A brief description of my literature room.
Upon first step, the clock would race. Each tick would overtake each tock, aimlessly racing to reach the nearest number. The air is thicker than the plaguing smog, condescendingly towering over each body entering the room. The slightest squeak could signify the starting shot, on your marks, get set – go. The clear gradient of a vivacious light to a solemn dark showers the room, the shadows clicking their pens - shattering the silence, the brightness sharpening their pencils – scraping the remainders of the past onto the dull gray sandpaper floors. Yet between the cold chairs tilting and the book perusing, a certain point emerges – like a misplaced middle name, the midpoint embellishes the room and splices the thick air into two.
Suddenly, an ear-splitting ring -
In unison, each vertebrae straightens out, the air suddenly plummets to the floor while the literacy-adorned walls take their long awaited gasp of air. The oddly discolored white board suddenly is bleached the color of a dentist’s wildest dream. The chairs, once cold and limp, devote their strength to transforming into a sea of feathers. The exit sign illuminates the room, almost beaming over the rays of the sun.
The lesson has begun.