Sisyphus Freed

The last day of February was one of those rare early spring days when the warm air swirls in, refreshing the previously frozen classrooms. It was Monday morning and walking down the hallway, Joe Henderson realized he had been here since 1985. Thirty years of freshman compositions, Fahrenheit 451, and faculty meetings: those god-awful faculty meetings. Ups and downs of decades of pop culture and community gossip don’t stop at the school doors; they enter, magnified and dramatized for all to partake: the jello salad everyone wants to avoid but ends up taking a spoonful of anyway. His classroom was at the end of the hallway; where, despite building expansion and improvement, it had always been – next to the emergency exit.

Three steps away from the classroom, something snapped. He kept walking.

The door swung open and the dropped photocopies spun a whirlwind around him; the alarm began wailing.

Mr. H was done.

 

man sunset

 

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