7/11/2023 0 Comments Unpacking storyYou read the worn label with shocked recognition.ĭust rises to greet you as you settle onto the floor with criss-crossed legs. Just as heavy as the last box, you can’t guess what this could be, but then again you have no recollection of packing any of these anyhow. The buzzing and glowing in your pocket ensues so you reach back and flip the ringer off. You step up on the can again and bring down the next box. It stretches and yawns and stumbles out of a long-held stupor. Curiosity is piqued and a kind of wistfulness is stirring. You decide the reading light is better upstairs and place the manuscript on the base of the steps with the care deserving of a newborn baby. You are too caught up skimming and scanning old worlds you created. A white glow emits from the pocket of your pants as your phone buzzes. Head and body look on while your hand plunges into the box and hoists the pile of words out. You had completely forgotten all about your twenty year-old self’s fantastic attempts at a novel. Typed on the top page is “Untitled” with your name and an impossibly old date below it. Reams of yellowed paper sit inside the box. The lid flaps grate against each other as you pry them apart. Scratching on the top of the box indicates some words but they’re too faded to make out. One day you’ll wake up and there won’t be anymore of it left that waxing crescent will never come. These past couple months-years, if you’re being honest with yourself-it have felt like time is waning. “I’ll start going next week,” you tell yourself, but then you also know the chances of it actually happening are slim. The shaking in your arms as you lift the top box down reminds you how infrequently you go to the gym. Your hands imprint into a layer of grime as you grab the box. You split the silence with a sigh and drag over a rusty paint can to step on. You’ll just take a quick peek before heading back upstairs to tackle your mounting to-do list. Moved by your co-worker and a growing, newfound curiosity of your own, you decide to take a look in your basement after work. Then she turned around to continue typing up a brief but you sat there, taking in her words and the light in her eyes you had never seen before. As she spoke, her eyes glowed with nostalgia and her voice slowed to a gentle cadence like a lullaby. They were from her days as an aspiring photojournalist. Yesterday your co-worker had said she found her old collection of photographs in the attic while packing up the house to move. Spiders have generously decorated the gaps between boxes even their webs don coats of dust. They stretch towards the ceiling with greedy yearning. Piles of cardboard growing like bacteria. You yank it down and watch the room sputter into view. The dark consumes your arms as you reach out. Somewhere in front of you the chain for the light hangs suspended. Fumbling along the wall at the bottom to steady yourself, you grab a fistful of cobwebs. The stairs are old and each step whispers out under the weight of your feet. You stare into its cavernous mouth, pause, then begin to descend.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |