plseae ocnsedri sbsmtng
I: The number of words I found imbedded within the word "submission":

II: A listing of those words:
sub, mission, miss, ion, is, on, bus, sum, moss, bum, sis, nub, bun, son, nib

III: Using some, but not all, of those words in a fairly intelligible sentence:
"Bus sub, Miss Ion, is on sub missions."

IV:  Reasons sentence didn't work as well as I had hoped:

  • Too many nouns; not nearly enough verbs.   
  • The reader will probably not understand that "Bus sub" intends to represent a substitute teacher on a school bus.
  • Although really very cool, no one would ever be named Miss Ion.
  • I used neither "nib" nor "nub."
V:  Despite its failings, what we can infer about Miss Ion and her situation:
I think we mostly worry about the children, in that we are lead to believe that Miss Ion is a substitute teacher on a school bus, but has abandoned them to work on a sub mission. We can imagine this particular sentence as either a piece of narrative, or as the voice of a character in a larger work, such as after the school bus wreck, which is witnessed by an aged farmer, alone since his wife passed on so many years ago. He runs to the grizzly scene and asks, "How could this happen?  Where is your teacher?" To which he receives a forced, nearly breathless reply, "Bus sub, Miss Ion, is on sub missions." It could be a very tense moment, more so if it takes place in the snow.

VI:  The sentence once again revisited, but with many more words added to make it more understandable, thus clearing Miss Ion's name of any ill feeling.
Not long ago there was a young woman who worked as a substitute teacher at a rural elementary school just outside of Farmington Hills, Michigan. This blonde, attractive woman, who blushed when she received compliments by the farmhands she passed by on listless Saturday nights, went by the name Marie Ion. It was not the name she was born with, but what she'd changed it to after falling in love with the study of physics at the state college where she had finished her teaching degree. She'd wanted to go into physics, desperately wanted to. She dreamt of researching important new scientific developments and changing the world to some degree or another.  

But Marie knew these dreams were never to be realized after she found early on in her studies that she had no skill for it, particularly with the seemingly non-linear mathematical applications. So she went into teaching (not so far from her original, desired calling).  Actually, substitute teaching (a little further). When it did pay, it did so horribly. And when is was bordering a level of life-sustaining bliss, it remained not nearly as rewarding as she'd hoped. 

But her stick-to-it-ness pulled her out of periodic ruts and she made the best of it, as best she could. It had its perks, those should not be forgotten, and she particularly enjoyed when a teacher would call in sick on a day when their group of youngsters were headed out into the world on a field trip, such was the case today.  

She hopped up on the bus, counted the small, bobbing, shrieking heads, then gave the 'let's go ahead' signal to the bus driver. She sat on the frayed edge of the poorly carpeted seat and watched the countryside roll by, observing the tops of snow banks drifting along with soft, comforting currents and the trees nestled quietly underneath. She liked her life at these serene moments.  These nearly meditative states allowed one to handle quick bursts of retrospection or the simple, unhampered wandering of thought. But as all things tend to do, this was to change.  

Three nondescript SUVs sped from out of nowhere and pulled along the sides of the bus. Shortly thereafter, yet another pulled in front of the vehicle, immediately putting on its breaks, slowing the bus to a crawl and ultimately stopping along the edge of this deserted stretch of highway. A dozen men jumped out of the mammoth vehicles, surrounding the bus. Several carried automatic weapons of a high caliber, held in front of their person, striking the stance of people with guns who guard things. Seconds passed before a lone gentleman appeared. He was older than the others, gray hair, defined cheekbones and thin, wire-rimmed glasses. He approached the door and knocked, softly with a subtle thud, one that insinuated that he was demanding entrance.  

"Stay calm everyone," Marie said in a quivering, nearly silent voice, "I'll take care of this." She commanded Doris to pull the lever, which opened the door. The children watched as Miss Ion walked out into freezing winter air, the older man in his jet-black clothing clutching her arm and walking to the car ahead. Minutes passed everything silent. The men outside stood their ground; faceless, eerily stoic.  

Miss Ion left the automobile, stepped back out into the cold and walked the short distance back onto the bus.  She looked over the crowd of young, innocent eyes and realized that what the colonel had said was true.  Saving the children, keeping freedom alive: all so very painfully true. "Children, I am going to go with these men. They are with the United States government and they are asking for my help." The students looked on as she trembled through her words. "My father, a scientist who was working on a top-secret government project with nuclear submersible crafts has been captured by a militant Yugoslavian organization. These men have asked that I come with them, to help find my father, so that he might continue his work on a nuclear submarine."  She looked over their faces once more, tears welling in her eyes. "Do you understand, children?" They nodded, slowly. She turned and took each step as a mounting challenge, emotionally drained by each. She turned and looked at Doris.  

"Take care of yourself, Miss Ion."  

"And you too, Doris. Watch after the children, won't you?"  

"Sure thing, Miss Ion."  

Marie walked and crawled into the massive, domineering craft ahead and within seconds they were gone.  Once again the bus was alone on that lonesome, silent stretch of road.  

Later that day, at dinner, John Atwater had come home just in time for dinner. He placed his coat and his briefcase on the kitchen counter and sat down, eagerly anticipating the meal. As the family passed around the various dishes spread across the table, John asked his bright-eyed son about his day. "Bus sub, Miss Ion, is on sub missions." John, who had no idea what his son was talking about, cheerfully responded, "That's nice."

VII:  Reasons as to why I made that last one so long:

  • Thought it was a good, somewhat clever addition to the piece, in regards to where it was headed thus far.
  • Worried that maybe the whole thing didn't have enough girth to it, didn't "pack a punch" quite yet.
  • I'm bored and writing helps.

 B R A V E   S O U L S   R E C E I V E
Eyeshot's Friendly & Infrequent Update
simply type your e-mail address below, or
learn more about eyeshot-brand spam

Archive of Recent Activities

Submission Recommendations