by Jake Christie

a story.

Not only were the magazines stacked everywhere, they were stacked up in piles so high that they almost touched the ceiling. They towered like redwoods, like mighty pines, and one got the impression that if they weren't dated by issue and volume you could still cut them open and figure out their age by counting the rings.

Getting them all out of the apartment would be impossible. Well, not impossible, but it would take a great deal of time, and that might as well be the same thing. To carry them down the stairs I'd need boxes – how many? Or could one box be passed, like villagers getting water from a well? The charity foundation wouldn't put up the money for even one box, that I was sure of. I stepped on a smaller pile and scanned the room for windows. I fall the magazines were thrown out a window from way up here, eight stories up, would anyone be able to tell where they came from? Maybe not at first, but eventually it would be like one of those stalagmites where the minerals build up so far that it looks like they're growing straight up out of the ground, pointing a finger at this one eighth-story window.

“Hello?” a voice came from the depths of the magazines.

I lost my balance, reached for one of the piles, and thought about what a stupid way this would be to die.

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