At one o’clock, without fail, on every Tuesday and Thursday, Miss Dickerson would pull forth from her desk—plump fingers grasping the book’s faded edges—her copy of Moby Dick.
Her ample bottom occasionally revised the negotiations it had struck with her chair, which produced a groaning of timber that gave some small life to the story she read. But the room was hot with May sun, shimmering linoleum, and outside our window only an ocean of weeds and goldenrod.
Ishmael would never sail to Nebraska and scan the horizon of our playground.
So…if only for the souls of my classmates, I took to the green and gold swells of the outside field. Canvas shoes and metal braces tight. And…lo, I saw her. Miss Dickerson rising and falling in the distance, breaching upon the swelling grasses. A droning and shifting leviathan who had dared to imprison our minds and bodies—itching with the need for diversion.
I pulled alongside her—pale white flanks dripping with floral prints—drew back my arm, and cast.
The creaking subsided. The droning ceased. Footsteps. A broad, moist shadow rose up and up, and then came crashing down upon me.

The Eclectic Pen - Ahab's Folly -- Micro Fiction

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