Here is an old school assignment wherein we had to go to a place and write down all the observations about that room so that a person who had never been in that place before would be able to clearly visualize it. The end is a mite shakey but I think the whole is good.

The muffled sound of books thumping, doors closing, and chairs creaking are only vaguely discernable in the distance. A low hum fills the air like a derelict meter that relentlessly turns its wheels to an electric tune. Even with my eyes closed I can feel the whitewashed, plaster walls bearing down on me. The musty smell of aging books and worn upholstery descends on me as an unseen vent begins to circulate stale air.

I sighed and reopened my eyes trying vainly to refocus on the scattered paperwork in front of me. The old chair creaked ominously as I leaned forward to grab my pen. For the third time in as many minutes I reflexively stretched my feet only to hit the wall in front of me with a hollow thud. My focus lost and frustration mounting I stood to clear my mind.

My first mistake.

The hard wooden chair hit the wall behind me adding yet another scratch to the pockmarked wall that was already covered with gouges, dirt, and pen marks. The tiny room was not more than five feet long and four feet wide at it’s widest. The table in front of me was built into the wall, it’s dark, wood paneled surface taking up nearly a third of the cramped room. The door was made of dark-brown metal that was cold to the touch and had a small, grilled window set in it. There was not enough room to walk around or stretch in; I tried anyway.

My second mistake.

Navigating my way around in the small area was like navigating a puzzle. Move the chair, walk to the left, move my books, and move to the right. No matter where I moved there was no more space than when I started. I took deep breaths of the recycled air and tried to get my brittle focus back into place. Focus. Focus. I was staring at the ceiling and noticed that the walls didn’t go all the way up to the ceiling. The long, fluorescent lights shone down at me from above giving me the unsettling feeling that I was at the bottom of a well. Focus. Focus.
I was staring at the ground now, eyeing the deep blue carpet. It looked like water? It was an old, hard carpet; it’s blue background broken up by white speckles. I saw one of my study notes lying forgotten underneath the table and crawled under to retrieve it.

My third mistake.

Breathing heavily from navigating around the omnipresent chair I grabbed the paper and paused a moment to rest. It was dark underneath the table. Much, much darker. I looked up and felt my stomach flutter. On the unlacquered bottom surface of the table an entire host of hard, chewed gum was arrayed. Years of collection had amassed every type of chewing gum in existence. Piled in the corners and sprinkled along the length and breadth of the table. I pulled my eyes and stared at the wall with its black scuffmarks and dents. Focus. Focus. I felt another quiver in my stomach. I was really much darker underneath the table that I remembered. I laid there. On the floor. . . at the bottom of a well. . . in the dark. . . and all alone with the blue water underneath me.

In the hazy distance I heard the unseen fan shut off, the old vent clicking in protest. I started to breathe heavily. The air seemed hotter, thicker. I scrambled out from under the table, back into the light, my arms outstretched on the walls as I gasped for air. The old plaster seemed cold to the touch, very cold. I could feel the walls just to my sides, looming. Could feel them moving as I panted for air. Moving? I looked around my small cell at the chair, the table, my books, and the cold, white walls. Moving? The flutter in my stomach was shivering into a full-fledged spasm. Out! I needed out. I grabbed my books and threw them into my backpack. Swirled the papers into a stack and shoved them in as well.
The circular handle squeaked as I pulled the door open enough to get out. I felt the cool air on my face and wind in my hair as I bolted for freedom. Unfortunately, in my haste I had left a few of my papers back in that room, that prison, and well, that’s why I can’t turn in my assignment today. You say that you have heard every excuse but I assure you mine is true and this is exactly how it happened to me. If you just give me another day I know that I can finish the assignment. Thank you for taking the time to listen to me.

This is a fictional except I wrote to preface a short story I wrote a while back. Read it and enjoy.

Time.

There has always been a record of time. Time before time. Time within time. Time after time. As long as there has been knowledge of time there has been a record of it. Books, tablet, voice. Nothing has occurred that will not happen again and all beings revolve around the wheel of time. The beginning rushes toward the end and end creates the beginning.

This is the fabric and fibers of the epochs. Eras of good and bad, light and dark, peace and war, in constant motion from end to end. So has it been since the beginning of time itself.

Even as all events that occur are recorded, imprinted into the subconscious of our people, it is being destroyed just as quickly. War, famine, and death destroy the history of life, knowledge, and civilization to the point of no recovery. It is not in our power to see far into the past, and our limited foresight is insufficient to prepare our world for all eventualities. Therefore I seek to create this work to serve as a warning, To teach what has gone before. And what will surely come to be.