Tuesday 27 October 2020

Superfluous Trash Talk

by Amy Lynn Specker 

flaming Dr pepper

One can hear the screeching of tires as a large, burdened truck halts to retrieve yet another of its intended loads. From the comfort of the living room, one can also hear the thudding made upon impact of the weighted canister as it is mechanically put back in its original resting place after expelling the contents it had harbored internally for the past seven calendar days. The relief felt by this object can only be imagined, but if it were bequeathed vital animation thereby granting it the gift of speech, it may attempt to burden any listener within reach of the daily sacrifice it makes slowly filling to capacity and sometimes beyond.  I fear it might complain profusely at its abusers who have no gratitude for something that tirelessly performs through; rain, snow, sleet and hail and does so at a consistent rate of success. Its verified enemy, the North Wind, which carries such ferocious gusts as to catch it off guard forcing it into unexpected submission by toppling it sideways, and spilling its rancid guts for all to see who parade by, but do offer no love for such a disgraced and humiliated thing. Perhaps, second to the North Wind would be children.  They are so rough as they exert seemingly strained efforts to transport this vessel to and from its home place.  Often they drag it in a most undignified manner resulting in scrapes and dings which do mar the outward appearance, and inflict embarrassment.  Alas, week after week, season after season, year after year, it proves dependable and unappreciated until one day the owner decides it has served long enough. With much insult, the owner allows the only entity that could be considered its friend, based on their weekly interaction for the term of its life, the mechanical arm which does lift it exaltedly each week relieving it of its burdens ... to ultimately relieve it of its purpose too. Such treachery and betrayal astonishes the repository as the beguiling arm lets its once tender grip loosen and slip sending the devoted canister into the depths from which things go but never return.

About the author

Amy Lynn Specker is a driven doer, idea generator, and an aspiring author. After teaching school for seven years, she and her husband decided to forego her career in order to embark on the greatest adventure of all time: parenthood. She, her husband, and their three tiny humans currently reside in a happy home filled with fun, forgiveness, controlled chaos, loud laughter and love. She has two pieces scheduled to publish in The Dribble Drabble Review.

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