An Inventory
An Inventory.
i. hands (2). trembling and infected. the skin is calloused.
ii. box (1). it’s empty. the lid is marred with ink; a sequence of unreadable characters.
iii. boots (2). it’s worn. ink mars these, too. the laces are missing.
iv. canisters (4). all are red, and open. there is something sticky on the surface.
v. jacket (1). I can’t tell what color this used to be.
vi. backpack (1). it’s empty.
vii. [???] (5). the covers are marbled. the text within is illegible.
viii. laptop. (1) 16”x12”x3”. The screen is shattered and it is unresponsive. glass is missing.
ix. storage box (1). it’s locked. there is something rattling inside.
x. [???] (?). it’s sticky. it won’t come off my hands.
xi. [???] (1) [???]
xii. Pendant (1). silver chain. whatever jewel it held is gone, but the setting remains.
End comments: I’m sorry. It’s all deadend.
Author's note.
​
This was an exercise in taking the familiar, and making it alien. It's a horror poem, with a happy ending.
​
The narrator is looking through the wreckage of someone else's life, trying to figure out what happened to them! Unfortunately, they're too unfamilar to have a hope of figuring it out. They can't read the moving box, They don't recognize the soda cans. They can't read the notes, there's no hope. More and more information was redacted, to ratchet up the tension, which may work better if performed out loud
​
It was going to be part of a series, before I decided it worked better as a standalone. I might revisit the concept again, but as it is, I quite like it.