Mark's dream was to be a writer. He considered himself to have an average run-of-the-mill life, so far. An ineffective romantic as far as his friends were concerned; though he was rarely short of dates, his relationships rarely lasted longer than one year.
He kept his hair length conservative and was slightly overweight. Of average height, he had a pleasant face, and a smile that he could turn on at will to win the favor of his peers. He had a simple, light blue suit, and a soft, simple, blue shirt. He had not done well in his senior classes, though his later courses while in college, in writing, had gone surprisingly well.
He lived with his mother, in their old but adequate apartment.
He barely made enough money, barely enough to live on, by writing freelance articles on the side. He could write, not fast, but good.
He was living his dream.
He was a writer.
He wanted to write a novel someday.
He barely knew why he applied for that particular class. He hadn't wanted to take it, it required a professor that he hated.
As it turned out, his least favorite professor was getting his own. The class that he was taking was taught by another, somewhat more tolerable, professor.
He liked the class well enough. It was interesting. They were still getting to know the class, and they were sitting in a circle, talking about the debates that had occurred already.
“I was simply trying to point out that a large chunk of the population is unable to write!”
“Like you yourself say, that most cannot write.”
“That doesn't mean that I'm wrong!”
“Perhaps you're confusing the large majority of humanity being unable to write, with all of humanity.”
“I did not say everyone can't, I said most!”
“Yes, but they can't do as well as the few who can.”
“That's what makes them incredible! It's all about being the best, not about what most can achieve.”
Mark came in at that point. He could see an argument coming up.
“Hey Jack,” Mark said, knowing Jack would recognize him by voice if not by name.
Jack smiled. “Hey Mark.”
The argument, it took, about the two men's words, was forgotten. The discussion went on for a short while about whether or not humans tended more toward being creative or intelligent, or whether it was a mix between the two, or some other combination.
Some in the class, the course was a psychology course, though it was labeled as 'Creative Writing'.
The point was that everyone had a different opinion.
The bell sounded, and the professor moved the class on from the discussion.
Another class, another debate. Mark was kind of getting tired of this. He had been writing all day, and didn't feel like discussing all his work with everyone else. Now that he said it, a lot of the students were starting to sound the same. Maybe their opinions were starting to mix and merge, a soup of thoughts. He wasn't sure.
The professor was another of Mark's least favorite professors, though there was a certain distinction. Mark was actually fond of this one, even if he did not think it wise.
The professor walked right through the door.
“Sorry,” he said, seeming surprised. “I got held up, the professor got bumped into.”
Yep. Mark had a favorite professor.
The professor gave a brief introduction, before taking a seat at the desk.
The class looked confusedly at him. Mark glanced at him. The Professor was a young man, late twenties. He wore plain, simple clothes, glasses, and did not seem to frown much. He had skinny-looking legs and arms, and his hair was short. He gave the impression that he preferred sitting.
“Oh no Doubt,” he said, “No one cares!”
He made an exaggerated smile. He moved on to the room. “So,” he said, “What's up?”
The students were confused.
Mark thought, maybe he was just joking.
“So,” the professor said again, “What's up?”
The students stared at him, like he was insane.
“So,” the professor said, seeming irritated by the attention from the students. He looked at his watch. He did not glance up at the clock, just glanced at the time.
Wait, that was odd.
The clock.
His watch seemed to have stopped.
Mark's gaze flicked over to him several times over, then looked back to the clock. Then, just as he looked to glance at the clock again, to make sure it really was on, the clock's hands seemed to turn themselves. They must have been carved on the fourth hand, and, even without looking, Mark had been able to tell that the motion of them was changing, but that it was out of order.
They spun round and round until the hands were half past what they should have been.
A couple of the students noticed, and they glanced at each other. Everyone in the classroom was looking at the clock now.
They looked at the professor. He was looking at his watch. The watch was exactly at the time he had glanced at it.
“Mr,” the professor said, “I'm going to be honest here.”
The students looked at him. They all knew how terrible he was when he was honest.
“I've... I'm... I can't even tell if that's what time is. I...I'm feeling sick. Ah,” he put his hand over his mouth, God his face was pale.
Mark looked around the room. The students were looking at the professor, watching him, looking at each other. Everyone was looking at everyone.
“I have to go,” the professor said. He got up, and walked out of the room, holding onto the door frame.
Silence.
“I...” the professor took a deep breath, then looked into the room.
“I'm going to be honest here,” the professor said. “I'm too sick. I'm going to be honest.”
The professor didn't seem sick. He seemed shocked.
“I'm going to be honest,” he said.
“What is this?” the professor said, holding his hand to his forehead, coughing.
Mark saw the professor get up. He was shaking.
People shaking in the hall, he thought, it was just the corridor.
He put his hands over his eyes. He looked at the clock. He looked at his watch. It was exactly at the time he had looked at it.
“Wait. Wait,” the professor said, just starting to walk out the door. “Wait. Wait. Wait,” he said to his students. “Wait. Wait,” he said, closing the door. He hesitated there for a moment, then he opened it quickly.
“Wait,” he said to the students. “Wait. Wait. Wait.”
Mark glanced over to him. He was standing at the door, looking at them. Mark felt something in his stomach, like he had swallowed a ball that was rolling round and round. He looked over at the professor.
He was frowning. The grip on the door was so tight, his knuckles were white.
“Fuck. Fuck it.”
Mark's head was swimming. He wanted to turn and escape into the empty halls. He stayed.
The professor seemed to be fuming.
“I...” he sighed. He looked at his watch, his hand was shaking. “I need to go to the bathroom.” He abruptly ran out the door, and down the hall.
Mark looked at him. What the hell? He had heard of people escaping from the classroom by saying that they had to go to the bathroom.
He looked at the clock. He looked at the clock. He looked at his watch. It was exactly at the time.
He looked at his watch. It was exactly at the time.
Mark was trembling. He wanted to run. He didn't run. He looked at the clock. It was exactly at the time.
He looked at the clock. It was exactly at the time.
“Is there a problem here?” the professor asked.
Mark thought, who was this guy? He was wearing new clothes, and there was a piece of paper in his pocket. He wasn't familiar.
“No,” the professor said, and he looked at the clock, and his popped his neck. He put his hands in his pockets.
“What were you talking about?” the professor would ask.
The students glanced at each other. They weren't sure what to say.
Mark looked at the clock. It was at the exact time.
The professor said, “Uh, uh, it's an interesting psychology class, uh, you know, the professor's not in the best of moods and so.”
The professor said, “Not in the best of moods.”
Several times, Mark heard the professor saying, “Not in the best of moods.”
He didn't leave, though Mark had no idea why.
Finally, he started to say the stuff he had said before. Mark looked at people's faces. The professor had said it. He hadn't said it. He had said it, and the students looked confused.
It was like it was the first time hearing it.
The professor was staring at his watch, never looking away. Occasionally, he would check his watch, and he would pop his neck, and sometimes he would look at the clock. Sometimes he didn't.
He would look at his watch, then look at the clock, then he would look at the clock or at the watch again.
The students seemed to be waiting for something.
Mark glanced at the door. The door was open.
The professor was sitting at the desk, leaning his head on his hand, the other on the desk. He looked exhausted. He looked fried. He had dark rings under his eyes.
“Uh,” he said.
Mark looked at him.
The professor said, “I...”
Mark was staring at him. He looked at his watch, and then at the clock. It was exactly at the time.
He took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled.
The Professor said, “Jesus.”
“Some problems,” the professor said, “One professor sick, and now he's gone.”
