. I glanced up at the rusty old clock that was mounted to the cinder brick wall to the left of where I was sitting backstage.

. I glanced up at the rusty old clock that was mounted to the cinder brick wall to the left of where I was sitting backstage.

Describe what works in those 2 short stories and tell what you think about these. What are your comments or critiques about these?
1. I glanced up at the rusty old clock that was mounted to the cinder brick wall to the left of where I was sitting backstage. The clock read 9:45 pm which meant that there were only 15 more minutes until the biggest moment of my life. Looking at my fellow bandmates I knew that they were thinking the exact same thing. The five of us have been together for the past couple of years, just barely living off of the money that the band generated from its small gigs and living together in the rusty van that I owned. I was the one who originally started the band and I knew that if things didn’t go well tonight we might have to put an end to it. I take another look at the clock and it read 9:55, only five more minutes. My palms started to sweat as I think about what lies in front of us on the stage, the bright lights, the hundreds of people, and the wild atmosphere. I gently lay my drumsticks on the oak wood floor so they don’t get slippery from my sweaty palms. I hear a giant roar from the crowd cheering on another band while I intensely watch the old clock that now reads 9:59. I watch the second hand make its way around the clock TICK, TICK, TICK. After the longest minute of my life the band that had just performed emerged from the stage looking exhausted but relieved. I slowly get to my feet that now feel like jello and grab my drumsticks from the cold wooden floor. My bandmates also get up and we make our way to the stage where we have dreamed of being one day, and today was that day.  
2. Today is the day, the day that the doctor’s can give me a diagnosis. As I sit and wait in my least favorite place on Earth, all I can hear is the slow ticking of the big white clock on the wall. Each second feels like a minute. I keep looking to check the time, 9:36. I swear, it’s been 9:36 for 15 minutes. I know that doctors are busy people, but why does it always feel like hours until they finally get to you? My leg is beginning to shake up and down uncontrollably which is causing the paper cover on the bed to make a crinkling noise. I don’t actually mind it. It’s drowning out the sound of that persistent clock that keeps reminding me that time is standing still. I should feel relieved that I’m going to get answers as to what’s happening, but I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of fear and helplessness. As the minutes creep by and my patience is running thin, I pick up the only magazine that sits in the basket of children’s books to try to distract myself for just a moment. Of course, it’s three years old and filled with all the gossip that I already know. I read it anyway. It’s better than staring blankly at my enemy, the clock. Finally, I hear footsteps coming down the hall. I hope they’re coming this way but at the same time, I don’t. I’ve been dreading this moment. There’s a firm knock on the door as it begins to open slowly. “Hello,” the doctor says as they go to pump hand sanitizer into their palm. I can’t muster the words to greet them back. “We finally got the results of your MRI,” they say with a sense of optimism. I grab the sides of the bed with my sweaty hands, not ready for what comes next. “Your tumor is benign.”
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