A Writers Corner
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My Pieces
Detention
Posted by harrypotterfan200
at 01:32 PM on October 05, 2008
|
NOTE: This is a random thing I started typing today. Dont think its another novel or anything, its just... this.
Mr. Stark hands me a brightly colored, odorous sheet. It has math problems for me to complete during the two next tedious hours that I must spend in this boxed room. I tardily take my pen out from my scratched and worn out pencil case and turn to glare at the first algebra problem on the sheet. The colors are so luminous they hurt my eyes, but with one glance at Mr. Stark?s stern gaze, I focus. The first problem turns out to be tricky and I try a few methods but they fail to give me a result. My eyes, still stinging, and at their own accord, slowly drift away from my paper into the vastness of the room.
The dreaded chalkboard hangs in the middle and takes up the most space. It overlooks where I sit and casts a shadow over my minor desk. Alongside me, five- ten- no, twenty tattered; minute desks stand on rickety legs, all facing Mr. Stark?s escritoire. The desk in question is a rectangular Blackwood piece. The surface is dusty and there sits a darkened green granny smith apple that is probably untouched and is just resting there, rotting away with time. You may not think that this apple is of great importance, but I am sure that an apple like this one would rather be anywhere else but here. It looks at me solemnly, knowing how I feel, trapped and lonely. However, the glint of light on the apple?s skin tells me that it will keep me company, a prisoner, too.
Behind each desk sits a wooden chair, drooping with boredom. The walls are dark, murky, and boring, wrinkled expressions on their faces. They are longing a fresh coat of paint, which I cannot give them. Sighing, I turn to gaze at the bookshelf behind Mr. Stark?s desk. There are a few books to be seen, but none in particular catch my eye. I imagine what it would be like to repose on a bookshelf all day, observing the children walk in and out of the dainty math classroom. Listening to the sounds of quills and parchment, the giggles and whispers across the air.
Mr. Stark hands me a brightly colored, odorous sheet. It has math problems for me to complete during the two next tedious hours that I must spend in this boxed room. I tardily take my pen out from my scratched and worn out pencil case and turn to glare at the first algebra problem on the sheet. The colors are so luminous they hurt my eyes, but with one glance at Mr. Stark?s stern gaze, I focus. The first problem turns out to be tricky and I try a few methods but they fail to give me a result. My eyes, still stinging, and at their own accord, slowly drift away from my paper into the vastness of the room.
The dreaded chalkboard hangs in the middle and takes up the most space. It overlooks where I sit and casts a shadow over my minor desk. Alongside me, five- ten- no, twenty tattered; minute desks stand on rickety legs, all facing Mr. Stark?s escritoire. The desk in question is a rectangular Blackwood piece. The surface is dusty and there sits a darkened green granny smith apple that is probably untouched and is just resting there, rotting away with time. You may not think that this apple is of great importance, but I am sure that an apple like this one would rather be anywhere else but here. It looks at me solemnly, knowing how I feel, trapped and lonely. However, the glint of light on the apple?s skin tells me that it will keep me company, a prisoner, too.
Behind each desk sits a wooden chair, drooping with boredom. The walls are dark, murky, and boring, wrinkled expressions on their faces. They are longing a fresh coat of paint, which I cannot give them. Sighing, I turn to gaze at the bookshelf behind Mr. Stark?s desk. There are a few books to be seen, but none in particular catch my eye. I imagine what it would be like to repose on a bookshelf all day, observing the children walk in and out of the dainty math classroom. Listening to the sounds of quills and parchment, the giggles and whispers across the air.
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