Naughty Boy

NaughtyBoyThe second hand of the hallway clock seems to be moving in slow motion compared to your feverishly bouncing leg. Silently, you peel your sticky palm from green vinyl seat, wiping the sliding bead of sweat from your brow as the clock strikes twelve.

Your fear amplified by the headmaster deftly reaching for his cane.

Part four of a series on ‘silence’ – Details Emerge Without Volume.

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