Life Lessons
A Flash Fiction by Dreena Collins
Finalist WestWord Prize 2025
Each September, a new batch of students arrived, wittering in high-pitched voices and walking too fast. As the year went on, they dispersed into smaller groups. Their pace slowed, and voices deepened. They were no longer a brood of chicks hopping and bleeping en masse – though he did notice the occasional cock outside his window.
Edward was well-skilled at tuning them out, but those first few weeks of term were always a shock to the system. By November, he would barely notice them. But right now, the giggles and suitcase wheels cut through the air.
The cocks were indeed crowing.
Today was day two. As usual, he had begun his working day by meditating, staring at the huge poster taped up in his office beside the huge windows that overlooked the concourse.
Office. More like a storage cupboard. Every wall was shelved, but he kept his favourite books to the right of his desk, at eye line: Russell, Wollstonecraft, and Kierkegaard nestled together as surprisingly comfortable neighbours, pages thumbed and worn, curling over like pencil shavings, elegant and loved. He smiled.
His space was one of the few on the ground floor, next to a utility cupboard that housed green scratchy paper to refill the bathroom dispensers. The other staff had sweeping views of the campus from the floors above.
The coffee was brewing on a portable stove behind him. Bubbles were popping through the internal holes of the Moka pot, like tiny ball bearings against the metal. He could picture the coffee spitting and dropping into the well. He could hear the liquid thickening as it travelled, thick and rich as blood.
He wasn’t allowed a stove, but if they wanted to enforce their bureaucracy, they’d have to lower themselves to venture to the ground floor every now and then. He knew he was being a dick about it. But he rather liked the idea that he was rebelling against the man — even if it was something as ironically bourgeoise as an espresso pot.
Edward turned his attention back to the poster to resume his meditation: a wind-swept, tropical scene filled with flotsam and brine. The sky was cobalt. And in spite of the numerous seats in the spacious decking, it was – notably – empty. He saw himself meditating amongst the salt and sun. He moved into the picture, listening to his breath growing deeper and heavier as it entangled with the crash of the surf against the jetty. He flowed with the tide. He rode the waves.
A few tall, narrow palm trees pierced the deck. They gave him comfort. They were strong, gnarled, sturdy and confident, though out of place. There was a majesty to them. Independence.
The smack of a flat palm against the window brought him back into the room. One of the freshers called back to someone as they stumbled on their way to Halls. He fought the urge to shout out, the word ‘Twat’ forming in his mouth, resting there for a moment like a ball of unchewed meat. He swallowed down.
Meditation was over for today. Edward reached for his tin mug and poured a coffee, then awkwardly lowered himself to the floor. He’d try some Alexander Technique while it cooled. His knees grumbled, a rusty creak cutting through the silence of the office.
Damn, he was old.
He placed his arms by his side to practise lifting his fingers in isolation. A gawky male student walked in front of the window and then stopped. Earnestly staring at his mobile phone, he moved from one foot to the other. Lights off in the office, he likely supposed no one was there. He couldn’t see Edward.
But Edward saw him.
Each year, at least a hundred new students arrived with no possessions. No bedding. No crockery. No coat. No pen. He’d been amazed when one of the Welfare Team told him this, though he shouldn’t have been.
They were easy to spot if you knew what to look for. Wide-eyed and awkward, they arrived alone. They didn’t giggle. They hesitated in spite of clear signage and the shoal of other students flowing, synchronised, in the same direction. It frustrated Edward that the other staff couldn’t spot them as quickly, too. Sure, the staff might ask if they needed a hand. But they didn’t persist after the inevitable brush-off they received in reply – and they needed to. These kids weren’t used to ‘nice’. They didn’t take help. And they had hackles raised like sand banks. You had to climb over those. You had to brush them away. Smooth them out. Persevere.
It wasn’t his job, of course, but Edward kept an eye out anyway. And clearly, this was one.
Sure enough, by his feet, he’d dropped the tell-tale white bin bag, handed out to those who admitted that, no, they didn’t have any bedding. Sorry.
How remarkable it was that they found their way here at all. What strength, what power must there be, wrapped tight inside a young person – a child – who could manage this process and arrive on time, alone and scared? Much less to have sat exams – and passed them? These were future leaders in disguise, damn it.
You just had to look.
Edward grabbed the edge of the table and pulled himself upright, swigging his still-too-hot coffee. It filled his mouth with a riot of flavour.
He turned to where his boiler suit hung, slipping it on quickly, well-practised, and choreographed. It was almost nine, anyway. Time to begin his rounds. He had that door to look at in C Block – sticking, apparently. He’d just take a minor deviation via this young man. It would only take a few extra minutes, and no one was watching, anyway.
As he slipped his toolbelt around his hips, the soft leather falling neatly into the groves of his body, Edward took a last glimpse at the tropical scene before him. Tall palm trees.
Strong. Gnarled. And powerful.
But out of place.
Author: Dreena Collins is a multi-genre writer who also works in the charity sector. Listed and placed in numerous writing competitions, including The Bridport Prize, she also writes contemporary women's fiction as Jane Harvey. Dreena lives in the Channel Islands with her spouse, a teenage son, and a grumpy white dog.