Writing

A bead of sweat running down my forehead, the numbing sensation of my fingers tapping onto the desk. Anxiety gripping at my chest, my heartbeat fastening with every single tick of the droning sound of the clock. I can't do this. The pressure is too much for me to bare.

Slipping from my grip, the pencil gripped tightly merely a few seconds ago in my sweaty palm bounces away, rolling to the depths of the cold floor. My eyes widen as I scramble out my seat to retrieve it at once. Will I make it in time?

As for a split moment an answer floods into me, the lead of my pencil almost touches the page to write it down when a wracking knock shocks it away. My eyes narrow to my mother standing at the doorway with a smile, "It's dinner." Blinking, I sigh. my body has already given up trying to continue my story. Ah well.

I guess I'll go eat.

As I lift myself off my seat and trail after mum, I turn my head slightly and eying the notepad I had so wanted to write on, I wonder;

Will I be able to try tomorrow?"

i smell the beautiful scent of home-cooked food in the air, chuckle to myself for an unknown reason and clasp my doorknob, relief of hearing the almost silent click when I pull to shut the door.