Bridgette Walden Boothe

Once monthly.

That bin.

Smaller than two carry on suitcases stacked atop each other.

Dark grey in color.

Once a month for waste pickup.

Weekly, the 3 Colorful Bins—Red, Yellow, and Blue

For sorting plastic, metal, and glass—paper stacked to the side.

Big Bins.

Each one big enough on its own,

To stuff in Fat Uncle Albert and transport his body out into the secret woods . . .

Somewhere on Long Island, or New Jersey, or upstate? I know nothing about that area, where do they secretly bury bodies in the New York area so I can give reference?

Still, big enough to stuff him in and secretly transport him, to drop him down an old mine shaft in the middle of the Mojave Desert.

That’s a place I know a little something about.

Or to cut him up into little pieces and fill one of those bins up to the top with Uncle Albert chum, then wheel it out to the shipping pier and wheel him onto a boat and take that boat out on the ocean with some huge ocean-sized fishing poles and then use those little pieces of Uncle Albert’s body to chum the water and catch some big-ass trophy fish that you’d never want to eat just knowing they might have swallowed a piece of old Uncle Albert. So, maybe just a big-ass camera instead of fishing poles, to take photos of the sharks feeding in a wild frenzy on Uncle Albert chum.

Or you could stuff him into one of those bins, roll it into the back of a nondescript pickup truck, and drive him down to the “reserve” down the bumpy, rutted out, red dirt road in Alabama, where the alligators talk and grunt and moan all around you. You’d only have to roll that bin over to the edge of the water and let ol’ fat Uncle Albert’s body slide down into that brown, murky water and then you’d know for sure there’d be no traces left by the following day, unless you looked up under a hollow log floating in that muck where no one wants to go—too many gators.

Or you could cart one of those bins on a trailer with a bunch of other bins, so you’d not be conspicuous, and drive that trailer way up into the Ozarks wilderness where the bears and lions live in Arkansas. If you drove him up there and dumped him over the side of a remote cliff, those animals would feast below on ol’ fatso Uncle Albert leaving only some gnawed bones.

Maybe some archeologists could discover those bones in the far-off future, wearing space suits because they were not built to breathe the air on what was once known as Earth. And they could collect the bones and take them back to the mothership to examine and ponder what happened to poor old ancient Uncle Albert.

Funny thing though.

That small bin,

It smelled stronger

Sitting here in this tiny garage in Germany.

Reserved for the true waste that could only go to creating new earth for growing new things.

Composting. The most productive of all.

The big ones, in their colorful red, yellow, and blue glory

The trash police would come and peek inside

Poking and prodding around

Looking for evidence of something that did not belong

Trash Police

Making certain only recycling went into the colors,

And damn sure into the correctly colored ones.

If you wanted to kill Uncle Albert and get rid of his body, you’d better have a big freezer in your basement and be ready to send him off in little bits each month in the composting waste bin.

No sneaking of little pieces here or there into the weekly recycling bins.

You better be prepared to parcel pieces out a little at a time over months or maybe years because that little bin can get pretty full with all the waste shit from a big family and remember it only gets picked up and emptied into the waste truck once a month.

Yes, it would take some planning, and lots of patience.

They don’t even sell freezers that big in Germany.

There would be the problem with the stinking rot.

Better to kill him off in the states somehow, where it’s easy to kill people and dispose of bodies. Stupid and sloppy gets discovered. Or just not caring.

But Fatso Uncle Albert was here in good ol’ Germany.

All the good places to hide big bodies were across the ocean.

But then again, there is the garden out back, and I do have that big compost heap for the garden.

Bridgette Walden Boothe writes from CedarGladeCottage in the Ozarks, and on the road in various places she travels. She’s lived in multiple states of the US, in London, and in Germany. A journalist in an earlier life, Bridgette focuses now on creative writing. Bridgette’s short stories and poetry often skate the knife’s edge of humor and horror. She is currently working on a novella, a play, and a biography of her 97 year old grandmother. Bridgette loves dogs, children, trees, traveling, good food, great friends, music, and laughter. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Lindenwood University; teaches reading, writing, and English for language learners; is AWA Certified, facilitating AWA Writing Workshops and Retreats; is an Affiliate of Amherst Writers and Artists; and is an adjunct college professor of writing. Bridgette is honored to be published with The Fox Paw Literary Blog and has a poem publishing this fall with The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.

Copyright © 2021 It’s All Love All Rights Reserved. Designed and Developed by Design Pros USA