Keyholes To Flowerage

VII. Keyholes to Flowerage

VII. Keyhole to Flowerage

"I CAN manage," was the afterwords I uttered before heading off the Rural. With only a day at the Urban City, beneath the silhouettes of its tall buildings, the resident bandwagon of claiming the distance of crossroads, the passing through the formal attires and tailored job uniforms, the streetlights, the plate numbers, the signposts standing tall in gas stations, the scent of nearby cuisines and street foods-I have persuaded Mrs. Stevens with these arguments, she communicated them all to Mr. Cunningham, and I won the democracy of travelling all by myself.

By the time I footed in the gate-step of Houston University, I headed-straight and silent-to the conference room. The Documentarians demanded a quick meeting at the same conference room to finally meet those who were handpicked. Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I settled across the bespectacled female. Reading a novel. Cashmere scarf wrung around her neck. A sweaty Frappé standing next to the cross-legged stufftoy-like backpack. Fingertip touching the edge of page. I could tell, she was both mathematics and literature-looking like a daughter of Tesla and a niece of Tolstoy.

Merely a few minutes after my arrival, there came another guy. A storm of fumes whipped itself into the mid-air as though he just inhaled a cigarette. I recognized his physiognomy akin to the Greek men. His phone on the left ear, "Just tell Manager it will only take half an hour, I guess. Yeah, yeah fine. Thanks, boy."

He put his phone down, dragging his attention into us. "Are we still incomplete?"

"Apparently." The bespectacled female dropped the book, glancing at me swiftly, then at the guy. "The last one possibly lives in Wuthering Heights."

I bobbed my head. "By Emily Bronte?"

"Emily Bronte," she confirmed, holding out a hand. Comfortably, I extended mine and gently pressed my palm against hers. "I'm Carley Henderson of Washington DC."

"Marceline Sullivan."

"Of what?" She circled around the edge of the rectangular glass table, shifting a seat next to me.

"Of Rural Town."

Before I and Carley could develop a conversation, the door swung open, revealing the same men from yesterday. But this time, with another guy. A Gilman humming along to the earphones taped in his ears, he directly sat in front. Ren typed away at his laptop and connected the cables to the flat screen. Ren clapped his hands afterward. "Okay."

He rolled up the sleeves of his uniform. "Here's the sample of a psychological documentary. Usually the starter packs are just camera, funds, and of course your testimonies. We came up with a decision that all of you, in every hang out that you'll do, you'd email us your experiences that would be accompanied with photographs."

Nyle searched something in his bag, he handed a camera to Ren. "We'll entrust this thing to the leader of your group. Speaking of it, we'll elect for that position." Neither of us responded to Ren.

"Or rather choose one." Nyle pointed his pen at my direction. Everyone eyed me in an instant. "That. She'll lead."

My chest rose as I stammered. "What, why me?"

"Because you are deserving." My jaw dropped, my cheeks turned cherry.

Seeming like problem-free, Ren handed me the camera with a cozy beam. "I'm trusting you, Ms. Sullivan."

As I received the camera, it smoothly invaded my system. Its size filled the empty spaces of my palms, giving me a nostalgic feeling. I remembered my first ever Polaroid, Dad gave it to me on my 11th birthday. Since then, I always brought it with me anywhere I go and it kept all the memories I had with lovely people. When my father passed away, it oddly stopped functioning as well. I beamed a little, biting the inside of my cheek.