Junkyard

    Packed tightly in the corners of the house were all the belongings that Zoe had ever held dear. She had wrapped them all individually with bundles of ink bleeding newspapers, and tied them tightly with twine. There were old books, ones she'd held so tightly when reading that their covers were bent and smudged. Piles of schoolwork from when she was little, old drawings and tiny trinkets that only have value to those young enough to still see the magic in everyday objects. All her clothes, stacked in neat piles according to color. All the furniture had been mashed up against the walls and windows, creating a large open womb in the center of the living room, surrounded by Zoe's life. At the center was a small shoebox with her most prized possessions. Aging photos from beloved relatives, letters that still smelled like a long lost lover, a damaged cassette tape made with a best friend in grade school, a small plush doll given to her by her father, and what was left of her hospital blanket from the day she was born. She picked them up and hardened her resolve. This box was where she started, lifting the sloshing red canister high and drenching it in gasoline. She made a trail from the box out over hardwood floors to the edges of the room where she had piled the other kindling, heaving her arms to get the gas to cover everything evenly. She coughed at the fumes, and soon was pulling her only t shirt up over her nose and mouth, and inching her feet away the backlash puddles now seeping from underneath all her stuff. She let the can fall the floor, let if glug out the rest of its contents while she backtracked to the front door, and lit the curtains around the big bay window on fire. The flames spread quickly, eagerly lapping up the woven lace to the ceiling where the pristine white crown molding cracked and sparked like pinecones in a bonfire. She walked through the doorway and shut it, looking in from the front porch and watched the piles of newspaper laden possessions quickly turn black and wither as they were consumed. The wave of flames spread across the floor where she had so delicately trailed the gas and engulfed her
treasure box in angry searing flames. As the walls went up and thick smoke began to pour from all orifices of the house, Zoe casually turned and stepped off her porch barefoot. Her tattered jeans and thin shirt were all that remained of her earthly materials, and she shivered slightly as she walked down the road, tracing the yellow line with her feet. She didn't look back when the water heater exploded, or when the big glass window shattered and sent huge flames snaking out of it. And as she heard sirens in the distance, she rounded the corner to the next block, took a deep breath and kept walking.

Reviews

[roarke]

I only need one thing. What did the house hold or no longer hold for Zoe? Was it her family home? Her home left from a divorce? Homes are the larger box that hold all the other boxes. Good writing, good structure. Easy to read and enjoy. Thanks.

[DavidRyanM]

I'm digging this collection of young people taking things from their past and present lives and destroying them in order to move on, mature, or just find peace. Well done, buddy.