The First Guilt - By Jane Brikos

Written By: Jane Brikos

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In her short story "The First Guilt," Jane Brikos offers a poignant narrative that delves into themes of responsibility and human connection. As a participant in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Brikos explores how our mistakes can reshape our identity and impact those around us. Set against the backdrop of a school, this story weaves a tapestry of emotions and reflections that resonate with readers on a personal level.

About the Work

"The First Guilt" is a deeply emotive short story that captures the complexities of guilt and the weight of responsibility. Through vivid imagery and heartfelt prose, Jane Brikos explores the intricate dynamics between a teacher and her students. The narrative gracefully weaves moments of warmth and unease, highlighting the profound impact of seemingly small decisions and interactions. The story's mood is reflective and somber, inviting readers to ponder the delicate balance of care and consequence.

The First Guilt

Original Submission by Jane Brikos

Die eerste skuld - (“The First Guilt”)

By: Jane Brikos

“Because some mistakes rewrite who we are.”

It was a normal Tuesday. Or so Janine Brand thought.

The sun was already high by the time she realised she was running late-again. If she arrived after the bell, the principal would be far from impressed. She pulled into the school parking lot, grabbed her handbag, and rushed toward the yard just as the learners began lining up for assembly.

Another close call.

She hadn’t packed lunch. She never did.

Janine slipped into her usual place at the back of the staff line, trying to steady her breathing. A cold breeze swept across the yard, tugging at her blazer and stirring the branches of the majestic Jacaranda tree that stood like a fortress in the middle of the schoolyard.

Then, quietly, a small hand slipped into hers.

She looked down.

A shy brown face looked up at her, smiling gently.

It was “Krappie.”

She twitched her nose and held Janine’s hand a little tighter.

“Krappie” was an Afrikaans word. It meant crab-not exactly a flattering name, but not meant to be cruel either. The children called her that because of the way she sometimes moved sideways to avoid attention, never walking straight into a room or a conversation. The name had stuck, and she had accepted it quietly, as if it had always belonged to her.

Assembly was uneventful.

The usual announcements echoed from the front: reminders about lunch orders, lost jerseys, and after-school activities. Mrs van der Westhuizen would be offering extra maths lessons again-no surprises there-and Thursdays, as always, meant netball with Miss Brand.

At that, Krappie squeezed Janine’s hand.

She loved netball.

Janine looked down at the girl beside her, catching the faint glimmer of excitement in her eyes. It was a rare sight-Krappie usually kept her emotions tucked away, like secrets behind a locked gate. But netball brought something different out of her. Movement. Spark. Belonging.

The wind shifted again, brushing through the Jacaranda’s high branches. A few dry seed pods clattered softly above them like nature’s own applause. Assembly drew to a close, and the learners began filing off in lines, chatter bubbling beneath the surface.

🌳

“All right, my lovely people!”

Miss Brand’s voice rang out as she stepped into the classroom behind her Grade 6s. They were loud-louder than usual-but she didn’t mind. Not really.

“I need to know if all my favourite peeps are here!” she added, her eyes bright, her smile infectious.

The class responded with giggles, half-hushed whispers, and shuffling feet. They knew her rhythm. Miss Brand wasn’t just full of energy-she was magnetic when it came to them. These were her kids. Her register class. She had taken them in from Grade 4, and they would remain hers until the end of Grade 7.

The noise softened.

One by one, they stood behind their chairs, growing still as her presence settled over the room like sunlight.

“Good morning, class,” she said, her tone gently teasing.

“Good morning, Miss Brand,” they chorused, some louder than others, some still grinning from the excitement of the morning.

Behind her, the wind nudged at the windows, and the Jacaranda tree creaked softly in the distance, like it too was listening.

The learners took their seats and responded with clear, confident “Yesses!” as Miss Brand called their names.

Sandile sat alone, directly in front of the board. He was a year older than most of the others and had always struggled a bit academically. He didn’t mind, though-he liked being close to his ma’am. He was always quiet, but today he seemed especially withdrawn.

Miss Brand noticed at once. She wheeled her chair across the classroom in a playful, exaggerated roll. The class burst into laughter at her comedic stride.

“Everything okay, Sandile?” she whispered when she reached him, leaning in so only he could hear.

Sandile looked down. His voice was small. “My… my stomach hurts, ma’am.”

Miss Brand nodded gently, concern softening her bright features. She reached out and squeezed his shoulder with reassurance before turning to address the class with her usual warmth:

“Alright, everyone-let’s begin with a quick warm-up to settle our minds. Open your books to page 23.”

But as she guided the class forward, her thoughts briefly flashed back to the Jacaranda tree outside. There was something in the air today-something unsettled, fragile, like the way Sandile was hovering on the edge of discomfort. And it reminded her that sometimes, teaching wasn’t just about lessons in math or literacy-it was about being present for every little soul in her care. And that meant noticing before they even asked.

