Subpocalypse Now
According to district records, these logs were discovered in a supply closet of [REDACTED] Middle School, supposedly written by a veteran substitute teacher who vanished in late March 2023. While the authenticity of these documents remains disputed, many claim they’re a work of fiction. Others insist on the legitimacy of these accounts. The words written on the cover indicate a man dedicated to his profession. “This is my expo marker. There are many like it, but this one is mine!”
0630 Hours – First Light
Thick fog clings to the freshly watered fields. The jungle gym loom like a crashed helo in the half-light. I’ve been staring at my credential badge for twenty minutes in the car, wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake. Did I really sign up for another tour? The phone crackles with the morning mission report– another substitute down in the Science department. They’re dropping like flies out here.
0700 Hours – Insertion Point
The fluorescent lights buzz, for a moment they feel like a pair of Hueys flying low overhead. The front office secretary – let’s call her Command – has the vacant stare of someone who’s seen too many subs walk through those doors. “Anderson’s class? We lost three good subs in there last month. Clean hits. They never stood a chance.”
0600 Hours – Operation Daybreak
The school parking lot is my Normandy. Today’s intel: roving classroom assignment. I’ll be moving period by period, theater to theater, island hopping across the Pacific. Art, Math, English, Science – each room its own battlefield. No home base. No reinforcements. Just me and a rolling cart of supplies against the Axis of Apathy.
0645 Hours – Tactical Assessment
Stockpiling supplies in the teacher’s lounge bunker. The veterans eye my preparations – dry erase markers, emergency worksheets, three different colors of pass slips. “Mobile warfare,” the history teacher mutters, dunking his third donut. “God help you, son. Their Anti-Teaching Defense systems are prepared for all that.”
My Dearest Margaret,
I pray this letter finds you well. The conflict enters its final hours at James Madison High. Our supplies run low – only two dry erase markers remain, and I fear they too shall fade to transparency.
You could feel the tension from the moment I stepped into the building. Something in the air – that electric feeling before lightning strikes. Suddenly a young freshman named Kevin, rode through the halls on his e-scooter, warning of pop quizzes. The seeds of revolution were sprouting. His intelligence network remains a mystery, though we suspect the janitor has turned double agent in exchange for pizza privileges.
Nothing is over! Nothing! You just don’t turn it off! It wasn’t my day to sub! I had the day off. You asked me. I didn’t ask you. And I did what I had to do to teach. But somebody wouldn’t let us teach. And I come back to the school and I see those students at drop off, mad that I could be their sub, saying mean things to me, calling me a fun killer and all kinds of vile nonsense. Who are they to say I’m a bad sub, huh? Who are they? Unless they’ve been me and been in the classroom and know what they are sneering at.