narrative-the old clock

 old clock

30MIN

Tick tock. Tick tock.

The clicking gears were the only presence disturbing the serenity of the desolate classroom. Angel screwed up her face, scrutinising the endless pages of math. Her efforts were fruitless. Meaningless figures swarmed about her head, buzzing in between her ears like mere fruit flies. She looked helplessly towards the open window, where only the after-school netball team were horsing around in the empty court. And she had to stay back and do practice sums?

Her gaze slipped back to the book before her, yet her mind was clearly somewhere else. It was Mr Parania's stupid grandfather clock- always ensconced upon the frail wooden floor, pendulum glinting in the punishing heat as if taunting his pitiful students. Merely having that darned clock in the room already reminded her of her math teacher. Leering at his students with his wet, thin lips beneath that toothbrush moustache ready to spit insults or criticism at his victims. 

Envisioning her tormentor's face made her shiver, then flinch. The clock seemed to tower over her in a similar manner, its dark grooves at the ready to spout eyes (and perhaps a ridiculously small moustache) and tell her to focus on the bloody work.

Angel snapped out of her dreary reverie, eyes travelling to the piece of paper. Her neatly pencilled initials burned into her guilty gaze-the only thing she had managed to write so far.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Angel writhed in her seat. Her stomach growled lowly. The ticking was beginning to burn at her ears, as it began to thunder  in her head like never before. Her clammy hands gripped the pencil. Her chapped lip lifted, revealing her grinding teeth. She glared up at the clock, panting heavily.

The table flew forwards, a few papers floating towards the floor with a hideous screech. 

"Shut it!" the girl roared, spittle flying from her mouth.

Red cheeked with rage, she stomped towards the clock and latched two hands around its bulky waist. 

"Stupid-old-noisy-clock!" Angel shrieked. Her eyes glazed over with rage, the antique rattled on the ground as she vigorously assailed it. She envisioned her grip around Mr Parania's stocky neck instead, giving her the energy to keep shaking it. 

Her hand brushed a foreign bump around the clock. Angel froze in her tracks, eyes wide with her ruddy, sweaty cheeks still present. She carefully pushed the clock back. Her arms fell back limply. 

The classroom was now thick with silence, for the clock had stopped ticking.

Angel's anger simply melted away from her features, an open-mouthed expression now on her flustered face. She leaned forward. Curiously pressed the bulge. 

A flash encapsulated the dim room, filling every crevice with a stunning light. 

Sharp footsteps thudded along the corridor, increasing in volume. The doorknob clicked. A portly, middle aged man with horrendous facial hair burst into the room, mouth twitching and ready to spout some sort of criticism at his worst student.

But all that greeted him were the papers scattered on the floor, the furniture strewn across the room-and the winking grandfather clock, clinking with an unfound vigour that it had never possessed beforehand.