I am madly searching through the rubbish. Ripping through full bin liners, contents slopping over my hands and fingers.
‘Christ,’ I murmur. An indeterminable liquid dribbles down my arm. The stench is foul, rancid. I cough.
‘Are you sure it’s in the rubbish?’ Pete calls from the verandah.
Stupid question. I ignore him.
‘Hun?’ he calls.
‘What?’
‘Are you sure you threw it out?
‘Of course I’m not bloody sure.’
There is no evidence to prove I threw away my most favoured, sentimental possession. Why I even took it out of its box, I’ll never know. The last thing I remember is placing the ring on my finger and thinking how god-awful ugly it actually is. One day, I’ll get it redesigned. But for now, my grandmother’s engagement ring stays as is. Then one of the kids called me, and I don’t remember what happened next.
‘Why would it be in the trash?’ Pete asks, his Texan drawl more pronounced than usual.
We don’t call it trash here, I silently scream. I want to punch him, a power-packed uppercut. But even I know it’s not his fault. My anger is irrationally misplaced.
I sigh.
‘Mum, what’s this?’ Faith asks. She’s standing next to her dad, on the verandah. In her hand she’s holding an emerald and diamond engagement ring. ‘Can I keep it?
‘NO!’ Pete and I yell at the same time.
Nice short story with a little suspense and a hint of potential violence. I love it.
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Thanks Gary!
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Well, at least the treasure was found! All’s well that ends well.
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So true!
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Phew that was lucky. We don’t call it trash either, it’s rubbish! Good story familiar the world over. I was a bin man once, I know that liquid!
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Yeah i noticed that with your post (trash) and chuckled. 🤣🤣
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