manny how long have you just been standing in that hallway

Hang on To That Feeling

MASTERLIST

A/N: This is a planned post. I’m going to put a trigger warning on this just in case. This one is a bit different, so feedback would be lovely. 

Word count: 3,278

”Hey Brian, I don’t have much time. What is it?” I asked, struggling holding the phone to my ear using only my left shoulder. 

My fingers moved across the keyboard on the computer without my eyes gazing down once as I continued to type. 

Multitasking had never been my thing and talking on the phone while typing in corrections for the next meeting at work, wasn’t really working out for me. 

“It’s Shawn” he stuttered and then the air in my lungs what punched out entirely. 

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strings.

sorry this took so long - i’m still taking requests even though writer’s block got me for a bit. send them in! and check out the ‘before you request’ link to make sure i got your ask :)

three .

“Shawn! Shawn, love, please don’t play in the mud,” Karen calls from her place on your back porch, wine glass stem perched gracefully between two fingers. She watches her son stop and smile back at her, sticky dirt on his palms, clothes a mess and shoes completely submerged in the product of non-stop rain over the past week.

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An incident at my school led me to take a long break from teaching. I have told no one until now.

(Credit to MrCantDo, via Reddit)

Earlier in my career, I was a teacher at a high school in Vancouver’s east side. When I was first hired there in the late nineties, one of my colleagues told me that it was “a jewel of a community” and “the best East End school you’d never heard of.” And she was right. I grew up in Vancouver but had never even heard of this school, but as I began my tenure there, the reasons for its relative anonymity became apparent. It’s near an area of our city affectionately called The Drive, which is known for its cultural vibrancy, social justice advocacy, and eccentric personalities. With a student body of less than a thousand students, cloistered in a tight-knit neighbourhood of old wood-framed houses dating back to the turn of the twentieth century, and quietly, humbly plodding through its history without feeling the need to trumpet its innumerable academic successes, its many charms drew me in like a siren’s song.

The school had been there since the late nineteen-twenties and was in need of some major repairs. Then, in 2001, a 6.6 magnitude earthquake hit our American sister city of Seattle. Its epicentre was two hundred and thirty kilometres away yet our building still swayed like a drunken sailor.

As you can imagine, that quake worsened the state of our structural disrepair, leaving a two-inch crack in the basement floor. I only know this because the custodian who cleaned my floor, Manny, confided in me after the quake, “We’re lucky this is an old wooden school. It absorbed everything. But our concrete took a beating downstairs.” Apparently, it also damaged a pipe causing water damage on the bottom floor. Manny was part of the crew charged with the clean-up.

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