Childhood

There was once a young sweet child. One day the sun was very bright and the weather was especially nice. “May I go play in our yard?” the little girl asks her mother. “Naturally.”
The girl took her bike and played in the garden. The grass was very tall and almost consumed the child. Suddenly the sky went dark. The sun quickly dashed behind the clouds. She was only two or three years old. The Mother heard the thunder and saw the frightened child, and ran out into the pouring rain and scooped up the child in her long graceful arms. The mother ran back the house after saving the child.

Heat

Perspiration began to bead on my forehead, right above my eye brows. Without moving I could feel the warm sweat trickle down my left temple, slide past my eye and dip into the corner crevice of my mouth. The summer was hot and sticky, one of the last days of that kind before the fall chill would set. From the porch of our too small flat, I listen to the crickets buzz outside my patio. Their chirping was the only noise possible under this stale summer heat.

Lecture

The hand of the clock ticked over to three o’clock, and the students anticipating of freedom began to stir. But these two events did not signal the end of the lecture for our professor, instead, this withered old man continued to talk. Still, no one was listening to his sapient insights, including myself, instead we were all eagerly awaiting the end of a another school day.
The hall echoed with the rustling of papers, the zipping of bags, and murmuring of students voices, and behind all this noise, the professors thin voice continued to ramble. I sat still in my seat, waiting to put my papers away once I was sure that the professor had finished speaking. Finally, he finished with, “Well I guess we will continue this on Wednesday.”. These were the few legible words, from his whole past hour speech, and they managed some how to be embraced by a quiet stillness. However, once he uttered this last phrase, a number of students began to leap out of their seats and sprint towards the door. I couldn’t see them from the front row, but I heard the folding seat cushions spring up and the quickness of feet against the concrete floor.
As I sat in my seat, a wave of exhaustion came over me. I packed up my bag, but stayed firmly hunched over in my seat and forced myself to breath deeply. John, who had already stood up and was ready to leave, asked me when I was planning to get up. I looked around the room. The professor, with wispy white hair, was trying to organize the papers that he has messed up during the lecture. As he focused on his papers, a girl in a strange pink blouse came up to talk to him about the paper she had missed. I looked up at John and Kathy and who were both wondering when I was planning to move. Finally, I got up and pulled my bag over my shoulder. We decided to go get coffee at Strata.
Strata is situated at the corner across from Kroeber Hall, and is popular with both professors and students. I told my friends in Germany once, that as a student at Berkeley, our life blood is coffee.