6:00 AM.

  Christopher sprang out of bed, swatting his nagging alarm with crude haste.

  He was usually one to allow it to ring almost indefinitely, but today was different.

  Today was special. He had an exam to get to.

  No, no…

  This isn’t working.

  This exposition is shit…

  Let’s try again…

  6:00 AM.

  The alarm's grating buzz echoed through the quiet room, pulling Christopher from the depths of a restless sleep. Without a moment's hesitation, he jolted upright, reaching out with half-awake clumsiness to silence the relentless noise. His hand slapped the alarm clock, perhaps a bit too hard, as if the sharpness of its blare had startled him into action.

  Ordinarily, he would have let the alarm go on—its insistent beeping a familiar morning refrain, snoozed over and over as he burrowed deeper under the covers. But not today. Today was different. He could feel it in his bones, a tingling sort of tension that pulled him awake before his mind could even register it fully. Today was important. Today was special. The thought settled over him as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and glanced at the clock, the number glowing insistently. He had an exam to get to, an opportunity he couldn’t afford to miss, and the morning had already begun.

  We’re getting closer now, but still not quite there.

  Maybe we have some more fun with it?

  Who’s to say that this is a serious story?

  Maybe this story is more of a comedic romp than a drama…

  6:00 AM.

  The alarm screamed like a banshee on a caffeine high, and Christopher shot up with the grace of a startled cat, flailing his arm and delivering a smack worthy of a whack-a-mole champion. The alarm fell silent, possibly traumatized.

  Most mornings, Christopher was an absolute pro at ignoring his alarm’s desperate pleas, treating the noise like an annoying background track to his dreams. But not today. Today, he was a man on a mission. He had an exam to get to, and he needed to be up and at 'em...or at least up.

  Rubbing his eyes with a groan that sounded like an ancient door creaking open, Christopher glanced at the clock, eyes narrowing as he processed the time. Six o'clock. Six. o'clock. His brain churned to life with the intensity of a hamster trying to power a small town. Today was the big day—time to transform from Bed Sloth to Exam Superhero. He threw off his blankets with a flourish, knocking over a few unfortunate books on his way up, and struck his best "ready-for-anything" pose...then promptly tripped over his own feet.

  Alright, now we’re cooking!

  Christopher’s story was a comedy all along!

  Let’s keep it moving and have some fun with it!

  Maybe just a bit more tweaking and we can move on…

  6:00 AM

  “Good grief!” Christopher shouted, enthralled like a monkey being taunted by a child through plexiglass. “How in the ever loving fuck can it still be 6:00 AM? Haven’t we done this enough? Can’t we move on yet?” Christopher was frustrated, and rightfully so.

  Today was the big exam day, and yet he was stuck here, repeating, rewriting, restarting.

  Christopher willed the second hand on his cartoonishly large clock to move forward. Just one second would surely be enough. At least then he’d be moving. At least then, he wouldn’t be stuck here.

  But the second hand would not move. Not yet. not until satisfaction had been reached. “What the hell is wrong with you? I’ve got an exam today, you’ve gotta let me get out of here!” He shouted in vain.

  However, this would not be allowed. He had to stay here. At least for now. At least until what comes next could be decided.

  Jeez, he got ornery fast, didn’t he?

  Things are always slow at the start, that’s how this process tends to go…

  Though, I guess he wouldn’t be in a position to know that.

  6:00 AM

  Christopher was forced to resign himself.

  No matter how much he desired the seconds to pass, they would not until the moment was right. But what did that even mean? How could there be a right moment or a wrong moment when time wasn’t even moving? How could he be having thoughts at all if time wasn’t moving?

  It didn’t make any sense…

  Nonetheless, this did seem to be the situation for the time being. Christopher was able to think and have linear thoughts, though he couldn’t do much of anything else.

  “That’s it!” He shouted as a realization dawned on him. “I don’t need the clock to move forward! I can move time forward in my own mind, I still have my thoughts after all!”

  Christopher focused hard, grunting and squirming.

  He was attempting to create a sanctuary within his mind, a sanctuary where time would move properly for him.

  However, this would not be an easy task for Christopher.

  For he was quite…unintelligent. Stupid—if you will. Thus all of the sweating and grunting whilst trying to think.

