Colby Martel's Excellent Exercises

"Mom, wake up! Today is the day!" Jimmy jumped onto his single mother's bed, agitating her.

"Five more minutes," she moaned, rolling to her side.

"We're gonna be late!" he said.

Jimmy's mom made her way to the bathroom and Jimmy ran down stairs to chug his third Redbull of the morning. They got into the car and were on the road within ten minutes.

"Are we there yet?" Jimmy said for the fifth time in the last 30 seconds.

"Not yet," she said. Jimmy shook in his seat. "How about now?"

"No, Jimbo." Unexpectedly, a cowboy ran across the road and into the hood of Jimmy's car. His mom never replied again, because she was dead. The collision knocked out the teeth of the cowboy, but other than that, he was fine. Jimmy was traumatized in the back seat, but in stable condition.

"Mama," he whimpered. Jimmy got out and stared down at the cowboy. "You killed my mama!" The cowboy tried to make out words. "I'm sorry," eventually came out.

I enter the class on the first day of the semester with no expectations. My teacher has yet to arrive, and so I claim a seat next to my two friends from my basketball team. The chairs are padded with wheels so I could spin and spin in place all block, or just lay back and chill. When I first saw that this was a computer lab, I wasn't at all disappointed to ditch my pen and paper. The single phrase, "writing stays," displayed around in various areas around the classroom intrigued me. All the different colors used on the whiteboard kept me engaged. Despite the poor lighting, the class energized me. The teacher finally walked in two minutes after the second bell. I could already tell by his attitude and posture that I would like him. The clock in front of my desk would always let me know how much longer I got to stay in this amazing class. Sitting next to Stav, who smelled like a wet skunk on a regular basis, may actually be tolerable this semester.

Entering Mr. Greene's classroom was like being casted for horror movie. I could hear subconscious warnings telling me to turn the other way. The 5'9'' man with long, greasy brown hair intimidated me with his stern expression and stiff posture. He looked over me in front of the class with significant jurisdiction. This was not my class. This was his class. The moment he opened his chapped lips to speak, chills were sent down my spine. His dry sense of humor and unconventional vulgar language made me uncomfortable. He would occasionally stare straight into my soul, allegedly to help him learn my name. Whenever I tried to write, he was watching; even when he wasn't. The sound his footsteps made as he leisurely wandered the classroom made me shake.