"The Nothin' Sandwich," by Kevin S.

The Nothin’ Sandwich

An Over-Exaggerated Flash Fiction story by Kevin S.

Sunday, 10:00 AM

Dear Diary,
Today I ate a sandwich. It was delicious. Mmm... It was called Nothin’ Sandwich, because there was nothin’ in it. Just 2 slices of toasted classic white bread stacked on top of each other. I suppose you could just call it 2 slices of White Bread, but I think Nothin’ Sandwich sounds cooler. Though, my only complaint is that sometimes the slices slide around. Other than that, it tastes amazing. Like the best food you ever had in forever multiplied by 100. Well, I wouldn’t know. Because that is the only food I have ever eaten! But today is a new dawn of existence! Because I will try a NEW type of sandwich! It is called... Turkey and Ham Sandwich! Sounds AMAZING, but I bet it is not as good as Nothin’ Sandwich, especially because the Nothin’ Sandwich has nothin’ in it to ruin the flavor.

Sunday, 12:20 PM

Dear Diary,
A drone labeled Amazonia Freshest just flew over and dropped a small box. I think it is my new Sandwich! I write this to you right after I came back inside. The Turkey and Ham sandwich’s aroma has already filled the room with such a smell! The Nothin’ Sandwich didn’t do that! I still think that the Nothin’ Sandwich will be better. Time to open the box!

Sunday, 12:30 PM

Dear Diary,
I just opened the box and it smells very putrid. Bleh. I am wondering if I really do want to try this new sandwich. In a couple of minutes, I am going to eat another yummy Nothin’ Sandwich while the bad smell goes away. Anyway, the Turkey and Ham Sandwich is very tall, and it has “stuff” between the pieces of bread. Why? It would ruin the flavor. I am wondering if I still want to try this new sandwich as it stinks up my house.

Sunday, 1:00 PM

Dear Diary,
I got the courage to try the sandwich. I slowly cut a bit of the sandwich with my laser cutter and got a fork. I inserted the fork very carefully into the slice and popped it into my mouth. In that instant, I regretted it so violently I spit it 400 feet away, smashing through my bedroom window. It shattered with such a force that the entire window vaporized into microscopic bits of glass. Phew! I was sure glad when it left my mouth! Because the window was so conveniently “opened,” I took the chance to dump the sandwich out the window, bouncing off the tiles and into the compost where I was sure it would rot forever. I did NOT want to try a new sandwich EVER again. Yuck!

Monday, 8:15 AM

Dear Diary,
I got a good night’s sleep yesterday. I thought about it and decided that I didn’t even get a good taste of the Turkey and Ham Sandwich. I hope that I just overreacted, because I really want two options of sandwich, Nothin’ Sandwich and something else. My goal today is to take a bite of the Turkey and Ham Sandwich and keep it in long enough for me to taste every bit before deciding if it tastes bad. Well, good luck to me, I guess.

Monday, 12:40 PM

Dear Diary,
I don’t know if I want to try it anymore. Yesterday’s experience was not the most fun. I have to be brave. I need to believe in myself. Why am I so hesitant? It is just a sandwich! Sigh. I guess because it made me destroy a $1,000,000 window because it tasted so... So... Bad? Odd? Different? Well I have to eat it! Or maybe I should not risk it and stay with Nothin’ Sandwiches. Diary, what should I do? Oh wait. You can’t answer that. I need to decide that by myself. Well, I can tell you: it is a hard decision. I don’t want to try it, but my gut tells me to. I have to think about this more. For lunch today, I am going to eat a Nothin’ Sandwich with a side of water.

Monday, 5:23 PM

Dear Diary,
After a few hours of wrestling with myself about trying it, I have decided to do it. But then I also thought to myself, why does it stink? Are sandwiches supposed to stink? And are they also in some places fuzzy and blue-green? Wait. Now that I say that, it sounds like something I learned about a couple years ago. I think it was something called... mald? No, I think it’s mold. It made food bad. Oh! Thanks Diary! You didn’t say anything, but you got me to understand why the Turkey and Ham sandwich tasted so bad! I am going to order another one right now, and it should arrive in ten minutes!

