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Novelo Rectangle

Ta-tap-TAP went the knock of the man she had buried, and instinctively she thought he’s back! She dropped the piece of chalk in shock. It clattered on the ground and rolled to a stop against the smooth concrete wall. Upon the dull grey granite stone, Octavia Crescent had drawn a door. The door stood as tall as she, so five feet and some inches tall. A masterful blending of purples and whites mimicked the wood of the door and set in its face was a stained chalk window.&nbsp; The window gave view to a hummingbird sitting on the branch of a cherry tree. The hummingbird’s brilliantly green wings were spread amongst the soft pink blossoms. Just beneath the stained chalk window was a doorknob. Unlike the gold of your usual doorknob, Octavia had painstakingly drawn a brass knob, turned a dark mossed green from age. On the rounded top and bottom of the knob, in a fine scrawled hand, were the words Hello and Goodbye It was a magnificent door, however — the moment Octavia had connected the lines in the O of the “Hello” on the doorknob beneath the stained chalk window in the face of that magnificent door, she could have sworn she heard a knock.&nbsp; She stared at the door but nothing happened. Feeling very foolish, she whispered “Hello?” Once again, nothing happened. Still feeling foolish, but emboldened by the assurance that no one was near the downturned alley to witness her foolishness, she said in a conversationally loud voice, “Hello, is anyone there?” When nothing happened that time, she wondered at first what she had expected to happen. She wondered secondly if she was simply tired. She had spent the last two days creating the masterpieces of the alley with barely any sleep, taking small breaks to sip water or nibble on snacks stored in the backpack at her feet. Octavia took a deep breath. She slapped her cheeks to awaken her senses and stooped to riffle through the bag. Her chalk covered fingers found the top of a water bottle and smeared the plastic with rainbows. She unscrewed the cap and tossed it into the backpack - material for a future creation, perhaps. Just as she took a greedy gulp of the water, Octavia heard the very clear and very purposeful knock again. Ta-Tap-TAP! Octavia threw the water bottle to the side. She her hands against the door in panic. Cold stone covered in a fine dust met her palms. Carefully, she pressed an ear against the wall. Silenced pierced by the sound of rushing blood pumping in her ears was all she could hear, but even so she held her breath to listen until her lungs screamed for air. Only then did Octavia next speak— “I heard an apple a day really does keep the doctor away, if you aim the apple well enough.”&nbsp; She waited in the silence for only a moment before the distinct Ta-Tap-TAP rapped beneath her ear from behind the door. “Oliver?” Octavia pounded the wall with a fist only to be rewarded with a dulled pain in her hand. “Oliver, it’s me!” She did not know how, but her brother was on the other side of the door. It was a game they used to play, one telling their cheesiest jokes while the other responded with either a snarky boo of rejection or else tapped a on the nearest surface in approval. A few nights before his surgery, Octavia had told Oliver the joke as she peeled him an apple and he tapped his fingers weakly on on the bedsheets. “Oliver how are you in there?” Octavia muttered, “How do I get to you?” She examined the door. Her hands traced the outlining of the door but she found it to be seamless. She poked at various parts of the art and pulled back her fingers to confirm the chalk messing her skin. Octavia knelt down to study the doorknob. Having mixed the chalk with a bit of water, she had combined various colors to create a metallic and rust effect that she took a moment to applauded herself on the crafting of before she raised a hesitating hand.&nbsp; She reached out with trembling fingers. Her throat felt dry as she swallowed in nervous anticipation. When her fingers bumped against hard stone, she sighed in disappointment. She stood up and stepped back a few paced to study the entirety of the door. The idea had come to her on a walk through the park. The cherry trees were in full bloom and their soft scent had filled the air. She marveled at the fragility of cherry trees matched by their beauty; it reminded her of the jewel toned bird that was native to her hometown. When she was commissioned to paint an attraction for the upcoming spring festival, she knew exactly what she wanted to draw. Across the walls of the alley, she had painted towering cherry trees and scattered petals, the memory of her walk in the park displayed for all to experience, across the entirety of the alleyway walls except for one peculiar section. While the trees were created with paints and charcoal, she had saved her chalks for something special at the end of the alleyway, what was meant to be the drawing point of the commission. At the end of the alleyway was a paved section of concrete. It stood out like a sore thumb among the surrounding brick and mortar that made up the walls of the rest of the alley. When she had asked the event coordinator about the slab of concrete, Octavia was told it covered a stone oven and furnace.