The prolonged file of students
assemble outside the hall.
The officer saunters confidently with
her spool of names and numbers:
Sam Ahmed, Hugh Anderson, Lucy Anderson!
Barking over the top of
us anxious teenagers.

2043! Steven Grainger!

I march down the ramp to the hall
soundlessly following the rest round
crooks and down corridors to the imperative room -
the room to judge.

The monotonous call of no mobile phones.
The monotonous call of no gel pens.
The monotonous call of “You may start!”.
Everyone unlocks their papers which sound like a
group of pigeons who flutter their wings.
The white book that we must
write in to save our lives.

I lift my pen and begin to scribble
scanning my brain for the knowledge
that is hidden. Locked in a cage.

Time flies although it not amusing.
I finish 5 minutes early.
Some also but some continue
to scribble vigorously
engraving the table.

The remaining minutes I use to ogle the clock.
The time ticks away.
Second by second.
Until I hear…
the almighty signal -
“Pens down!”