The Cantine

Short story.

Opening, the heavy latch door heaved a great sigh; and, as it shut, gave a great bellowing "shum!" which resonated on the coldness of the walls, so sudden it knocked your breath. For a moment.

The cantine was closed now, but the water-machine would still be working. The lights were not visible, the roof shrouded in a slimy darkness. The linoleum of the floor was glossy; it seemed to show a parallel universe where one walked on the ceiling; but that too, was only lighted by the mellow light dribbling through the windows from the pale afternoon Sun. And the silence; the silence! It pervaded every surface, every scent, every tap and shelf where food lied in wait for its consumer; on every plastic knife and fork which still lingered in its compartment, waiting to be taken and then thrown away, or snapped and thrown away; nonetheless, that may come for them tomorrow. The silence was the darkness - without that haunting, stomach-stirring absence, the darkness would've been because somebody had forgot to turn the light on. But here it seemed different.

I walked on. Footsteps enlarged; sounding like giant's feet; clumsy but no-one was present to hear them anyway. I couldn't see my shadow, neither did I want to...A dinosaur skeleton, an ogre wearing a black coat; a planet; a mouse - I could've been them all on account of the shadow. It was a black mass, a murky island, which I walked on solemnly and silently, yet gathering warmth inside me like winding up a ball of yarn, it becoming a bigger tangle as it winds and winds.

I got to the drooling windows and the water-machine as always, stood, proud of its stability to stay up whole nights, just in case someone came in dire need of a refill. I went into my bag, leather glistening a little in the light, and got my plastic water bottle, with the label ripped off, as if it had tried to rip from its chains; and placed it under the flat, grey spout of the machine. The bottle did not fit fully into the shell of the machine, it was too tall- I lowered it a little so it slanted, which allowed the spout, when the button was pressured, to gently pour the water into the bottle. The water was slow, travelling in a thin translucent tube, almost reluctantly; it had grown fatigued. I rubbed my own eyelids tiredly with my forehead, bending my head, as my right hand was pressing the button, my left hand holding the bottle slightly down so the water went in; and even then, the water refused. Pallid flows of it missed, making it slide down the machine onto the clean floor; droplets clinging onto my mud-slathered shoes.

Slowly it was done. I put the lid on, wiped the bottle clean with the sleeve of my coat and put it back into the darkness of my bag.

The light outside the window was strengthening in hue, becoming lemon, almost gold at some tinges; nevertheless, something out there felt happier. I smiled. I wanted to be out there. I quickly dashed my muddy shoes across the linoleum; like an ice skater; or the girl with the red shoes; and with outstretched hands, clasped onto the peeling handlebar and opened the door, albeit with a small struggle.

 

Reviews

[Jessie]

Beautiful write!
Your descriptions are phenomenal, I felt as if i was there, looking on. Your words read poetically, and artistically. I loved it! Well done, friend :)
Thank you for sharing. xx

[imagination-1234]

Thank you so much xx