Armen watched the second hand complete its final revolution. With a ring of the bell, the schoolroom was filled with a muffled chorus of chairs shifting on indoor-outdoor carpet. Armen watched the sunlight flare through the exit, and watched his classmates stream out into the light. He felt the sweat collect between his fingers and the edge of his books, and reached for his violin case.
His teacher glanced at him from her desk, and he uncoiled from his. He watched the carpet sweep rhythmically beneath him as the doorway approached him. He didn’t need to look toward the door; he could track its approach from the light that poured from it. He turned into the covered walkway, and once clear of the door, stalled beneath the overhead vent windows. When he heard his teacher grab her things, he resumed walking out to Monroe Drive.
Oregon Holocaust Memorial by P. Medved
“I don’t like it when you make me wait,” lashed Stewart. “what have you got for m—what’s in there?” Stewart ripped the violin case out of Armen’s grip. He opened it, pulled out the violin, and began strumming it like a guitar. The bridge collapsed under Stewart’s pounding. He complained, “this thing is cheap!”, and shoved it into Armen’s arms, forcing Armen to drop his books.