A Shovel and Green Paper

A Fiction Short Story

Chapter 1

I’m sitting at my desk right now, typing away on my keyboard. The methodical click click click of the keys as I pour out everything I’m feeling at the moment soothes me. After the day I’ve had, there was much to get off my chest and out of my head. I’ve picked out my most comfortable me time clothes, purple yoga pants and a black tank. By this time of night my golden blonde locks are on top of my head in a makeshift bun and theres green slime on my face thats suppose to clear my pores.

It’s one in the morning and my nine month old kittens, that I refer to as preteens, are as lively as ever. Running around my tiny one bedroom apartment playing their version of tackle football. And a spirited game it was. They were jumping from chair to floor, around the dinette table, jumping over and dodging the various obstacles I had accidently left in their path (I’m no neat freak), tackled each other, recovered and started the process over again, all in a matter of seconds. My little babies were very impressive felines.

Typing out my emotion is a sort of therapy for me. I’ve done it ever since I can remember. It is a way for me to cope during a difficult time. I could write out what I was feeling and be able to think clearly again, and either fix the problem or come up with an effective way of dealing with it. In the last couple of year’s I’ve moved my personal therapy into the 21st century and have created a blog. Writing my blog posts have helped me through several stressful times, like high school, my parents divorce, Aunt Mays death, and leaving home for college. There are even a few entries about my latest adventure of adopting and raising two kittens, along with nerves about starting another year of college.

“Bella! Ella! What the h-e-double hockey sticks are you two crazy kitties doing over there?” As a loud crash pulled me from my thoughts.

“You’re going to wake the whole building,” I said, as I got up and walked over to pick up the living room lamp that was tipped over onto my awesome craigslist find.

It was a beautiful deep purple plush suede couch I’d gotten last year when I needed a new one and the price was phenomenal. I’d added accent pillows in teal and a cream colored throw. It was my prized possession.

I jumped as a knock on my door scared the living crap out of me. I watched as my two fearless roommates jumped straight up in the air with fright and ran under the couch. One am visitors were completely uncommon and unexpected. I’m not going to say I feel unsafe in my building but I still jump every time theres a knock on my door.

I crept toward the door, unsure of what I should do. Should I call the cops?

“No. Get ahold of yourself,” I whispered to myself.

I decided to just look thru the peep hole. “Thank you baby Jesus,” I said as I exhaled and opened the door.

It was Mr. Gibson, my elderly onerry neighbor from across the hall.

“Mr. Gibson you old geezer, what are you up to this late at night. You scared me to death,” I said playfully, while holding my hand on my chest to calm my heart beat.

“Did you hear that crashing noise?! I jumped right out of my skin. Are you ok?” Mr. Gibson said abruptly. He wasn’t much for introductions.

Mr.Gibson was about 75 yrs old, he was hunched over from old age and was only about as tall as I was. He was a retired detective for the City of Atlanta. You could tell he was once a tough determined guy but now he was withered, partially blind and never remembered when he had already told you a story about his glory days on the force. Mostly he was one of my favorite neighbors. He was also nocturnal, which explained why he was wide awake at my door at one am on a monday morning in burgundy and brown plaid trousers, pastel pink button up, some very snazzy suspenders and blue bunny slippers, undoubtedly a gift from his grandchildren from last christmas.

“Oh yea it was my kittens, they knocked over my lamp. I’m sorry if I woke you. I’ve tried to teach them, but there is only so much you can teach kittens,” I said with a giggle.

“I know how cats can be, I’ve had a few of them myself throughout the years. Thats why I stick to my fish Bopbop that the grandkids got me for my birthday this year. Suits me perfectly. Not much of a personality. Anyways thats strange because I thought I heard a noise outside in the parking lot. The sight might be fading but the hearing is coming in loud and clear.”

“Right,” I said more to myself then to my neighbor.

“Its probably just someone throwing trash in the dumpster or Ms. Klines nephew coming in late from a party,” I said.

“Still,” Mr.Gibson said, “I’d feel better if we had a look for ourselves. I don’t want any surprises when I go for my morning yoga class.”

“Sure,” I said with a sigh, “Let me grab a flashlight and we’ll check it out real fast.”

“By the way, I love what you’ve done with your face,” he said with a fiendish chuckle.

Mr. Gibson and I lived on the second floor of an older building on the outskirts of the city of Atlanta. It wasn’t the worst part of town but it wasn’t the best either.The building was a 1960s wood and brick model with 12 one bedroom apartments, held together with tape and glue. But it was affordable for a single person, and it was near my university.

We walked slowly down the rickety wooden stairs that brought us to the ground floor. I could hear Mr. Gibson wheezing behind me. Each of our footsteps echoed as we made our way closer to the exit. If anyone was out there, they’d hear us coming from a mile away. Once we exited the stairs it was a short distance to the sidewalk which led out into the parking lot. The ground floor was fairly well lit, with a few overhead lights, lights along the sidewalk and a couple of those tall street lamps in the parking lot. Though I’d gotten comfortable with my surroundings, the community was not gated so there was always a small voice in the back of my mind saying, “Lets hope I don’t get mugged today. That’d really suck.” every time I walked out into the parking lot.

We made our way to the sidewalk and started looking around as we got closer to the lot, looking for what had made the mysterious noise Mr. Gibson thought he’d heard. I loved the man like a grandfather, but sometimes his hearing wasn’t all it’s cracked up to the be, but I figured I’d humor him on this one. Why not? I wasn’t going to bed anytime soon. There was too much on my mind.

From across the concrete I could see off to the side of the dumpster was a pile of stuff on the ground that hadn’t been there when I’d gotten home from the library at 9pm. I walked over to take a closer look. It looked like a shovel, a few sheets of green paper, a box of matches, and a pair of boots with what looked like brown mud or maybe paint on them, all carelessly strewn across the pavement.

“This looks like a bunch of junk. I must have heard whoever it was that dumped this stuff here. Guess the shovel hit the dumpster,” said Mr. Gibson.

“You really think at one AM someone would decide to empty out their car real fast? It doesn’t make any sense,” I said.

“What do I know? I’m an old man in need of some sleep. It’s late. I’m going back upstairs,” he said impatiently.

I stood for a moment longer looking at the apparent trash on the ground wondering. What could all this stuff be for?

“You comin’?” whined Mr. Gibson. His mood had changed from interested to grumpy in about 2 seconds. It made me chuckle inside.

“Yes I’m comin’,” I sighed.“You sure are a demanding old geezer sometimes,” I said with a smile in my voice. I knew he would know I was joking around, after all, that was our relationship.

As we made our way back across the parking lot to the sidewalk, I thought back to the debri that had been tossed out of what must have been a moving car. To me the items seemed too random to be unmeaningful. I tried to brush it off as sleepless delirium. But something had caught my eye and I had a feeling there was more to this then a bunch of junk that missed the dumpster on its way soaring thru the air. But what could it mean?

To be continued…