Fall came to an end with a chilling gust. Only a month prior, the colors of Fall decorated the streets in a profusion of red and gold, sprinkled amidst deciduous trunks. Now, a thin blanket of white conceals the perished hues of the past season. From above, bared limbs stretched high above Winter's mortuary, as though silently contemplating the clandestine scene.
It was December. The Winter Festival has begun.
The snow crunched underneath our feet as Melissa, Victor, Claire, and I arrived at the front gates of the Academy. Fog rose from our breath, illuminated by the festive wreaths and lights adorning the fence panels.
The decorations seemed a little out of place, considering Christmas was still some weeks away. But I'm sure it saved some extra work to arrange them early. Besides, it gave the cold iron barrier a cheerier look.
Victor, who was in the lead, turned around to face us, "I arranged for the prints to be delivered to our booth today. We can get to unpacking them as soon as I've handled our registration."
We all nodded absentmindedly. It was a long month of work to make a passable mystery novel. While it was out of my comfort zone, since I'm more accustomed to fantasy writing, that was the least of the problems we had.
Even though Melissa, Victor, and Claire attended this academy of literature, they were still novices in the art of storytelling. Needless to say, our work wasn't easy. There were countless hang-ups in the drafting of the plot, and I found myself having to take up most of the slack Melissa left.
But now, all those problems were far behind us as we trudged to the gym. When the building came into view, so did the sign on the front entrance, which advertised the event in bright red colors; an icon of an open book and the subtext below it read:
"Feston Academy's Winter Writer's Festival."
At the door, an attendant was checking a long line of visitors in.
Victor stepped in line to handle our entry while we waited patiently on the sidelines. As he did, I surveyed the scene.
He had mentioned that there would be at least three-hundred customers, but there seemed like there would be a lot more than that over five days. The line he was in was at least a hundred or so long. Admittedly, a number of these participants were probably fellow competitors, which accounted for the crowd, though it was still far more than I could've imagined, especially on the first day.
"There's a lot of people here, isn't there?" Melissa whispered into my ear.
I held back the urge to shudder in delight from the sensation of her breath on my ear.
"Maybe Victor meant three hundred every day?"
If so, that was an alarmingly high number. Even if we did horribly in the competition, there was still a chance we'd sell out.
Soon we were admitted inside.
I could probably count the number of times I've visited the gym with one hand. It was mandatory to be enrolled in at least one PE class, so I did. Though that doesn't mean I attended. Most of my freshman year was spent playing hookey. Anything beyond writing was a bit exhausting, so I never bothered with it. Not that it did my grades any favors, but my deadlines were more important.
From what I remembered of its interior, it was a typical gym. Laminated wood flooring, waxed to a sheen. Overhead, floodlights lit the large floor, while the school's flag hung from the walls; its emblem a quill pen resting on top of a scrap of parchment.
Overall, it was very spartan, and when it wasn't in use, was very eerie. But today, things were different.
From the rafters hung trailing, red ribbons, on the ends of which were tied yet more wreaths like the ones outside. On the floor below, a sea of tables were aligned parallel with the walls.
A good number of the other competitors were already setting up their stalls. Cardboard boxes were flung far and wide.
"This is a lot to take in," Melissa said, with a hint of exasperation.
Victor joined us, presumably finished with the necessary registration work, "The best is yet to come, after all, this is only the first day. Exciting, isn't it?"
"Yeah..." Was my crestfallen response.
Yeah, exciting. I'm trembling under the crushing, oppressive weight of what will be at least a thousand people. Absolutely elated about that.
"Well, let's get to work on these prints, they won't unbox themselves," Victor said as he rid himself of his coat.
There were quite a few boxes. Scratch that, there was a mountain of boxes sitting behind our booth.
I raised my eyebrows, "What exactly are we supposed to do with these?"
Victor raised his head, and gave me a perplexed look, "Sell them? I thought you were aware of that?"
"That's not what I meant. There's so many here, what if we don't sell them all? Won't there be too much waste?"
He stared at me for several moments with a vacant expression, before slapping his forehead, "Damn, you're right! I shouldn't have ordered five-hundred prints, two-hundred would've been enough!"
Five-hundred?! How were we supposed to get rid of that many?
"Right... I'll be right back. Gotta use the restroom."
I left the three of them to muddle about the pile of boxes. There was no purpose to any effort on my part, as the space between the booth and the boxes was too cramped for the four of us.
After I finished my business, I decided to walk about the booths. From what I could see, there were at least sixty of them in all. Some were still empty, which might be because it was still early in the day.
My phone flashed on as I pulled it out. As I thought, still early. It's only 2:00 P.M. The official start of the competition was at 4:00. That meant I had roughly two hours to walk around.
And so I did.
It didn't take long for my lust for novels and storytelling to surface. My attention became fully absorbed in studying the fine details of each and every booth. Some were decorated with festively designed cardboard and wrapping paper alcoves -no doubt repurposed waste from unpacking, that displayed passages of prose and poetry, while others supported murals and paintings of various characters from their respective works.
"Oh, this is amazing!"
I stopped to admire a superbly drawn color portrait of a fantasy character, stood on a wooden easel. Armored in silver, resplendent in an aureola of light; the armored man was so well illustrated, that it would feel completely natural for him to step out from the other side of the canvas.
Eager to meet the creator of this striking piece, I called into the cardboard structure built around the table.
"Excuse me? Is anyone here?"
For a moment, there was no response.
Then, in a flurry of cardboard scraps and tape came... a wriggling mass of even more tape and cardboard.
"Um... are you okay?"
The shapeless heap of packing materials halted its haphazard trajectory into the sidewall of the hut and turned in the direction of my voice.
"Would you like some help?"
I interpreted the subsequent, vigorous up-and-down convulsion to mean a yes.
"Hold still, you're not making this easy for me if you move around so much!"
How did they get into such a mess? The tape was wrapped around them several times, and bits of cardboard were stuck in between awkward places. Some seemed nearly impossible to do by accident, either.
After several minutes of painstaking labor, I finally managed to free the unfortunate from their bonds.
I hadn't forgotten my original intent. With their face cleared of debris, I peeked at the now feminine figure's features.
"..."
It was hard to say what happened next, for in the moments I beheld the girl's face, my life flashed before my eyes. Maybe that's a bit inaccurate to say, perhaps it was more like a feeling of nostalgia. Regardless, the memory of a door flying into my face came to mind.