Family Store

Half the lights in the store remained off in the middle of the day. A few patrons stalked the aisles for remnants of ingredients. The freezers sat along the far wall, dark shelves sparsely filled with corrupted cardboard. Beside it sat the meats: discolored steaks, chicken, and seafood in a dimly lit case, no worker to help weigh your disease. The dried goods looked like a mad rush of people had stormed the shelves, but they didn’t; there was no crisis; it was the middle of July. The lone employee behind the register in a red, stained apron used a calculator for the total, punched it in the machine, and handed me a yellow receipt.

No. 126

Free

Fresh succulent cuttings grew out of an empty pinot noir case. A hand-written note rested on the side for any neighbors interested in replanting or regrowing them.

A lemon tree plump with fruit grew in the front yard of a house. A cardboard sign reading “Do Not Take Lemons” was tied around the trunk with a thick, layered rope. The lemons glistened in the afternoon sun.

A collection of plates and bowls, cheap and plastic, sat atop a wrinkled tarp. Ants from a mound beside it crawled over the dinnerware.

Neighbors left a couch blocking half the sidewalk. The wooden bones of the structure looked solid and well-made. The cushions could be thrown out and replaced, and the furniture would be good as new.

No. 075