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Page 31 text:
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AFTERMATH HE pleasant scent of flowers perfumed the room and drifted up my nose, a fitting greeting for the day after my sister's wedding. I yawned wide, filling my lungs with the sweet fragrance, then with a stretch I found the piece of wedding cake under my pillow. The room was dark with the shades drawn, and the wind through the open window made the curtains blow, I got up to close the window and then looked around me. There was the empty wedding dress thrown on the other bed, its train in a lump on the floor. Quite a change had come over it since yesterday when it had been pressed and pampered like a baby, then carefully enfolded in a white sheet awaiting its debut. The shoes, too, were deserted in front of the chair in the exact place where they had been hurriedly taken off. Beside them in a long box were the remains of the two bou- quets, now completely dead, in no way showing their past beauty. Yes, that shriveled up, white object was the bride's bouquet that I had caught and clutched as if my life depended on it. I started down to get my breakfast but stopped at the head of the stairs recalling the feeling we three had had on that very spot, not twenty-four hours before, as we heard the opening chorus of Lohengrin. Would I ever be able to start down the stairs without thinking of that? The banisters were still decked with greenery, and, as I went down, the fragrance of the Howers became stronger and stronger. At the bottom of the stairs the two wide ribbons that had served as the aisle lay in disorder on the floor, mixing with the rice which made a path to the front door, There was not a piece of furniture downstairs. For the first time the house appeared to be really too big for us, like an empty assembly hall. There was such a queer feeling of space all around it. The two white pillar-like candlesticks at one end were the only furnishings in the living room. The flowers draped on the white pillars and mantel still looked fresh. I sat on the floor remembering all the details of the last evening. Was it true- could the house in one moment have been so full of people and excitement, and then in the next be so barren of everything? Could this wedding for which we had worked and planned so long suddenly be completely over? Had it come and gone? The proof was all around me: cigarette butts, a lost earring, crumbs of cake on the floor- I looked in the dining room, there was the wedding cake on the side table with several slices out of it. It wasn't just a beautiful showpiece in Ramaley's window, but it was ours, it belonged in our house. The kitchen the day before had been a hive of excitement with cateresses bustling about at their jobs. Now it had become quiet, the wedding was over. The night before we had been like birds in a cage without a private niche anywhere in the house. But now, take your pick-every room was empty and drained of life. I found myself automatically wandering to the piano, but it was gone as was every- thing in the house. Slowly I climbed the stairs, stopping at the place where Centie had thrown her bouquet. I picked up a trampled piece of flower and a few grains of rice from the step and then finished climbing. This pair of memories I put under the loose tile in the bathroom, which, on a special occasion, I once had autographed. Now I only allow myself to lift it about once a year. Here I again came to the dark bedroom where the wedding dress still lay in a forgotten lump. An empty, lifeless, lump-just as the house and I felt after the wedding. DEBBIE DONNELLY, Form V LITERARY THE FLAME sl
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Page 32 text:
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MY TEMPURARY JOB IN STATIONERY T WAS 8:20 by the jewelry store clock. I was early again. I hated to be early be- cause it meant that I had to be in the store ten minutes longer than I was being paid for. It wasn't that I minded particularlyg it wasjust the principle of the thing. There wasn't time to take a walk around the block the way I uslially didg so I marched self- consciously past the men who were waiting for the doors to open and pushed past the Closed sign. Being able to go right in by this sign always gave me a little lift. I marched down the center row of books, glancing at the stacks of The Song of Bernadette as I passed. I wondered why anyone couldn't just pick one up and walk oH with it. However, I never satisfied my curiosity by experimenting. No matter how early I got there, Mr. Read was always ahead of me. I spoke the conventional, Good morning at him from the front of the department but received no response. The time clock now registered 8:25. I always regarded it with great respect and ad- miration. How could anyone ever-'have invented such an intelligent machine? I tried to figure how it could possibly work, and how any inanimate object could be so accurate. I counted all the places on my time card where I had punched in the wrong spot. Each one would cost me a dime. The money was to go to some fund or other. With great care I dropped the card into the punching slot. I grasped the handle and pulled it down fearlessly. The little hell dinged, so I knew that all was well. Near the clock there was a sign that always fascinated me. It said No Smoking in ten languages. The only two I knew'were English and French. The one consolation I received at this revelation of my ignorance was that I would have known Latin if it had been there. However, I did grasp the idea that smoking was not allowed. Having mused over the fascinating sign, I drifted over to the desk where people sit when they order stationery. The glass was full of fingerprints, so I knew that as soon as 8:30 arrived I would have to polish that and the counters, too. I flopped down and hoped that it Wouldn't be too hot a day. It really didn't make much difference, though. No matter how cool and breezy it might get outside, the atmosphere in our department always remained the same. Then I started thinking about what the other girls would be doing today. This thought was always fatal to my good humor. I could see them diving into an ice-cold lake after a hard set of tennis. I imagined Happy sailing our X-boat on the rippled water. This thought was too much. I decided then and there that I would walk right out of the store and grab the bus for the lake. At this point, however, a great big dollar sign popped up in front of my eyes and changed my mind for me. In this depressed mood I slouched on the desk and watched the smart clerks in their black dresses and pumps file by with clicking heels. With disgust I pictured myself in my simple cotton dress and strollers. The thought was appalling. I was startled out of my self-contemplation by the mournful clanging of the 8:30 bell. My heart sank as I spotted the first unwelcome customer strolling nonchalantly past the book departmengrunmindful of the agony he was causing. Reluctantly I hoisted myself out of my chair, and ambled over to him. I said in a voice which I hoped sounded more cheerful than I felt, May I help you? This was always a rather stupid question for me to ask, for I knew perfectly well that I wouldn't know where what he wanted Was, or if we had it, or probably I wouldn't even know what he was talking about. He asked for vertical, redrope file folders, legal size. I was stumped again. In a professional voice I replied that I would see, and I hurried over to a more capable clerk with my troubles. She took the customer, and I started my difficult task of dusting. s MARY STRINGER Form VI 26 THE FLAME
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