What follows is one of my entries into the Poem or a Page contest. It's the first page only. Please feel free to send a link to anyone you want to have read it, but please don't take the words from me -- they're all I have *melodramatic sigh* : )
I’d saved the attic for last, like a kid with frosting on a cake. After all, attics are always where people find the good stuff. Old love letters in copperplate handwriting, a complete Civil War uniform, or stacks and stacks of forgotten cash. But by the time I’d worked my way through the bottom two floors of my new home, the old Parkmueller house, my enthusiasm had significantly waned. Treasure hunting, after several months of rooting through rooms of garbage, strongly resembles cleaning up, which is not my best thing. So, by that Thursday afternoon in August, I probably wasn’t as observant as I should have been. But that was before I knew that attics held dark secrets just as well as hidden treasure.
“Explain to me again why we’re doing this on the hottest day of the year.” George Barnes, his face red and sweaty, bent over to catch his breath.
I wiped my dripping face with the hem of my t-shirt. “It’s just a few more feet.”
“Still didn’t answer his question.” Sheryl Dupres stood next to me, panting.
“I found this guy on eBay who was willing to pay for it, okay?” The “it” in question was a huge wooden trunk, about the size of a small coffin. According to the research I’d done online, the trunk appeared to have been made during the early twentieth century in Europe somewhere, then brought over here by its immigrating owner. But the hardware and finish were original, which was apparently a big deal. The trunk was one of the few saleable items I’d uncovered since beginning my excavation here. “I’m trying to get rid of as much of this junk as possible. And if people are willing to pay for it...”
“All right, all right.” Barnes straightened up and shook his head. “You’re lucky you got a gimp arm, kid, or you’d be on your own.”
I grinned at him. “Thanks a lot.” Up until last week, I’d had a cast on my left arm, a little souvenir from my most recent run-in with a slightly crazed killer.
Copyright 2004 Stacey Klemstein
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