With the passing of time, memories will fade; yet, with the death of time, memories will cease to exist. Time is what makes a memory memorable. Where there is no time, there is no memory. There is no past, no future without time. There is no now, there simply is, and there is nothing else.
With time, the sun rose, casting light over the cold, dark landscape. The rolling green hills began to shine, the wet blades of grass reflecting the morning sunshine. With time, the cool air warmed, beckoning society to enjoy its company, to frolic in the summer breeze. With time, the wildlife rose from its slumber, the chirping calls of birds rising from the evergreen trees. The chatter of squirrels drifted through the morning air; the world coming alive, all with time.
In the distance, the tolling of a bell is heard, each deep gong separated by seconds of still quite. Once. Twice. Thrice. Four, five and a sixth time the bell tolled, marking the hour. 6 AM. The sounds of town-life began to rise, as the residents of this rural community rose from their rest. The city is by no means small, but it is no thriving metro. With a population of around ten thousand, there is enough hustle and bustle to place Volta on the maps.
Volta is a peaceful city, surrounded by beautiful forests and emerald fields with a lake not five miles north of the city center. It is a perfect balance of industry and nature. The Volta High School sits a mile out of town, on the eastern edges of the forest, with meadows to the north and south, the cityscape visible in the east.
A fairly new building, the high school resonated with the distinct feel of a university. Two stories tall, the brick building featured two high arched windows strategically placed a perfect distance to the left and right of the large oak main doors. A flag danced upon its pole in a circular grass patch in front of the school, surrounded by a sea of cement, broken every few feet by a maple tree growing out of an intricate metal grate.
The parking lot spanned the length of several football fields, rather large for a city of its size. As the sun rose higher in the sky, cars began to fill the previously vacant lot; slowly, at first, as middle aged men and woman arrived, dressed in professional looking suits and dresses, many toting briefcases or bags. Soon, younger kids began to arrive, dressed in varying styles, what was “cool”, what was “unique”, everyone trying to fit into a certain niche, trying too hard to be different and trying too hard to be the same.
The quiet campus was now accompanied by the dull hum of conversation, hundreds of people talking, sharing stories of the weekend before their classes began. The jocks all grouped together, telling tales of how they scored with their latest girl, or how awesome their favorite team did in the game. Girls all amassed in their own little groups, segregating the others as each one gossiped about the other, who’s dating who and who’s actually in the closet, whose top looks hot and whose doesn’t.
A harsh, buzzing bell rang across the campus, and instinctively the crowds began to migrate inside. The dull hum of conversation became muffled, and, eventually, faded altogether, leaving the green campus quiet once again, save for the chirp of birds flitting from tree to tree.
“Alright class, the essay is due tomorrow, and late work will not be accepted.” The unanimous sighs and complaints from the student body gave Mr. Amour pause, waiting for the noise to die down before continuing. He swept his long, curly brown hair out of his face, pulling a stick of chalk out of the front pocket of his blue, button-up shirt, turning to the chalk board. A series of clicks, scratches and the occasional squeal later resulted in a series of barely legible text, as the students in back leaned forward in their seats in attempt to decipher the message.
“And remember, your paper must be at least one thousand words,” He continued, underlining the corresponding segment in the train wreck of penmanship on the board. A few complaints arose from around the room, and Mr. Amour turned around, applying eccentric body language, his arms accentuating his exclamation, two fingers extended in his gesticulations, much like a peace sign, “Come on, slackers! It’s been on the board for a month!”
Before Mr. Amour could get out another word, the door swung open, drawing the attention of the entire class.
“Sorry I’m late,” a soft voice floated through the doorway, followed shortly by a thin girl, her long red hair flowing out of a black beanie and cascading over half her face, down to the small of her back. What was visible of her face was soft, with no sharp angles. Her nose was petit, and rounded, accentuating her thin lips. Her one visible eye was a deep, emerald green, speckled with flecks of gold and outlined by a thin trail of black eyeliner.
A loose, white tank-top hung on her shoulders, obviously what was once a tee shirt, several sizes too big and covered in seemingly random splotches of color. Baggy black jeans hung around her hips, held up by a flashy, rainbow belt, adorned with chains and various small trinkets. Her pants were tucked into a pair of black combat boots, with a white bandanna tied around one, the other adorned with several metal pyramid studs.
“Traffic was a *****.”
A few giggles rose from the back of class, silenced by a look from Mr. Amour. “Hey, now, watch the language!” He set a pile of papers that he had been holding on a nearby desk, “Next time you’re late, try not to be such a disruption.” He turned to the board, continuing on in his lazy scrawl, Lyric making her way slowly to the back of the classroom, weaving through desks to find a solitary seat in the corner, plopping down, throwing her bag on the ground as she slumped in her seat.
Slipping her studio style headphones over her ears, she laid her head on her desk. The incomprehensible high screams, and melodic guitars of early Cradle of Filth drifted through her ears as she sat idly, urging time to go faster, her eyes glazed in boredom. She quietly mouthed the words as she listened to her music, blankly staring at some empty space on the wall above Mr. Amour’s head.
The particular spot was an off white color, with a few dried-up spit-wads that stubbornly refused to remove themselves from the surface. The light nearest the wall was softly flickering, causing the spot to darken and lighten eclectically. Below it hung a row of old vinyl album covers, ranging from Michael Jackson to Kiss.
Losing interest, her emerald eyes swung around the room, noticing a few journalism students using the computers in the far end of the rectangular room. She brushed her hair out of her face, sighing softly as she eyed the clock. Five minutes. The song she had been listening to cam to an end, allowing a few seconds of silence for Mr. Amour’s voice to flow into her ears.
“… and finish up your essays. Make sure to have them in tomorrow, or they will not be accepted. They are worth…”
****. We have an essay? Lyric complained internally, her plans for the night obviously discarded now, How was I supposed to know?
She paused her mp3 player, sliding the power switch off as she pulled her bag up on top of her desk, replacing her headphones around her neck. Glancing back up at the clock, as the second hand slowly dragged its way to the big ‘12’, inching along as if to torture her. Finally, the red hand hit its mark, and a bell buzzed throughout the school’s PA. Without a second thought, the class rose, slinging their bags over their shoulders and migrating towards the door; towards freedom.
“About ****ing time…” She muttered, shoving her way out the door.