Wasting Away.

• Gedy Cate Tuguinay, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2022

It’s a hot day, an opportune moment for relaxation under the usual blistering heat of summer, but instead he chooses to keep to himself in the library - bogged down with overwhelming overdue work and marking test papers.

Incidentally, someone else is cooped up in here as well - under the guise of reorganising books and labelling them, the man stacks all the geography atlases and maps by his desk.

And while he’s content to continue his work in the shade and silence of the library, the person is decidedly not - the radio crackles to life, unintelligible speech garbling through its speakers before refocusing. Soon, melodic notes carrying the bravado of classical music drift through the bookshelves.

The music doesn’t serve as a distraction, but he is certainly curious, he peeks over the tall stack of books to see the odd man returning back to his job of reshelving books from the creaky little trolley. They’ve become much less antsy, as elegant opera becomes unorthodox white noise, and he relaxes back into his chair when the atmosphere is calm again.

He’s still squinting at him - his pen lies abandoned, observing how his feathered brown hair reached to his ears and how he struggles to find the right place to slot the next book in the trolley. And he could not for the life of him, remember if he’s seen him before.

And yet, all of his pondering is washed away, when the PA systems crackle much louder than the shrilling opera.

“Again, we are at arms. Today, our country declares war-” But quickly, without question, the man brings the heavy book in his arms and with his tall stature he swats down the plastic box hung on the high corner of the wall.

The broken and frayed remains are smashed on the floor from the impact, but the man continues his destruction. Every hit, smash, and stomp accented by the oncoming quick bursts of a woman joyfully singing.

His forgotten pen finally rolls over and clatters to the floor.

It seems to be the final straw for the man. “It’s all rubbish, just damned rubbish. Just a waste.” He mutters, storming off and leaving the door slammed open in his wake. There is no regard for the books still scattered on his desk, needing to be covered and labelled and put back on the shelf, but even he doesn’t care for his own stack of papers.

The opera still sings beautifully but no longer holds an audience, and the air con still breathes while the door is open - bringing in the humidity and letting out the cool air. That man had curiously dragged his attention away from his work, but now he’s left staring at a broken speaker and wondering of the future to come - which no longer hangs on the state of overdue test markings.

What a waste, indeed.