#14: SECRET BONUS EXTRA FICTION FOR YA

Found-object fiction

As a teenager, I dated someone whose family lived in a ~200-year-old house. Their mom was always gardening and had this massive persimmon tree. She was digging in the garden one day when she churned up old waste from a few hundred years back: shards from broken plates and clayware, tin scraps. It was awesome. This trove pointing right to what folks were eating on that very patch of dirt a century or more back.

Trash is time travel. When we touch something someone discarded, we’re touching something that had value to a stranger at one time - even if it only held weight for a second. We’re transported to those moments through contact: the hope of a scratch-off, the hunger of a grocery list. A flyer for someone’s long-past event exists because that person was so hopeful folks would come, the night would go well, and maybe - just maybe - their lives would change.

Snail mail’s the same. When something arrives for us, we’re holding something someone else put together. Someone’s hands stuffed that envelope or licked that stamp with us in mind. Digital has its benefits (would I be sending you this by clay tablet? Probably not.). But still, we lose that tactile magic. Because who writes physical grocery lists when you can put one on your phone? Can’t everything just be a QR code anyway? While, obviously, less trash on the streets is a good thing, we also lose some evidence of ourselves in the world by going digital. And to me, paper trails and snail mail are two sides of the same coin.

My devotion to trash has always cropped up in my visual art:

Trash here includes a tiny plastic horn, old gift cards, veggie tags, and one of those mesh screens for weed.

Found stuff here includes wire, a broken bracelet, a curtain tassel, and picture frames <3

My favorite trash-art phase might’ve been when I drew folks I saw on public transit directly onto my metro cards back in Moscow.

Writing a story through trash

For some reason, though, trash has never made its way into my writing. Until today! While Snail Mail Sweethearts follows a pretty obsessive scheduled rotation, this month and its extra Friday lent me a little flexibility. So, I decided to infuse some trash with the written word. I spent the past few weeks picking up some of the choicest discarded papers I saw floating around town, and here’s what I nabbed:

A grocery list in Spanish:

A scratch-off (not a winner):

An “Americain Cascadeurs” monster truck show ad:

Aaaand, this vague and ominous business card advertising somewhere just called “Le Lieu” (the place)¹:

front

back

In the spirit of trash appreciation, my story that combines all four of these is small enough to fit directly onto the back of the scratch-off. But because there’s so much legalese on the backside, I glued a piece of paper on :)

Here’s the story:

hand for scale.

Here’s a typed version of the story:

Julio’s first mistake was lying to Ani. A real dirtbag deed, anyone could’ve told him that. They had. Today, Ani’d asked him to pick up groceries for a Greek salad, giving him a handwritten list - which was fucking adorable, who writes lists anymore? - and she trusted him to decipher shit like verduras to not include arugula, which she hated, and when she’d smiled and her brown eyes crinkled, how could he’ve confessed that he’d buy those groceries on borrowed cash, since his freelance gig had gone down the toilet some two months past?

Julio’s second mistake was accepting the loan from La Fumée. A soft-spoken dude, La Fumée, one of those chain-smoking hipsters with a moustache. By all accounts, a normal guy, except sometimes, and to this day Julio can’t explain why, but sometimes Julio just knew the guy wasn’t 100% human.

They’d met the night Julio lost the gig. He’d been drinking solo on the Garonne when La Fumée had plunked down beside him, flashed a brilliant grin, and offered him a 15K€ loan, like he’d known Julio had needed it.

Now, as Julio walked to the store for Ani, La Fumée intercepted him on the Pont St. Pierre - and surrounded by pedestrians soaking up the mid-morning sun, Julio knew mistake #2 was worse. La Fumée took a drag, studying him.

“You,” he began, sounding pleasant as ever, “are in deep shit. Go here.” He handed Julio a flyer for, of all things, a monster truck rally in Narbonne. “Tonight. Lucille, the mechanic, has something I need. A sliver of metal she keeps in her left pocket.” He grimaced at a happy trio in a speed boat below and flicked his cigarette into the water after them.

“Bring that metal here.” La Fumée handed him a business card. One side had a rickety pier stretching into grey, unwelcoming water. The other side, an address to a spot unhelpfully named “Le Lieu.” Great.

“Do that,” La Fumée said, “and we’re straight.”

Julio managed to nod, even though the list with Ani’s precious handwriting weighed down his breast pocket. “OK, yes - I’ll - OK.”

“I hate this city.” La Fumée lit another cigarette, then tapped the list hidden in Julio’s pocket and smiled. “Fuck this up, I’ll make your life - and hers - so hellish, you’ll hate this city too. But do this for me? I’ll be off this patch of dirt by dawn.”

You bet your ass Julio white-knuckled it to Narbonne in a rental. He’d been driving a whole hour when he realized he had nothing to convince Lucille with. He careened off at the next gas station and stormed into the shop, searching for something - anything - to persuade her, picking up a corkscrew with a foil knife, so he could, what? Blind her? Annoy her? Get her drunk? He bought it anyway, along with 10 scratch-offs. His phone buzzed: Ani, asking about the veggies.

Sorry baby, he wrote, MAJOR work emergency - I love you!!!

Julio retreated to the sterile quiet of his rental car and used the corkscrew to scratch the first ticket. Nothing. The next one was the same. By the 9th ticket, he still came up empty, no closer to the 15k than before. Ani texted again.

He wiped the sweat off his lip and scratched the 10th ticket. On the final number - more nothing - the corkscrew stabbed through the paper and out the other side.

Julio studied the corkscrew’s point and the ragged wound it had created. After a moment, Julio put the car in drive and continued towards Narbonne.

Storytelling as a practice

I’ll admit - this was a challenge. Four separate facets into a story the size of my hand? But it helped me create characters I’d never thought of before and explore a fresh voice.

It was also a challenge of setting. I stick to comfort-zone locations. As someone who moves a lot, I don’t often find myself entrenched in a city, which is why most of my stories still take place in the Deep South. Finding trash across Toulouse, however, forced me to develop a relationship with the city at the level of story.

I honestly can’t recommend this exercise enough for my fellow writers out there. Find random slips of paper these next few days - a flyer here, a receipt there - and make up a character who’d hold all those scraps of paper in their hands. This story came to fruition in a handful of hours, but I love the villain here so much, I think I may have to write a longer piece with him as the central figure.

If you try this approach, let me know how it goes! I hope your local trash takes you in bizarre-ass directions.

Tell me…

1. Do you think La Fumée was something other than human, or was Julio in his head?

2. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever used for a prompt? I think that strangers’ trash is definitely mine.

3. What do you think about this ~*extra special*~ bonus week? It’s my first time encountering a fifth Friday, so I welcome your feedback on what to have as we continue to grow.

OK, friends, I love you - thank you for joining me on this journey into trash. Next week - mailable art templates for my paid subscribers! It’s gonna be a Lovecraftian horror piece, so I hope you’re as stoked as I am.

Love,

Nikita, your Snail Mail Sweetheart

1. I’m sure it’s just a restaurant or something, but I’m refusing to Google it so I don’t get disappointed.