Two 18 oz. aluminum cans wrapped in the crimson and white bands of the Campbell's label. Even after soaking in warm water infused with Orange Dawn, there was still the faint scent of chicken noodle soup. Their father took the two empty cans out to the garage and punched holes in the bottoms of the cylinders with a half-rusted nail. A dirtied white string curled and wound, falling from the father's large palms, draping off his fingers when he reentered the living room. He handed one can to the girl and one to the boy. The girl ran her little fingers along the corrugated section. A reverberating ringtone echoed into the boy's ear. A year later they stretch the string taut and try to remember their father's calming voice bouncing along the string from one soup can to the other, but they can't.
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Fragmented
Short StoryA collection of story fragments that tell a larger story. These little fictional memories are just for fun and have only been self-edited. Content warning: alcohol
