Mundane Events, Creative Writing - Vol. 1
The room is not quite square. Looking around I can not be totally sure any of the corners are proper right angles. The northwest corner is just a rounded corner creating a wasted space where no desk can be placed. Against the curved wall a circular clock stares longingly onto the participants of the room.
The clock is very plain with a white face and black hands and numbers. A clock that would seem as at home in a waiting room of a walk in clinic or dental office as it does here in the training room. It appears as though it would like nothing more than the day to speed along. Each second ticks by with such effort the clock seems to be growing weary of the long day still ahead.
The trainer continues to pour the information out over the room. It is soft and passive. Much like the trainer himself. A man of dark hair and a well trimmed goatee. Sitting on the edge of the desk near the south end of the room he stares down at the plain grey carpet before beginning his next sentence.
What is normally eight boisterous people in the class has shrank to six quiet and tired pupils. I fight to keep my eyes open. I shift in my chair hoping that the move will shake me loose from the strong grip of the overbearing drowsiness of the morning. My focus floats from the trainer, to my notebook in front of the computer, to the time on the computer, and slowly back to the trainer. I am losing the battle.
My eyes continue to droop. I shake my head with enough fervor to wake myself a little more but not aggressively enough to draw attention to myself. I quickly peek around the room and notice that everyone else is fighting the same demon. People's heads are swaying up and down like they arm being pushed by a warm summer breeze leaning on a wheat field.
The clock stares into the room. The morning coffee break looms on the horizon. The clock ticks and tocks with great torture. It almost screams every second as it passes. It wants a break as much as the people in the room do. I stare at it. I stare with the determination of a personal trainer squeezing the last bit of sweat from their clientèle. I want it to succeed. My eyes beg for the clock to roll the seconds over as quickly as possible.
It is just a few more minutes, just a little more time.
The trainer, now standing in front of a white board at the north end of the room, looks down at the plain grey carpet before continuing to speak. I shift again in my chair and stare into nothing trying to not let the idleness of the moment fill the room in blissful darkness.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock...I am losing the battle.
The clock is very plain with a white face and black hands and numbers. A clock that would seem as at home in a waiting room of a walk in clinic or dental office as it does here in the training room. It appears as though it would like nothing more than the day to speed along. Each second ticks by with such effort the clock seems to be growing weary of the long day still ahead.
The trainer continues to pour the information out over the room. It is soft and passive. Much like the trainer himself. A man of dark hair and a well trimmed goatee. Sitting on the edge of the desk near the south end of the room he stares down at the plain grey carpet before beginning his next sentence.
What is normally eight boisterous people in the class has shrank to six quiet and tired pupils. I fight to keep my eyes open. I shift in my chair hoping that the move will shake me loose from the strong grip of the overbearing drowsiness of the morning. My focus floats from the trainer, to my notebook in front of the computer, to the time on the computer, and slowly back to the trainer. I am losing the battle.
My eyes continue to droop. I shake my head with enough fervor to wake myself a little more but not aggressively enough to draw attention to myself. I quickly peek around the room and notice that everyone else is fighting the same demon. People's heads are swaying up and down like they arm being pushed by a warm summer breeze leaning on a wheat field.
The clock stares into the room. The morning coffee break looms on the horizon. The clock ticks and tocks with great torture. It almost screams every second as it passes. It wants a break as much as the people in the room do. I stare at it. I stare with the determination of a personal trainer squeezing the last bit of sweat from their clientèle. I want it to succeed. My eyes beg for the clock to roll the seconds over as quickly as possible.
It is just a few more minutes, just a little more time.
The trainer, now standing in front of a white board at the north end of the room, looks down at the plain grey carpet before continuing to speak. I shift again in my chair and stare into nothing trying to not let the idleness of the moment fill the room in blissful darkness.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock...I am losing the battle.
posted by Duncan McAllister at 8:29 p.m.
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