Slowly

Quietly

Rhythmically

The soft pink eraser of the pencil

I hold loosely in my hand

Pounds upon the faux wood

That makes up my desk

Pounding out a rhythm to my thoughts

As my mind ponders the meaning of my existence

The teacher launches his question

An artillery shell upon the fortress

That is my tranquility

"Mr. Welch, what is 5 to the power of 3?"

I realize that his shot is directed at me
And leap from the trench in which I have cowered

From the volleys of questions

He has been firing all day

I point the gun of my mind

Aim directly at his heart

And prepare to fire the bullet that is my answer

Slowly, I pull the trigger

"One hundred and twenty five" I say

The bullet is right on target

A perfect answer

It will penetrate into his heart

Ending his questions

Ending my fear

Yet just as quickly as my answer drills into his flesh

His skin heals over it

Unscathed, he shrugs off my answer

"Very good, Mr. Welch"

Slowly, I begin to realize

No matter how many questions are asked,

No matter how many questions I answer,

They will never stop coming

He will never stop firing

I bow my head and trudge back to my trench

Preparing to survive another day

Of the war that is my math class