Junk Shop (30 Stories — 15

“Everything’s a dollar in this box,” the man said, shoving the shoe box toward me. “Twelve for ten.”  Twelve for ten, I thought, was surely some kind of bargain for a bag of a stranger’s memories.  But much too heavy to wrap my brain around.  I picked past the dog tags and shot glasses, past costume jewelry and a ring of rusty keys.  Settled on a chandelier crystal, palest blue with a slight aurora borealis finish.  I handed him a dollar and turned, wanting to get away before he thought to tell me the story.


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