My Desk (A Short Story)
When uninspired by what's around you... write about what's around you. This is a romanticized, but rather truthful account of my desk at my country school, written during a free period yesterday. Constructive criticism is more than welcome :)
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Dry babies' breath in a heart-shaped vase and a cold cup of coffee are the only things on my desk. I abandoned the coffee 90 minutes ago when I rushed from the staffroom for my third period class; the stalks of babies' breath were abandoned much longer ago by a person I know nothing about. They are so thoroughly dried that they should have disintegrated long ago into a small pile of straw, becoming a handful of mulch to scatter over a plant with a chance of survival. Among the desiccating twigs stands a single white flower, a carnation, wilted in the humidity that spells the second half of summer.
I'm not used to this heat, or the thickness of this air, and it shows as I slump into my chair while others hover over theirs. I push the teacher's editions of three textbooks toward the back of my desk, and now I can see the documents placed below the clear plastic surface: a full-school timetable as well as a personal one, the current week's detailed planner (six periods on Tuesday, five on Wednesday, Work Experience Day on Thursday), a three-year calender, a seating chart which maps the desk of every staff member in this room, and three photos, ranging in age from four weeks to nine months.
I allow myself a few moments to study the familiar faces of my parents, my sister and her fiancee, my two brothers. I notice similarities I never saw face to face (my eyes and chin are the spitting image of my mother's, oh dear); and shrug off old animosities, because much as my brother likes to trash talk, the camera has caught his kind eyes and shy half-smile.
I check the clock on the staffroom wall. 20 minutes until my next class.
Just long enough for a cup of coffee.
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Dry babies' breath in a heart-shaped vase and a cold cup of coffee are the only things on my desk. I abandoned the coffee 90 minutes ago when I rushed from the staffroom for my third period class; the stalks of babies' breath were abandoned much longer ago by a person I know nothing about. They are so thoroughly dried that they should have disintegrated long ago into a small pile of straw, becoming a handful of mulch to scatter over a plant with a chance of survival. Among the desiccating twigs stands a single white flower, a carnation, wilted in the humidity that spells the second half of summer.
I'm not used to this heat, or the thickness of this air, and it shows as I slump into my chair while others hover over theirs. I push the teacher's editions of three textbooks toward the back of my desk, and now I can see the documents placed below the clear plastic surface: a full-school timetable as well as a personal one, the current week's detailed planner (six periods on Tuesday, five on Wednesday, Work Experience Day on Thursday), a three-year calender, a seating chart which maps the desk of every staff member in this room, and three photos, ranging in age from four weeks to nine months.
I allow myself a few moments to study the familiar faces of my parents, my sister and her fiancee, my two brothers. I notice similarities I never saw face to face (my eyes and chin are the spitting image of my mother's, oh dear); and shrug off old animosities, because much as my brother likes to trash talk, the camera has caught his kind eyes and shy half-smile.
I check the clock on the staffroom wall. 20 minutes until my next class.
Just long enough for a cup of coffee.
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