Day 3

Make something out of paper, but don’t use scissors or glue or draw it. What now? (And no, you don’t have to know origami to do this.)


Okay, so this is where using an arts and crafts book for writing doesn’t quite work, but bear with me. I tried my darndest.

The smell of life
The smell was raw, rancid, and not quite like rotten eggs, but definitely sulfuric. But I didn’t smell it anymore. And neither did most others around these parts. The smell was just something the tourists asked about, when there were tourists. Most of the town folk responded “That’s the smell of money, darlin’.” Others respond, “It’s the smell of life in a factory town.” And others nod their head and say “What smell?” But all that too has dwindled.

There ain’t much being made at there factory anymore. A few reams now and then to keep the machines oiled. A handful of workers still punch the clock every morning. The last loyal constituents. The ones that fear the outside the most. It’ s hard work here. Early Mornings. Long hours. Mechanic Rumblings. Headaches. But what else do we have.

Each day I fear the worst. I suffer from heartburn the first four hours of my day. And then again every night after dinner and through the night. It keeps me up. It eats at my health. I’d been there 45 years. I know nothing else. I have nothing else. To me the paper mill smelled of a warm house, food on the table, and smiles on my families faces, but now it smells like my broken dreams and unemployment.

I can’ t look my children in their eyes. I fear they’ll see the truth.