Garbage Day

Posted by Evan LaVere on Saturday, January 17, 2015

Garbage Day

Thunder rumbled again, closer this time. Neddy shivered, and hugged closer to the house, as if he could somehow seep through it. He needed a drink. Badly. He could think clearly if he just had some good, warm whiskey.

            The first drops of rain began to paint his huddled body, and the thunder seemed to echo endlessly. Again and again it boomed. Neddy Merrill lay in a sad imitation of child in womb, hands clamped to his ears.

            But the thunder grew only louder.

The smell of his chlorine soaked body seemed surreally strong.

            The thunder struck once more, painfully loud this time. He remembered how his daughters used to come to him for comfort, almost shelter in the tantrums of old man winter. He remembered their soft, happy snores as they drifted to sleep in his lap.

    He felt a sharp pain in his right side.

The thunder grew louder, constant. It’s roll changed pitch and tune.

Another pain struck his side.


And he awoke.


Neddy cracked his eyelids open to the face of a large bearded man. His mouth was moving, but Neddy could not make out his words. The man, who was wearing a greasy, blue body suit, pointed to his right. Neddy followed his gesture to a large, idling truck. 

“I need to empty this,” the man’s words seeped through the engines roar, and pointed towards Neddy. Again Neddy dumbly followed his gesture to the dumpster he had slept in the night before.

He had forgotten again, as he did every Thursday for the last three years.

How could he have forgotten?

Thursday was garbage day.

Tags: fiction "short story" "evan lavere"