Four Minute Carnival

It started in the hall, after the rain of ringing, in all ears, through every wall.

It really started just inside the door, where our legs burned in place. My feet scrubbed the carpet, tapped impatiently behind me. I close my eyes to cut off their sensibility and let all the conversation smash together, creating a kind of static music. I feel an ache beginning just between my shoulder and neck. My book bag straps are little pink bursts in the corners of my eyes. The voices are stilling, two by two until the silence is complete. It's as though the clock has stunned its victims with a paralyzing, soundless cloak while we wait for permission to commit motion. The poison wears off. A twanging, far away alarm snaps them from their daze. They launch all at once through a portal, which was intended for maybe one or two to pass through at a time.

I've discovered I barely need my own force to move. My class has been vaccumed out of their warren hole by a giant worm. Inside the stomach, it's a four minute carnival. Some of them are lured away from the flow by a painted metal treasure chest, whose lock is a number and contents promise to provide them with direction. Their hyperactive fingers lead them within groping distance and set to an automatic spinning. Most of them probably couldn't tell you the exact number anymore. Their hands have just memorized the motion.

My eyes scan the range from puffy eyed zombies to ambitious, narrowed stares, to an aimless girl getting spun in either direction by the traffic and unable to make any progress. At last, she escapes, falling into the bathroom with a fit of sea sickness.

Outside, two minutes have passed and two remain. Now, the angry substance tries desperately to pass the clots. Glowing plastic sheets sprawl overhead, in single file order, trying to set an example for the wriggling mess cruising beneath them. The worm works its way through a metal tube.