My gluteus maximus ached from sitting for two hours on the chair's hardwood; it felt like I was being tortured. My mind was exhausted as much as my body. I was fighting to follow the lecturer's torrent of knowledge at first, but after just one hour, I was completely confused, so I stopped writing and I simply stared at the whiteboard while Prof Adams stroked it with the whiteboard maker. From a distance, the integration symbols and other mathematical notations appear to be calligraphy, but they are not.
The classroom was not that large, about three-meter-wide by six-meter-long space that was painted white with white PVC ceilings that featured multiple horizontal stripes. The two huge wall fans in the room were rotating to circulate the cool air from the air conditioner. The room was cool, but yet it seemed as if I were in a bakery. I had barely had up to four hours of sleep in the night and the previous nights, as I had been burning the midnight oil, trying to solve the plethora of assignments and prepare for the various tests that were going to be held this week.
Was it the tension I'd been feeling since the beginning of the week, or was I simply tired of school in general, or was it Professor Adams's rushed teaching that was making me feel alienated from the class? Perhaps it was one of these or a combination of these circumstances but at that moment I turned to my phone so my mind could escape from the the academic cage I found myself in. Soon, I was absorbed in reviewing the several notifications that had accumulated on my phone due to my hectic academic schedule over the week.
My Hive notifications were so numerous that they took almost the whole screen of my phone when I drew them down. One of the notifications said, "The inkwell mentioned you in the fiction prompt #147."
"Oh, there is a new prompt; I don't think my story would make it to the author's shoutout of the week as it is too cliche and predictable," I mumbled to myself.
I scrolled in as soon as I opened the post to check out the new prompt and to see which writers made the shoutout list. When I noticed that my name wasn't on the list, My negative mind started having an internal conversation with me.
"Haha, I told you you weren't going to make it to the shout-out," my pessimistic side yelled.
"Yes, I knew, but I just had to check." My more hopeful half responded
My pessimistic side continued, "you were never a good writer to begin with, and I doubt you will ever become one. After all, there are many better authors than you in theinkwell community alone. Can you, for example, compare yourself to a magnificent writer like @iskawrites, whose manner of writing transports one into the story world?"
"Shut up, I never said I was a good writer at first; I only wanted to become a better writer, which is why I try to participate in the Inkwell fiction and creative non-fiction prompts."
While this foolish internal argument was going on in my head, Prof Adams was busily teaching, but my mind had wandered away from the class; all I could hear was his droning.
"I haven't written a story for the non-fiction prompt yet," I realized as I logged in via the PeakD end to check the countdown meter.
"I have 19 hours before the deadline," I realized, happy that I still had time to create something.
"What should I write about?" I pondered
But before I could get lost in thinking, I heard my name called and raised my head to see the lecturer staring at me.
"Tomi, what happens when plug-flow reactors are connected in series?" Prof. Adams inquired.
I was stunned; I hadn't been paying attention in class and had no idea what the answer was. I began to speak as if I had a response to provide from my blank mind. But before I could continue, the class door opened and another professor entered the room to speak with Prof. Adams.
"I have a class here, sir," the Professor who just entered explained.
"Haha, I didn't realize my class time was up," Prof. Adam apologized as he checked his watch for the time.
"We will end the class here today," Prof. Adams stated as he picked up his laptop and exited the room.
I sighed, relieved that I hadn't embarrassed myself in front of the class. I whispered to myself as I left the class with the other 20 students, "I now have a story to write for the creative non-fiction prompt."
