Three Minute Fiction

Here is my entry for NPR's Three Minute Fiction contest (600 words or less, must start with the line "The nurse left work at five o'clock").

The nurse left work at five o'clock. An hour and fifteen minutes late wasn't bad, considering what the day had been … two vomiters – one whose mother never showed up, a diabetic without insulin, one knocked out tooth, and five … count 'em, five stings from the wasps' nest by the pottery kiln. She'd reported it twice, and it still hadn't been removed. She was sure it was kind of Principal Kirk to keep on the janitor after his illness, but if he couldn't do his job, honestly, he had to go, charitable feelings or not.

She circled her car through the mostly empty parking lot, climbing over the mountainous speed bumps at the pace of death. The principal's car was still there, though not in it's reserved spot. It was instead up the hill next to the art center. She was late, but she was also a natural busy body, as most high school teachers are. She moved up the hill and saw him, still in his suit, gingerly holding a can of spray poison by the tips of his fingers. He clutched some sort of cloth over the front of his clothing, presumably to protect it from the dirty work he was about to perform, but the effect was effeminate, and she felt embarrassed to have seen it. She considered driving away, but he had seen her, and it was too late. She stopped the car and got out.

“The wasps?” she asked. He nodded, inching toward the kiln, spray can poised to kill. He crouched down, inching slowly and extending his arm. The nest was attached to the back of the kiln, and a single wasp emerged and flew toward him. He skittered backwards, lost his balance, and dropped the can and the cloth. She realized, quite suddenly, that she didn't like the man.

“I'm afraid of them,” he said sheepishly. “Always have been, but its got to be done.”

“I'll do it,” she sighed. He might have been about to protest, but the wasp flew past his face, and he began flapping his hands and backing away. She walked purposefully to the poison, stepping over the cloth … she noticed it was a baby's blanket, and wondered where it had come from. She grabbed the can, shook it briskly, and approached the nest. She had to maneuver between the kiln and the wall to get a straight shot, and it was a tight fit. Her jacket caught on a screw. She pushed her body forward to pull it free, but the kiln wasn't as heavy as she imagined it to be. The weight of her body pulled the kiln up on two legs and it came down with a heavy thud, pinning her uncomfortably at the waist.

First she heard a low pulsing hum. She thought the principal was snickering at her with his rumbling baritone, but she couldn't turn to look at him, stuck as she was. Then a strange cold sensation hit her ankles. For one brief moment, she imagined the kiln was leaking something, but in an instant the pain followed the cold. Then she saw them, flying and crawling up her torso, looking for something to sting. Hundreds and wasps came hurdling from below. The hum became a roar, and the pain moved to her arms and neck and face. She opened her mouth to scream, but immediately closed it on several wasps. One stung her tongue.

Bugger, I'm out of cold compresses, she thought.

That was 588 words. I have room for improvement.