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November 3, 2005

Volume 8, Issue 3

There is a box of photos sitting in a garbage dumpster.

Write from the point of view of either the person who threw the photos away or the person who finds them.

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I tossed my trash bag into the dumpster and was about to slide the door shut when I saw the photos. A box of them, it looked like, and some had spilled out. Then I recognized some of them - Marla and me in Cancun, Marla at my New Year's Eve party, Marla at the beach ...

What was going on? How did my personal photos end up in the dumpster? Then I saw the cigarette pack - Old Gold, Jerry's brand. Ah, he was trying to erase my past so he could take over completely. My therapist had warned me about this.

Posted by: hnumpah at November 3, 2005 7:04 AM · Permalink

One box. One box, on the floor, in the back of my office closet. One box is all that’s left of a whole other life. The pictures I kept when my first marriage ended. Somehow I can’t get rid of that box.

I’ve remarried. My husband knows nothing of the box. He wouldn’t understand. He’d say that hanging on to those memories proves that I’m unhappy, and that I’m unable to give this marriage 100%.

With resolve, I threw it out this morning.

It’s back in the closet now. I think I’ll work late. I don’t want to go home.

Posted by: kasac at November 3, 2005 9:21 AM · Permalink

I had walked these sidewalks for years, yet hardly knew anyone on the block. Then I came to the burnt shell of the Tudor-style house, completely destroyed by the fire last week. At the curb was a pile of trash, and a charred, water-logged box.

I couldn’t help but notice the photos inside: a family of four, and assorted relatives, in scenes from various celebrations: Christmas, graduations, birthdays, and grandma’s visits. Gatherings from several decades were represented; in every case, the subjects were all enjoying happy, fun times.

What a stark contrast to the deaths that occurred just steps away.

Posted by: Charlie on the PA Tpk at November 3, 2005 10:09 AM · Permalink

The funny thing about dreams is that sometimes you know they're just dreams but you don't really care. Sometimes they're the only real happiness you have.

She's been gone for two years now but talking to her in dreams and seeing her in these prints were almost enough for me to hold it all together.

The dreams stopped a few days ago.

I can't talk to her, can't laugh with her, can't feel her hair brushing against my cheek.

Nothing but the pain.

I can't bear looking at the pictures anymore. They have to go.

I guess I do too.

Posted by: Don Wiggins at November 3, 2005 1:43 PM · Permalink

“Hey S, L, M, A, the E, and you too D, come at look at this. I found the picture we scanned for that old Nessman site!”

“Woo” said Laurence.

“Woo” said………….

“We should get back to that. That was a lot of fun.”

“Yes, we should renew our enthusiasm!”

“Hurricane schmurricane, let’s do it!”

“I don’t know, I spent an awful lot of time reading an awful lot of really awful comments.”

“No doubt, there were some major stupid stories.”

“I say we throw that picture in a box with other pictures and throw it in a garbage dumpster.”

Posted by: afraid to tell at November 3, 2005 3:31 PM · Permalink

In the darkness I heard Carol whisper: "Holy shit, Gil, they've got all communications. Everything!. We are so fucked."

I stayed quiet, practiced looking stupid. I didn't know if it'd work anyway; didn't know if they checked all outgoing vehicles with the same scrutiny; or what else the truck would pick up on the way, When it would get there, didn't even know if he'd be on shift when it did.

But I'd gotten Donny that job at the recycling depot two days before I came on site. The most Anal retentive little fucker I knew. I couldn't lose hope.

Posted by: Buck at November 3, 2005 6:09 PM · Permalink

Henry wasn’t surprised that the old Winnebago ran a little rough. After all, he hadn’t driven it for five years, since shortly before Opal died. But he was finally ready to get back on the road.

He found the old shoebox in a rest stop dumpster. He would have ignored the box except for the words NOT REAL and FIGMENT written on it in bold, black marker.

All it held were pictures of somebody’s pet duck. Henry shrugged and climbed back into his motor home.

“What took you so long, Henry?” asked the white duck nestled on the passenger seat.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at November 3, 2005 6:58 PM · Permalink