Flash Fiction And Short Stories

2. strings on an empty wall

4 April 2019 (An exercise from Creative Writing class)

* * * * *

I am staring at an ordinary wall made of concrete. A huge and massive piece of stone that looks as hard and as cold as it really is and has absolutely nothing on it. No colour, no decoration, no framed painting, just some bendable transparent strings dangling from the ceiling above it. They are, however, not straightly hanging down, but are rather curled up in an uneven yet static manner, pointing to different directions at the same time, as if they didn't belong there. The plastic of the strings seems to merge into the grey of the wall, leaving it as empty as it always had been.

* * * * *

Sitting in one corner of the dusty third floor with her legs crossed, she was looking down at her empty hands that were supposed to be holding the new overprized lunchbox that she had bought for this overrated job, and which she, for the unbelievable sixth time that month, had forgotten on the little night stand next to the front door of her parents' home. By "help building the grounds for Luxembourg's Academic Future", as it was stated on the flyers of the job offer, which by now were probably lying somewhere around the streets of Esch-sur-Alzette, she had imagined something quite other than actual physical construction work, but her unfinished Art and Architecture degree, combined with her absurd financial situation, did not allow for any more sophisticated choice; at least for the time being. Being able to analyze buildings from the inside, she believed, would give her an advantage over the other students, if she then ever continued studying.

She looked up, trying to pass the last seven minutes of her break that she could have been spending eating, in the same manner as she always did when she forgot her lunch, or simply when she was bored. One cheek leaning on her hands, her eyes wandered around the huge but empty shell construction of the future university, until they came to rest on the massive wall in the middle of the room. "How sad and cold everything looks" she thought while imagining all the colours and paintings that would eventually find their ways onto that empty canvas of a wall.

While she was day-dreaming of students forming little groups around her art works and exchanging interpretations, and people of importance that would stop to acknowledge and admire her talent hanging on the walls of the Maison du Savoir, a loud and firm voice took her back to reality. She stood up and looked at the huge pile of bricks that, by the end of that day, she would have carried all the way up to the next floor. It was time to get back to work.