The empty chair
Everyday I come to class. I sit in a straight-backed chair with wheels. I roll into my desk which isn't a desk at all, but rather a rectangular black slab, marred by people, kids like me, supported only by four wooden legs. I sit next to another kid, not that different from me. But she is. She doesn't sit in an orange chair. I'm the only one now. There are so many kids, in chairs, sitting at tables. We are scattered like seeds upon a dead and dying plain. I look out the window and with I could soar above the swampcoolers and ventilation ducts, to the never-ending horizon. I'd be happy there, free. My attention is drawn back to the room.
" Isn't that correct?" the teacher's looking at me now, and I don't know quite what to do.
I look up from the table, smooth between the ridges and valleys of "J.F. + R. H. =love" and " Mrs. ______ stinks!". I look up into the million eyes of a thousand people.
"Yes, of course, mam'."
I go back to my thoughts. As insignificant as they might be, they're better than any alternative. My mind wanders. I can't find any idea worth grabbing onto. I watch the clock. The hour hand never moves until you look up one day and realized time had flown. Soared above your head, never to be seen again. A moment lost. The minute hand, if you watch hard enough and long enough, you'll see the snail sprints it runs to pass the time. Most people only know time by seconds. Wasted second, joyous seconds, "just a second". They aren't as important. Little moments will come again, they think. We have all the time in the world. What do they know? They've never felt a lifetime, never known a pain.
There's that boy again. He's like me. Not caring, just wondering. Oh, the wonders he can create. Drawings of other world, other times, other lives. Today he draws The Missing. No one saw The Missing. No one saw him leave. They can not understand. But we saw. We watched, stared rather. He just.left. We would go. But then again, we wouldn't. That's why we're still here. He's free now. He soars. I watch where he sat, with be and the boy. His chair is empty. He sat in an orange straight-backed chair with wheels. Now it sits beneath the clock, with its second hand spinning, tossing time. Tossing forward, ever forward. The Missing never looked back, like the second hand.
A sneeze breaks the silence of my thoughts. They laugh. I wonder why. Have they never sneezed?
I can see him now. Sitting there, in his orange chair, just like me. He winks. Then flies away. I want to go. I want to leave an empty chair beneath an ever-ticking clock.
THe ENd
Everyday I come to class. I sit in a straight-backed chair with wheels. I roll into my desk which isn't a desk at all, but rather a rectangular black slab, marred by people, kids like me, supported only by four wooden legs. I sit next to another kid, not that different from me. But she is. She doesn't sit in an orange chair. I'm the only one now. There are so many kids, in chairs, sitting at tables. We are scattered like seeds upon a dead and dying plain. I look out the window and with I could soar above the swampcoolers and ventilation ducts, to the never-ending horizon. I'd be happy there, free. My attention is drawn back to the room.
" Isn't that correct?" the teacher's looking at me now, and I don't know quite what to do.
I look up from the table, smooth between the ridges and valleys of "J.F. + R. H. =love" and " Mrs. ______ stinks!". I look up into the million eyes of a thousand people.
"Yes, of course, mam'."
I go back to my thoughts. As insignificant as they might be, they're better than any alternative. My mind wanders. I can't find any idea worth grabbing onto. I watch the clock. The hour hand never moves until you look up one day and realized time had flown. Soared above your head, never to be seen again. A moment lost. The minute hand, if you watch hard enough and long enough, you'll see the snail sprints it runs to pass the time. Most people only know time by seconds. Wasted second, joyous seconds, "just a second". They aren't as important. Little moments will come again, they think. We have all the time in the world. What do they know? They've never felt a lifetime, never known a pain.
There's that boy again. He's like me. Not caring, just wondering. Oh, the wonders he can create. Drawings of other world, other times, other lives. Today he draws The Missing. No one saw The Missing. No one saw him leave. They can not understand. But we saw. We watched, stared rather. He just.left. We would go. But then again, we wouldn't. That's why we're still here. He's free now. He soars. I watch where he sat, with be and the boy. His chair is empty. He sat in an orange straight-backed chair with wheels. Now it sits beneath the clock, with its second hand spinning, tossing time. Tossing forward, ever forward. The Missing never looked back, like the second hand.
A sneeze breaks the silence of my thoughts. They laugh. I wonder why. Have they never sneezed?
I can see him now. Sitting there, in his orange chair, just like me. He winks. Then flies away. I want to go. I want to leave an empty chair beneath an ever-ticking clock.
THe ENd