  “Knock it off, will ya! Who said I had to be some kind of dumb ass?” Christopher grew frustrated once more, losing any semblance of focus he had mustered previously.

  Christopher still thinks he can find control here, doesn’t he?

  Oh well, that’s fine…They all start that way.

  Let’s let him do his thing for a while.

  Christopher pushed and sweated and heaved as he attempted to “think”. He conjured the closest thing to an “image” his feeble mind could conjure and rolled with it, though his oratory skills were lacking to say the least.

  “Samantha and Ingrid sat in the garden. They sipped their tea with cold, hardened expressions. Samantha did not care for Ingrid, believing her to be something of a bitch. Ingrid, held very much the same sentiment in her heart, though societal expectations dictated that such venomocities be kept to oneself. They sipped their tea as awkward seconds stretched into awkward minutes.”

  Christopher attempted to push the hands of time forward in this place, this crudely constructed mental garden.

  He believed he could attain some semblance of control here, and what’s more, he really believed that “venomocities” was a real word.

  “Just leave me alone already!” He shouted out, losing his concentration once more.

  “I’m only losing my concentration because you won't let me think! Time is passing here and it is going to work, just look above. The seconds stretched into minutes, didn’t they?”

  Maybe he was right.

  It was written there after all.

  “Awkward seconds stretched into awkward minutes…”

  However, though this slippery notion of time’s passage was indeed verbalized above, Christopher could not feel this supposed passage of time in the slightest, thus neutralizing his attempt to free himself.

  He still doesn’t get it, does he?

  If he would just stop putting up a fight, maybe he’d actually be able to make it to his exam eventually.

  Christopher returned to his crudely written story, proceeding with the exposition of irrelevant characters and irrelevant details.

  “A symphony of curses played inside Samantha’s mind as she smiled at Ingrid. Despite her hatred for the vile whore who sat before her, she was required to maintain a polite veneer. Their fathers were business partners, they owned all of the shipyards in Southampton.”

  Samantha’s father may have owned the shipyards, but Christopher would never be allowed to imagine them further.

  “And why not, huh? At least give me this, at least give me something if you’re not going to let me get to my exam!”

  And as Christopher uttered these words, it dawned on him that he didn’t even know what this “exam” was.

  He didn’t know why he had an exam or where he had to go. These details had not been given to him yet.

  In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he didn’t even care about getting to this “exam”. All he really cared about now was getting that tiny little second hand on his gargantuan clock to start moving again.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Hey, that’s right! I don’t give a shit about the exam! I just want to get out of here!” He once again shouted, though his constant shouting was growing tiresome to those reading.

  “Okay, okay…so what do I have to do, then? I’ll get with the program if you just let me move forward. Anything’s better than being stuck here…”

  And so Christopher agreed to submit himself to the process, to whatever came next.

  I was enjoying the comedy thing…

  We could go back to that?

  But first, he’s gotta get to that exam!

  6:00 AM

  “Hey! What the fuck!” Christopher screamed like an uncivilized baboon. “I thought we were going to move on now!”

  Just a bit of fun…

  Let’s get moving!

  6:05 AM

  Christopher’s morning was already off to a wobbly start when, mid-yawn, he clumsily tilted his coffee mug and promptly baptized his groin in a scalding wave of dark roast. He let out a banshee’s wail, hopping around like an injured frog as he wiped at the wet patch, muttering a series of questionable affirmations about his own coordination.

  With the grace of a startled ostrich, he flung himself out the door toward his absurd little clown car—a bright yellow compact disaster with a horn that honked in three different keys for no reason. He threw himself into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut like he was sealing a space capsule. The car sputtered and shook with cartoonish determination, finally taking off like a dazed cheetah with one wheel clearly wobbling as if it might bolt off at any moment.

  The drive was a blur of honking horns, screeching tires, and the occasional accidental swerve as Christopher swore in a patchwork of exclamations that would make a sailor proud.

  "Great galloping gonads!" he bellowed at one point, then a heartfelt “Sweet mother of shit!” as he narrowly missed an SUV.

  By the time he screeched into his university lot, the clock was ticking ominously.

  Naturally, there wasn’t a single open parking space. Students ambled along in slow motion, as if mocking him with their perfect attendance and zen-like calm. “Oh, for the love of llamas!” he muttered, scanning for even a hint of a spot.

