‘Stuck’
Donna Faulkner is a poet and writer who is led awry by her curiosity . She came to the business of writing later on in life. She has been published in Windward Review, 300 Days of Sun, Bayou Review, Havik, Takahē: Hua/ Manu, New Myths, and others.Her debut poetry collection ‘In Silver Majesty’ was published by erbacce press (UK) in 2024. She was awarded second place for her nonfiction story ‘The Rag Doll Rider’ by Havik in 2023. More recently her flash fiction ‘Summons to the revolution’ won 2nd prize in literature at ZO magazine international 10th anniversary edition 2025
Stuck
While waiting for the Q, she lambasted Donnie Nukkel for another ridiculous funnel opening. This time: “Humans have told each other stories since the days of burning moss to illuminate their caves” to introduce an analysis of the Knight’s introduction in The Canterbury Tales.
Chaucer did not live in a cave! she scrawled in purple pen. When her train burst from the tunnel, she rammed her To-Grade folder into her bag and stood from the bench, only to discover that her feet had somehow sunk ankle-deep into the platform. Even the cuffs of her slacks were immersed in the solid concrete.
“That explains it,” the neckbeard with a wrinkled tie muttered as he came around from behind the bench. He had been looming behind her a few mornings now, discussing cryptocurrency with his earbuds loud enough to make it clear he wanted her to eavesdrop and be impressed…and also so he could gawk down her blouse, no doubt. But he’d muttered this last utterance too low to have intended it for bluetooth.
“Explains what, Lon Chaney?” was the retort that came to mind, but because he’d scurried down to the next car, she would have needed bitch projection to cross the distance. Not that she was opposed to the effort. But she had moments before the train doors closed, and a department head who left cautionary sticky notes for even one- or two-minute tardies.
The concrete sucked in on her like itchy finger handcuffs, but when she pulled hard and wiggled her toes, she squirmed her feet free of her sneakers. They were old sneakers, her work heels in her bag, and she frayed her cuffs in the effort. Once her feet were out, the platform looked solid and scarless, her sneakers irretrievable.
Most of her students did their Biology or Geometry during British Lit class, since those courses counted twice more to their GPAs than hers. Only the suck-ups made any effort when she tried to engage discussion, and even those responses reeked of ChatGPT. On her retaliatory pop reading quiz, a few answered the question, “In the Nun’s Tale, why did the Jews murder the Christian boy?” with, “Because Jews are evil.”
The commute home turned out uneventful, but still she instinctively readied herself every time she put her foot down, as though unsure she’d reached the bottom of a flight of stairs. Even in the kitchenette of her studio apartment as she nuked noodles for dinner. Plus, her feet killed since she’d worn heels all day. She searched ‘sinking’ and ‘concrete’ on Teacher Twitter, but the only results offered metaphorical analogies to burnout, loneliness and overload. They weren’t wrong, but she’d hoped for posts about literal sinking in concrete.
She got through six more Chaucer papers before she fell asleep on her To-Grade folder, which she’d subtitled in Sharpie, “Fading Hope.” She dreamt that parents marched into her classroom and preempted her lesson. They set up a Rube Goldberg mousetrap at the front of the room and announced they had an important video to play from an expensive college admissions consultancy, but the barely audible voice on the crackly phonograph cylinder buried at the heart of the mousetrap had too heavy a French accent to understand.
The next day, she stood on the platform, which neckbeard clearly read as an invitation. He marched up, business card leading the way. “Jason. I know a perfect tapas.”
The train slowed. She squinnied a rejection: “I have grades due.” She rubbed her stiff neck as corroboration.
“Teacher? I thought you had a real job.” Neckbeard scuttled down a car to board.
Offloaders offloaded, and she was happy to pursue in retort this time, but she found herself an inch or so above the platform. She swished her legs and pumped her arms fruitlessly. She regretted not standing by a column to push off from.
She descended back to earth in time for the next train, and when she rushed to her room mid-period, she found herself the target of a surprise observation. Even the suck-ups didn’t step up their game for her. Department Head Faunce lingered after class to finish typing his notes, then dropped on her before he exited, “Last chance before tenure, right?”
That night, to curry some allies, she aced her remaining papers. But then she realized she’d have to regrade the ones she’d excoriated to avoid whining parents. She looked up anticipated openings for next school year. All in areas she didn’t want to commute to.
Next morning, she was ready. For anything. She sat on the bench to let neckbeard hover and gawk. As the Q came to a halt, she rose and kept him close behind.
With a silent crack, like the gap between lightning and its accompanying rumble, she transformed into a pillar of concrete, rebar and subway tile. Neckbeard ran right into her. His phone clattered into the platform gap. He sneered and wiped at his bleeding nose.
She settled into her new position. She could live with this.
Richard Weems