Ten minutes later...

Here it is! Dropped from the Amazonia Freshest drone and floated down on a parachute. I brought it inside and opened it up. Instead of the horrible smell that was released from the sandwich prior to this one, this one smelled much better. Very... Appetizing. I knew that it was going to be a very different experience than the last one because of the smell and the absence of mold. And I am so confident in this. Well, here goes the first bite!

2 seconds later

Dear Diary,
Yum! Oh my! This taste is GREAT! I don’t believe that I would say this, but much better than the Nothin’ Sandwich! I might never even eat another Nothin’ Sandwich! The way the different textures and flavors swirl and mix in my mouth is amazingly tasty, and all the different things make it such a pleasure to eat! You know what? I might try some other foods too! I have been missing out on so much, and I didn’t even know it!

"From Bowling Ball to Pins," by Corbin D.

From Bowling Ball to Pins 

By Bowling Ball 

So, Pins, I’m sorry I knock you over all the time. I really am. Especially when the human gets a three hundred pin game with only strikes. Ouch. That must hurt. Getting knocked over by a heavy ball into a dark pit, usually having all the other pins fall on you. Then a machine puts you back up to do it again. Every day. No vacation. No weekends off. No pay. The best times are when somebody gets a lot of gutters. But then the person bowling with them hits you. If all of them get gutters, they put up bumpers. Both of our worst enemies. It feels like cheating to put them on, and to you it’s a guaranteed hit.  

But I’m not that happy. At the start of my life, I have three holes drilled into me. Sometimes a name, too. Then I spend the rest of my life getting really dizzy and then bumping into you. After being thrown on the floor. Then I get put into a cramped, dark space then go back to the humans. To get thrown again. 

And the bumpers. The only thing that happens to them is we hate them, and I hit them a lot while I’m going for the gutter. Case closed. 

Well, the humans enjoy bowling. Even if we don’t. 

See you tomorrow. I’ll try to get gutters.

"NOVA Enrichment Sheet," by Ian S.

World Languages 

TPRS: Maestra will be teaching TPRS Spanish, helping students learn the basics and to be able to communicate with people in Spanish-speaking countries. The students will be playing games, and there will be live demonstrations including guests from Argentina and Spain.

Portuguese: This class is new to NOVA this year. Mr. Gacek will (just like Maestra) be teaching students Portuguese in hopes that if needed, they can flee to Brazil or other countries. The class will also contain fun games, but difficult homework. 

Literature 

Code Cracking: Would you be able to find a treasure chest by only the symbol π? Well you’re in luck, because Mr. Fuller is ready to teach all students ready for a challenge. The techniques that Mr. Fuller will be showing you are handy for the trip during the end of the year. 

Fake I.D. Making: T-Mac this year will be introducing students to the wonderful world of fake I.D.’s. Students will learn to edit photos of themselves to make them look older. At the end of the trimester, they will receive a printed version of their I.D. and we will also be teaming up with the disguise making class, so the students really look like the I.D.’s. 

Arts 

Disguise Making: Brought to you by Ms. Chandler, Disguise Making will be a fun and exciting class with both mental and physical challenges. Learn to both blend in with society and not look suspicious, and also learn what best covers one’s face in a location equipped with security cameras. From panty hose to ski masks, Ms. Chandler knows all the tricks of the trade. 

Choir: This year, Ms. Grady will be changing the warm ups to new chants. Examples include “Give me the money!” and “Put it in the bag!” We will also learn to whistle so students look unsuspicious. 

Distractions: The best getaway is always about distracting police officers in some way. Mr. Hooker will be teaching students how to make the most noise with their instrument while it still seems like they are just playing “Blueberry Hill.” 

Technology 

Getaway Driving: On a closed course, Mo (as part of the P.E requirements) will be instructing students on how to correctly, and efficiently, escape with an electric vehicle (we’re going green!). In order to pass the class, students must get a time of under 45 seconds. As a guest, Mr. Jeff will teach a class on the proper speeds for certain courses. 

