@ put up a #quickfic story prompt. I don’t usually bother but…
9.8 Metres per second squared
Wherever he walked, a cloud of dandruff followed; brown trousers, brown shirt and tie, his jacket specked with flecks of skin and chemical stains.
He taught us science; how to make stink bombs, electro-magnets and TNT. He detonated the latter with a hammer blow; the yellow crystals blew the hammer-head clean off and through the laboratory window.
He had no televison and used washing-up liquid to wash his hair, so no surprises about the dandruff. He had a PhD and we called him the Doc. He taught us all we needed to know about life and death. It was his words I remember now, ‘Dying, is simply your body ceasing to push electrons uphill.’
You never notice how thick air can be, unless you’re hanging in it and accelerating at 9.8 meters per second squared.
Yes Doc, I remember the formula even now, through the mist of these creeping seconds.
He took us to the top of the sixth-form building and dropped two Galileo balls so we could see the equality of gravity.
‘There you go, close enough. Discounting the resistance of the atmosphere, the effect of gravity on a falling body is constant.’
Well Doc, from personal experience I can tell you that that the atmosphere is dense; I can hardly breathe now, I’m travelling so fast.
All of those thoughts and more as a million, million electrons stutter and fail their Sysiphean task.
I don’t blame the Fire Brigade. That last gust of wind wasn’t in the formula.