Paper And Film

• Amber Harridge, Grade 12, Morisset High School -
• Short Story
• 2018

Excellence Award in the 'Write Along 2018' competition

The street was empty despite the clear and vibrant day, with Myles’ car like a sauna as it roasted underneath the noon sun. He closed his sore eyes and pressed his sweaty hair against the headrest, the long drive truly taxing. The boot hissed open, followed by a sigh that seemed to last forever. It was a low bass sound that contrasted the squealing groan of the rusted car’s springs, weary hands lifting box after box from its tired shoulders.
Myles popped open the door to cool air, being greeted by an already half unpacked boot whose contents lay on the lawn. The boxes of recollections seemed to be never-ending as Myles looked in between two piles, seeing his mother’s weary expression on the other side. Black pen marked each filled bundle with a different year of memories, of a city and a time that felt so far away. Three years of studying film and then it was all over, simply another experience to drill a few more holes into his belt.
Now he was back in his old bedroom – one that he’d significantly outgrown – with baby blue walls and a cluttered desk. Discs full of old television shows and one-dollar movies from the op-shop down the road sat dusty on shelves, with books piled onto the floor with the promise to be cleaned up from an earlier time. His breath seemed to fill the entire space, lungs heaving as he packed box upon box into the small room. He had difficulty trying to cram them all in, and his heart began to ache with the task of neatly placing his new-self into the skin of his past.
“Perhaps you should go through your drawers to see what can be thrown away,” his mother whispered, the intimidating boxes staring her down. “Just don’t throw away anything special – ask me first.”
He gave her hand a comforting squeeze before beginning to push all of the boxes into a U-shape around his drawers, sitting with crossed legs that were too long. The first few drawers were full old homework and assessments, all piled to the right under the mental tab of ‘BIN’. Loose paper and barely scribbled on pads seemed to flood out like clowns from a car, brimming with forgotten, jumbled words. The room seemed encapsulated with the fluttering sound of paper, all rustling together with monotonous white noise.
Then it stopped.
Myles’ hand hit something hard, eyebrows knotting together at the sound of thudding plastic. Shoving paper out of the way, he reefed out the object and turned it around in his hands. It was only small and cheap with bright green accents, but it was still big enough to cause his heart to ache. This was it, the catalyst, the thing that shaped the road he passionately walked down.
His old camera, filled with seared film, rested in his hands.