snippet

Well, here it is Friday already, and time for the poem of the week. Instead, however, I offer a snippet of narrative from one of my stories in progress. The (yet untitled) story is total crap right now, of course, but I think it's got good bones. Perhaps, someday, I'll like it well enough to let you read the whole thing. Today you just get one of the opening scenes. I'm not blog-savvy enough to create paragraph indents, so bear with the flush left text, if you would. And have a long, happy Labor Day weekend! ****

Danny consulted the hand-scrawled directions one more time. Yep, this was the right building. He walked up the well-worn sandstone steps to the double doors and let himself in. Now, he just had to go up to the third floor. It must have been time for class to let out, for suddenly doors along the corridor opened, and he found himself in a sea of students. Finding the stairs, he pushed along with the herd to the second floor. More students. But on his trip up to the third story, he found the stairs nearly deserted. It figured. It was unlikely that any professor would consent to having an office in a classroom wing.

At the top of the stairs, he found another pair of double doors, the glass panels bearing the name of the university publisher. Danny hoped he was in the right place, and stepped through into a small reception area; there were three hallways, none were labeled. There was, however, a girl at a small desk typing busily at a computer.

"Hello," he said.

She did not look up. "Hi. Just a sec."

At that moment, another woman was crossing from one hallway to another, her shoes click-clacking the tile floor. She paused, one arm full of papers.

"Good morning, Alice." She said.

She looked to be in her thirties, with small, half-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, dark hair caught firmly back in a pencil-threaded bun, and an aura of efficiency running from her navy blazer to her demure brown heels. The girl straightened up like a shot.

"Good morning, Miss Bard."

The woman smiled gently, nodded, and continued on her way.

"How may I help you this morning, sir?" The girl asked Danny, her hands politely folded in front of her as she met his eye.

He fought down the urge to comment on the change of manner. "Dr.VanFeilde’s office, please."

Her eyes widened slightly at his accent. "Is he expecting you?" She asked.

"Yes. Dan Welkin."

She consulted her computer—confirming his appointment, probably—then pointed to the hall on her left hand, the one the older woman had emerged from. "That way. The door at the end of the hall on the right. You can’t miss it."

He followed her directions, passing a small, jam-packed library with a large printer and several office doors, mostly closed. He heard the low murmur of one or two conversations, the clack of a keyboard, the perk of a coffee maker coming from a small kitchenette. The last door on the right, also closed, had "James D. VanFeilde, PhD" blazoned across the semi-transparent glass panel.

Its end of the hall contained a small window with a deep sill, a black radiator squatting along the floor beneath it; the morning sun shone in, fortifying the lively, red-bloomed flower growing in a broad terra cotta container upon the ledge. Danny gave himself a moment to look at the plant, readying himself for the next moment, when he would see his father for the first time in twenty years. He took a deep breath, and another, steadying himself as he would before a difficult climb. Then he reached out, and knocked on the door.