[5 Min Read]
Mrs. Hathaway slapped her yardstick against the blackboard behind her, “And what color is this, class?”
“Orange!” A chorus of third-graders shouted back
She shifted her pointer slight to the right, “And this one?”
Mrs. Hathaway surveyed the room of her budding pupils with pride. “Very good! Very-” She suddenly scrunched her wrinkled face as if she had caught a strong whiff of something foul, and slapped the board again with gusto. A blonde youth sat in the rear of the room shot is head up dazedly, drool still running down his chin.
“Timmy! No heads on desks, mister. You know better!” The teacher scolded him.
Timmy rubbed his eyes, “But, Mrs. Hathaway, I’m just sooo sleepy. I can’t help it!”
The grade school teacher adjusted the glasses on her crooked nose, “I understand, young man, but this is not your bedroom, and your desk is not your pillow. Try to pay attention or I will have to have another conversation with your father!” She threatened shrilly.
“Yes, Mrs. Hathaway,” Timmy grumbled with remorse, unconsciously rubbing his rear. He recalled all too well how well the last parent-teacher conference went.
The educator nodded, then returned her attention to the lesson at hand. Slapping the ruler against the board, she continued, “And what is the name of this pretty color?”
“Pink!” The chorus of children chime once again
With the adrenaline of his unfortunate encounter now completely evaporating from his body, Timmy could feel his eyelids grow heavier and heavier. His teacher’s voice faded until he could only hear the continued slaps of the yard stick on the board. His slumber was cut short once again when suddenly,
“Greyson!” Shouted a deep male voice. Timmy’s head shot up from shock. Long strands of his blonde hair were stuck to a sweaty red mark on his forehead and a fresh strand of drool lay crusted around his lips. His eyes took a moment to adjust under the florescent light. Eventually, they cleared enough to see a house of a man with a bushy mustache and a terrible comb-over staring back at him from the front of the classroom.
“Sleeping again in class, son?” The man barked.
Timmy rubbed his eyes a second time, but recoiled from the unfamiliar touch of his fingers. They were longer, his palms calloused and forearms strangely hairy. He stared at his arms with utter facilitation, ‘Wh-Whose arms are these?’ He thought.
His eyes wandered around the room. The concrete brick walls were painted white with streaks of green where the wall met the floor. Various cheesy motivational posters broke up the monotonous color pattern. He then realized he had no idea where he was, or why all these older looking kids that filled the room were staring back at him.
The man who had called on him crossed his arms, a long yardstick protruding from his sausage-like right hand. “The hell is wrong with you, Greyson? You on drugs or something?”
“D-Drugs?” Timmy stammered. A pack of girls that sat nearby snickered.
The man rolled his eyes, “Whatever, Timmy. At least pretend to pay attention like everyone else, ok?” He turned back around and slapped a chalkboard with the yardstick that, like Timmy’s arms, seemed to replace the board he was looking at just moments ago. “Now, class, what formula does this example best represent?”
“Quadratic,” his students called back, less than enthused.
“Good,” the teacher slapped the board again, “and this one?”
Timmy felt his eyes begin to droop again. The rhythmic tapping luring him into another deep sleep until;
“Tim, you alright there?” Called a different man’s voice softly.
Timmy snapped his head to attention and shot his eyes open again. “Huh?” He uttered without thinking. A group of well-dressed adults sat around a long, impressive-looking table, staring back at him.
“You’ve been nodding off, bud. Want me to get George to fetch you another round of espresso?” Offered the man who stood in front of a projection screen that contained several colorful graphs and underlined numbers. His well quaffed hair accompanied his tightly trimmed beard. He gripped a narrow pointer stick in his right hand.
Timmy rubbed his eyes again, but something hard bumped up against the roof of his eye socket. He held out the offending hand and found a gold ring wrapped around one of his many hairy fingers. He examined his arm and saw that he too was wearing a fancy business suit like the man in the front.
Timmy’s eyes darted around the room, looking to the individual faces of the adults around him who all seemed to be around his parent’s age. He pulled his legs to his chest and began to rock. An unexpectedly deep voice escaped his throat, muttering the only thing circling Timmy’s mind at that moment, “I-I just want to go home, please.”
The Pit is a post-apocalyptic sci-fi original novel with a charter driven narrative. Follow Laura, a hot-headed vixen with a mysterious past, Liam, the natural-born leader who is deathly afraid of awkward social situations, Pete, a large intimidating man with a heart of gold, and others as they navigate old America in a supped-up RV!
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