Writing Prompt

Chaos was inevitable. I watched them multiply in front of my eyes. My students filed in, one after another in a seemingly endless swarm of teenagers.

As they found seat, some with their friends. While others made new friends, but eventually the disorder became contained. They were all talking and I needed to take charge. I rose from behind my desk. As I walked around to be in front of my student, silence began to fall over the classroom until almost all the talking had faded.

They knew why they were here, and they knew that I did as well.

I was a man of small stature, but they didn’t seem to hold it against me. Any doubts they might have of me would fade the moment I spoke.

I could command armies for all they knew.

“Good morning,” I spoke softly but there was an unmistakable firmness in my voice.

“My name is Ezrii Milstran, and I’ll be your instructor. Take a moment, look around at your fellow classmates. By the end of your time here, some of them will be like family to you. The rest will have left. I will not lie, this will be incredibly difficult but if you succeed, I assure you, it will have been worth it.”

She's a student, most likely.

Teal backpack straps line her beige parka, a cozy red sweatshirt peaking through.

Turqoise joggers melt into the laces on her sneakers.

Thin strands are rolled into a loose bun a top her head, swaying back and forth to the rhythym of the subway, another entity in itself, dancing along.

Union - up, quick! Her smudged eyeliner perks up, wide eyes alert and ready to disembark.

She snaps to her feet, here we go, they seem to say.

Now her pants are made of denim, a sturdy black backpack resting at the knees.

He too rests his lids, a charcoal beanie obscuring anything that lies above. Unlike her, he is going home from the 9-5.

His chin gives out, falling forward into the flow of colours that replace his neck. He trickles down slowly, takes a substantial inhale and relocates to the plastic divider. Down, down, down again. His Columbia jacket consumes him, working alongside the navy mittens to fight the bitter cold that lies in the near future.

He inflates like a balloon, then rapidly releases remaining air and returns downwards.

A gloves come off, allowing for a light scratch. His fingers look frail and delicate: the thumb rests on top, preparing for war. Or perphaps he is protecting the others? A push of flesh asserts this.