by D. R. Long - Storyteller

Likes: 5
Words: 200

Some think of it as a wasted space. Somewhere you toss extra belongings that you don't really need. Spare batteries. A paper clip. Rubber bands.

Some think of it as a place to stash the things they use on occasion. It could be memories, or take out menus. Or a blend of things between. A deck of cards that's missing the Jack of Clubs. Keys to your last apartment. Tylenol.

But all of these things... They mattered once. To me. A picture of my family. A notebook with random thoughts. A packet of parmesan cheese.

My junk drawer is a special place. Some would call it clutter. But I would call it perspective. A look into the window of who I could be. Pens and pencils. A dead lighter. My dead best friend's wallet.

It’s like the closet of a child when Mom tells them to clean their room. A collection of everything you’ve recently used. If this drawer could only talk… I wonder what it’d say. I wonder if it’d tell a good story about who I used to be. Or if someone looking through it would just see a pile of junk… Shoved in a drawer. And forgotten.

by Eolas Pellor

Likes: 4
Words: 200

As a child, the boisterous games of my cousins and other children did not appeal to me. When visiting family, I would sit quietly, sometimes with a picture book, or sometimes listening to the adults talk, holding a favourite plush toy.

Aunt Lilifrid kept a special treat for my visits, however – a drawer in the kitchen that was full of an assortment of strange things, wonders to my eyes. Buttons and paperclips, old Cracker-Jack prizes, little figurines that came as premiums with her favorite tea, and the odd devices that Fuller-Brush salesmen left when one placed an order.

One by one, I would pull things out, disentangle them from the string or ribbon that always seemed to wrap itself around everything in the drawer. I would place each familiar item into lines of similar things: figurine with figurine, plastic doodad with plastic doodad. Each new item would be scrutinized carefully, before I decided in which category it belonged.

But the treasure, which I always returned carefully to its box when the visit was done, and hid once again at the very back of the drawer, was a golden ring in a velvet box. Why it was there, I never knew.

by Jesse R Traynham - Author

Likes: 4
Words: 200

I finished building the most epic Dagwood sandy and started putting everything away. The bread twisty was AWOL.

"Jeanie, where's the bread twisty?"

"No clue. Consult the junk drawer."

"Good idea."

I started digging around in the drawer, but I had the wrong glasses on. I moved in close and fell in. I landed on a sponge. I slid to the edge and dangled my feet off the side like I was getting out of bed!

Junk. Everywhere. Peeked under a fast-food menu. Nothing. Climbed a mountain of condiment packets. Nada. Stepped in a sticky patch.

After squeezing past several batteries, I found a sheet of twisties. It was as big as plywood. I dragged it to the edge and called for Jeanie.

"Jeanie! Jeanie? Hey!" I was tiny. She was a giant. Grabbed my cell and called.

"Yeah?"

"I'm stuck in the drawer!"

"Again? Be right there."

She reached into the drawer. I grabbed her pinky. Dropped the stink'n twisties in the process.

Once out, I found the ties on the floor, ripped one off, and attached it to the bread. I returned the sheet to the drawer for next time, and dug into the most righteous sandwich ever.

by Mary Zuelke Author

Likes: 4
Words: 200

“What’s going on?” Beverley yelled, stumbling through the room. Pictures swayed, and dishes slid off the table. Lial jumped at her glare. He caught the back of the couch to steady himself.

“I didn’t realize it started.”

“What started?”

“We talked about it.”

“We definitely didn’t talk about this.”

“Last year. You remember. You said you wanted to travel…I said it would take some time.”

“That was a pipe dream. You know that.” Her eyes narrowed, wandering to the window.

Clouds drifted by—a bit too close.

“You never listen to me.”

“If you did this, fix it!” She snapped.

He pulled open the junk drawer and rummaged through it. He tossed some things to the side and stashed a magnet in his pocket. His eyes gleamed as he pulled out an old compass with a level on it.

“This will work.”

Bev stared at her husband as he ducked into the basement. A few minutes later he appeared, grinning. The room steadied, and Bev slouched into the chair. “You gotta see this!” He dragged her to the window. She pressed her head to the frame, sighing. Her eyes popped as the Great Pyramid of Giza came into view.

by Kathy Goddard writer

Likes: 3
Words: 200

Most of Gran’s house has been cleared; a lifetime of possessions and memories scattered throughout the family or donated to charity shops. I’ve inherited the bureau. She let me rummage through all of it when I was little - except one drawer, which she kept locked at all times.

‘What’s in it, Gran?’

‘Just bits and bobs. Some bits have sharp edges that will cut delicate skin, so no prying, young lady .’

The key slides into the lock and turns with a satisfying click. Thrust inside I find scraps of fabric, tins containing needles and pins, a jar of buttons, and half used spools of cotton. The ephemera of her crafting life. Why did she feel the need to keep it locked?

Then I find them. Pushed to the back is a bundle of letters, tied with thin red ribbon. I untie the bow and slide the letters letter out. They’re love letters, written throughout her sixty years of marriage to my lovely grandad.

‘My darling Maria, I should have asked for your hand first, but I’m glad that your marriage didn’t end our love. My heart is yours always, Bob.’

Reading them breaks my heart. My Grandad’s name was Stan.