It's always the clock, isn't it?How awfully stereotypical of
The rhythm of the hands beating against the drums, each
second leaking into oblivion.
Time is like Death's personal handmaiden; as she sews the
stitches of what lies ahead, her nimble fingers unpick the
whims of the past.
There is a limited amount of fabric for all of us.
Do not try to fool yourself into thinking otherwise.
So there I sit, with the sounds of pulsing hands and
scratching pencils bleeding my ears dry, and all I can
conjure up is a pretty girl with gnarled fingers, trapped
inside the universe's personal clock.
I spy the student next to me.
A serious, studious girl with the kind of glasses that scream
of newly sharpened pencils.
So sharp they could cut you.
This girl is all angles and no curves.
I would much rather solve the precision of her jawline than
the problems that lie in front of me.
She seems to be writing so furiously that for a fleeting
second, I envy her.
Science has never interested me.
How peculiar that something can matter so much to those that
can only hold so little in this life.
Look. Studious. Focus. Knowledge is power.
Wait, no. Power is power.
I look back at the girl and her answer is clear, coherent.
She's sure of her world; of chipped nail polish and
late-night studying. Of bitter coffee and crumpled notes.
It's all right there, staining the paper with dark, black
• By Caroline Moratti, Year 11, Columba College