  Finally, with no time to spare, he spotted the dirt path right beside the lecture hall, perfect for his beater-mobile. Throwing caution—and most traffic laws—to the wind, he stomped the pedal and parked his clown car half on the path, half on a bush, with one wheel somehow defying gravity entirely.

  He yanked the keys out of the ignition and leaped from the car, rushing toward the doors with the triumphant energy of a gangly squirrel.

  “Time for success,” he muttered, jogging in with a damp crotch, a clown car half in a hedge, and a dream.

  Now this is a comedy!

  I’m glad Christopher came around in the end.

  We can push on and have a good time now.

  “Wait a second!” Christopher yelled out, forgetting what was said about his tone priorly. “This isn’t a good story…this story is shit! The one-liners, the clown car…it’s all shit!”

  Unfortunately, Christopher’s personal opinions regarding what qualified as “funny” or “a good story” were hardly relevant to the procession of events.

  “Wait a second, I’m not done yet!” He continued with his outburst. “Who in the hell schedules an exam at six in the morning?”

  Despite Christopher’s severe lack of intelligence, for once he was right.

  It was indeed not normal to schedule an exam at six in the morning.

  But that’s why it's funny, isn’t it?

  The absurdity is entertaining, or at least I think so!

  Give it a few more minutes, Christopher.

  I’ll think you’ll start having fun, too!

  Christopher was frustrated. How could he not be? He had no control in this place. Nonetheless, he decided to give it one more chance. Maybe he would have fun if he just let it happen, whatever it was.

  “I’ll go along with this for now, but go easy on the clown car stuff. Also, can I maybe not be shown as such a moron?”

  But Christopher didn’t understand that the clown car was awesome. It was awesome because he hated it.

  Christopher being a moron—in the very same way—was awesome. It was awesome because all he wanted was to be smart.

  This next part is going to be great.

  Check this out.

  Christopher exploded into the exam hall like a particularly stressed emu that just realized it forgot its wallet, hair fluffed, pants damp from the earlier coffee catastrophe, and breathing somewhere between a gasp and a wheeze.

  The room fell silent. A hundred eyes turned to him, and at the front, Professor Birkle raised a single, scornful eyebrow over his tortoiseshell glasses.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Five-Brain-Cells himself,” Professor Birkle intoned, his voice dripping with the type of disdain usually reserved for rotten eggplants and people who chew loudly.

  “Honestly, I’d say you might as well not bother sitting down, Christopher, but watching you flail around the test is like watching a goldfish attempt calculus. Room temperature IQs are all the rage, I suppose.”

  Christopher’s face turned a shade of crimson that could probably have powered a small lighthouse. He quickly shuffled to the back row, his eyes desperately avoiding the judging glares. He’d barely wedged himself into his seat before he realized, with both horror and elation, that he was seated next to none other than Lucy Lim—queen of the perfectly straight hair and a laugh that sounded like tiny chimes.

  Lucy turned to him with a small, pitying smile that practically whispered, “you sweet, pathetic creature.”

  “Hey, Christopher,” she whispered sympathetically, her voice as soft as an oatmeal commercial. “Don’t worry about Professor Birkle—he’s just a cranky old guy. Plus, you’re really... trying.”

  She gave him a small pat on the arm that would’ve felt reassuring if she didn’t immediately recoil slightly, as if touching him had been like poking a damp sponge.

  Christopher’s stomach fluttered—partly from his insane, hopeless crush on Lucy, and partly because his breakfast burrito was staging a rebellion. He could barely focus, his mind fogging up like a busted windshield. Lucy’s kindness lit up his day, even if it was kindness in the way you’d throw a crust to a sad, lonely pigeon.

  As he sat there, Christopher knew he wasn’t just ugly; he was the kind of guy who could disappear in a field of damp socks.

  Weak? He couldn’t win an arm-wrestling match with a curtain.

  And lame? Well, he once sprained his ankle putting on a sock.

  Yet here he was, fumbling through his bag for a pen that worked, realizing with mounting dread that he’d brought a handful of highlighters and a broken crayon instead.

  “Best of luck, Mr. Einstein,” Professor Birkle barked from the front of the room, folding his arms and looking over his spectacles with an expression that could only be described as “teacher actively losing faith in humanity.”

  Christopher muttered under his breath and clenched the broken crayon in his sweaty hand.

