Things Unremembered
This piece was shortlisted for the Australian Writer’s Centre’s Furious Fiction contest.
All stories had to begin with a 12-word sentence, include the sale of a second-hand item, and feature at least five distinct words that end in the letters “ICE.”
After the prompt was announced, contestants had 55 hours to write a 500-word story.
“Sale on all autumn memories,” the shopkeeper said with a greasy smile. “Halloween parties and apple-picking, half-price.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Alice replied as she wandered to the back of the shop. She had never been to this part of town, but somehow, the pawn shop’s dust and licorice scent felt familiar.
“Used memories make perfect gifts!” the shopkeeper called. “Especially for grandparents. Or history buffs!”
Pawning second-hand memories was a good racket, Alice mused as she searched the dingy shelves. No one remembered to come back and collect what they sold. And it was easy money; a week’s wages for a treasured memory of a dance recital or a wedding night, a few bucks for things you wanted to forget.
Or, at least, that’s what Alice had heard.
The memories, stacked like cassette tapes, had been picked through, leaving only labels like “Gary’s Final Stint at Rehab,” “Fight at Grandma’s Funeral,” and, simply, “Divorce.”
Alice studied “Divorce.” This couldn’t be the memory she was looking for, could it? She didn’t recall wearing a bridal gown or signing a marriage license. But if she had, those memories might be somewhere in the back of the shop. Unless they had already sold.
“Anything I can help you find?” the shopkeeper asked, peeking his head around the corner.
“I’m not sure.” Alice knew she was forgetting something. For the past few days, she woke up as if from a long surgery; her body felt changed, painful, though she couldn’t recall why. “Do you have anything new?”
The shopkeeper led her to a section labeled “New Arrivals,” mostly variations of “Fights Over Thanksgiving Dinner” and “Failed Midterms.”
Alice grabbed a handful of memories and stacked them on the fingerprint-covered countertop. The shopkeeper punched a few numbers into the register, placing the memories in a thin plastic bag.
“56.60,” he said. “Unless you want to make a trade? I’m paying twice as much for Christmas memories until the end of the month. Opening presents, ice skating; that sort of thing.”
Alice racked her brain. The timeline of her life was riddled with potholes and blank spaces.
“How about sledding?” she offered. She wasn’t sure her family even celebrated Christmas.
The shopkeeper’s grin widened. “Perfect. I’ll even throw in “Family Home Forclosure” for free.”
Alice wrinkled her nose. “How generous.”
He arranged the memory-collection device over Alice’s head. It looked like headphones attached to a Walkman.
In moments, Alice’s last memory of snow was gone.
The shopkeeper winked. “See you tomorrow, then.”