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Snap Fiction Responses | by shandrake | 2006-11-19 12:55:59 |
| Part 1 |
by LeoHyuuga |
2006-03-13 11:16:09 |
Though he had never walked through it at this time of the night, Dylan did not find the corridor spooky in the darkness. The musty smell was familiar, caused by the small drain that ran along the side of the corridor. The wall on Dylan's left was covered with creeping vines, and at the top of the wall, the soil smelled rich and loamy in the darkness. He imagined he could almost smell the faint smell of the small yellow flowers that grew on the grass above the wall.
The rain that dripped on the metal roof of the passageway beat out a soft tattoo, an almost melancholic beat that matched the tears streaming down Dylan's face. A drop of water splattered in his dark hair, already drenched by rain. His father and the two other teachers whose offices were along the passage had often written to the school to push for repairs for the roof. His clothes were already soaked from walking in the rain to get here, and the occasional leak did not bother him in the slightest.
Dylan shuffled past the doors in the dark, not needing any light to show the way. He ignored the first two doors on his right. He knew the insides of those offices well, having often been sent there to see the teachers. He stopped when he reached the third door on his right. He stared at the paint in the dark. He could barely make out the details on the old, cracked wood. He ran his hand along the centre of the door, feeling the smooth but thing paint layer, and the course wood underneath it. Near the knob, he felt a gash in the wood. A slight smile appeared on his face as he remembered the accident that caused the gash. His father had given him and his sister a good, long lecture about playing with scissors.
He put his hand on the knob, feeling the familiar dent near the bottom and turned the knob slightly. As expected, it was locked. Dylan jiggled the knob for a moment, rapidly turning it left, then right, then left again. After a few twists, he heard a click as the button lock opened. His sister had discovered the weakness in the knob a few years back. Dylan had locked her out of the office, and both of them had been surprised when the door opened on its own after she had repeatedly tried to turn the knob. They kept that secret to themselves, not even telling their father. He had the key anyway, and could request for the spare if he happened to lock himself out.
Dylan opened the door slowly, taking a step inside. His sneakers and clothes dripped rainwater on the floor, dark patches appearing on the dark blue carpeting. He closed and locked the door behind him, as though by leaving it open, some of the essence of the room would escape. He hesitated, then slowly reached for the light switch near the door. He flicked it on and silently counted to five. It was habit after all these years. When he reached five, the lights flickered and came on. He blinked for a moment to adjust to the light, then he glanced around the room.
Everything was as Dylan remembered it. He ignored the couch to his left and instead looked to his right. The small wooden desk his father had bought for Dylan and his sister to do their homework on after school was to his right. It was right next to his father's large desk. The two ends of the desk had shelves built, and a cupboard with sliding glass doors connected both the shelves across the top of the table's surface. Across the room, the photocopy machine stood silently next to the battered filing cabinet. The metal and wood computer table stood on the other side of the filing cabinet, the computer still on it.
He stood in front of the computer now, deciding if he should look at one of his father's books from the oak bookshelf to the left of the computer table. He recalled his father talking excitedly about the oak shelf as oak was a rare wood to be found in this part of the world. It was sturdy enough to handle all his father's thick and heavy books – his mother called them concrete slabs – and yet gave the room an aesthetic look not found in any of the other teachers' offices. His father had placed the soft but firm sponge couch next to the bookshelf for easy reading. Dylan smiled at the memory of his sister's distress when she poked a hole in the couch with a pen by accident. Their father had, surprisingly, not been angry. He had always had a soft spot for Rachel, but he was always fair when dealing with sibling quarrels. |
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[ Reply ] |
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Part 2 | by LeoHyuuga | 2006-03-13 11:17:08 |
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I like it. It's very touching. | by Miss L. Anyus | 2006-03-13 16:52:03 |
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