Prickles of Heat

A wave of heat passed over the stuffy classroom, urging the beads of sweat to drip off of my damp forehead. I adjusted my arm over my paper and glanced up at my water bottle. Empty. It had been empty since lunch four periods ago when I had savored the last drops. I had had no time to refill it in the passing periods, and none of the teachers had been willing to give passes to any of the dying students Instead, they cracked their windows open and hoped for the best.

So we were stuck. Stuck in the classroom for five more minutes, waiting, waiting for the bell to ring and to go home.

Though of course that wouldn't be any better.

I had to walk the three mile trek in hardly any shade, which normally took an hour, and in this 90 degree heat? I could only hope for a ride in an air-conditioned car, and those chances were slim. So I had to bear the walk.

When we learned that the school's air conditioning broke a week before the last day of school, we knew that we were doomed. It was bad enough that we had no cooling, but after factoring in the biggest heat wave in the past decade, us students were wishing for the last few days to be canceled.

I turned back to my essay. Though the lettering was neat and crisp, the paper was crumpled and edged with dust. I had took this paper home night after night. I was ready to finally be done with it.

Three minutes were left on the clock. I stood up and walked quietly to the front, letting my paper drift to the desk below me. Dr. McArthur glanced up from his papers, nodded at me, and returned to his business, not seeming to notice the insane heat at all. I rolled my eyes. He was immune. I was not.

Two minutes were left in the class period. Across the classroom, pencils scratched papers, working to finish their essays before the end of the period. They begged for more time. I begged for the 23rd of June to be over. But the day seemed infinite; the last two minutes seemed like forever.

Two minutes ticked down to one. I watched as the red hand steadily ticked around the wall clock, wondering how much time the walk home would take. At least the air conditioning was working in the house. I had something to look forward to.

Ten seconds. Nine seconds. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two.

And then the clock froze.

Evening Writng (The Storm Arrives)

          Dinner was a rushed and quiet meal. Though the storm was not talked about, I knew it was on all of our minds as the cloud inched closer to Mieno Octel, After the meal was over, there was not the usual chaos. Instead, the children sat by the fire and glared into the dull ashes. I noticed Omam didn't put the container of leftover soup in the cabinet where we usually put it, but instead on the table. I sit on my bed flat and peer out the square window.
          On the windowsill I keep my treasures. There is a small notebook with pieces of wrinkled paper sticking out, a small grey pebble, and a sketch that my eldest sister Kendria drew of our family standing in front of Mieno Octel. The paper is yellowing, but it is all I have left from Kendria.
          The cloud creeps forward behind my keepsakes, past the hinges of the oiled flap of paper that I have tacked open for the time being. A small stick holds it in to the mud above the windowsill. Thunder booms in the distance, and light flashes. I don't think the rest of the family heard it, but nonetheless, I creep to the trap door leading into the cellar shaft. Boards are tacked to the wood like a makeshift ladder, but whenever we have to climb to the cellar in case of a storm I get scared. I think Omam does too, but Baba is fearless. I am sure he would jump down the shaft for all that it's worth.
          When rain starts to drop, I continue watching out the window but move the stone, journal, and sketch to a wooden box with flowers carved into the top. The box normally holds only a blade, but now I must trust it with my dearest keepsakes.
          The rain continues to come. It increases to a steady stream, and puddles form on the dust ground.
          It's time.

Evening Writing

        The potatoes that I pulled weren't exactly ready to be uprooted, but they were all we had in the garden plot.  The potatoes were green, hard, and bitter to taste. The onions were slightly riper, but our rainy spring had made this a difficult spring. Our food store that hung from the ceiling in the winter was long gone, and the apple trees wouldn't fruit for several more weeks.
         I look out the square window to the courtyard. A storm pushes in, a gray cloud threatening the village. It towers over Mieno Octel, several stories high. Lightning flashes in the distance. I turn back to cutting potatoes. Almost on cue, Omam speaks. "A storm is coming."
         All of a sudden, the floor becomes still. The last storm to visit Mieno Octel caused Unit Four's roof to cave in. Repairs had just finished today. If that was to happen again, we would be a likely victim.
         "Well, why isn't anyone moving? We can't do anything!" She shouts, and the silent room gathers volume, but it isn't very enthusiastic. I can hear the worry in my brother's voice, and my sister had a shaky sound as she asked Omam whether she should put out an extra rain pan.
           I, too, was slightly unsettled, but I didn't dream of showing it. Instead, I set my hands to work compiling the potatoes and onions in the soup bubbling on the stove.

Evening Writing

Last night I got out a notebook to write, so this is only part of a potential story. What do you think? Please give positive and constructive criticism so I can improve!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------          The field lays out ahead of me, covered in the leafy green plants, climbing over earthen hills. The sun hovers above the horizon, almost wondering whether to dive under the earth to take a break from lighting up Airavia all day.
       I turn, rest the hand woven basket on my side, and walk away from the sun through a cluster of trees. Beyond the wood are the Mieno Octel housing units, eight of them formed around a dust courtyard littered with wild animals to the Mieno Octel's market stands.
       I trod past a stray cat as I cut through a narrow alley to the front steps of the Unit. We lived on the third floor of a three-story building, meaning that I have to climb two flights of stairs to reach our level, and with the basket full of vegetables on my hip the climb was always difficult.
       I enter the earthen room and set the basket down on the dirt floor. The walls pile up from me, bricks stacked on by one about a hands length tall and two hands wide. Bits of grass and leaves stick out, giving the room a messy feel, and summing up our family.
       Omam picks up the basket, sets it on the table, and gets to work chopping an onion. I lead against the wall and sit on the packed ground, but it is impossible to relax. My six sisters and brothers are dashing around the three-room sect, tripping over each other, our belongings, and me. I stand up after I've been tripped over several times and make my way to the table where I pick up a knife and set to work chopping a potato.