barely registered. You were too busy watching another fly on the corner of the desk.
“Ahem, ahem. You can go now, kid,” Mr. Hartono repeated.
Your hand reached for the book, ready to swing again.
Stay still, you ugly thing!
“Hey! Are you listening?” Mr. Hartono raised his voice, louder than he’d ever spoken to a student.
You flinched, and the fly vanished.
Damn it!
“You can go.”
You stood up without a word of apology or thanks, then walked out, filled with unease.
Read the full story on Patreon »
Support us on Patreon and get access to:
- All member-only stories
- Everything we publish, without limits
- The writers you keep reading
- A growing space for independent writing