Jared stapled up the final flier, watching it curl away from the telephone pole at the corners. 200 identical fliers stapled to 200 identical poles, none of them flying anywhere. He looked up and down the length of the wooden beam, seeing hundreds, if not thousands, of staples jutting out, some newer than others. All lurid, unkempt, uncared for. A wooden graveyard dotted with tiny rusted gravestones. He stared and wondered how many families had their grief represented here, and their hope. Missing was such a nebulous word. It’s what you said when something couldn’t be found, but when it was someone, it felt inadequate. It wasn’t a puzzle missing a piece, it was a puzzle lacking a picture. Cardboard. Colorless. Impossible.
really fantastic flash, Keith
It's crazy to see a light pole and think about all the fliers and lives that have come and gone with those tiny gravestones. I may never look at a light pole the same way again. These are the types of things I think about when on my riding lawnmower. Hehe. Great post, Keith.