Miss Brand danced and sang her way through the English lesson, filling the room with warmth and energy. The children smiled, their voices joining in as she led them through songs and stories.

But Sandile didn’t participate. He lay on his arms, his head heavy on the desk, silent and still.

Seeing this, Miss Brand quietly wrote a note and sent him to the office for a break.

When the bell rang for maths, she welcomed the Grade 4s into the classroom for their English lesson. But Sandile’s absence weighed heavily on her mind.

Later, when she had the same class again for Life Skills, Sandile wasn’t any better. He barely lifted his head and didn’t join the activities. Concerned, Miss Brand sent him to the sick room and asked the office to phone his mother.

The calls came back unanswered.

They tried every emergency contact number on file-relatives, neighbours-but no one answered.

Eventually, they managed to reach his uncle, who promised to come to the school immediately.

By 3 p.m., Janine had finished the last of her admin and was packing up to leave. The halls had mostly emptied, the hum of the school day fading into late afternoon stillness.

As she walked past the sick room, she paused. Sandile was still there.

She knocked gently before entering. He was lying on his side, facing the wall. His small shoulders curled inward, his face streaked with silent tears.

Janine’s heart dropped.

She crossed the room quietly and sat down on the edge of the bed. Placing a hand softly on his shoulder, she spoke, her voice warm and low.

“Sweetie… are you okay?”

She already knew the answer. But children-especially her children-appreciated being asked. They needed to feel seen.

Sandile just nodded. A weak, automatic gesture.

“I’ll call your uncle again,” she said gently.

She felt helpless.

His school file had made it clear-no medication was to be administered, not even mild pain relief. And as a teacher, she couldn’t go against it, no matter how much she wanted to ease his discomfort.

She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and stood to leave. But as she reached the door, his voice stopped her.

“Ma’am…” he said softly.

She turned.

He had shifted slightly, his face pale, eyes glassy with pain.

“Thank you for everything, ma’am.”

Janine smiled. It was small and tired, but sincere. She winked at him, holding back the heaviness in her chest, and stepped out of the room.

Her final attempt to reach his family went unanswered.

She drove home with a knot in her stomach, her heart heavier than her handbag.

🌳

Krappie came flying across the schoolyard, feet barely touching the ground as she ran straight for Janine. The yard was still quiet-only a few early birds wandering about. She wasn’t late this time. For once, the morning felt easy.

“Thursday is netball!” she shouted with a grin.

Janine smiled. “It is, but fitness training first,” she teased.

Krappie groaned dramatically and clutched her chest. “Noooo! That’s the worst part!”

They laughed together, a simple joy, and Janine ruffled her hair before turning toward the admin block. She still had the strange message in her mind. It had come through the previous night, just after 8pm-barely a few lines, unclear and cold.

Meeting early tomorrow morning in the board room.

It had been a bad night. She’d laid awake, her chest tight with unease, unable to stop thinking about Sandile. The way his back was curled, the tears he tried to hide, how he said nothing and everything at once. She should have done more.

In the office, the air was thick. Dull. The kind of quiet that feels like it’s hiding something.

The principal greeted her, his voice low and flat, before slipping into the boardroom. The others followed silently. When they sat, a hush fell like a heavy blanket.

Then the words came.

Sandile’s uncle only picked him up much later,” the principal said quietly. His voice caught. “They just gave him pain meds at home. Said it was his stomach.”

A pause. A breath-shaky now.

“He… he died around 8pm.”

Another pause.

“His appendix had burst.”

Janine froze.

A sound, or maybe a sob, stuck in her throat. Her hand covered her mouth. Her whole body felt hollow, a gaping ache where her heart should be.

She had touched his shoulder. She had seen the pain. She had known. She knew-and still, she left.

She followed the rules.

She made the call. She waited.

And now he was gone.

Eight o’clock.

The exact time she uneasily turned over in bed and tried to sleep.

The exact time a child died-alone, unheard, in pain.

Janine bowed her head, tears slipping quietly onto her lap.

She had been his safe place.

And she hadn’t saved him.

🌳

They held a service for Sandile that Friday, under the gaunt, grieving arms of the Jacaranda. Its branches were stripped bare, like the day, like her heart-cold, exposed, aching. The children sang a slow, trembling hymn that clung to the winter air. And Janine, breaking quietly, turned away-back to her empty classroom, where she let the tears come, raw and without shame.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 hosted by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious event celebrating the art of storytelling and poetic expression. It brings together voices from around the world, offering a platform for writers to share their unique perspectives and creative works. This competition is a testament to the power of words to inspire, challenge, and connect us across cultures and experiences.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Jane Brikos for her contribution to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 with her short story "The First Guilt." This evocative narrative reminds us of the deep connections we share and the impact of our choices on those around us. We look forward to seeing more of her insightful storytelling in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.