Computer Hacking: Getting into the Pentagon’s database will be as easy as 1-2-3 once you take this class. Ms. Golliet will show you many commands and tricks for changing security camera feeds, editing legal documents, and to be able to access information you normally wouldn’t be able to. 

Virus Making: Mr. Campbell is introducing a new class this year. As a test, this class will contain many ways to create and release a computer virus. Plus, since Mr. Campbell is a biology teacher, he might create an actual virus right in the classroom. 

Other 

Weaponry: Carl will be teaching students how to make weapons out of every-day items this year. These include a crossbow made out of a clothing hanger, a sword out of a PVC pipe, and throwing stars made out of paper clips. It’s time to re-use and recycle! 

End of Year Trip Planning: This class, organized by Mr. Gregory, will be able to plan and make reservations for the end of the year trip. Students can decide which bank to go to, and other manipulative variables. 

"Thoughts in Silence," by Natasha T.

     I usually don’t talk. It's just me in my head and no one else. I like it that way, because that way, I am in control. If I want, the landscape of my mind can be as quiet as a winter morning, with everything frosted over making a snow globe of silence, like that Hawaiian one I see on my desk every morning when I wake up. Or, if I want, it can change. Spring, with its beautiful flowers fighting their way out of the snow, and some who don’t quite make it. I like to think of myself as one of those flowers, the ones that pop up like popcorn through the snow, today they’re not here and tomorrow they are, strong as ever, as if it’s their right to be beautiful. Which it is. But maybe I’m not at all like them, and that doesn’t really matter because I think I’m like them and that’s what matters. My thoughts are what matter because my thoughts are my world. And nothing else.
     My footsteps slip a little when they hit the icy bridge. They don’t click on the ice like I want them to, but in my head they do. Click clack click clack. Their sound is full of pride. I walk along the bank of the slippery canal that weaves its way through Venice like a snake. Curling round and round. I wave, and a gondola comes over. As it stops it drifts ever so slightly, sending ripples across the water that had once been so still, it was almost solid. I step in and murmur one word.
     “Wherever.”
     And we’re off. The man sitting across from me clearly isn’t a tourist, or he is one who just happened to know what the weather would be like and had two warm fur coats in his bag. So, he isn’t a tourist. I keep waiting for him to say something, to try and start a conversation, but he doesn’t. I like him. We sit in silence and I study him. He has a raggedy beard clinging to his face like overgrown moss on a tree. And if he were a tree, he would be an ancient one. Not the frail kind but the tough and polished by age kind. His peppery brown and gray hair is almost completely covered by a burgundy hat with ear flaps. His skin is a medium brown, and even though I can’t see them I imagine his hands are rough like tree bark. Over his tree-bark-hands he wears practical black mittens that match his black overcoat.
     I wonder what he saw of me. Probably a petite girl engulfed by a chocolate brown wool coat. With worn out boots that look older than my years. Maybe he would even look carefully enough to notice that my cinnamon stocking cap I wore over my thin tawny hair was the only thing the really fit me. It was unlikely, but maybe he would even notice how my coat is men's cut and my boots are sturdy woodcutter’s that my dad used to wear every day in winter. And maybe he is some close relative of Sherlock Holmes and he can tell that the heavy weight of my clothes is not the only burden that weighs down my small frame.
     He studies me and my odd ensemble of clothes, an unreadable look passes over his face. His eyes seem to see closer to the truth then anyone yet but still... not quite there. I almost hope that he can see the truth in me just so I can see it reflected in his face. I feel his face would be the perfect canvas for the truth. But instead he looks away, as if he knows that I’m not ready to see it anyway.

"A Red Jacket," or "Come Home, Little Brother," by Edith A.