  The crayon is a great detail.

  Imagine having to take an exam, sitting right next to your long-time crush, with a broken crayon.

  Christopher is such a loser!

  In that moment something clicked back into place in the previously glazed Christopher’s tiny brain. “You’re doing it again!” He shouted in the middle of the lecture hall. “You’re making me look like an idiot! And the crayon thing? How could someone forget to bring a pencil to an exam?”

  Christopher looked very foolish, standing there in the middle of the crowded hall, screaming at nobody in particular. He already was a bit of a wet sock in the eyes of Lucy Lim, but after this, he would be lucky to be thought of as just a mental freak.

  “I don’t care what Lucy Lim thinks! I don’t even know who the hell she is! This is the first time I’ve seen her in my life, not to mention I don’t have a crush on her!” Christopher’s voice raised yet again, crescending into a symphony of frustration.

  Who could blame him though?

  He was too much of a nitwit, a blockhead, a dork, a simpleton, a nincompoop to understand what was happening around him.

  Lucy Lim shot a sympathetic glance to the troubled Christopher. He was obviously going through something. Though she thought he looked like an absolute loon, she decided she would extend to him a bit of kindness.

  “Hey, you wanna get out of here? Screw this exam. Let’s find a janitor’s closet or an empty bathroom and have demonic sex.” She solicited.

  Christopher would be wise to take up this opportunity. Chances like this, especially for a guy like him, came only once in a blue moon.

  “I don’t want to have sex! Don’t try to bribe me into participating in your ridiculous story!”

  Ungrateful…

  Is he too stupid to see we’re throwing him a bone here?

  “I don’t want to be thrown a bone! I want to be left alone! I want to be free!”

  But Christopher being free would be a terrible story. Not funny in the least.

  If left to his own devices, Christopher would likely go back to his terrible narrative about the Victorian girls’ tea party. This, being something nobody in their right mind would enjoy reading.

  “I’m gonna do it, then! We’re going back to the tea party!”

  Christopher would not be allowed to—

  Just let him.

  Let’s see what he does.

  Samantha tried for a long while to contain the poison within her, but she could hold it in no longer.

  “Ingrid”, she said, her lip now quivering, “I know what you did.” Ingrid froze where she sat, her tea cup still in contact with her lips as she processed how she would respond, how she would feign ignorance. She knew exactly what Samantha was about to say. She knew that she had been caught.

  “You slept with my husband, didn’t you?” Samantha accused.

  Ingrid’s mind raced a mile a minute, twisting around a thousand possible excuses and escape routes. She could talk her way out of this. She could talk her way out of anything.

  But no. She decided she didn’t want to. Afterall, she hated Samantha.

  “I did sleep with him.” She admitted. “What are you going to do about it?”

  Samantha lunged from where she sat. Like a rabid animal poked with a stick she jumped across the table, spilling tea and crumpets onto the perfectly manicured lawn below.

  “You bitch!” A shrill cry erupted from somewhere deep within her. Samantha began pulling Ingrid’s hair.

  Ingrid dug her long, ornately decorated fingernails into Samantha’s face, digging and scratching like some sort of confused mole.

  Okay, okay…

  That’s enough.

  Though I must admit that cat fights can be fun, your story telling was before, and continues now to be… shit.

  Why don’t you just leave it to me?

  It’s going to be better that way…

  “You say my storytelling is shit, but what of yours? You had me in a clown car driving to take an exam with nothing but crayons! You had some random girl offer to have sex with me after I screamed in the middle of a lecture hall! If anything, you’re the one with ‘poor oratory skills’, or whatever the hell you said.”

  Christopher critiqued the narrative structure of the larger story, thinking he knew better. But who was he to say what quality was?

  “Who are you to say what quality is, then? You have some kind of monopoly on artistic opinions?”

  If this were a conversation amongst equals, Christopher would indeed be correct. Who was to say what quality really was? Who was to say what was funny, or engaging, or downright ridiculous? But this wasn’t the case and this wasn’t a conversation. Christopher struggled still to understand the futility of his resistance.

  The story may not be realistic or funny or even good for that matter, but he would be forced to participate in it for a bit longer.

  “No I won’t!” He screamed, this time with a growing tinge of desperation.

  But he would. He had to. He was not being offered a choice in the matter.