by Sydney S.
An old run-down dance hall rests beside a lake. It has white chipping paint attempting to coat the outside walls. Although the rotting gray wood still manages to peek out from underneath the persistent flaking pieces. Small dirty windows scattered on different walls sit waiting to be cleaned after years of dirt grasping to them.
A small white garage door relaxes in the sunlight, trying not to care that he might never be used again. A creaky door waits for someone to admire her collection of glass. The door only has one pane left, and she can’t remember what vibrant color the glass once was. She knows she would be recognized as beautiful and never overlooked again if she could just find the missing panes. So she sits, wordlessly questioning where the eleven missing pieces went.
Inside, a musky smell lifts from the aging building. Its only floor is cracked gray cement. The building remembers how it used to have new brown wood hovering on even newer planks, but the wood was neglected until it was labeled damaged beyond repair. Someone slowly tore it out, leaving uncleaned cement to be seen. The dance hall misses its beloved wooden floor.
Some of its walls have wooden panels with gaping holes in between them. They get cold on breezy nights, but they never waver from their task of keeping the dance hall standing. Other walls show off they’re peeling wallpaper. The building loves its wallpaper. It shows many brightly colored birds resting on their white backgrounds. Underneath the wallpaper stands an almost pretty orangey pink. The building can’t remember where that came from, and it can’t deny the quiet suspicion that it has always been there.
Its left side features two grimy black tables connected to the wall. They’re only big enough to hold a few drinks. Its back left corner has two mud-caked church pews. The building remembers when the pews were used for resting after youngsters did the tango or the swing. Now there’s only a baffling hole in a pile of left-over wood where so many people once loved to mingle.
The building still hopes that its story will be different than its treasured wooden floors. Tomorrow will be different, it reminds the wind, trying to reassure itself when hope seems lost. So, it sits silently as the world changes, continuously hoping someone will come save it before it's too late.
This is the online newspaper for Yankton Middle School in Yankton, SD. Stories are written by student staff members.
