FREAKY FLASH FRIDAY: Simulacrum by Elizabeth R. Blackburn

Room 223 hummed with the hurly-burly of homework turn-in and the steady tattoo of rain on the windows. A few students stalled, scribbling their conclusions with No. 2 pencils. Sheets of loose-leaf paper rattled toward Mr. Packard, one of the only teachers refusing to adopt a digital dropbox. His Honors English class grumbled daily about cramping hands and unreadable cursive, but someone had to preserve The Olde Ways.

Lightning flashed and the classroom door burst open. It banged against the adjacent steel bookshelf, dislodging a stack of identical paperbacks. Twenty-four faces turned in startled unison to watch a sopping wet Sophia Wallace shamble across the threshold. Her long red hair protruded in damp wires beneath a brown beret, and her waterlogged sundress seemed peculiar over muddy jeans. She was missing a sneaker and smiling ghoulishly.

Sophia lurched past the first column of desks, clutching a crumpled piece of pink stationary. Twenty-three faces then turned to the other Sophia for answers and found her pale and wilting in her chair.

“Wh- what are you DOING here?” the real Sophia stammered, recoiling. The creature came closer, its steps alternately slapping and squeaking against checkered tile. Outside, the storm raged—inside, the room fell silent. Several students documented the invasion on unsanctioned smartphones and their teacher watched without comment.

Sophia’s copy, ambivalent to her presence, slid in between her desk and her lap and squished the seated girl onto the floor; the now-displaced Sophia scrambled to her feet, smoothing her sweater.

“Mr. Packard, please!” Old Sophia's protest was feeble at best.

New Sophia’s hand shot forward, thrusting its homework into the dumbfounded face of the boy seated ahead of her. He passed it along, scared eyes locked on the twin Sophs. The original had gone from ashen to beet red; the imitation still beamed grotesquely.

When the pink paper reached the front, Mr. Packard smoothed it theatrically and adjusted his spectacles. He cleared his throat, squinted at the rain-spattered ballpoint, and read: “Filling one side of one piece of lined paper, describe the differences between Hester Prynne’s self-created identity and the identity assigned to her by society in The Scarlet Letter. Limit vocabulary to 12th-grade American English, use my cursive, write in pencil, and be creative.”

Mr. Packard rummaged through the pile of handwritten essay questions for the page first Sophia submitted. “Very tidy,” he mused, addressing the soggy simulacrum, “well done, Sophia.”

He turned to his student and held out the crumpled pink prompt. Actual Sophia sobbed into her knuckles and shuffled up to take it. “I can explain-” she hugged the paper to her chest, her own mark of shame.

“Principal’s office, Soph,” Mr. Packard said, gesturing to the open door. Humiliated Sophia stomped into the hallway and thunderous laughter erupted close behind.

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Elizabeth R. Blackburn's professional credits include obituary writer, snail seller, daycare worker, software engineer, homeless camp counselor, costume designer, and phone sex operator. She currently resides in Columbus, OH and is @InnateOptimist on X, Twitch, and Instagram.

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Photo by Diana on Pexels