&nbsp; A small bakery used to fill what was now a decent sized alley, but the owners of the bakery grew old; care for the establishment was overwhelming for a childless widow who refused to sell his wife’s legacy. The furnace which baked beautifully crafted loaves of bread, gave rise to lovingly kneaded pastry, and warmed the hearth of the home above went a long while without regular maintenance until, one fateful night, the stock cracked. The bakery burned, along with the poor old baker who lived within. The brick of the surrounding businesses assured no one else was harmed, but the furnace was sealed with cement before the debris of the bakery was cleared away. Now the slab of cement was all that remained, a monument to what stood there before, and on this slab, Octavia had almost finished drawing the door.&nbsp; Almost finished. With the thought, she rushed to the backpack for supplies. She let out a loud groan of disgust upon discovering the water bottle thrown aside had landed in the bag, emptying its contents all over the assortment of chalks and charcoal held within — melted together to form a murky black mud. Tentatively, Octavia sifted a finger through the mess but found nothing salvageable besides a few paintbrushes and bottles of unopened water. She let out a small muffled scream of frustration and pounded the ground with a dirtied fist when she spotted the dropped chalk. She snatched the ebony piece of hope from the ground and set herself back to work. First a small shadow. Then a larger mark. The semblance of a dark keyhole quickly began to form beneath the doorknob of the door and, with a final decisive flick of the wrist, Octavia finished shading the keyhole. The magnificent door was complete. She stood before the door with shaking breath. She reached out a hand and this time felt the unmistakable cold metal of a doorknob resting in her hand. Excited and driven to wild abandonment, Octavia turned the knob. At least, she tried to, but found it firmly locked. “No!” She whispered in despair. She tried to jiggle the knob but it simply rattled its refusal of entry. “How can you be locked without a key?” Octavia demanded as she pounded a fist on what she realized was now a solid wood door. Ta-Tap-TAP! “Is that it?” She asked. “I need a key?” Ta-Tap-TAP came a response and her shoulders slumped. She had not thought of a key to unlock the door. The muck and guck of ruined chalks gurgled in the backpack like laughter. With a snarl of anger, Octavia snatched at the zipper to close the bag but winced at a sudden sharp pain. Beads of blood flowed from the tips of her fingers where Octavia had scrapped a layer of skin raw against the pavement. It must have happened when I grabbed the chalk, she mused. With her uninjured hand, she rummaged through the grime of the backpack for a water bottle. She used her teeth to open the bottle. The water helped to clean the grit from the cuts but when the ruby liquid blossomed again it gave her a wild idea. After emptying most of the water from its bottle, she scooped a small portion of sludge from the backpack into the bottle. She then squeezed a flow of fresh blood into the bottle before shaking the contents. The result was a dark crimson paint like substance. Octavia poured a small amount of the “paint” into the bottle cap. She retrieved a brush and another bottle of water from the backpack and used the water to clean a brush as best as she could. Then she took both brush and cap to the side of the slab of cement which was still bare. BABAMBAM! As she painted, the sound of knocking grew louder. What was once the tapping of knuckles on wood became the furious pounding of a fist on glass. It was faster, its rhythm lost as it screamed its urgency until, with the final stroke of the brush, the twisted crimson key was finished.&nbsp; BABAMBAM! Octavia grabbed the key without hesitation and this time felt no surprise when it popped out of the wall smoothly to lay in the palm of her hand. She closed her fingers around the key in triumph and hurriedly returned to the door. BABAMBAM! When she turned the twisted crimson key in the keyhole of the green rusted doorknob beneath the stained chalk window of the magnificent door, she heard a distinct click. Silence. The doorknob turned smoothly in her hand. She pulled on the knob very slightly and the hinges of the door moved as it opened. A brilliant white light shown from the crack and flooded the alleyway in a soft hue. It was a stark contrast to the night that had fallen around her while she worked. What felt like a push from the other side opened the door further. “Oh!” Octavia felt tears swell in her eyes as a grin spread across her face. She stooped down to close her brother’s backpack and slung it over her shoulder. She ran into the light and the door closed behind her. A few days later, the alleyway was filled with the lively sound of the festival. Many had come to see the wonderful cherry tree blossoms that lined the walls and most agreed the young artist responsible had a bright future in the industry. My parents fawned over the brilliant trees as well. My father was proud of the artist he had commissioned. He glanced but otherwise ignored my concerns when I told him what I heard. Both he and mother told me to enjoy the artwork and to stop making up childish stories, but I know I heard a knocking from beyond the stained chalk window of that magnificent door.

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The Chalk Door

SterlingQrow

Sterling Qrow

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The Chalk Door

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Alexis Jung

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