     I held the red jacket out to the little boy, showing it to him.
     “Come here, little brother. Look, I have found your jacket. Come put it on, you must be cold.” Slowly he emerged from behind the tree, toddling over to where I stood. He wore a dirty long-sleeved shirt with frayed arms, and jeans muddy from the wet ground.
     “Hello, sister,” he said. He stood cautiously in front of me, eyes focused on my face, but aside from that, looking as though he might startle and dash away at any moment or movement.
     “Hello. Oh, your jeans are filthy and wet.” I surveyed him, taking in the little scratches on his face and hands, the holes in his shirt. “Here, put on your jacket; it is warm.”
     He reached out in a shy, nervous sort of way, one skinny little arm tugging gently on the fabric of the jacket sleeve, pulling it from my hands, holding it in his. He clutched it to his chest, but made no move to put it on.
     “Put on your coat, brother. Aren’t you cold?” He shook his head no, gazing up at me.
     “Well, come on then. Let’s go inside.” I led him into the pile of rubble, stepping over the little gap at the edge of it where I had moved bits and pieces aside to retrieve the red jacket.
     We came to a circle, near the center of the rubble. I sat down on a chunk of metal and motioned for him to sit on the broken bit of mattress across from me.         In between us was a cast iron black pot sitting on the dirt. I handed him a cup.
     “Here, little brother, it is your special cup. Take some soup from the pot. The fire has kept it warm for us.”
     He took the cup, but made no move to take anything with it, instead curling his hands around the clay and gazing up at me mournfully.
     “Hello, sister,” he said.
     “Hello, brother.” I studied him carefully. A beat of silence. Then,
     “Oh well, I suppose you’re not hungry.” He shook his head: no, he was not.
     “Well, we can eat later. Let’s play a game,” I decided.
     I stood up and held his hand, guiding him over to another space among the rubble. This time I handed him a doll.
     “Look, it is your favorite doll that mother made for you. Here is mine, too. Let’s play with them.”
     He took his doll, examining it, feeling the fabric, the yarn hair, the beaded eyes. Then he passed it to the hand still holding the cup, the same hand attached to the arm which had his red jacket folded over it, and shook his head no.
     “Hello, sister,” he said.
     His voice sounded like an echo.
     “Hello, brother,” I responded. “Well, there must be something we can do. What about sleep? Tomorrow we can begin other adventures.” I led him by his
free hand over to another clearing in the rubble, passing him a pillow. He tucked it under his armpit, the same one attached to the jacket hanging arm, the doll holding cup held by a hand.
     He shook his head.
     I stumbled, almost falling. My vision was blurry.
     “Hello, sister,” he said.
     I was shaking my head to try and clear it, falling to my knees. “No,” I breathed.
     “Hello, sister,” he said.
     The world went dark.

   
     The boy was walking through the woods, trying to find something, anything, really, that could be helpful. The disaster had passed, and now here he was left, alone, searching through the rubble, scrounging for anything useful.
     He came to the remains of a dwelling. It was spread out, but clearly had never belonged to a wealthy family. It also held a girl, wandering through the rubble.
     He watched her for a while, and as he watched, his heart grew heavy.
     Everyone who survived had lost their family in exchange. He buried his efficiently. This girl was not doing the same.
     He found that there was a young boy, presumably the strange girl’s younger brother, buried beneath a particularly large, heavy pile of rubble. All that was visible of his corpse was one side of his torso, along with his head. From hand
to arm to armpit to shoulder to head his dusty body was in open air. And the strange girl was crumbling. She moved around as if not in touch with her surroundings. When he caught a glimpse of her face, it was a blank slate, and he could see dried rivulets where old tears had cleared paths on her face free of dirt.
She was arranging his body, the boy realized, with old trinkets. A jacket, a mug, a doll. When she was done she collapsed over his body quite suddenly, as if her conscious and life had been instantaneously transported somewhere else, leaving her meat sack behind.
     He walked up to her cautiously. He knew what to do. He knew how to bring them back home.
     He came to stand beside the young boy’s corpse and tapped her shoulder. She was alive. She didn’t respond. He lifted her head, now.
     The lost girl turned her face up the rest of the way to look at the stranger before her, but her eyes were glazed and unknowing.
     “Wha?” she managed.
     “Hello, sister,” the bystander said. “Welcome home.