Short Story: The Roller Rink

The Roller Rink

By Terrence Adams
QuailBellMagazine.com

That old Parent Trap, is what she called it. Boarded up years ago by the county because the owners owed thousands in back rent, or that they refused to pay their utilities, or some kinda thing that would result in a nice family oriented place gettin’ the screws put to it by those bastard collections agencies and their platoons of shifty eyed suit and tie men. I never had any memories of the place myself outside of a few frontal lobe snapshots my brain kept stored away for when I was cursed with restless, vivid sleep.

Anyways, I stood in front of it now. The setting sun behind me made the entrance look like a branding iron fresh from being dangled over an open flame. The gravel that made up the parking lot poked the soles of my shoes and forced me to shift my position every few minutes. I stared on helplessly. it had been long enough now that the boards covering the doors and windows were beginning to rot and weaken from seemingly endless bombardments of the constant seasonal onslaught. Warm wind rose and drifted across my body giving me the sensation that it was trying in vain to push me away as though it were a flirtatious teenager attempting to show affection for a member of the opposite sex for the first time. I tried to clear my head of the underlying fear that the breeze wasn’t a breeze at all, but that instead the building itself was, impossibly, breathing.

I can’t rightly recall why I even stopped here in the first place. Work had been hard enough and for the majority of the day I found myself wishing with profound indignation that the roof would just go ahead and cave in, leaving me buried underneath mounds of rubble, suffocating to death. All I wanted to do was go home, drink, and let my nerve endings twitch out for a while. I had no need to be here and yet here I was. Funny how life works sometimes.

The hammer in my hand dangled lazily, the weight of its head pushing comfortably against my fingers. I swung it lightly to and fro as I began to walk slowly and without a definitive purpose towards the front doors. For a place that used to be a popular little roller rink I thought it interesting that I didn’t feel anything even close to childlike enthusiasm upon approaching it.

The first few nails gave way easily, falling soundlessly around my feet. Dust particles drifted into my nose, causing me to stop momentarily to fight through a particularly aggressive fit of sneezing. Her words created waves in my head. Parent Trap. Parent Trap. Parent Trap.

Terrence Adams has worked as a freelance writer for the past ten years. He has written for multiple websites covering multiple formats from pop culture to business.  He has worked as a head copywriter and editor on a full-time basis for both Premiere Radio Networks in New York City and an internet start-up called Playpon.com in Columbus, Ohio.