150 or Below

by KwirkyJ

Lectern

The resigned creak of wooden floorboards, scraped and raw from thousands of hooves and feet.

Faded alphabet wallpaper curling along browning seams.

Rows of desks and stools, once so large, then so small, now large once again.

Eight windows reaching high; one a crack at its base, another split through its pane.

Chalk dust, permanently lost in corners, friendly with fur, caked on lips.

Fine white powder floats away from a name.

Stacks of patient books, alumni of three decades, sorted and assigned.

Shrieks. Horseplay. Laughter. Hushed whispers and pointing.

The bell. Scrambling, scraping, shuffling and thuds. A cough. Nervous stares.

A smile a smidge too wide.

"Good morning. I am Miss Cherilee, and I am your new teacher."

Author's Note:

Written for the July 2017 prompt "Crossing Over"