Word Steak

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. “We know we can’t touch it,” Leeson Noble announced.

“Why, Dad? We’ve tried everything else. the window’s clamped shut. There’s only one way to escape this library. That’s through the door,” Gaston Noble replied. Leeson grabbed his son’s arm, prohibiting his advance.

“We’re going to get out of here. It’s not going to be through that door, though. Now, we can try the window again. That will be the way.” Gaston looked at his father. His black skin was like his own. He looked at him strongly. He then allowed his dad to speak.

“You know what’s on the other side of that door? Word salads, stereotypes, clichés, vapidity, and flat language. We were told that we cannot open it. With what I just told you, it’s for good reason.”

Gatson breathed. He looked at his father in the eyes and finally walked through the rows of books. Then the young man had reached the section where it gave instructions on how to maneuver through the space.

Leeson could hear the mumbled, jumbled din of bad writing outside the door.

“Dad!” Gaston called. He saw his father walking toward the door. His steps seemed clunky and heavy as he inched closer to the Door that Mustn't be Opened. He heard the jingle of the keys like chimes in the wind. Gaston rushed towards Leeson and stepped in front of his father.

“You just told me that this door must not be opened. It’s got everything about poor writing behind there. You raised me to be resilient, strong.”

Leeson stopped as if his shoes had glued to the floor. The father and son listened to each monster of communication.

“What do you say we go back to that window?” Leeson asked.

“Indeed.”