The Ending

for a giant world map poster:
I feel the tape on my borders ripped away. My owner folds me in half and then once more. And again, and again until I— I who once covered an entire wall— am reduced to a little less than two square feet. He stacks me with my brethren inside a cardboard box. I am the last poster, the top of the pile.
I was also the first poster. For three decades, I watched over this classroom. Day after day, year after year. Every morning before my owner arrives, and every night after the last student leaves, I stay. I live here.
I lived here. I glimpse the bare walls for a final time, the only things that’ve been in this classroom longer than me. The cold flaps of the box fold in, and then the world goes dark.

for a particular student:
I ease the door open and an alien sight greets me: blank, off-white colored walls, large boxes scattered throughout, and a— whoa. That’s a huge ball of crumpled duct tape sitting on his desk. If not for Mr. Johnson pacing around, I’d think I entered the wrong room.
He sees me and stops, asking, “Isn’t school over? What are you still doing here?”
I fidget, and suddenly remember the farewell card I’m holding. “This,” I say. I hold it out for Mr. Johnson.
He takes it and doesn’t seem to realize what it is. “Oh, and…?”
“Congratulations on your retirement.”
Mr. Johnson looks at me, eyes bulging and mouth slightly agape, an expression I’ve never seen him wear before. Usually, he’s like a fresh corpse that someone has dragged out from the grave and slapped a wig on, expressionless and dull. Maybe retirement, or rather, the prospect of retirement, gave him some last bits of energy.
Several heartbeats passed. Pretty awkward. Why did I think this was a good idea again?
Then, Mr. Johnson tilts his head and asks slowly, pronouncing each syllable, “For me? Really?”
I nod. I hope he likes the card. I even drew a quick, messy sketch of the Palace of Versailles on the inside. King Louis XIV of France is his second favorite historical figure. I forgot his favorite— more like I was doodling and didn’t pay attention when he mentioned it— and didn’t feel like asking anyone.
Mr. Johnson examines the envelope. For a few seconds, he looks confused. Then, he mumbles something I cannot hear.
“Uh, could you repeat it please?” I lean in closer.
He says, “I’m sorry.”
Sorry? Now, I’m the one who’s confused. “For what?”
Mr. Johnson scratches his chin, as if deciding whether or not to answer. Then, he responds, “For leaving.”
I almost forget to reply. He’s sorry for leaving?
“It’s okay,” I stammer. I realize I’ve been unconsciously fidgeting with my hands and back out of the room, giving Mr. Johnson a final wave. Hopefully, he has an unstressful retirement. I can name quite a few classmates who have been absolute headaches this past year. Honestly, teachers are underappreciated and underpaid.
Speaking of which, I gotta hurry to my new summer job. It’s actually got a decent salary. Today’s my first day, and I’m sure I’ll be off to a good, fresh start.

for a trash can:
That teacher read the card for a long time before he lifted his head and gazed at the doorway for even longer. Then, he walked towards a certain picture frame on his desk, picked it up with both hands, coarse and calloused from decades of writing on whiteboards and making red scribbles next to tests, and removed the picture inside.
I felt the conviction in his footsteps as he strode over to me. Me. Objects come to me to die.
He looked down at the photo in his hands, expressionless, and then let go. I saw the photo in full glory: The teacher was wearing a tuxedo and stood next to a young woman in a white dress. I didn’t recognize her. Maybe it had just been the blurred lines of a low-res print, but the teacher looked different in the photo, younger, more dashing and more confident. Not him.
It was strange. The photo was probably older than this school itself, but even after such a long passage of time, the colors hadn’t faded.

for a analog clock:
He doesn’t leave immediately. Instead, he sits in his cushioned chair and looks towards the doorway, as if waiting for someone— another student, perhaps? Or something? Who knows what that man is thinking.
An hour passes. Then two. Specifically, two hours, seven minutes, and forty-seven seconds. The sun sets and the security guards of the school are beginning to lock the doors. The man continues to wait. No one comes. I don’t know what he’s still doing here. He seems to be a little crazy. Or desperate. Time does quite a number on the human mind. And he’s got quite a bit of time under his belt.
Finally, the man stands up, looking a little stiff. I can almost hear his joints creaking like unoiled door hinges between the ticking of my hands. The man sweeps his gaze through the room one last time, and turns away. Maybe he finally realizes how suffocating bare walls can be. Then, he stacks the three cardboard boxes together, picks them up, and staggers out of the classroom on uneven legs. His neck lurches from side to side, as if he’s wandering through a dream. The last I ever see of that man is his boot heel, vanishing into the darkness of the halls.
The door announces the man’s exit with a slam that makes the walls tremble and sway. This is the ending for an ordinary man. Or maybe the start.
The void he leaves behind fills the room. Everything falls still— except for my hands. Ticking and ticking. There’s no ending for me.
No ending for time. No end.