My Brain Hurts, by Bayard Taylor
The cart de viste of her great uncle was a dear momento to Louise, although she never met him or heard his voice, she felt compelled not to leave behind his legacy, so when she was moving, Louise gathered all of Uncle Theordore’s things to pack herself, as the moving company’s employees have a reputation of being careless.
Some of the items were of no use to anyone, not even as 25 cent items at the church bazaar, but still Louise had to save them. She put an old Gramaphone recording that she found in Theodore’s attic and listened as she wrapped toilet paper around his photos, a straight razor and other assorted trinkets.
The sunlight was beaming in through the window so brightly, it cast a strong beam of light on part of that attic – it seemed to have acted as a pointer. So there Louise was, crouched on all fours, looking under the bed, when she found a rather ugly, battered tin container that looked like it had been rescued from the gutter, but she pulled it out anyway. She blew the dust off, sneezed, then delicately pried the lid, all the while she was hoping it would be a magnificent specimen of a rare jewel, but what she saw, burst that bubble of a dream in her head, for it was only the stub from some kind of inauguration to some fair or exposition in Philadelphia, and a glass paperweight with an rendering of President Ulysses. S. Grant.
-dld, january 1st, 2011-
➞ On Location, Mondays: Under the bed
➞ Take it Away, Tuesdays: My brain hurts.
➞ Words, Inc., Wednesdays: (1) behind, (2) bubble, and (3) bright
➞ Plot Thickens, Thursdays: Toilet paper
➞ Member’s Pick, Fridays: Something found in the gutter