Young Writers Society

I can hear the warning bell from a distance. It’s crunch time.

There’s a sound of shuffling feet and papers as everybody gets ready for battle. Meanwhile, I can hardly think straight. Words that should be familiar but seem so foreign float in front of my eyes. I feel a light perspiration forming at the back of my neck that I frantically wipe away with my palm.

Stop worrying. You can do this.

Fingers trembling ever so slightly, I look around desperately, searching for pairs of eyes that hopefully, mirrored what I was feeling. But I don’t. Instead I encounter bowed heads and foreheads creased in concentration. I wish I could do the same.

Up ahead I can see her pacing, her scrunched up eyes trained on my every movement. Hurriedly, I look back down.

Deep breaths. You can do this.

Gripping the edge of my seat tightly, I close my eyes and collect my thoughts. Random words and blurred images of page numbers and faded diagrams swim through my mind that I so desperately want to latch on to.

Tick tock. Half an hour down.

Smoothing my hair, I look down at the blank pages, willing my fingers to move the pen that had been lying still on the desk for the past thirty minutes.

Forty-five minutes down.

Panic starts clawing its way into my mind and unknowingly, I can feel the involuntary tears pooling at the corners my eyes. Flashes of images of my mother flitter before them.

You need to do this. You need to score well; our family depends on you to study well.

I don’t stop the tears that fall on the page, creating splotches on the centre. There’s a dull ache in my temples and a feeling of resignation washes over me.

I tried, mommy, I really did study. I just can’t remember.

The sound of pens scribbling furiously on papers fill my ears and I look down at my own that’s barely been used. As I keep staring at the shiny ballpoint tip, another feeling washes over me.

Why can’t you do this?

You should be able to do this.

You should be able to do this.

You should be able to do this.

You can do this.

You can do this.

You can and you will do this.

In a fit of determination, I grab the pen and scrawl the first word that pops into mind. Once I’ve started I can’t stop the words that flow freely from the tip on to the papers that had been sitting untouched for so long.

I don’t know if I’m right, I don’t know what I’m writing. All I know is that I need to fill the pages before time runs out. Random words start making sense, blurred images start to refocus; I can think again.

You’re doing it.

You’re doing it.

The little voice in my head cheers me on as I flip page after page, effortlessly spelling out the words I had so much trouble even putting together some time ago, as I mentally tick off the questions I’ve attempted and count the decreasing number of questions I need to further do.

I’m on a roll, I’m on fire, and I’m indestructible.

What happens next is a total blur. I barely have time to register the warning bell before her arm flashes out in front of me, snatching away my answer script leaving me with my pen suspended in mid air, mid-sentence.

I was on a roll, I was on fire.

Not anymore.