Continuing Ed, and the Mechanical Room.
A story from the very bottom of the archives.
The year? 2005.
The place? Clinton Community College, Plattsburgh, NY.
The college’s literary arts magazine The Cliffhanger was calling for student submissions.
A much younger me kept wondering what was behind the door marked Mechanical Room.
The result? A winning story, titled….
Continuing Ed and the Mechanical Room.
His name was Ed.
They called him Continuing Ed as a joke, but the truth was, it fit him perfectly. Ed was one of those persistent sorts who never quit anything he started and stuck around until the job was done. So what if they laughed? He didn’t mind.
It happened one day as he was walking down a long hallway that Ed noticed a door he’d never seen before. It was plain—faux wood grain, identical to the others—except for a plastic plaque that read:
MECHANICAL ROOM
Authorized Personnel Only
Something about the sign triggered an irreversible thought process in Ed’s mind. What lay beyond this door? Why the restriction? Did it hide an ordinary, mundane room—or something more intriguing? Ed chose to believe the latter, for he was already intrigued. And so, he decided to open it.
His plan was simple: take the briefest of peeks. If anything caught his interest, he’d proceed with caution.
Gently, he tested the knob. It turned easily. The door creaked open.
Gears. Cogs. Belts. Pulleys.
The room was mechanical—not just in function, but in essence. The walls churned with gadgets that whirred and hummed, clanked and clicked in steady rhythm.
Ed stepped inside, cautiously. It was like walking into a giant Swiss clock. For a brief moment, he imagined how a cuckoo clock bird must feel. Then came a tearing noise.
He looked down. One of the drawstrings of his coat was caught in a gear—steadily, inexorably feeding into it. The mechanism groaned and shuddered to a halt.
In a panic, Ed yanked back, losing his balance and bumping into a supply shelf. A can of oil toppled. Its contents spilled across one of the motorized belts. The belt slackened, then spun—faster, faster—until black smoke poured from it.
Ed abandoned his coat and bolted. Flames bloomed behind him. He barely made it through the doorway as the fire spread. The building shuddered. Vibrations blurred the walls as he tore down the hallway and leapt down the stairs.
Ahead: the exit.
The glass doors rattled in their frames. Cracks split across the walls. Plaster burst into the air like dust from a shaken rug. Ed sprinted for the exit.
Just as he reached the doors, a final tremor shattered the glass in a glittering explosion. He dove through it and hit the pavement outside, in time to see the top story of the building buckle and collapse.
He stumbled back toward the parking lot, dodging falling debris. In moments, nothing remained but a pile of smoldering rubble.
A janitor came running up the sidewalk, broom in hand. “What happened?” he asked, stunned.
Never one to lie, Ed told him every detail.
The janitor gave him a stern look. “Didn’t you see the sign? That room is for authorized personnel only.”
Then, without further ceremony, he started sweeping the rubble into a neat pile.
After promising never to do it again, Ed and the janitor parted ways. The man muttered to himself about rules and the people who ignore them, while Ed walked calmly to his car. He drove straight home.
You can be sure he did.
After all, that’s the sort of guy he was.
The End.
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Twenty years later, I’m writing with renewed passion. I’ve got 4 stories out for consideration at the moment, including one sent off today. I’m still learning the craft, finding my voice, and wondering what’s behind every mysterious door. That’s what keeps me going. The mystery, the discovery, and the chance to share a wild idea with someone new.