Week Fifty Two

I put down the book.

Reading had proved a struggle. Every sentence was handwritten in a loopy scrawl that needed deciphering. Thank goodness they were all so short. Was this a prop? Some kind of art project? A prototype for a science fiction book?

The photos were the strangest element. Every page a had ragged snap stuck onto the bottom, with  a glue that bobbled over the edges in a translucent sea. Some were so burnt or covered in food stains they were unrecognisable. It must have taken days to put together. Why bother?

I slapped the book back on the desk, and prowled around the room. This must have been some kind of creative company. Perhaps they went into liquidation, or moved into a new building,  and this is the what they left behind.  The man must have been an employer taking something left behind. Or perhaps a souvenir hunter like me. Either way, he was gone now.

It felt a shame that these would be lost forever. Some of the stuff was really cool. It was like a small museum, although nothing was recognisable from pulp culture.

Under a paper mache statue of a yellow blob with teeth and tiny paws was a black folder, covered in ring stains from different sized bottles. Battered poly pockets hung from in the inside, each stuffed with a crinkled piece of paper. Stapled to the bottom of each of them was a black napkin, white scribbles on every one. The writing on the paper was at least typed.

Outside the window a flurry of snow had already hidden my footprints. If anyone was thinking about popping here, they wouldn’t try and go out in this weather. Even then, I would hear the crunching of their footsteps, the creak through the door. And when the Christmas holidays were over, this place was rubble. You think the demolition crew are going to make sure the art was saved?

I had to look through one more, if only to work out what the purpose of this building was.

With a rustle, I pulled the first sheet out, and began to read.

Maybe something moved outside.