Below is an old piece of flash fiction I found in a notebook. Don’t even remember writing it, but I kind of like it.
Airport lockers. We rent them the way people once rented apartments before ubiquitous heli-travel. They represent our public space. Somewhere to store, fill, or hide. The contents tell tales, but mine has been silent. It has always been empty.
Someday, when she realizes this locker has been abandoned she’ll open it. I can almost see the look on her face as it spills onto the floor at her feet. I’ll be gone, but the questions will remain. Why? How? And honestly, I couldn’t say.
Maybe it was something she said.