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I sit here, surrounded by small islands, for two hours straight seated, there I must wait, slowly watching the second hand crawl it's way around the large cylinder of white. Two hours to rack my brains, thinking endlessly about a dead's poets work and why he wrote it.
The sports hall sits, grounded, hollow and hungry, waiting impatiently to swallow the victims in a flash, noises creak every wall, as it watches down upon us, laughing silently at our treachery. The green carpet beneath us sinks at the weight of 159 so pupils sitting at desk writing furiously. Sweat peaking brows as they too realize that time is beginning to speed up. The desks face one way, each singular rectangle spaced apart unevenly, but spread just far enough to stop anyone cheating.
We sit still, straight backed, waiting like rows of Jews entering the gas chambers, we sit unknowing that anytime the execution could rise and we'd all be slaughter like lambs. Everyone bows their heads, writing, scribbling down their wills, the odd few pausing and rising their heads, but then knowing that the damp walls give no inspiration, so they bow their head in apology. There isn't much to look at from the back of the hall, apart from a sea of browns, all different shades, but seem to play apart, the odd dash of sunlight dashes the brown sea.
We value our time, though many sit and stare at the blank walls before them, with an even blanker expression upon their faces. Everyone sits in silence; I can feel the hall groaning longingly.
The odd rustle of paper breaks the daunting peace, people shifting in their hard seats. The silence pierces the heart of the sports hall, longing for the screams and laughter of children playing on its damp green surface.
The number of people working is tremendous, paper and books and other anomalous things litter the carpet around the desk. Blazing oranges glare up from the carpet, all in unison, going on federal strike.
The wind races through the vents, howling and making as much noise to disturb the acquaintance of the hall. The vents creak and moan, as they lie suspended from the ceiling, unable to stop the wind from disturbing their eternal sleep. The wind howls in a continuous motion, forever howling, then it stops and the silence begins again. Twenty-one lights scattered across the ceiling in rows of seven, glare down upon us, threatening to fall at any moment anyone makes a sudden move. The fluescent peachy light hurts the eyes of anyone who might dare to look at the ceiling, the odd one darkened, not giving off the hard, solid light that it used to.
Four walls lie opposite and next to, brought together by a solid foundation, each wall painted white, turned a slight pale yellow by the air trapped within its clutched. Numbers litter to wall the my right, numbers 1-17, lined up unevenly, never to be put into a straight line. Each number comes alive with its own character. A rising line of letters fall into my gaze, as I rise my head to look straight ahead, A-G, the G hidden by the large blackboard (boring), the schools center number and the times of the English exams written in bold upon its blackness. Each of the letters are large and typed in bold. We each have a number, my own is B13, a sentence I'll never understand.
The wall bearing numbers and its opposite mate, hold basketball hops, four to each threshold, ropes hanging aimlessly between, hung loose and swaying simultaneously with the wind. Two large nets hand unwillingly on each side, touching the floor lazily, dividing the hall in half, squeaking as they move. The nets are embroidering with metal and coated with green, and these are seldom used.
Metal bars hold the roof aloft, stopping it from falling in on top of us, making us safe as we write their answers for their questions. Teachers stand scattered around, walking slowly between the isles, their eyes sharper than hawks. Heads turning to pierce any unsuspecting pupil that has been distracting, the teachers often meet at the back of the hall, to talk about our next sentence. Then they walk with their hands around clasped behind them and their backs straight, waiting, just waiting to catch any unexpecting pupil, just one.
Time snails by, laughing at us, because it has deliabily slowed down its process, the absent minded giggles go passed unnoticed. We now begin to rush our work, slurring our words, making obvious mistakes that even first years wouldn't make. Now time begins to speed up, laughing even louder, as the teacher gather at the front of the sports hall, they begin to sneer, -yes coffee break in 11 minutes. Teachers now stop wondering, but stand and wait and stare at the clock. A teacher announces '10 more minutes.' Papers now rustle as pupils re-read their work, and teachers file up and stand in front of the rows, ready to collect out punishments in.
People crack their knuckles trying to relieve the cramp that has settled in. as I look around the room and begin to wonder. Thank goodness there's only three more to go. I hear loud sighs of relief and coats and bags being rustled, unbalancing the silence in the room.
Times up, and so is the gloom.
The room unsettles the dust, as we begin to move, the teachers are as unsettled as the pupils sitting down on chairs. At last we are reunited with air, clearer than anything, and the hall gets a blast of cool air that now plays with the dust.
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